|Chapter Title:||Dearest Buffy, Chapter 30|
December 2001. Annie is almost 3 years old. Buffy died in early May 2001, brought back in September 2001.
Spike is still trying to get Buffy fully back. She finally admitted to having been in heaven and now felt she was in hell, but did she really understand the hell that Spike had been in while she was dead?
Song referenced: I've got a Rock 'N' Roll
Heart by Eric Clapton:
|Rating / Warnings:||
NC17. Content is only suitable for mature adults. Contains explicit language, violence, sex and adult themes which may include rape, attempted rape, blood play and other adult situations that some people may find objectionable. If you are under the age of 17 or find any of these themes objectionable – GO AWAY. Parents, it is up to YOU to control what your children are reading.
Spike woke early with strange warmth on his body. Looking down, he saw that Buffy had curled around him in the night, her head on his shoulder, an arm draped across his chest and one warm leg wrapped around one of his almost like a snake. This was the first time since she’d gotten back that Buffy had done that, normally she’d sleep on her side with her back to him. He’d often cuddle or spoon against her, but she’d never once returned the gesture, until now.
Spike allowed himself a small smile; perhaps her admission last night of having been in heaven was a first step in solving the problem. He hoped so, he wanted her back, like she was before. He wanted Buffy.
Buffy slid her hand down his torso, brushing his cock and causing it to jump to attention. He listened to her heartbeat, she was still asleep; it was just an accident. He ached for her, but he wanted Buffy, not the robot that currently inhabited her body. He’d rather just wank off in the shower than have sex with her when he knew she wasn’t enjoying it. He wanted her to want it just as much as he did and enjoy it just as much, like she always had before.
Spike slid out from under her and pulled on his PJ bottoms, he turned and had started towards the door when an idea came to him. He turned back around and pulled the leather-bound journal that Buffy had given him on their first wedding anniversary out of a drawer in his bedside table. He opened it to May, 2001. It wasn’t the first entry in the journal, there were poems and ramblings in there before that, but this was where the first letter to Buffy was; the first letter to his dead wife. He laid the book open on the bed before heading for the door and down the hall to the shower.
Buffy woke slowly, stretching her body, she yawned hard before reaching a hand out for Spike. Instead of finding his hard body in the bed next to her, she found his journal. She sat up in the bed and pulled it to her, he had left it open . . . did that mean he wanted her to read it? Remembering her own diary and how violated she felt when she learned Angel had taken the pages from it, she started to put the book back down, but the page it was open to caught her eye, it started, “Dearest Buffy,”.
Buffy leaned over and turned on the lamp next to the bed before sitting back against the headboard and settling the journal in her lap.
You’ve been gone seven days, 12 hours and 52 minutes. How I’ve survived any of that time, I don’t know.
We buried you last night, next to your Mum. Everyone was there, all your friends, even Angel’s crew came down. I’m told it was a lovely service. I honestly don’t remember it.
Annie keeps asking for her Mama. Buffy, what do I tell her? How do I explain that her Mama is gone? Please help me because I don’t think I can do this.
Today, I had to decide which promise to you I would keep. I once told you that when you were put back into the earth, that I would lay on your grave and join you. This morning I did that. I lay down atop your grave and waited . . . waited for the sun to come up and take me to you.
Your Boy Harris reminded me that saving Annie that terrible morning was only part of my promise to you, that I had to stay and keep her safe. So, I had to decide which promise I would keep. Since I’m writing this to you now, I suppose you can guess which I chose.
Buffy, how am I going to do this without you? Annie needs you. I need you. You were my heaven and now, now I feel like hell has descended over me and I don’t know how to escape it.
I need you. I love you. Buffy, please help me.
Tears flowed down Buffy’s face as she read through the journal. Every page from that point forward was filled with letters to her. He wrote one every single day. Some were short, some were long. Some told of something that Annie had done that day that he thought Buffy should know about, there was even one apologizing to her for accidentally naming one of Annie’s new dolls ‘Dru’.
She kept reading . . .
July 15th, 2001, 75 days
Angel came here today. I guess your friends thought I needed an intervention. I don’t know why they care, I’m here, I stayed like I said I would, the whiskey just helps numb the pain, luv. I just can’t take this constant ache in my soul for you. If this is how Angel felt when he first got his soul, then I have to say that I can, for the first time, understand why it took him near a century to come to grips with it. It won’t stop, the pain won’t stop; the emptiness; the guilt of killing you. It haunts me every minute of every day.
Every night I save you. Every night I have a new plan, a new way to save you. I’m that much stronger, that much faster, that much smarter. There are a hundred things I could’ve done differently and I’ve done them all . . . I just didn’t do any of them when it actually mattered.
Angel said I should let you go. I don’t know how to do that. I can’t do it. I’ve tried, I’ve tried everything I can think of and I can’t let you go.
I talked to Red tonight. Buffy, please don’t be angry with me! We’re going to bring you back. Red said ‘maybe’ but that’s all I need right now. She can do it. You told me she was the strongest of us all and I believe you. I have to believe that she can do it, Buffy. Please forgive me my weakness; I can’t go on without you.
Buffy closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headboard. Her tears continued to flow, she seemed unable to stop them now that they’d started. All the time she was in heaven, Spike was in hell. He said that last night, but all these letters to her made her understand what he'd been going through.
Buffy took a deep breath and opened her eyes, re-focusing on the journal. Now he mostly wrote of the plan to get her back, his hope that they would be able to do it and the things he was doing to help Willow get all the spell ingredients that she needed. Buffy was amazed at the change in tone the letters took since the day they had agreed to try and bring her back. Spike had hope, he had hope that he’d be saved from the hell his life was without her.
September 25th, 2001, 147 days
My Dearest Buffy,
Red assures me that tonight is the night. By this time tomorrow, I’ll have you back. She’s very sure that the spell will work and that there will be no ill effects. You know how much I hate using Dark Magicks, but I have no other choice.
Annie is already beginning to forget you, Buffy. She’s bonding with the witches, which is good, but they can't take your place in her heart. I can’t let that happen. Annie is OURS, I know you love her as much as I do. I know you would want to be here for her, for us.
I hope that the transition for you will not be painful. Red assures me that it won’t, but I don’t know if she actually knows or if she’s just saying that to make me feel better. I have to trust her; I have to trust that when you said she was the strongest of us all, that you were right. I simply have no other choice.
I must have you back, Buffy. I love you more than anything I’ve ever known in my life or unlife. You are my heaven. You are my salvation. You are my soul. You are my everything.
I hope that you can forgive me my weakness, my dearest Buffy. I can’t go on another day without you.
Buffy turned the page, the rest of the pages in the journal were blank.
Buffy closed the book and laid back down on the bed, she curled around the journal, clinging to it like a life preserver, holding it tight against her heart as she sobbed into her pillow.
Spike got his shower and had been playing with Annie for about three hours and Buffy still hadn’t come down. He began to worry that letting her read the journal had been a bad idea. He left Annie playing in the training room and went back upstairs. Stopping outside their door, he listened, he could hear her heartbeat, it sounded like she was asleep.
He opened the door silently and stepped inside. Buffy was curled up around his journal, he could smell her tears now and again wondered if he’d done the right thing. We’ll, there was nothing he could do about it now, she’d obviously read it, as he wanted her to. He sighed and turned to leave.
“Spike,” Buffy whispered into her pillow.
He turned back around, was she talking in her sleep?
“Spike, I’m sorry,” Buffy sat up, still holding the journal to her chest. She blinked back tears. “I’m sorry you hurt so much. I never wanted to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, luv, I know. I never wanted you to hurt, either,” Spike replied quietly.
Buffy rose from the bed, set the journal down on her night stand and walked up to Spike. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rose up on her toes and kissed him, a slow, tentative kiss, as if they were teenagers on a first date. Spike returned the kiss but let Buffy control it. No matter how much he wanted to, he was resolved that he wasn’t going to push her; she had to be the one to open the door and take him where she wanted to go.
Pulling back to look into his eyes she said in a low voice, “I believe you, Spike. We’ll find heaven again, together.”
Spike closed his eyes and pulled her to him in a tight embrace. “I know we will. I love you, Buffy,” he whispered in her ear.
For the first time since they brought her back he felt like he was actually holding Buffy again, his wife, the love of his life and everything would be fine . . . perfectly, wonderfully fine.
Spike sauntered downstairs. He’d gotten back late the night before from a mission with Angel and he’d slept late. Heading for the kitchen for a cuppa, he heard music playing and slowed his pace to pad silently up to the doorway. Inside, Buffy was washing the dishes, swaying and singing along to the song that came from a small radio on the windowsill:
I get off on 57 Chevys
I don't want to change.
I don't need no glitter, no
I've Got a Rock N' Roll Heart, Eric Clapton
It was the first time Spike had seen Buffy dancing or singing since she’d come back. It had been a little over a week since he’d let her read his journal and she seemed to be improving a bit each day. Letting the shroud over her drop little by little; starting to feel again.
Spiked stepped up behind her and pressed into her body, matching the rhythm of her hips swinging side to side with his, snaking one arm across her collar bone, the other lightly touching her hip and resting his chin on her shoulder. Buffy reached back and put one arm up around his neck and she molded her body back against him. Both warriors closed their eyes and let the feeling of being one with each other and one with the music envelop them.
Spike was sorry when the song ended, the music changed to a fast song and he pressed a kiss on her neck as he pulled away.
Buffy turned to face him. “You know, Willow said they’re having a Lover’s dance on New Year's Eve at the Bronze this year. Ya’ wanna go?”
Spike smiled. God did he ever want to go ANYWHERE with her. Other than going on patrol, Buffy had shown little enthusiasm for going anywhere or doing anything since she’d gotten back. “Why, Slayer, are you asking me out on a date?” he answered coyly.
Buffy smiled. “Well, only if you think your daughter would approve. I would be honored if you would join me for a romantic night on the town on New Year’s Eve, Mr. Weckerly,” she said in her best formal Victorian Lady voice, adding an exaggerated curtsy at the end.
“Oh, I think she’ll come ‘round. I’d be honored to join you, Mrs. Weckerly.” Spike returned her smile, yeah, she’s getting better, he thought, tears of joy threatening the back of his eyes.
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