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Memory Box by Grave Tidings
Chapter One
WINNER -- Runner-Up for Best Spike Characterization in 18th Round LOVE'S LAST GLIMPSE AWARDS.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
Nominated for Most Original Fic, Best Angst, and Best Long Story in 5th Round FANG FETISH AWARDS
http://www.athenewolfe.com/fangfetish/
Nominated for Best Spike Characterization in Best of 2006 LOVE'S LAST GLIMPSE AWARDS.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
Nominated for Best Angst, Best Future Fic and Best Romance in 2nd Round SPARK & BURN Awards
http://spark.jaded-paradise.net/home.htm
Nominated for Best Love Story, Most Original Fiction and Best Spike Characterization at LOVE'S LAST GLIMPSE 18TH ROUND AWARDS.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The original version of "Memory Box: Part 1" has specific graphics and fonts for Spike and Buffy's handwriting which have been removed for this plain-text version. The story loses something if these fonts are lost, so if you want to read the original please go to http://grave-tidings.tripod.com/fictions/memory _ box . htm where you can download it as a printable PDF with all of the graphics and fonts intact.
This one is for Allison, who knows why.
~Candlekeeper
---
CHAPTER ONE
It was raining again. Combing out her wet hair in front of the window overlooking the Slayer school's rose garden, Buffy thought that, after six months living in Bath, she should have been used to English rain in all its misty, foggy forms. California girl that she was, she had yet to get used to not seeing the sun all that often.
Sunnydale and everything she'd known lay buried beneath the water that had flooded the hellmouth crater to form a nice, big lake that was starting to be ringed by resorts and developments that only the most wealthy could afford. It wasn't called Sunnydale any more, and Buffy couldn't be bothered to remember what they'd re-christened it. It didn't matter, she'd never go back.
Laying down the comb, she pulled her bathrobe tighter and sank cross legged on the couch. It wasn't hers, not really, any more than any piece of furniture in the small flat belonged to her.
"I'm sure you'll want to decorate your own flat," Giles had said, smiling more easily once Buffy had agreed to come with him and the other Scoobies to Bath and assist with the rapid rebuilding of the Watcher's Council and the establishment of a new Slayer school to train the initiates they'd already found.
"Not really," she'd responded. "Willow knows what I like. Let her do it."
Buffy had chosen none of the furniture and none of the artwork on the walls or the knick knacks on the shelves. The clock-radio beside her bed, the china in her kitchen, and every article of clothing in Buffy's closet was something her friend had chosen for her--with the exception of her shoes because, as Willow herself had tentatively pointed out, "I can't do that for you because, obviously, the shoes wouldn't fit right and then your feet would hurt."
So the first thing she'd done upon her arrival at Heathrow was to go and buy shoes. It was something that had thrilled her in Sunnydale, but something that exhausted her when she tried it in London because it required that she get up and stop staring at the walls. Get up and do something that resembled living. She'd gotten the shoes--one pair of sneakers and another pair of sensible walkers--that had made Dawn arch an eyebrow when she had seen them.
"What happened to the stylish stilettos and little black boots?"
"Not really in the mood for those," Buffy had muttered. Curling up on the couch, she'd gone back to staring at the wall.
"What's wrong with you?" Dawn had demanded.
"I miss Spike."
She'd only had to say it once, because Dawn tripped out to inform everyone that her sister was moody and in mourning. They all tiptoed after that--knocking politely on her door rather the bursting through as they used to do back in Sunnydale, and speaking in low tones whenever they addressed her, as if breaking her funereal silence could break her even more than she already was inside. If they were glad Spike was gone--and Buffy had no doubt that they were--they didn't say so around her.
"She's fragile," Buffy overheard her erstwhile Watcher tell Xander.
I am, she had no trouble admitting to herself. I miss Spike. I need him. And I regret so much what I did to him.
She cried when they weren't looking because, well, she was strong and never cried about anything when they were looking. Not about Angel turning into Angelus. Not when her mother died or when Glory took Dawn. Certainly not when an annoying, newly ensouled vampire turned to ashes while saving the world when he should have dusted long ago. He was gone, lost in the hellmouth after he'd made her world safe and supposedly easier to live in. Buffy wasn't the only Chosen One anymore for new Slayers were now legion. She could have that happy, normal life now because Spike had loved her enough to let go of not only her, but her world. That her world was empty without him, Buffy sensed that no one else, not even Spike, would have understood.
None of her surviving friends could understand or help, so she stared at the wall and got up to put one foot in front of the other whenever someone wanted her to. She lectured and taught, she shared her training as she shared her duties with the new Slayers. If she resembled the Buffybot more than the strong, formidable Slayer whom Giles and the others had known in Sunnydale, no one bothered her about it. She was, after all, fragile.
~ ~ ~
Stepping back to allow a giggling set of Slayerettes to exit from the lift, Buffy held the door for Giles who was entering with a beautifully ornate wooden box.
"What floor?" she asked.
"Yours." He shifted the box. "This is for you."
"But it's not my birthday."
"It's more of an...unbirthday gift." The corner of her Watcher's mouth lifted slightly--more in a quirk than the beginnings of a smile.
She led the way from the lift and keyed open her door, then turned to take the box from him. Setting it on the kitchen table, she looked up at Giles who was rearranging his suit coat and pulling down his cuffs.
"This is a writing box, Buffy. From the end of the eighteenth century to the end of the nineteenth century, these boxes were part of Victorian expeditions and travel, libraries and drawing rooms. This one appears to be about 150 years old. It's made of rosewood, and it belonged to Spike."
She flinched to hear the name. Reaching out, she ran her fingers over the warm wood. "How did he… How did you…."
"It's my understanding that Spike left it with Clem before going to Africa. Spike brought it to me the night before our final battle."
That's the night I killed Caleb, she remembered. The night Spike saw me talking to Angel and said I had Angel breath.
"He hotwired the school bus for me, brought it home, and we stored the box beneath the back seat," Giles continued. "Spike asked if I'd look after it and make sure you got it, should he not make it through."
Blinking back tears, Buffy bit her lip and traced patterns on the old wood.
"Here is the key." Her Watcher handed over the delicate thing on a silver chain. "I've not opened it."
"I thought you would, if only to add to what the Council knows about William the Bloody."
"No. Unlike a writing desk or table, these boxes were not a household possession, Buffy. They were intensely personal, and whatever is inside, Spike meant it for you. If you decide to share your contents with me later...."
She closed her fingers around the key. "Thank you, Giles."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Stepping closer, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "If you need me--"
"I know."
The Watcher let himself out. Placing the small key on the table, Buffy swirled the chain in circles around it and listened to its metallic whisper over the soft ticking of the mantel clock. Pulling up a chair, she sat down and stared at the box for a moment.
I remember you, she thought. You lived in his crypt on that beat-up pine bookcase that was lopsided and wobbly, and you were always locked. I should know, I checked.
Taking up the key, she placed it in the lock. The tumblers clicked over easily--something she hadn't expected--with the warped lid springing up slightly.
"This feels so wrong," she whispered to the box. "Like I'm intruding. But Spike meant for me to have you. Meant for me to open you. I guess."
Lifting the squeaking lid, Buffy was greeted by compartments holding two screw-top inkwells full of ink, a pen tray full of dip pens and clean nibs, and a writing surface. The writing surface unfolded to double its depth and was covered in velvet.
Oh, my God, I think this belonged to William. But velvet can't last 150 years, can it? Spike must have replaced it at least once. Her fingers were shaking as she ran her fingers over the soft fabric, and then folded the writing surface back onto itself.
Exploring further, Buffy found what looked like the seams to three drawers inserted beneath the writing surface, but she couldn't find any obvious way to open them. Eyeing the inkwells, she noticed a raised tab next to the one on the right. She pushed on the tab and was rewarded with three drawers springing open.
Reaching inside the first drawer, Buffy retrieved a small envelope. Turning it over, she saw that someone had decorated it using colored inks.
They're still so bright, it could have been done yesterday, she thought.
'My Sarah's Hair … Obiit Feb XX 1864'
'She is not dead but sleepeth.'
'Rest in peace.'
A black cross adorned each corner while twin funeral wreaths were joined by a garland beneath the words. Centered in each wreath was an initial: W and S. Turning over the envelope, Buffy saw that the wax seal with its stylized 'W' had long been broken. Peering inside, Buffy found a thin braid made of brown hair, and a card-mounted photograph of a boy in spectacles. Dressed in a solemn black suit, he held the hand of a blurry toddler in a lace dress that was far too long and adult for her.
If William was turned in 1880 when he was about twenty-five, then in 1864 he would have been nine or ten. Just like the boy in the photo. Turning it over, Buffy saw that someone had spider-scrawled, Wills and Sary, Xmas 1863.
"Hello, William," she whispered to the boy. Was Sarah his little sister? She died only two months later, how sad.
A crayon drawing was next. It may have been undated and unsigned, but Buffy knew the style all too well after seeing pencil sketches of her own family and Jenny in Sunnydale that had been drawn by the same vampire artist.
Angelus did this.
Highly detailed to the point of being eerily lifelike, the drawing featured an impossibly good-looking, grinning young man whose too-long hair fell into his eyes. Caught between game-face and human-face, the fledgling vamp's sharp incisors were all too evident, as was the wicked tongue behind the fangs and the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
You know you wanna dance, Buffy heard as clear as yesterday in her mind.
"You never stopped dancing, did you?" Buffy whispered as she set the things aside on the table beside her and returned to exploring the drawers. What looked like an old house key on a tattered black ribbon came up next.
"What door did you fit?" Buffy wondered before setting it aside as well.
A stack of photos had been stuffed into a manila envelope, and Buffy had to remove a handful before the envelope would slide free of the drawer. Separating them, Buffy found multiple sets of silly photo-booth photos of Dawn and Spike, which Buffy knew had to have been taken at the booth in Sunnydale Mall during the summer she was gone.
One featured Spike in game-face mock-biting Dawn, while the teenager laughed and shoved him away. A cross-eyed vampire wasn't something Buffy was used to seeing, and she could practically hear her sister's giggles and Spike's growling to encourage the giggling to continue. The Scoobies had told her Spike had been the only one Dawn had been able to stand being near for any amount of time that summer.
"Good on you," she told the vampire in the photo. He was the only one I could stand to be near after I came back, too. I'm so sorry that I never told him that. Maybe one day I can tell Dawn.
Spike and Dawn had their arms wrapped around each other in the next photo. Leaning their foreheads together, both the vampire and the teenager seemed to have forgotten the flashing camera. Spike was looking at the girl as though whatever she had been saying at the moment was the most important thing in his world, while Dawn was obviously babbling as only Dawn could. Another photo-booth series was of Spike in game-face, staring in profile at Dawn while she cradled his ridges and kissed his nose. His mouth was open slightly with the tip of one fang showing.
"You really did love her, didn't you?" Buffy whispered. "And she loved you."
There were more photos behind these, and Buffy remembered Spike explaining how addictive the late Victorians had found the new photographic processes.
"You went into a studio and stood very still until your hands and your face went numb. Afterward, you were rewarded with a dark, fuzzy image of yourself to pass around in the drawing room during at-homes and supper parties. Yeah, it was like magic."
Spike stole this one! Buffy thought accusingly, grabbing a photo Giles must have taken of her at their ill-fated Thanksgiving dinner. She'd been caught stabbing Spike's arm with a dinner knife after he'd stolen her forkful of turkey. He was smirking, she was in full rant, and he had to have stolen the photo from Giles later. What else did you steal, you… you vampire-thief you!
The next one had been stolen as well, but not in any light-fingered way. A yellow stickie note was stuck to the front of the Polaroid print, onto which Dawn had scribbled, 'If she ever sees this, I'm DEAD." That note told Buffy exactly who she had to blame for the photo of her leaning against Spike on the couch in the old house on Revello, sound asleep and clinging to the vampire for dear life. For once, Spike wasn't smirking.
I'd been ripped out of heaven only that week, Buffy remembered, noting the scabs that still marred her knuckles where she clutched Spike's black t-shirt. He told me to rest my eyes for a few minutes, that he'd warn me when the Scoobies came back. I was so tired, and he felt so good to be near. He breathed constantly that night, I guess so he'd feel more alive as he held me.
Spike's arms were tight around her, his cheek against the top of her head, and his blue eyes were fiercely protective as they met the camera.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
Nominated for Most Original Fic, Best Angst, and Best Long Story in 5th Round FANG FETISH AWARDS
http://www.athenewolfe.com/fangfetish/
Nominated for Best Spike Characterization in Best of 2006 LOVE'S LAST GLIMPSE AWARDS.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
Nominated for Best Angst, Best Future Fic and Best Romance in 2nd Round SPARK & BURN Awards
http://spark.jaded-paradise.net/home.htm
Nominated for Best Love Story, Most Original Fiction and Best Spike Characterization at LOVE'S LAST GLIMPSE 18TH ROUND AWARDS.
http://www.loveslastglimpse.com/awards/index.html
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The original version of "Memory Box: Part 1" has specific graphics and fonts for Spike and Buffy's handwriting which have been removed for this plain-text version. The story loses something if these fonts are lost, so if you want to read the original please go to http://grave-tidings.tripod.com/fictions/memory _ box . htm where you can download it as a printable PDF with all of the graphics and fonts intact.
This one is for Allison, who knows why.
~Candlekeeper
---
CHAPTER ONE
It was raining again. Combing out her wet hair in front of the window overlooking the Slayer school's rose garden, Buffy thought that, after six months living in Bath, she should have been used to English rain in all its misty, foggy forms. California girl that she was, she had yet to get used to not seeing the sun all that often.
Sunnydale and everything she'd known lay buried beneath the water that had flooded the hellmouth crater to form a nice, big lake that was starting to be ringed by resorts and developments that only the most wealthy could afford. It wasn't called Sunnydale any more, and Buffy couldn't be bothered to remember what they'd re-christened it. It didn't matter, she'd never go back.
Laying down the comb, she pulled her bathrobe tighter and sank cross legged on the couch. It wasn't hers, not really, any more than any piece of furniture in the small flat belonged to her.
"I'm sure you'll want to decorate your own flat," Giles had said, smiling more easily once Buffy had agreed to come with him and the other Scoobies to Bath and assist with the rapid rebuilding of the Watcher's Council and the establishment of a new Slayer school to train the initiates they'd already found.
"Not really," she'd responded. "Willow knows what I like. Let her do it."
Buffy had chosen none of the furniture and none of the artwork on the walls or the knick knacks on the shelves. The clock-radio beside her bed, the china in her kitchen, and every article of clothing in Buffy's closet was something her friend had chosen for her--with the exception of her shoes because, as Willow herself had tentatively pointed out, "I can't do that for you because, obviously, the shoes wouldn't fit right and then your feet would hurt."
So the first thing she'd done upon her arrival at Heathrow was to go and buy shoes. It was something that had thrilled her in Sunnydale, but something that exhausted her when she tried it in London because it required that she get up and stop staring at the walls. Get up and do something that resembled living. She'd gotten the shoes--one pair of sneakers and another pair of sensible walkers--that had made Dawn arch an eyebrow when she had seen them.
"What happened to the stylish stilettos and little black boots?"
"Not really in the mood for those," Buffy had muttered. Curling up on the couch, she'd gone back to staring at the wall.
"What's wrong with you?" Dawn had demanded.
"I miss Spike."
She'd only had to say it once, because Dawn tripped out to inform everyone that her sister was moody and in mourning. They all tiptoed after that--knocking politely on her door rather the bursting through as they used to do back in Sunnydale, and speaking in low tones whenever they addressed her, as if breaking her funereal silence could break her even more than she already was inside. If they were glad Spike was gone--and Buffy had no doubt that they were--they didn't say so around her.
"She's fragile," Buffy overheard her erstwhile Watcher tell Xander.
I am, she had no trouble admitting to herself. I miss Spike. I need him. And I regret so much what I did to him.
She cried when they weren't looking because, well, she was strong and never cried about anything when they were looking. Not about Angel turning into Angelus. Not when her mother died or when Glory took Dawn. Certainly not when an annoying, newly ensouled vampire turned to ashes while saving the world when he should have dusted long ago. He was gone, lost in the hellmouth after he'd made her world safe and supposedly easier to live in. Buffy wasn't the only Chosen One anymore for new Slayers were now legion. She could have that happy, normal life now because Spike had loved her enough to let go of not only her, but her world. That her world was empty without him, Buffy sensed that no one else, not even Spike, would have understood.
None of her surviving friends could understand or help, so she stared at the wall and got up to put one foot in front of the other whenever someone wanted her to. She lectured and taught, she shared her training as she shared her duties with the new Slayers. If she resembled the Buffybot more than the strong, formidable Slayer whom Giles and the others had known in Sunnydale, no one bothered her about it. She was, after all, fragile.
~ ~ ~
Stepping back to allow a giggling set of Slayerettes to exit from the lift, Buffy held the door for Giles who was entering with a beautifully ornate wooden box.
"What floor?" she asked.
"Yours." He shifted the box. "This is for you."
"But it's not my birthday."
"It's more of an...unbirthday gift." The corner of her Watcher's mouth lifted slightly--more in a quirk than the beginnings of a smile.
She led the way from the lift and keyed open her door, then turned to take the box from him. Setting it on the kitchen table, she looked up at Giles who was rearranging his suit coat and pulling down his cuffs.
"This is a writing box, Buffy. From the end of the eighteenth century to the end of the nineteenth century, these boxes were part of Victorian expeditions and travel, libraries and drawing rooms. This one appears to be about 150 years old. It's made of rosewood, and it belonged to Spike."
She flinched to hear the name. Reaching out, she ran her fingers over the warm wood. "How did he… How did you…."
"It's my understanding that Spike left it with Clem before going to Africa. Spike brought it to me the night before our final battle."
That's the night I killed Caleb, she remembered. The night Spike saw me talking to Angel and said I had Angel breath.
"He hotwired the school bus for me, brought it home, and we stored the box beneath the back seat," Giles continued. "Spike asked if I'd look after it and make sure you got it, should he not make it through."
Blinking back tears, Buffy bit her lip and traced patterns on the old wood.
"Here is the key." Her Watcher handed over the delicate thing on a silver chain. "I've not opened it."
"I thought you would, if only to add to what the Council knows about William the Bloody."
"No. Unlike a writing desk or table, these boxes were not a household possession, Buffy. They were intensely personal, and whatever is inside, Spike meant it for you. If you decide to share your contents with me later...."
She closed her fingers around the key. "Thank you, Giles."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Stepping closer, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "If you need me--"
"I know."
The Watcher let himself out. Placing the small key on the table, Buffy swirled the chain in circles around it and listened to its metallic whisper over the soft ticking of the mantel clock. Pulling up a chair, she sat down and stared at the box for a moment.
I remember you, she thought. You lived in his crypt on that beat-up pine bookcase that was lopsided and wobbly, and you were always locked. I should know, I checked.
Taking up the key, she placed it in the lock. The tumblers clicked over easily--something she hadn't expected--with the warped lid springing up slightly.
"This feels so wrong," she whispered to the box. "Like I'm intruding. But Spike meant for me to have you. Meant for me to open you. I guess."
Lifting the squeaking lid, Buffy was greeted by compartments holding two screw-top inkwells full of ink, a pen tray full of dip pens and clean nibs, and a writing surface. The writing surface unfolded to double its depth and was covered in velvet.
Oh, my God, I think this belonged to William. But velvet can't last 150 years, can it? Spike must have replaced it at least once. Her fingers were shaking as she ran her fingers over the soft fabric, and then folded the writing surface back onto itself.
Exploring further, Buffy found what looked like the seams to three drawers inserted beneath the writing surface, but she couldn't find any obvious way to open them. Eyeing the inkwells, she noticed a raised tab next to the one on the right. She pushed on the tab and was rewarded with three drawers springing open.
Reaching inside the first drawer, Buffy retrieved a small envelope. Turning it over, she saw that someone had decorated it using colored inks.
They're still so bright, it could have been done yesterday, she thought.
'My Sarah's Hair … Obiit Feb XX 1864'
'She is not dead but sleepeth.'
'Rest in peace.'
A black cross adorned each corner while twin funeral wreaths were joined by a garland beneath the words. Centered in each wreath was an initial: W and S. Turning over the envelope, Buffy saw that the wax seal with its stylized 'W' had long been broken. Peering inside, Buffy found a thin braid made of brown hair, and a card-mounted photograph of a boy in spectacles. Dressed in a solemn black suit, he held the hand of a blurry toddler in a lace dress that was far too long and adult for her.
If William was turned in 1880 when he was about twenty-five, then in 1864 he would have been nine or ten. Just like the boy in the photo. Turning it over, Buffy saw that someone had spider-scrawled, Wills and Sary, Xmas 1863.
"Hello, William," she whispered to the boy. Was Sarah his little sister? She died only two months later, how sad.
A crayon drawing was next. It may have been undated and unsigned, but Buffy knew the style all too well after seeing pencil sketches of her own family and Jenny in Sunnydale that had been drawn by the same vampire artist.
Angelus did this.
Highly detailed to the point of being eerily lifelike, the drawing featured an impossibly good-looking, grinning young man whose too-long hair fell into his eyes. Caught between game-face and human-face, the fledgling vamp's sharp incisors were all too evident, as was the wicked tongue behind the fangs and the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
You know you wanna dance, Buffy heard as clear as yesterday in her mind.
"You never stopped dancing, did you?" Buffy whispered as she set the things aside on the table beside her and returned to exploring the drawers. What looked like an old house key on a tattered black ribbon came up next.
"What door did you fit?" Buffy wondered before setting it aside as well.
A stack of photos had been stuffed into a manila envelope, and Buffy had to remove a handful before the envelope would slide free of the drawer. Separating them, Buffy found multiple sets of silly photo-booth photos of Dawn and Spike, which Buffy knew had to have been taken at the booth in Sunnydale Mall during the summer she was gone.
One featured Spike in game-face mock-biting Dawn, while the teenager laughed and shoved him away. A cross-eyed vampire wasn't something Buffy was used to seeing, and she could practically hear her sister's giggles and Spike's growling to encourage the giggling to continue. The Scoobies had told her Spike had been the only one Dawn had been able to stand being near for any amount of time that summer.
"Good on you," she told the vampire in the photo. He was the only one I could stand to be near after I came back, too. I'm so sorry that I never told him that. Maybe one day I can tell Dawn.
Spike and Dawn had their arms wrapped around each other in the next photo. Leaning their foreheads together, both the vampire and the teenager seemed to have forgotten the flashing camera. Spike was looking at the girl as though whatever she had been saying at the moment was the most important thing in his world, while Dawn was obviously babbling as only Dawn could. Another photo-booth series was of Spike in game-face, staring in profile at Dawn while she cradled his ridges and kissed his nose. His mouth was open slightly with the tip of one fang showing.
"You really did love her, didn't you?" Buffy whispered. "And she loved you."
There were more photos behind these, and Buffy remembered Spike explaining how addictive the late Victorians had found the new photographic processes.
"You went into a studio and stood very still until your hands and your face went numb. Afterward, you were rewarded with a dark, fuzzy image of yourself to pass around in the drawing room during at-homes and supper parties. Yeah, it was like magic."
Spike stole this one! Buffy thought accusingly, grabbing a photo Giles must have taken of her at their ill-fated Thanksgiving dinner. She'd been caught stabbing Spike's arm with a dinner knife after he'd stolen her forkful of turkey. He was smirking, she was in full rant, and he had to have stolen the photo from Giles later. What else did you steal, you… you vampire-thief you!
The next one had been stolen as well, but not in any light-fingered way. A yellow stickie note was stuck to the front of the Polaroid print, onto which Dawn had scribbled, 'If she ever sees this, I'm DEAD." That note told Buffy exactly who she had to blame for the photo of her leaning against Spike on the couch in the old house on Revello, sound asleep and clinging to the vampire for dear life. For once, Spike wasn't smirking.
I'd been ripped out of heaven only that week, Buffy remembered, noting the scabs that still marred her knuckles where she clutched Spike's black t-shirt. He told me to rest my eyes for a few minutes, that he'd warn me when the Scoobies came back. I was so tired, and he felt so good to be near. He breathed constantly that night, I guess so he'd feel more alive as he held me.
Spike's arms were tight around her, his cheek against the top of her head, and his blue eyes were fiercely protective as they met the camera.
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