DISCLAIMER: Whedon's characters, any recognizable dialogue, and the canon events of their storyline are not mine.

A/N:

This covers the 24 hours after the battle. If you tend to cry easily, then you may want tissues for this one.

Again, much gratitude to you for reading, reviews, follows, etc!

CHAPTER 7

grief, shock, hope, joy & ache

Later that night … after the battle

(which occurs for the most part as it did in "The Gift" #5.22, with the exception that Spike knows what to expect to a certain extent)

The Scoobies were badly beaten – broken, bruised, and bloody. In addition to the physical pain that had been inflicted, all of them were grief-stricken.

Spike was experiencing shock as much as pain and grief. Those two hours with Buffy had been an oasis of sorts. Filled with more joy than seemed appropriate, in retrospect. Somehow, even though she had clearly told him what to expect, he had not really absorbed the truth that she would die tonight. He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him – yet he had not needed to breathe in over a century. He felt as though his heart had been pulverized, turned to dust right inside his chest. His heart had not pounded in years; right now, it was his head that pounded. An onslaught of thoughts, second-guessing himself and his decision to go along with future-Buffy that the outcome of the battle could not be altered. There had to have been a way to prevent this. How in the world would he get through the next five months without her? It seemed they had just finally found one another. How cruel could fate be to tear her out of this world now?

As they gathered around Buffy's body, the grief hit each of them in different ways, manifesting primarily as either stunned silence or crying. It did not go unnoticed by Xander and Dawn that Spike seemed deeply affected – though each of them interpreted the emotional display differently.

After standing there for a few minutes, Tara said, "Am I crazy? Or are her wounds healing?"

Giles knelt down to investigate. "It does appear that the lacerations are closing." Feeling the pulse points on her neck and then her wrist, he noted, "However, she is not breathing and there is no heartbeat."

Willow was now beginning to analyze the situation, processing aloud, "Is it possible that when she fell through the portal, she entered a state of suspended animation? That she might wake up and come back to us? Look! That abrasion is almost gone and the welts are going down." Still in tears, she turned to Giles, "We have to take her back to the house. We have to give it some time. Maybe ... she's not really dead."

Giles considered her words. "It is highly unlikely that even a Slayer could survive that fall, even if there were no portal involved."

"But that's just it – there was a portal involved," Willow interjected. "These are special circumstances, if ever there were." To herself, Willow vowed to Buffy that even if she had died, she would not leave her to suffer in some hell dimension.

Looking around at these few, these unhappy grief-stricken few, Giles decided there could be no harm in taking Buffy's body back to the house. If nothing else, it would cement in Willow's mind that Buffy was truly gone. He knew all too well, until you accept that fact, you cannot move on from the loss of a loved one.

Moving into his customary leadership role, Giles took command of the situation. "Alright, let's get moving. Tara, you seem well enough to help support Willow. Can you help her on the walk back? Maybe carry one weapon as well? Good. Xander, you're already carrying Anya and thus have your hands quite literally full. Dawn and I will each take a weapon and pair up for the walk back – me with my limp and we'll need to keep an eye on your blood loss. You'll let me know if you begin to feel faint, won't you?" He paused and turned to look at Spike, who by now had figured out that he was the most likely candidate to carry the body to the house.

"Right then. Got it, Watcher. I know what job you're doling out to me. First though, don't you think we should hide the bits and pieces of the Bot for safe keeping til we can come back for them?"

Xander asked, clearly annoyed with Spike, "Why would we keep that around?"

Spike managed to hold back a fresh wave of tears while he responded, "Could prove useful when patrolling. Wouldn't want the demon population getting the idea that they've got the run of the place."

"Much as it pains me to admit it, Spike raises a valid concern," Giles interjected.

After they had hidden the pieces from view, they all prepared for the walk home.

Spike removed his signature leather duster and laid it on the ground next to Buffy. Then, he moved her onto his coat, wrapped it around her, and lifted her with great care. This was the same beautiful feminine form with which he had been intimate mere hours ago. It was more than a little strange to be this close to her under such different circumstances. When nobody was watching, he placed a quick kiss on her forehead, whispering, "See you soon, luv. Gonna miss you, but thanks ever so for visiting me with that message of hope."

The group made their way back to the Summers house. When they arrived, Giles held the door as Spike carried her in, asking, "Where would you like me to …?"

"In her bedroom, I suppose." Giles answered.

Xander was none too happy about Spike carrying Buffy, let alone walking into her room and placing her body on the bed. The others did not seem to mind his presence, but with them all gathered like this, now was the best chance he would have to retrieve the cassette recording that future-Buffy had left in the desk.

Spike leaned toward Giles and whispered, "You will let me know ...?" He gestured toward Buffy's body, but could not bring himself to finish the question.

"You're not staying?"

Xander heard this question and barked at Spike, "Why don't you just leave, already," throwing the leather duster at him.

Looking at Giles, Spike said, "Don't think everyone is thrilled with my presence right now." Lowering his voice again so as not to be overheard, "And much as Red wants to believe this a temporary thing, I think we're agreed that her theory is just that – a theory with no basis. So not much point in sitting with the lot of you and wallowing. Besides, after the events of tonight, I could use a drink – or rather a bottle." Just before leaving the room, "I'll check in tomorrow. Patrol will still need to happen and uh, well, anyway, I'd be happy to be of assistance."

"Yes, of course, good thinking. We will be in need of help in the days to come. As the adage goes, if you're not against us …" Giles wasn't quite sure he completely trusted Spike, but they would need his strength and skill for whatever might be coming. There was always something coming. After all, Sunnydale sat atop a Hellmouth.

Spike exited her room, but before he could make it down the hallway, Dawn was tugging on his elbow. "You're not leaving without a hug, mister." She made a pouty face until he wrapped his arms around her. She continued, "I saw you, you know. Your face, when you saw her on the ground. I could see how much you care about her. You're hurting, too. I just wanted you to know that someone noticed, that someone cared."

"Thanks, Bit. Means a lot. If you need anything ... quiet place to think ... or someone to talk to – well, you know where to find me. I'd do anything for you. Anything at all." He kissed the top of her head, saying, "You should get back in there. They're gonna need you and you're gonna need them. Besides, I should get going."

He watched her walk back down the hallway to Buffy's room – where he and Buffy had made love earlier. Or maybe none of that was real. Maybe he had imagined it.

As he stood in the living room with his hand on the desk drawer, he was almost afraid to pull. What if the cassette was not there? What if it had all been a hallucination or a bad joke from the Powers That Be?

He took an unneeded deep breath and opened the drawer, bracing for the worst. But when he looked down, he saw the recorder right where Buffy had put it. And there was the cassette labeled "For: Spike." He grabbed it and a pen – immediately popping the tabs so he would not accidentally record over it. Then, he was on his way out the door.

On the way back to his crypt, he stopped to nick a few things. At the pawn shop, he picked up a double cassette player/recorder and a Walkman with headphones. At a dollar store, several 90-minute cassettes and batteries, as well as a notebook and different color pens. And one last stop for a bottle of whiskey.

When he got back to his crypt, he unplugged the tv and plugged in the stereo. He put Buffy's tape in the player side and one of the blank tapes in the recorder side. He had decided that he would keep the master copy as pristine as possible. He would make copies, which he could play over and over again until they wore out. The information would be vital for him, but so would the assurance that would come from hearing her voice.

He pressed the play and record buttons simultaneously, beginning the process of making the first duplicate. Then, he poured himself a drink and sat down with his notebook and pens. He knew it would be painful, but he had the need to hear her voice. While he was listening, he might as well make the most of the time. He would begin to make notes, chart a timeline as she had suggested.

He stayed fairly sober until the duplicate had been made and the master copy, the notebook, and stereo were hidden in the lower level of his crypt. But after that, he sat in his chair using the Walkman to listen to the copy – this time not for the purpose of information gathering, but purely to hear the sound of her voice. It was bittersweet music to his ears. Eventually, that sound – combined with exhaustion and alcohol – lulled him to sleep.

When he came to, it was nearly sunset. He found a note from Dawn pinned to his shirt – guess she wanted to make sure he got it. The note read: "When you wake up, you should come to the house. Thought you might want to be involved in the funeral plans."

Muttering to himself, "So, this is it. This is real now. Five-month countdown." Getting his duster and preparing to leave, which included a long pull from the whiskey bottle, a realization hit him. "Guess I'm gonna have to keep an eye on my drinking. Not allowed to talk to anyone about this. Wouldn't want to slip up," he said to his empty crypt.

When the sun was low enough, he ventured out. He weaved in and around the tombstones in the cemetery. However, his signature swagger was missing. This was Spike in subdued (if not fully sober) form.

He found himself humming an old folk song as he walked. After about half a mile, he realized that it was the song his mother used to sing to him, the one Buffy had said would be used as a trigger. Get it sorted, she had said. No time like the present. If he linked this song in his mind to something other than his Mum, that should be a start. He began to sing one of the stanzas:

"Here I now wander alone as I wonder
Why did you leave me to sigh and complain?
I asked of the roses, why should I be forsaken?
Why must I here in sorrow remain?"

His heart ached. And yet it was full. He had hope now. Hope of love. A reciprocated love.

She believed in him, in his ability to affect change during these coming years and then meet up with her in 2004. He would not – could not – let her down.

Arriving at 1630 Revello Drive, he took the steps to the front porch of the house two at a time. He almost reached for the doorknob to enter, but thought better of it and decided it would be best to knock. After all, in these five months until her return, he needed to win these people over – or at least earn their trust, if not their respect.

One thing at a time. Follow her outline, her timeline. He could do this. More to the point, she believed he could do this. Believed it enough to ask the Powers for a second chance. However, it was the first and probably the only chance he would get.

He had fought two other Slayers and walked away victorious. He had been dancing with this Slayer for nearly four years. But this time, he was fighting to win a Slayer's love – not to stop her heart from beating, but rather to set it aflutter … better yet, set it aflame. Aflame with love for him.

Bloody hell! He'd probably start writing bleedin' awful poetry again. All these flowery phrases running through his head. And prose just never seemed adequate to describe the two-sided coin that is love. It's a game of chance, really – a gamble. Innit? Which side will land face up?

At the moment, he felt both: the joy and the ache.

He raised his arm to knock on the door, preparing himself to enter a house that had known too much death and sorrow. But also much love. There it was again: the joy and the ache.

As he entered, he came face to face with the stairs where future-Buffy had poured out her heart to him. For some reason, he had not thought of it when he carried her body upstairs last night. But now, the mental picture of that memory was so clear, painfully clear.

Right at this moment, there was no joy. There was only ache.

A/N:

The version of "Early One Morning" used in #7.17 was recorded by Nana Mouskouri found here on YouTube: /watch?v=XIhu990krQ0

Tune in next chapter to find Buffy back in 2004. Thanks so much for reading and for the encouraging words!