Part 3

The afternoon became a slow dream sequence for Spike, no bridge between each scene- just snapshots of Buffy and an unknown man's shape.
He woke with a vague feeling of concern and uneasiness, thinking of the telephone call a few hours ago.
He didn't know what exactly he had expected when he had dialled the number, but for some strange reasons he hadn't been prepared for a guy on the phone.

Who was he?

Maybe her father, he thought.
Or a brother.

There was another possibility, but he repressed the thought of a husband as soon as it came to his mind.

And he knew that there was just one way to find the answers to all of his questions.

1630, Revello Drive.

Buffy Summers, his "invisible" friend, had been living less than two hours away from him- maybe for ages- and he hadn't known.
He sighed- a long, exhausted sigh as if the journey of his life had finally led him to a place of rest.

He didn't know his eyes were closed until someone touched his shoulder, asking him if he was okay, and he opened them.
An elderly man looked at him with an expression on his face that was more suspiciousness than concern.
"I'm fine, thanks", he answered, doing his best to keep his voice as blithe as he wanted it to sound.

He forced himself to walk towards the house, taking in deep breaths that didn't fortify him.
God, he didn't have the slightest idea what to say… or what to do.
Now that he was standing in front of the door, he could ease some of the stiffness in his hands, rubbing them together, stretching his fingers, curling his fists.
The cool wind began to seep down his neck, drying his sweat.

With shaking fingers he rang the doorbell while hundreds of thoughts shot through his head, making him feel dizzy and confused.
It felt like a million of years had passed until the door was finally opened by a tall young man.

"Yes?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

Spike cleared his throat, but not a single tone left his lips.
"Can I help you?" He spoke with soft, drawn-out syllables that reminded Spike of the way one would talk to a stupid child.
"Is… Buffy at home?" he asked, realizing the flare in the other's eyes as he spoke the name.

"Buffy? May I ask who you are?" the undertone in his voice became suddenly harsh.

"I'm a friend of her's. I'm William and…"

"William?" he spoke the name as if it was something bitter and poisouness he needed to spit out.
For a moment Spike was sure that the guy was about to knee him in the guts. His grey eyes were like a placid night sea, but below the unremarkable surface were great teeming depths full of anger.
"She never talked about anyone called William… as far as I can remember."
"We haven't seen each other for ages", Spike explained, trying hard to calm down as he felt an unexplainable urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck.

"Whatever. I don't want to be rude, but to be honest, I've got a lot stuff to do."

Spike took a deep breath, clenching his fists, and the guy filled in the gap.
"Well, my wife's not at home right now, but Ill tell her that you've been here."

He slammed the door before Spike was able to react, before he could even face the fact that he had emphasized the two words that caused a suddenly arising feeling of pain in him:
My wife.

Unable to move, or to breathe, he stared at the door, trying desperately to get his bearings.
The ground seemed to resolve, he felt wide, rising.

All the years filled with wondering, and the anguish of not knowing if she was real or just a fragment of a child's imagination, momentarily disappeared.
Now he knew that she really existed.

But she was married.

None of this made sense, like a picture blurred and off-kilter.

And he felt as if someone had written the end of the story before he'd even found the beginning.

Although it was a warm autumn night, he felt as if an icy hand was squeezing his entrails.
He searched his pocket for the car keys, doubting that he would be able to drive, doubting that he would be able to do anything .

He didn't realize someone was talking to him until he felt a hand on his back.
He turned around and found himself looking at a young girl with long, dark hair. Her blue eyes were so clear they seemed almost see-through.

"Hey", she said, blushing.
"I'm sorry, I don't wanna be nosy or something, but I heard your…erm… conversation with Riley."
She paused and tucked her hair behind her ear.
"I'm Dawn", she finally said, as if it would explain everything.
"Buffy's sister."
She tilted her neck a little more to the side, her smile widening just a tad as she swung her hair behind her shoulders.

His lips parted to a silent "oh" as he grasped her outstretched hand.

"Well, you said you are Buffy's friend?"

He nodded, cleaned his throat and said: "We met each other when we were children, but I… erm… kinda lost sight of her."

He realized she was avoiding meeting gazes with him when she whispered: "So you don't know what happened to her?"

He stared at her, watching the sad expression on her face, and, refusing to consider what was coming, heard her say:

"Buffy's sick."

"What do you mean with 'sick'"? he finally brought himself to say, not realizing that his voice had fallen to a whisper.

She was preparing to explain it to him and he sensed that the story she was about to tell couldn't be summed up in two or three sentences.

Sick... the word whirred in his head like a restless ghost and he searched for something, anything to say to Dawn- but he only found a grey swirling space as his mouth opened and closed.