CHAPTER SIX

Before going to sleep, Buffy relocated the writing box back beside her bed, so that the first thing she could do when she awoke was to check if a Spike letter was waiting for her.

Of course it was.

Snatching it up, she fluffed her pillows and tore into the envelope.

Buffy, love.

Am sending this off to you just before the sun rises, hoping you're not an early riser after the late night we spent writing each other.

You used to say you weren't good with words. "Buffy, talking, not mixy." You'd never bleeding talk to me, and I always thought it was because you felt safer shutting me out. Willow said once that you needed a long time to organize your thoughts. Didn't believe it, not after seeing you out-maneuver a bunch of demons. Seemed to me your thoughts were connected really well to actions.

Your quick wit and intelligence were never in question either, so I definitely didn't get whatever Willow was trying to say.

Time was, you'd listen to me and then look as if you'd never seen me before. Next thing I knew, you'd shift gears and go off in a different direction. Sometimes you wanted me with you. Sometimes, not so much.

Never really heard you talk before these letters. You're going to point out that I was there for all your lectures about the First. But that was the Slayer lecturing, not Buffy talking.

Last night I listened to you through your letters. I've always known you were beautiful inside, but this--you've shown me a part of you I've never seen before. You've gone and shared your thoughts and emotions and a love I didn't think you could feel where I'm concerned. Never thought you'd think I might be good enough for you to feel like that.

What I'm feeling now, I last felt only while holding you in that deserted house. Told you it was the best night of my life, so much that I knew I'd never feel that way again.

But your words, forgiveness and understanding--your love--

Bleeding hell, Buffy. I was wrong to think in Sunnydale that I'd seen all sides of you. You've let me inside your heart and inside your mind now in ways I never dreamed could happen. Could never conceive of. I'm surrounded by your sorrow and light in these letters. I know you never thought I'd see any of this, but please know that I'll keep it safe.

You want me to send all these letters back to you for safekeeping? I'll do it, but am hoping you'll let me keep them. Every time I read one, I find something new and astonishing that's a part of you. Part of the woman I love.

Want to get this off to you now so it's waiting when you wake up. Want to be with you, even if that's possible only with words. Want to reassure you that I'm here, in hopes of easing all the bad things over the past year for you.

Maybe we could work on no more tears, no more regrets, and no more pain for you? We'll work on being here for each other, and on building the life you want, so that things stop sucking. How does that sound?

I've still got your letter from last night to answer. There are others over the last year that seem so raw and tender, am not sure I should answer those. Seems like it'd be more digging up bones than anything you might want to read.

Let me know what you want to do? In the meantime, I'll answer the questions you've posed. Maybe that will lead us both into safer, less miserable waters. God knows I still want to give you the world--a happy one that makes you smile and won't make you cry ever again. Maybe that's unrealistic, but hey, vampire here. Not high on the metaphysical realism scale to begin with, so I'm being true to my kind, right?

Love you and everything you are. Always will.

Yours, Spike.



~ ~ ~





Dear Spike.

Why aren't you here so I can hug you and cry all over you? Good tears this time, so don't panic, okay? I've done more crying this past year, and over you, than I think I've done my entire life.

Please don't send back my letters. I wrote them to you, after all, and it feels good to know you've gotten them. Slayage doesn't leave much room for mushy stuff, so don't think you're going to get mushy Buffy all of the time? One-shot mourning, mushy Buffy. Don't burn up on me again, okay?

I think it's a great idea if we start talking about other stuff. Life stuff. Or undeath stuff. Hell stuff? I mean, are you in hell? I still don't know where my letters are going.

Are you okay? I never thought to ask that before, which is totally rude. I mean, how is it where you are? You saved the world, so I'm hoping you're not in some hell dimension, but like I said before, if you are then I'll find a way to get you out.

Lighter stuff coming up now.

I have to go out and buy more sealing wax today. I used all of yours up early on. Do you want me to get you some too? All you have to do is fold your notes to me--why do I have to do the whole deal? So not fair.

A stick of sealing wax is only good for like thirty letters, and I have to get the kind with a wick because I can't manage the other melty-in-the-spoon kind. And so help me, if you growl me about talking about sealing wax the way you growled me for talking about dip pens, I'm going to find you wherever you are in Dante's inferno and I will so kick your butt.

I'm glad you like what I wrote to you, beyond my first stupid letter, I mean.

Spike, do you know why this is happening? How the letters are arriving, I mean? I don't want to ask Giles, and that's not because I'm ashamed of you--I am so not ashamed of you, I just want to keep you to myself right now.

I know I wrote all sorts of things in those letters, sort of like a diary so you're getting all of me unvarnished. It's embarrassing when I think about what I sent, but if you're still around, then it can't be all bad.

You always wanted the real me, wanted me to talk to you, so you definitely your wish. It'll probably be easier for me to talk to you now because I spilled so much.

Do you mind if I ask you some questions about what you had in your writing box? I'm counting on you to say yes, so I'll just start asking stuff now.

How did you lose your sister, and what's the key to that's on a black ribbon? What do your middle initials stand for?

I'm sorry for the still-shaky handwriting, I'm shaking harder because of your letters than I was the morning we went to fight the First's army. I have Slayerette training to get through this morning, but I'll be back after lunch...sorry, that's dinner in England, right? I'll write more then.

Giles wonders why I spend so much time in my rooms, you know? I haven't felt like being around anybody since you left. I don't know how you kept going the summer I was gone. Maybe Dawn anchored you? I don't have an anchor. Okay, I do, it was you telling me I had to go on living so one of us is living. Not really workable, Spike. Existing is more like it.

I love you, I'll write more later. You write more too.

So glad you're here. There. You know what I mean.

Love, Buffy

~ ~ ~



Dear Buffy,

You'll hear no complaints from me about anything you want to write to me. I've learned that lesson well.

Had to duck out this morning myself to get some writing supplies. Thank whoever for thick London clouds. In my time, it was peasoup fogs fed by burning coal. A vampire could have fun lurking and attack in the fog. Easy to bag whoever you wanted to eat. Now what am I doing? Buying sodding stationary, sheep's blood (nice change from pig's), and smokes. Lo, how the mighty master vampire has fallen.

Not complaining. Really not. All right, maybe I am, but come on, you expect it by now, don't you?

It was a bit of fun to take the Tube to a little shop that has been there since I was a boy and poke about in the bins. Would have been better if you'd been there with me, but these things take time. Besides, you've got little Slayers to teach. Time for shopping later.

You asked how this letter thing might be happening? Way I see it, "wish" is a powerful word that can move mountains and realities and apparently letters between Slayers and vampires. A bit of neat, don't you think?

You've wished plenty in your letters, so maybe someone was reading over your shoulder. If the powers that be were listening, then this is the result--I've got mountains of mail from a non-talky Slayer, and it's all good for both of us. I think we should keep writing, you and me. Seems easier for us to talk like this than any way when we were together.

You can ask me whatever you want, Buffy. You know I'm an open book to you.

Am not in hell, it's more like a museum in Kensington--am back in the house I grew up in. Supposed to be converting the interior gaslights to electric, but all I'm getting done is writing to you. Again not complaining.

My sister Sarah was sick that Christmas--bronchitis I think it was now. There were no antibiotics to clear the infection back then, and she died of pneumonia in the new year.

The key you've got is to the front door.

Middle initials? Might as well explain the whole name. My father chose William, after his father. My mother chose Arthur because she liked Mallory and Arthurian legend in general--she would have loved Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King', but she didn't live long enough to see it printed.

Gabriel is my confirmation name. I was raised C of E, and confirmation's sort of a rite of passage like baptism. When you're confirmed, the bishop comes and puts two cold candles against your cheeks, blesses you to receive the Holy Spirit, and then he slaps you. Hard.

Just before you're confirmed you get to choose a saint you feel an affinity for. Their name becomes your confirmation name.

I chose Gabriel, as in the archangel. 'Delusions of grandeur, much?' I hear you asking, and you have a point. I liked him because he wasn't only God's chief messenger--he's the one who told Mary she was carrying a god-fetus--he was also the angel of death and the prince of fire and thunder. Even at twelve, I though that was just neat. So yeah, you can count that as my being delusional or as a bit of foreshadowing, your choice.

Wish I were there to help with your mini-Slayers. Sure I could stir them up and terrify them enough to pee their panties. Great fun, that.

Still evil. Still loving you.

Spike.

~ ~ ~



Spike!

How in the world am I supposed to stand in front of those little Slayers, teach them, and not laugh while I remember your silly remark about their panties? Seriously, I wish you were here too. I'd definitely put you to work.

I love your middle names, by the way. An eternal king and an archangel suit you. All you need are a set of black wings and...no idea where I'm going with that, and it's probably a good thing. I can feel your scowl from here.

I showed Giles your signed theatre program from Earnest. He got all excited to the point of hyperventilating and said it's worth a lot of money and how did you know Oscar Wilde? I said that I didn't know because I don't.

You're in the house you grew up in? Dead vampires who saved the world go home to heaven and get to live in their childhood homes? Are you with your mom, then? I'm really glad you're not in hell. Your heaven sure is different than mine was. It's a relief to know that you saved the world and got to go to heaven. I've been so worried about where you ended up.

I'm stuck in Bath. There's no decent shopping, I'd have to take the train to London. Haven't much been in the mood to do that. Dawn knows there's something wrong with me because I have only two pairs of shoes. Now that you're back, a trip to London doesn't sound half as painful as it did before, especially if I can get Dawn to come up from Rome for a long weekend of splurging with the Council's credit card.

Love, Buffy



~ ~ ~





Dear Buffy,

You and Dawn should shop in London and do your part to spend all that lovely Watcher money.

Mum's not with me, I'm not in heaven. Still on this earth, don't really understand how. Make a long story short, that amulet sucked in my essence and somehow got itself sent first class mail to Wolfram & Hart up in Los Angeles.

Angel opened the envelope, dropped the amulet on the floor, and behold! yours truly returned as a sodding ghost about three weeks after the hellmouth fell in. No picnic, that. No blood, no smokes, no sex, no fun.

Tried to leave, to get to you. Every time I hit the city limits, my ghostly self got yanked right back to the great poof's office. I did what any frustrated vampiric spirit would do--spent most of my days annoying Angel and my nights terrified of being sucked into a hellhole down in W&H's basement.

Long story short, I got better. Somebody send a package full of light to me c/o W&H. It flashed, I got solid. First thing I did was walk into Angel's door. Second thing I did was steal his blood--you know he has the nerve to drink otter? Aren't those endangered? Third thing I did was try to shag Harmony, but I doubt you'll be wanting to hear about that.

I'm cutting out a lot of stuff here, but, you hear about the fight that went down in L.A.? Wonder if you know that Angel decided to take on the senior partners. Stupid wanker. He managed to destroy their Circle of the Black Thorn, but cutting off the parters' conduit of communication did nothing long term to stop the evil. I mean, worldwide law firm, savvy? Short-term, it pissed them off and they sent a demon army after Angel and what was left of his inner circle.

Fred, Gunn, Illyria by way of Fred, Wesley and Angel--they're all gone, pet. Angel died fighting a dragon--I think he forgot they breathe fire. He should have leaped onto its back and started hacking. Instead, he just stood there waving his little sword and let it take him out.

Don't know why I'm still here, I just kept fighting and when the dawn came the demons ran off and I dropped down a manhole. Laid low until nightfall, then broke into the Hyperion for a shower and some clothes and then got the hell out of L.A.

I can't believe he's gone. I mean, he was my grand-sire and I hated him, but I miss him something rotten. Never expected that. Sorry he's gone. Sorry you had to hear it from me, too.

Lighter stuff, right? Here goes.

Wilde. I was at Oxford same time he was. So were a lot of other gents, and I'd rather Rupert didn't learn my life's details so keep it to yourself if you can? Won't help the Watcher chronicles in the slightest to know that William the Bloody used to be an aesthetic ponce who read Classics at Magdalen.

Am going ahead with the switchover to electric, but still preserving some of the gaslights for ambiance. Can't bear to let 'em go completely.

Am also having the place cleaned (Mum's ashes are still in the carpet from when I dusted her) and the plumbing inspected. Workers are tromping in and out tomorrow which will interfere with my writing to you, so letters won't come as quickly.

I don't want you thinking I'm losing interest or have disappeared on you. Should be back by evening, so don't fret. Go out and patrol, kill something, and I'll have a letter waiting when you've come back.

Love, Spike.



~ ~ ~



Spike,

A quick note, I'm taking your advice and taking a couple of the senior Slayerettes out to prowl a cemetery or two tonight.

I thought Angel had to be gone. The BBC showed footage of the charred rubble where Wolfram & Hart used to be. Thanks for letting me know what happened. I wish I had known what was going down and that you were there. I'd have helped any way I could. It's terrifying to think that you were fighting without me. I know you're capable and that you've been fighting a lot longer than I've been alive. Still, we're a team. I should have been there.

Giles would want the details of the fight in L.A. to finish his records, but I'm not sharing anything you're telling me with anyone. Not even Dawn. I really want to savor what we have for as long as possible. I'm also not on very good terms with Giles any more because of what he did to you in Sunnydale. But I think I mentioned that elsewhere, so it's old news.

So you're renovating your house? Does that mean you're staying

The sharp nib skittered over the paper, marring it with a fine spray of black ink, but Buffy stared right through it. Spike came back from the dead and survived the Los Angeles battle, she thought. That means he's not dead.



"Oh, my God." Her thoughts skittered forward as the pen had skittered across the parchment. He's renovating an actual, physical house.

My letters are going to a house in Queen's Gate Terrace. In London.

Abandoning the letter she was writing Spike, Buffy sped out of her flat, didn't bother with the elevator but took the stairs, and headed for the library to snatch up and spread out one of the numerous street maps of London they kept in stock for the Slayers to use on their day trips.

He said he's in the house where he grew up. That his mum was in the carpet because he dusted her there. Oh God, he's not in heaven. Vampire dust is not in heaven. He had to "go out" for writing supplies. He had to buy them. They don't use money in heaven.

She found Kensington Park, Gloucester Road, and her finger moved on to trace Queen's Gate Terrace. He's in Kensington. Ninety minutes away. Spike is right there.

Her hands shook as she folded the map and tucked it into her back pocket. Three minutes later, she was knocking on Giles' door to tell him she needed some time off, that she was taking a train up to London the next day and was planning to stay the weekend.