In the End
Chapter Two
Buffy's day started out normally enough. Her blaring alarm clock let her know that it was her day to walk Dawn to class. With both of their social lives thriving, it was practically the only 'sister time' they had left anymore. The walks were a nice way for them to catch up during the week, so Buffy was happy to sacrifice a few extra hours of sleep. Most of the time.
That particular morning, Buffy indulged herself in the shower too long, so there was no time to fix breakfast. Dawn was running late as well because she couldn't get her paper on Greek Mythology to print. It was upon such occasions that Andrew was able to earn his rent. After working a little magic on the iBook, Andrew shooed the girls out of the apartment with Dawn's paper and two freshly baked muffins in hand. On the way to campus, they picked up double espressos and argued over who should run by the post office to get their mail.
"It is so totally your turn," Dawn said around a mouthful of muffin. "You're such a slacker. I always end up doing it."
"And I always end up doing your chores. I thought it was a fair exchange," Buffy countered. "Come on, Dawnie. We haven't checked the mail all week. Could you please do it just this once? For me?"
"See, it's like this," Dawn explained slowly. "There's this thing I have to do called schoolwork, often accompanied by this other thing called going to class. Neither of which is on your plate at the moment, I might add. Why can't you do it?"
"I have things to do today. Very, very important things."
"Like what?" Catching a glimpse of Buffy's seemingly innocent expression, Dawn rolled her eyes. "Oh, let me take a wild guess. Shoe shopping again? Don't you think you have enough?"
Buffy's mouth fell open. "Enough shoes? God, what are they teaching you at that school?"
"Common sense, obviously."
"Oh, how fun for you. Then I guess you should be a good, sensible little sister, and go get the mail, huh?"
"Whatever," Dawn said as she flicked a muffin crumb at her sister. "What's the big deal anyway? There's never anything in our box except bills, and you always ignore those. Might as well leave them where they are."
"I do not ignore the bills!"
Dawn pressed the mailbox key into her sister's hand with a sardonic smile. "Ri-ight. So prove me wrong. Be responsible and actually go get them for once. See ya."
Before Buffy could argue, Dawn was up the steps to her school, hurrying to join a group of laughing girls. Left alone on the sidewalk, Buffy felt her lower lip protrude as she dolefully dropped the key into her purse.
Stupid taller-than-me little sister, she pouted. I can be responsible if I want to.
But that problem was the problem, really. She didn't want to. Ever since the Hellmouth collapsed, Buffy was not interested in duties of any kind. There were now plenty of girls who could take over the slaying for a while. Her job now was to take care of Dawn and absolutely nothing else.
When Giles and the others began the process of setting up the new Council, Buffy shook the Hellmouth dust off of her feet and declared herself on sabbatical. After years of watching Buffy flounder under the pressure of her calling, Giles was supportive of her decision to rest. With access to the old Council's assets, he now had the financial means to offer her some support. That summer the new Council quietly voted Buffy in a compensation salary for her years of service, effective immediately. She never looked back.
She missed them, of course – Willow and Giles. Xander most of all. But they were off having their own adventures, much like she and Dawn were. There were others Buffy missed as well, but she didn't let herself think about them. It hurt too much to remember the dead. If those around her thought it odd that Buffy failed to mention certain names after leaving Sunnydale, they assumed it was because she hadn't finished mourning. The truth was she hadn't even started. It was more than she could handle. Those areas were cut off inside her head, fenced up, cemented in, and completely separated from the rest of her emotions.
She was a new creation now, finally free to find out who she was apart from the Slayer. So far the only thing she had figured out was that she really liked shoes. One day, after much resting and spending her well-earned money, she would probably go to work for the Council again. Start patrolling. Maybe take some classes. (Finally be able to mourn?) But that day was still long off. She hadn't finished healing yet.
Rome was exciting in a way that Buffy had never experienced before. There was deep history to the place, more than her mind could possibly hope to take in. Bloodshed and passion and faith – things she understood. Living in the heart of it all just fit somehow. Dawn was happy. She had new friends that didn't know anything about demons or Slayers. She picked up Italian as a second language before Buffy learned how to pronounce Ciao correctly. She was still working on spelling it.
Buffy made her way down the busy promenade, woefully watching all the shops open their doors for business. There were purses. Cute purses. What the hell kind of cruel society would place attractive merchandise before her when she had errands to run? She quickened her pace towards the post office, willing herself not to get distracted. The mail would never see the light of day if that happened.
Once inside the small post office, Buffy flew to her box. In went the key, out came the mail. See? She could be responsible.
The box was embarrassingly stuffed, as if bent on proving her wrong. Buffy quickly sifted through the envelopes and threw out the junk mail, muttering to herself as she went. "Bill, bill, bill. Ooh, paycheck! Note to self: send Giles flowers. Love, me."
More sifting. A long envelope was hiding in the back of the stack, wrinkled and covered in stamps as if it had come a long way. Buffy stared at it in amazement. "Someone actually wrote me a letter? Who writes snail mail anymore? Loser!" Frowning at the L.A. postmark, she ripped it open.
Ten seconds later, Buffy was thanking God that it was her and not her little sister who had opened up the mail.
---
Hello, pet. Yeah, it's really me. How about that, eh?
---
Buffy's espresso slipped out of her hands, along with the rest of the mail. Her equilibrium shifted unexpectedly, causing her ears to pop and ring. What the fuck. Someone was playing a joke on her. A cruel, horrible joke that was not the laughing kind. What else could it be? The handwriting she recognized as his, but surely he couldn't …
Oh, God.
---
I thought you'd like to know that I'm all right. Living in L.A. Been here a little over a year, to tell you the truth. There's not a decent bar within a twenty-mile radius of my apartment, but I get by all right.
---
Buffy's eyes swept anxiously over the words three of four times before she was able to make sense of them. Question after question hammered through her mind. "A little over a year? I thought you'd like to know?" she quoted out loud, shaking her head in disbelief. "This has got to be a joke. Spike wouldn't do that."
Would he?
People were beginning to stare, not that Buffy gave a damn. Still, the post office was obviously not the right place to be reading such a letter, real or not. Stooping to grab her dropped mail, Buffy stormed outside and set her feet in the direction of her apartment. She furiously scrubbed the corner of her eyes, willing the tears to disappear.
Cool it, Buffy, she scolded herself as she weaved in and out of alarmed pedestrians. You've hardly mentioned his name for a year now. Barely even thought about it, and for a damn good reason. You're not ready to unlock that particular door, so don't try. You'll get excited about this and then find out it's just some sick joke. It will be like losing him all over again. Just calm down and see what else the letter has to say.
The self-talk continued until she reached the privacy of her apartment. Silence greeted her when she opened the door. That meant Andrew was gone, much to her relief. She didn't think she could handle any questions. Dropping her keys and the rest of the mail onto the floor, she opened the letter with trembling hands and read.
---
A lot's happened. Don't really want to talk about it.
The real reason I'm writing is to send you some news. Bad news, I'm afraid. You sitting down, pet? Got someone there with you? Don't read on if you're alone. I'm serious.
---
Buffy laughed out loud in disbelief. Like that was going to happen. She dropped herself onto the couch, the tears coming in earnest now.
---
Like I said before, I've been in L.A. Working with Angel, truth be told. Did some good work together, me and him. You'd have been proud, regardless of what you or the Watcher thinks of Wolfram and Hart. We tore that place up from the inside out. Sort of took down some key players from on high. Things got nasty for us pretty fast after that. Angel knew it would. Prepared for it.
God, I can't do this.
What I'm trying to tell you is that Angel's gone, pet. Died fighting a bloody dragon, the big drama queen. I'm sure he'd like you to know he went out like he wanted to, on his own terms. Died fighting for what he believed in. I'm sorry, sweet.
---
Hands shaking, blind eyes canopied with tears, Buffy's brain simply froze. Too much information, way too fast. Auto-pilot kicked in and tried to take her to a happier place. It didn't work.
Numbly, she continued reading.
---
As you can imagine, there's a lot I've left unsaid in this letter. Can't seem to get the words right in my head. I'll try these: I still love you. I miss you. Miss the Bit, too. You'll tell her, won't you? Wishing you the best.
Spike – (626) 555-2308
---
A number. There was a number. She could call and find out for certain if the whole thing was a hoax. And then she could kill whoever thought something like this was funny. She honestly didn't know what was worse – finding out it really was a sick joke and Spike was still dead, or finding out the letter was real. Then Spike would be alive, but Angel would be dead. Either way she lost.
God, she felt sick.
Swallowing with difficulty, Buffy slumped on the couch. The phone number next to Spike's name glared back at her. It was morning in Rome, but it was probably in the middle of the night in Los Angeles. She could never get the time difference straight in her mind. If it was really Spike, would he even be home? Only one way to find out.
He picked up on the eighth ring. She didn't even remember dialing. The only thing that registered in her mind was Spike's voice saying her name. Deeper than she remembered. Tired and worried and … was he hurt? He sounded like he was in pain. But it was him. There was no doubt in her mind. No one, not even the First wearing Spike's face, had been able to say her name the way he did.
Everything hit her at that moment. There she stood, framed in the morning sunlight that beamed through her apartment window, and halfway across the world, Spike was alone in the dark, speaking her name. It was too much.
The first of many sobs broke through before she could even hang up. Sinking to the floor beside the phone, she broke down, half weeping, half laughing. It burned, feeling every shred of grief left ignored for so many months suddenly rock through her. But it felt so good at the same time – like she was finally getting rid of something that had slowly been killing her for over a year.
Spike was okay. He was alive. She was so fucking going to kill him again.
Oh, God. Angel.
TBC.