CHAPTER FOUR

Writing to Spike had become an addiction for Buffy over the past year. She would finish her day training the Slayerettes, have supper with them in the huge common room or privately with Giles, and then withdraw to her flat alone to share time with Spike.

So what if it wasn't exactly sharing time with Spike because he was, after all, dead? She spent hours with his memory and wrote him a letter every night because she wanted to share her innermost thoughts and outermost frustrations, and whatever else was going on in her life. It helped to clear her mind before going to bed. It might even have helped keep the continued missing him and mourning him at bay, if only a little.

She'd grown used to hearing the soft, sliding sound of her latest letter disappearing for realms unknown, only a few seconds after she'd closed it up in Spike's writing box.

He must be getting my letters wherever he is, she thought. If he's in hell, I hope they bring him some comfort.

She had long stopped hoping he'd find a way to write her back. Half of a miracle was nothing to sneeze at, so Buffy tried to content herself with the fact that her letters were going...somewhere. This night, though, with Spike's box settled on the occasional table in front of her couch and her seated on the floor with the latest piece of parchment before her, Buffy heard what sounded like the soft, sliding sound of a letter arriving inside the box. Because I know there's nothing in there to send him.

Her heart skipped a beat and she froze with her fingers on the lid, ready to raise it. Experience and Spike's first lesson in the alley behind the Bronze were screaming at her to be careful, so Buffy went to her weapons chest and pulled out a shiny, sharp dagger before turning back to the writing box. Standing over it, she held the weapon at the ready before flinging back the box lid and bracing for attack. The envelope within didn't attack her.

Oh, my God, she thought. He wrote back.

The dagger fell from her fingers. She fell to her knees and had to blink back tears.

No more tears--Spike wrote back.

There was no question in her mind, she simply knew that it was his handwriting--regardless she'd never seen it before--and how strange was that, to have spent years with someone in your life and to never know what their handwriting looked like? He'd given her birthday and Christmas presents, but had never presumed to write so much as a birthday greeting on a card to her, and how had that happened? But oh, look, he had written her now and yes, his handwriting was lovely. It wasn't the easiest to read, but it was still lovely.

Buffy wiped her face and blew her nose before daring to lift the envelope and close the box after it. For long minutes, she just sat on the couch with the envelope between her fingers. It wasn't sealed--she had Spike's seal--or rather William's--after all, it was probably the only one he'd ever had--and it would be the work of mere seconds to lift the flap and unfold the letter waiting inside. It didn't look like it had come from hell, it just looked old.

Is this from Spike or William? she wondered. It must be Spike, because William would address it to Miss Buffy Summers, but he wouldn't know my last name, would he? So maybe it is from William?

Lifting the flap, she pulled out the sheets and unfolded them.

Slayer,

Sod the pen, it doesn't matter.

I got your letter. Wish I hadn't, because it wasn't supposed to be like this.

I didn't read it through--your opening said pretty much everything that needed to be said, right? Trivialities of life--even Victorian life. Uncooperative, primitive pens. Thanks for making the effort to write me like that but really, like I said, not necessary, pet. You've got your own pens to worry after.

I won't be writing again, all right? Reason being, I can't be part of a world where I have to see or hear or even read how happy you are with someone else. I know that's coming here in your letters, and it's too hard, it's asking too much of me.

You'll be writing to tell me how bleeding ecstatic the Immortal or some other bloke makes you. While I want you to be happy, I can't be on the outside looking in on your life.

Hope you'll understand how much it hurts to be good enough to fight alongside you, but never good enough to lie down with you every night. I'm not the one who gets to take care of you anymore, to touch and love you. I get that. I get that I was never worthy of it. What you gave me before the hellmouth blew up was more than I ever deserved, and I love you for it.

But I know what I am now--you always knew what I am--and the soul tells me every second how beneath you I am and always will be, no matter what.

I was able to finally save you, to maybe make up for the tower when I failed you and the Niblet. That's what matters, that's what I hold on to. That once, I got it right.

I don't know how you found me, pet, but I need to ask that you lose me again. Don't write any more letters, please, Slayer. I read your first one, and here's your answer. You put the scratchy pens away and live the life you're supposed to live--be happy and all with pens that behave.

Writing an evil, undead thing can't be right. Can't mean anything good.

You need to leave the undead things behind and get on with living. Yeah.

Be good, and don't forget your weapon.

Love always,

Spike



"What did I say? What did I write?" she choked out, unable to do anything but try breathing through the pain. "I don't think you're unworthy, I thought you knew that. How do you even know about the Immortal? And anyway, Spike, he's gone, and I've lost you all over again."

Wrapping her arms around herself, Buffy rocked gently and let the tears come when she thought she had no more tears to cry.

The writing box whispered at her again, and Buffy stared at it a moment before flinging back the lid. There was no envelope this time, only a single sheet of paper folded in on itself, with her address scribbled on the bottom flap as if in great haste.



Buffy,

Please forgive me.

I've gone and hurt you yet again because I was too stupid to realise you were writing streams of consciousness in your first letter. Trying to get the hang of pens & things. Forgive me, pet. You know all too well what a bad, rude vampire I am.

I only just finished reading your letter through properly. When I went to pull back mine, it had gone--just disappeared.

Another letter will follow. I promise a proper answer for you, without hitting this time. I'll start it now.

Forgive me, Buffy. Please. I did not understand.

Love, Spike.



She read the letter through three times before reaching for her pen.

~ ~ ~

Spike had actually seen his apology fade into the ether on its way to the Slayer. True to his word, he began another letter, shaking out his hand and biting his lip as he applied the recalcitrant pen to the old parchment. He kept half an eye on the pigeonhole, waiting to see if Buffy would write back and not even knowing if she were on the other side of the mystical mailbox to get both insult and apology at the same time.

He kept writing, and it took longer than expected. Five minutes later, he took a short break to run downstairs and retrieve more Buffy letters. When he returned, an envelope was waiting for him.

So much for all of them coming through the letter slot, he thought. Guess whatever's sending these knows where to find me. And her. If she's writing back, does that mean....

Not even the bloody poet's voice shrieking in his head to mind the envelope could prevent Spike from tearing open this one.



Spike.

It's okay. I get it, thanks for explaining. But I'm not going to bed until I get the nice letter you promised.

Love, Buffy.



Spike rocked back at words. Something has changed when the Slayer doesn't take my head off or hit back.

He wrote faster.

~ ~ ~



She stared at the closed box and bit her fingernails as she waited. Please, please, please, hurry.

It barely whispered its arrival before she flung back the top, snatched up and unfolded the piece of faded parchment. Oh, God, the ink's still wet.

She was shaking so hard and shaking the paper so hard that she had to take deep, calming breaths before the words would focus before her.



Dear Buffy.

Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

I can hear you asking what that means and can predict your frustration behind the question, so I'll tell you. 'Mea culpa' is Latin for 'my own fault'. "Mea maxima culpa" means "my most grievous fault."

What, you didn't think I was going to grovel for forgiveness without trying to teach you something, too? Come on, Slayer, you know me better than that. I think we're up to lesson the...what?

I just got your letters. All of them, today. Came home and they were blocking the entry of my humble abode. Sorted them out and started with the first and, as you read, let my temper get in the way of my manners.

My mum taught me better than that, she did. I am truly sorry to have hurt you again, Slayer. I'll do better next time, won't go off on you no matter what you've written. The letters are a sodding miracle, just like you are.

Yeah, dip pens are a pain, I don't have a lot of good memories about using them, and here I am doing it again. Nothing else within reach at the moment, so I'm stuck for it.

When I went to school, we learned how to write on slates and swtiched to dip pens when we got old enough to write in a copybook. Each school desk had a hole for an inkwell at the top right side, and the inkwell was a small ceramic pot.

One of us was chosen each week to be the ink monitor responsible for filling the inkwells for the whole class. We had to collect all of the wells, pour into them from a large bottle, and then return them to each desk. We were caned if we spilled.

We were caned if we blotted our copybooks too, which sucked because I'm one of those sinister lefties who messes things up a lot more than any righteous rightie. The ink froze when it was cold, too, so writing then was impossible.

Yeah, you did promise we'd talk once the whole First Evil thing was done. I have to admit, I never pictured us talking like this, but who's complaining?

Wait. Guess I already did. Always was slow.

You've sent down a lot of letters, Buffy, and I'm going to read every one very slowly over the next few hours and cherish every word. Now, don't scrunch up your nose like that, you'll get wrinkles. Next thing you know, you'll look all old, and the Bit will be teasing you.

I had no idea that my leaving would hurt you so much, but perhaps now the hurting can stop? I'm not dead--no more than usual, anyway--and we're talking. That's 'of the good', right? So no more tears, yeah? No vampire is worth a Slayer's tears--especially not yours.

Thanks for the update on the Niblet. I'm glad she seems to have finally settled into a school she likes. There were nights while you were gone when I had to threaten to yank out her toenails and never paint them again if she didn't finish her summer-school homework. It got to the point where she wouldn't do it at all if I wasn't there--which I think was to muck up things for the Scoobies after they tried to cut me out of her life rather than because she needed my help all of the time. I mean, what do I know about the American Revolution? We fought, you won, you've imported KFC and Mountain Dew into Britain.

Yeah, you Yanks won all right. Can't see the Bit writing a paper on that, though, know what I mean?

Maybe, by the time it's time for your little sis to enter university, you and I will have thought of a way to handle Giles and uni funding. We'll give it some thought, yeah? There's time yet.

If you do make copies of the mall photos of the Bit and me, would you mind throwing a few my way? I miss her something fierce--you, too--so if you tossed in a photo or two of yourself as well, I'd be ever so.

You're still training Slayers? Can't say I'm surprised. You're the best they've got to learn them how to stay alive.

Have to admit, I miss fighting and teaching or whatever at your side as much as it sounds like you miss having me there. I'll never be comfortable with anybody else watching your back. I know I'm the best to keep you safe, if you don't mind my saying, but you've got a whole gaggle of young Slayers now, so maybe some little thing will do it better than I could.

On second thought, no. Never happen.

Still, somebody's better than nobody, and nothing says you have to be alone, pet. In fact, you're not alone, see the above gaggle of Slayers.

I didn't mean to leave you, Buffy. I hope you know that. Didn't have a death wish either, per se. Just wanted to get it right down there in the hellmouth, clean things up a bit so that you wouldn't have to worry for a time. A long time. Wanted the world safe for you and the Bit, didn't sodding care about anybody else. Wanted you to have the life you want, the life you deserve. Still want that.

And yeah, I guess I am like that cat who kept coming back. There are some really nasty verses to that song, though. He wasn't a very elegant moggie by the end. Won't go into detail, pet--no pun intended--know you wouldn't appreciate that.

And if you were writing William, you'd get a sight less interesting reply than you'll ever get from me. Should be grateful he's not boring you witless.

Let's see, what else did you ask? Think I'd have had a happy life if Dru hadn't turned me? Maybe so, but it's so long ago and so far away that I can't think what it would have been. Am happy being a vampire because it meant I could help you. But most likely if the turning hadn't happened, then I'd likely have married any little mouse who'd have me, become a nervous solicitor, and died of consumption before seeing 35. My mum and da succumbed to it, I imagine I was in line to, as well.

I'll write you again, just see if I don't, once I've made my way through some of these letters of yours. You're bloody amazing, Buffy, you know that? Never thought you'd miss me.

And you're wrong. I did believe, and I do believe what you said to me down in the hellmouth. Next time, could you say it when I'm not busy saving the world and the roof's not caving in--not to mention when I'm not on fire?

I love you too. But then, you already know that.

Sleep well, Slayer.

Love, Spike.

~ ~ ~



She was smiling by the time she reached the end of the letter and could practically feel him sitting on the other side of their very strange connection, waiting for her reply.



Dear Spike,

Now that's more like it. A letter from my Spike who grovels so prettily and still manages to be the snarky, mouthy vampire I know and love.

So spill it--who taught you that the way to a woman's heart is through her mailbox?

Since I'm being totally honest with you now--it's a new policy you'll discover when you read the other letters, and God, I know I'm going to be embarrassed about some of those letters--I should mention that by now I'm used to going from heaven into hell within seconds--I've done it physically and emotionally how many times now? And you 've been there for most of them. Your first letter made me feel like that, so you know it hurt.

But given the points you made about not wanting to stick around and listen to me talk about new boyfriends and new life stuff--I can't really blame you for that grump. You were being honest, and that's definitely of the good. In your place, I know I'd feel the same way.

So I should tell you up front that there are no new guys in my life. The old ones are gone too, except for Giles who lives downstairs, but that's because our new Slayer school owns the building, and Giles is a sort of a Dumbledore to us. Without the phoenix, the beard, and the robes. He handles the Slayerette parents and the money, the things I can't do.

How do you know about the Immortal? Who, by the way, is so not in my life. I met him during a weak moment at the Museo di Roma while visiting Dawn for Easter vacation, just after I had to rescue Andrew from an unfortunate thing that happened in his apartment. I was really missing you and thought I should try moving on. It so didn't work. First because he wasn't you and secondly because he has this thing for American blondes and their not-so-little sisters.

I broke his jaw after he started macking on Dawn, and he hit the Roman pavement in more ways than one, but there was really very little blood. Mostly.

Dawn was outraged that somebody that old would come on to her, so she was all for the beheading. It's not like he's human, so killing him would have been okay.

So why didn't I kill him? I settled for slicing off one of his testicles instead, after which he promised to never come near Dawn or me. If he does, he knows I'll kill him after taking his other testicle.

Did I say there wasn't much blood? I lied.

He sent some nice jewelry by way of a "don't hurt me anymore" apology, and we sold it to help pay next year's tuition at Dawn's nifty Catholic college prep school. Oh, don't look at me like that, she chose the school and says she feels safe with all those crosses around. The priests and nuns are so mean, no nasty demon, hellgod, or evil would dare set foot on the school's property. Feeling safe is a big thing with Dawn these days. It's not like she's interested in becoming a nun, but they are encouraging her to pass her tests.

Okay, Buffy babbling here. It's late and I have to sleep, but I wanted to tell you how absolutely glad I am that you're on the other end of our letters. It's okay that you were grumpy earlier. If you're in hell that's one reason to be grumpy, and heaven knows I haven't given you many reasons lately to not be grumpy.

I haven't stopped shaking since you first wrote back. I'm so glad that you're not ashes and that you're talking to me after everthing that happened between us. I want to write more, talk to you some more, but the adrenaline is all gone now and my words are going to come out sideways soon. I'll darken your mailbox again tomorrow, okay?

Besides, I figure I shouldn't flood you very much with new stuff until you get through the old stuff. For all I know, you might get through the old stuff and never want to talk to me again.

Enjoy the night, okay? I miss the nights we spent together, and I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore. I'm also major glad you're there--wherever there is.

Don't stop writing, okay? If you disappeared on me after all this, that would hurt worse than anything else could right now.

Love, Buffy