It was astounding what time could do to scoured hearts. Contrary to popular thought, it didn't heal all wounds. It didn't create a salve after months of searing pain, and it certainly did not prepare Buffy for what was on the other side of that door.
"Spike? Are you real?"
His wild laughter echoed in the dark basement, and her face twisted. It was all too surreal. There had been other basements, once. In falling houses. In secret and in shame. In desperation and in need. That urgency to feel something, anything. Even if it was as dead as she still felt—as dead as she used to be.
Buffy wondered where he'd been. How he'd got here, why his hair looked so different...And what were those cuts on his chest? His eyes were tender. Concerned for him, she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. But then the memories came.
She remembered how she'd stood outside the bathroom looking in, wondering how long it would take her to get used to sitting on the slick, cool porcelain without feeling ill. It took her a few weeks, after everything, to not panic if her back was turned to an open room.
Buffy blinked.
Berries.
She was washing berries and slicing fruit in front of the sink when a clammy wave passed over her. Everything turned to slow-motion. She watched water droplets spill down the edge of a strawberry that wobbled on the countertop. Slayer instincts forced her blood to pump faster and made her heartbeat pound in her ears. Threat, there was a threat. The pregnant belly of a blueberry rounded slowly in Buffy's vision when the fine hairs on the back of her neck sprang up in attention. Buffy swiveled and snapped to her right. Threat—there was a threat.
She heard a muted clatter as time resumed its normal speed. A bowl crashed on the tile.
"Buffy?"
Dawn stood in the doorway, her arm frozen and her face a mask of alarm. "Buffy?" she repeated.
Buffy saw herself as if from behind a veil, horrified at the sight of her sister so frightened. She looked down, surprised to see a knife locked tight in her grip. Its smooth and heavy handle was the only thing she could feel and it grounded her to the kitchen. She looked back at Dawn, who was fixated on the fruit-laden countertop, and followed her sister's line of sight. Blood. There was blood. Buffy looked at her other hand. It was then that she noticed the red on the blade. She didn't even feel the cut.
She didn't feel anything except Dawn's arms that surrounded her. Buffy closed her eyes and sank into the hug. That had been the beginning of okay.
She'd had enough to worry about that summer without thinking of him. Plumbing in the basement, arrangements with the funeral parlor, Dawn catching up at school (apocalypses always happened during finals for some endlessly odd reason), phone calls to Giles, double shifts at the Doublemeat, and meetings with the social worker, among other things. Turned out real life took up lots of real time and left none for Spike.
. . . Who was suddenly standing before her. Disheveled. In the basement of the new high school.
Breath. Deep breath. Reel it in, Summers. Dawn is on the line. Stranger things had happened in Sunnydale, she supposed.
"Buffy, duck." Except maybe hearing him say that.
"Duck? There's a duck?"
And then, as happened every so often in her line of work, there was black.
A large pile of bricks takes up residence in Tara's chest. The pressure of Spike's words is sudden and immense. They steal her breath and stab her heart.
Buffy?
His hand drops, and eyes that were so tender and full a moment ago look away, caving with fear and confusion. He turns away, raising his arms to his head, and starts to pace backwards.
Tara pushes past the shock that threatens to topple her. There's no time for that right now. This is time for blind Scoobying. As she rushes forward to stand before him, a calm settles on her like a balm. You can do this. You're an Amazon, remember? "Spike. What did you mean, just now, when you said, 'Buffy'?"
Spike continues pacing. Nothing in his demeanor suggests he has even heard Tara. Instead, he mutters to himself as his steps become more forceful. Her heartbeat thunders furiously in her ears, but Tara manages to focus on Spike's words. After all, they've brought her here; who knows where else they can take her. You have to do this.
He's like a frightened animal pawing away from her questions. "No visitors today, terribly busy." All Tara knows is that she has to keep him talking. Keep him going. But trying to guide him through whatever is happening seems impossible as half of what he says is nonsense.
"Nobody comes in here, it's just the three of us."
Three of us? Tara's heart thuds dully with the dangerous thing called hope. Buffy, she focuses. Buffy will fix it."Is Buffy here, Spike? Can you see her? Is she hurt? Can you tell her I'm here? Can you tell her—"
He finally snaps, "Don't you think I'm trying! Slayer's going on and on about some bloody zombies who keep yelling at her and attacking and—"
She whirls around to focus on a detail she can fix. "Zombies?" she interrupts. "No, Spike, zombies don't speak. They must be manifest spirits raised to seek vengeance. Tell her there m-might be a talisman or something."
"Not ghosts," he says. The events of the past several hours coalesce as Tara watches his crazy antics. That's it. Tara grits her teeth. I need him, even if he can't do it himself. "Spike! Tell her—" she grabs his coat and forces him to look at her. "This is important, damn it. I don't know what's going on, but I need you to tell her what I said. Ok?"
The steel-blue of Spike's eyes bore into Tara's and in an instant she sees the Poet and knows the man behind yellow eyes. And somehow, just for a second, despite everything, she thinks everything can be okay.