Chapter Ten

Buffy did not sleep. Used to patrolling, she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years. This was going to be one more aspect of "normal" life that was difficult to adapt to. It didn't help that Spike was in the room up the hall, sleeping without her. When she thought back to the nights they had spent lying in each other's arms, sleeping and talking, it broke her heart.

She wanted that back. That intimacy. The security of knowing that she was loved.

She fell asleep shortly before dawn and woke a couple of hours later to find the note he'd left on the fridge telling her he'd gone for a run. He had also left her a picture of his tattoo. She went to his office, intent on faxing it to Xander. Once that was done, however, she sat at his desk and looked around the room.

It was difficult to imagine Spike sitting at a desk doing anything. When she tried to imagine him writing, it was a vision of him hunched over a battered journal, perched on a sarcophagus in a shadowy crypt. Instead, there was this warm and welcoming space with a large antique mahogany desk, a comfortable leather desk chair, wall to wall bookcases, and a state of the art computer and sound system.

Determined to find a connection to her Spike in this room, Buffy stood up and began scanning the books. It didn't take her long to find the signs.

William had a huge selection of poetry. Everything from Suffi mystic poets to Ginsberg. But his collection was predominantly poets from the Romantic and Victorian periods. Strange taste for a modern man, Buffy thought to herself.

There were also quite a few history books, mostly involving England and the Victorian period.

"Obsessing much," she mused, her fingers running over the titles.

By his desk, her fingers paused over what looked like black, leather bound journals. Without hesitation, she slipped one from the shelf and opened it.

It wasn't a journal, but a collection of handwritten, original poems. William had dated each one, the earliest being May 2004. Buffy walked over to the chair and sat down.

The first was titled Not Fade Away.

She read out loud,

"Night cast a dim view,

On all our accomplishments.

Hand in hand, blue clouds crashing in thunderous fury,

Sapphire tears, Illyria's pain.

Hell hath opened her mouth, weeping

For what is at stake,

Friendship and loyalty

Ragged bedfellows do make."

Buffy covered her mouth to hold back a gasp as tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She flipped the pages and continued reading what was, essentially, Spike's story told in verse, in reverse.

"Bound by invisible chains

Bound to stygian darkness, fired up

By Hades torments.

Unsubstantial. Inconsequential.

Fading, fading, ghosts of memories

Cling to the remnants of dreams.

Hell bound, alone, unseen and

Unloved."

As she read, Buffy traced Spike's memories from the battle in Los Angeles, to his run-in with the rogue slayer Dana and his days as a ghost. Her tears poured down her face, making blotches on the clean white pages, disturbing the pristine condition of his verses.

"Chosen, the one

Who lusts after the beast but loves

The man.

Make me bleed,

Cleanse the blood, her

Fire makes a baptism of my soul

Into her hands I entrust

My broken and scarred heart."

"What are you doing?" a harsh voice interrupted.

Buffy jumped and looked up, the journal tumbling to the floor.

William lunged across the room, his face contorted with fury. "Who gave you the right? What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

She shot to her feet, grabbing his hands and holding him still.

"Look at me!" she shouted.

William was so taken back by the strength of her grip that he obeyed immediately.

"You started writing these at the same time that Spike supposedly died," she explained. She grabbed the journal from him and opened it, jabbing her finger at the date. "May, 2004 – Illyria was a – a – friend of yours! They were all your friends!" She turned to another page. "This one, you write about being unseen, a ghost. William, Spike came back as a ghost!"

He stared, unblinking and Buffy continued, determined to make him see the truth. "And here, here you wrote 'Your slave in chains, bound by your whim to suffer your pleasure, Centuries have not prepared me, Let me rest in peace." She couldn't control the sobs. "Let me rest in peace, you sang those words to me. You begged me to let you rest in peace, to leave you alone."

"Then why didn't you?"

Her gaze locked with his. "Because I couldn't. I couldn't imagine not having you in my life. I couldn't and I still can't. I – I needed you."

"As what, your sodding punching bag?"

Buffy winced.

He looked away from her and pulled the book from her hands. He opened it, riffling through the pages. "Are you saying that here, when I write about 'her, the One, the chosen I follow on my knees, begging', I'm writing about you?"

"Yes!"

He spun around and in a fury, threw the book across the room. "This isn't possible!" he raged. He bowed his head and dug his hands into his scalp, pulling on his hair as if the pain would make the entire situation disappear. "It's not possible that I didn't exist!"

"You did. It was just different," Buffy explained, knowing in her heart that it was an inadequate answer. She needed to show him. She needed him to see what she was, what he had been. Perhaps then he would start to believe.

He stared at the journal, lying on the floor, its spine broken from the force of his throw. "All my nightmares are in that book," he murmured, completely deflated and defeated. "Every nightmare I've ever had I've poured onto those pages." He turned and looked at her. "And now you want me to believe that my nightmares were my reality?"
"It wasn't all bad," she replied, her heart breaking. She reached for him and took his hands into her own. "There were good moments. You were a hero. In the end, you had friends. I loved you. It wasn't my nightmare."

He rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture so reminiscent of Spike that Buffy had to close her eyes and block out the sight. "I honestly haven't a clue where to go from here," he said.

"Let's go out," she suggested. "Let's go out, like two normal people and just spend the day together." She needed him to see that there was a bond between them, one stronger than the pull of his nightmarish memories.

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Right, you want to go out? Like on a date?"

She grinned and dried her tears. "Yeah, a date." She dragged him to the door, away from the journal, away from the dark memories. "Movie, popcorn, dinner, a walk in the park. When was the last time you went on a date?"

He thought for a moment. "Two months ago."

Buffy felt a pang of jealousy. "Oh," she said.

He shrugged. He couldn't stay in the house. Its walls were beginning to feel like a prison to him. "Okay, I'll go along with this."

"Go change, I'll meet you on the porch in thirty minutes," she said.

"Yeah," he turned away and then glancing back, continued. "Wear trousers. We're taking the bike."

"Bike?"

He walked away without answering.

***

William pulled the chair back and sat Buffy at the table. Their waiter handed her the menu and William the wine list.

"Mr. Bennett, a pleasure to have you with us this evening," he said as he unfolded their napkins.

William glanced around the courtyard. In the glimmer of evening light, the gas lanterns shown and the flowers and lush foliage seemed to breathe with a life of their own. The restaurant in Charleston's French Quarter, known as 82 Queen, was his favorite.

"Thanks, Johnny, be sure to tell Chef Brad that I'm here this evening with a guest," he said.

The waiter glanced over at Buffy and smiled. "Welcome to 82, miss," he said. "Can I start you both off with some wine?"

William glanced over at Buffy who was watching him in disbelief, eyebrows raised, and eyes wide. He grinned.

"Johnny, I'll have a bottle of your 2005 Opus One."

"Excellent choice, as always, Mr. Bennett."

The waiter left and Buffy leaned over the table. "Snobby, much?"

He shrugged. "I've got money now. I enjoy it." He sipped his water and stared at her. "Tell me about yourself, your life, your family, your friends."

She fiddled with the corner of the napkin and glanced up at him. "The truth or the white washed version we tell strangers?"

He leaned back as the sommelier arrived at their table and opened the bottle of wine. He poured a small amount into a glass and Buffy's mouth dropped as William tilted the glass and examined the wine. He then swirled the glass and stuck his nose in it and inhaled deeply. Finally, he swirled again and then took a small sip. Glancing at the sommelier, he nodded in approval and sat back, arms crossed as the wine was poured.

"Good grief," said Buffy.

"What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

He swore he heard her mention something about pompous and Giles, but he couldn't be certain.

"Tell me the true version," he said as he sipped his wine. "I think I can handle it."

"I hope so," she muttered. She sipped the wine carefully, as if it was going to scald her tongue and she was surprised at the rich, fruity taste of it. "This is yummy."

He pursed his lips in a familiar smirk. "For what it costs a bottle, it better be. Now, get on with it. The true version please."

She sat back with the glass, getting comfortable. "Okay, I live with my sister Dawn."

"The key," he murmured.

Buffy gaped. "What did you just say?"

He shook his head. "What?"

"Key, you just called Dawn the key," she insisted.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said. He waved her on. "Keep going."

Buffy shook her head, sighed, and continued. "Dawn was sort of dropped into our lives, these monks took an entity known as the key and transformed it into a human – Dawn – and then gave her to us as my sister. She had an entire history, memories, a life and everything was as if it had really happened. Only it hadn't. It was all fabricated memories."

William stared, his mouth slightly open. "Okay," he finally said. "Maybe I'm not ready for the truth."

Buffy raised her eyebrows and looked at him over her glass. "Sounds familiar doesn't it? Anyway – we saved her and the world from evil – too many times to count. Now we live in L.A. We run what is left over of the Watcher's Council."

"The Grigori?" William said in confusion.

Buffy jumped on it. "No – but see the connections? The Watcher's Council was a group of researchers, academics, specialists in the supernatural. They kept up on all the demon business going on, and then one of them was selected as a guide and trainer for the slayers."

"And I named my series after them," he responded weakly.

"Yes. Anyway – the entire council collapsed back in 2003, but we've been working on reestablishing it in L.A. Giles is the last known member of the original council; the last couple of years he's been trying to track down any remaining members. Dawn is our head researcher. And then there are Xander and Willow, we've been friends since high school. Willow is a first class witch."

"Seriously?"
Buffy nodded. "Seriously. Everything you write about in your books, it's real stuff."

"Right then, so together you fight evil?"

"Yeah – Xander, Giles, Willow and Dawn and about fifty slayers."

"As a result of that spell that played around with the selection process," he filled in, remembering an earlier conversation.

"Exactly!"

Their waiter approached. "Mr. Bennett? Would you like to place an order?"

William glanced over at Buffy and she gestured to the menu. "Go ahead, order for the both of us. Seems like you would know what would taste the best."

He folded the menu shut. "We'll have two bowls of the she crab soup, and then the lady will have the pecan crusted grouper with grits and fried green tomatoes and I will have the crab cakes. Can you make sure Brad spices up the red rice? He knows how I like it."

The waiter nodded and slipped away.

William turned back to Buffy who was still looking at him as if he'd dropped in from another planet.

"Far cry from chicken wings and blooming onions," she murmured.

He grinned. "I love chicken wings." He shrugged. "You just can't eat like that everyday. Must keep my manly form, you know."

She bit back an inappropriate comment about his more than adequate body. "I can't get used to you being all cultured and stuff."

"Spike wasn't cultured?" he asked casually, reaching for his glass. He didn't want to come across as too interested.

"He painted his nails black and bleached his hair."

William choked on the sip of wine he was taking.

Buffy held up her hand. "All that being said, he wrote beautiful poetry and he loved to read. He helped Dawn with her English homework."

William had a pained look on his face. "Black nail polish?"

She nodded. "Very Billy Idol."

He shuddered and she chuckled. "It suited you-him."

He cleared his throat and took a drink of his water. "So if you have all these friends and all this noble work that you do, what are you doing in North Carolina?"

She looked bleak for a moment, and then smiled forcibly. "I'm retiring. Going back to school."

"Can slayers retire?" he asked, remembering Dahlia's granddaughter's untimely death.

Buffy shook her head. "Not usually. It was a 'to the grave' sort of career. But now, with so many slayers, the world can do with one less."

"What are you going to school for?"

"Counseling," she said shyly.

He smiled. "Still trying to help people, yeah?"

She ducked her head and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's it. That's me. Miss Handy Helper!"

He raised his glass. "Well congrats, I think it's great."

She chinked her glass against his, meeting his gaze and flushing warmly under the glow of his approval. "Thank you."

The waiter placed delicate bowls of soup in front of them and William smiled at her.

"Bon appétit."

***

Buffy wrapped her arms around his waist and tucked her head between William's shoulder blades. She was grinning ear to ear, wishing it were possible to stop time. She'd have to ask Giles the next time she saw him, she definitely needed a spell that she could cast to freeze every single perfect moment she shared with Spike.

The day had been filled with them.

From the surprise afternoon shower that had sent them huddling under a store front awning, to the decadent pecan pie dessert, Buffy had had to pinch herself numerous times to make sure it wasn't a dream.

Each time she looked over at Spike it was like a little shock. As the day progressed, she began to see him more as William and less as Spike. It frightened her, but it was as if the best of Spike's soul had taken shape and was sitting across the table from her with the fading light shimmering off his blond hair.

The rumble of the bike lessened as William geared down.

"Where are we going?" she called out.

"My favorite place in Charleston," he shouted back as he slowed the bike down and turned on to Cunnington Avenue.

Buffy stared ahead down the shadow draped street.

"You've got to be kidding me," she said as they rode past the white pillared entrance to Magnolia Cemetery.

William geared down and braked. He pulled off his helmet and looked around.

"This is where I come to write," he explained. "I come in the afternoons and walk through the old tombstones and then find a tree to sit under and I write out pages and pages of notes."

Buffy hopped off the bike and Spike set both helmets on the seat. She followed him as he began walking across the grass.

"What did you write about when you came out here?" she asked. She wanted to reach out and take his hand in hers and she wondered what he'd do. God, how many times had they walked through a cemetery? Had they ever held hands?

"I wrote all that poetry you stumbled across," he responded dryly and glanced over at her. "And I wrote stories about the demons in my novels. I worked out all their angst here." He stood and opened his arms, and turned around in a slow circle. "Ironic isn't it? A cemetery was my inspiration and here you're telling me it was my home for over a century!"

She reached out and gave into the instinct that was clamoring; she took his hand in hers. "Hey," she said softly.

He turned towards her, his face half lit in the shadowed gloom of moonlight and tombs. In that instant, William was captured as if in an oil painting, a chiaroscuro study of light and dark. In his eyes she could see the dark depths of a tormented soul. And she could also see the light shinning from his heart. The moon seemed to capture it all in a flash and in that moment, Buffy truly saw him, saw him as both Spike and William and she understand that the two, the light and dark, had been entwined within him for over a century, struggling to strike a balance.

His gaze focused on her lips and Buffy leaned forward.

Then she caught a glimpse of movement over his right shoulder.

"Aah...," she groaned. "Not tonight!"

TBC