A/N: The muse felt the need to work on something different for a change, but don't worry, I'll still finish my other WIPs. Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta, Unbridled_Brunette.

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Chapter 1: Snow Falling on Gravestones

A dusting of snow coated the ground where she fought, and she left her footprints behind as though marking the steps of a dance she knew by heart. They were obliterated almost immediately as her opponents charged at her from all sides, with little regard for the elegant pattern she had laid on the ground. They had no respect for the dance, no notion of the give-and-take of a true battle. They didn’t anticipate her moves as a good partner should, didn’t take care not to step on her toes.

She didn’t really patrol anymore – officially, she’d been retired for five years – but every once in a while, when she needed to let off steam, she went out at night, slaying whatever vampires she happened across. That was one thing she could always count on. No matter what else changed, there was never any shortage of vampires.

There were at least ten of them gathered in the cemetery when Buffy dropped in and broke up their little party. She preferred to fight them in groups these days. After eighteen years of experience, one vampire alone just didn’t pose enough of a challenge.

Eighteen years. Most of the Slayers who’d come before her hadn’t seen their eighteenth birthday, and here she was, still going strong at thirty-three. She was in pretty decent shape for someone for whom slaying was now only a hobby, executing kicks that knocked them down three at a time, like undead dominoes. She reveled in the battle, slipping back into the habits of old and allowing herself to get lost in the violence and the adrenaline rush. Her body remembered this. She could clear her head, put the rest of her life out of her mind while she fought.

Ever since she’d been called, she’d longed – fruitlessly, or so it had seemed – for the simplicity of a normal life. She’d always thought if she could have that, she would never want for more. And part of her was content, as happy as she’d ever been. But there was another part of her that still cherished the rare moments when she could disappear into the night and the world of demons that had become so familiar.

Tonight, disappointingly, the fight was over much too soon. She’d only staked five, but as she plunged her weapon into the chest of the sixth, the others appeared to have vanished. Chickens. Now she’d have to chase them.

Before she could get too far into the grumbling, Buffy’s senses – no longer what they’d been at the height of her career, but still plenty accurate – alerted her to the presence of one last vamp. She leapt to her feet and spun around, her arm drawn back for another killing blow. Thrusting forward, she looked past the fine mist of falling snowflakes and focused on her target – and registered the black leather before her.

It was only her slayer reflexes that kept him from being dust. She jerked her arm back with a gasp, noting that he hadn’t even flinched at the near staking.

“Shouldn’t sneak up on a girl like that,” she said, her voice deceptively light. “Good way to get yourself accidentally staked.”

He looked exactly the same. A little more worn around the edges, but otherwise just as she remembered him. White-blond hair, slicked back to tame the mop of curls she knew he hated; eyes that shone with an icy blue fire, piercing her soul; razor-sharp cheekbones that created canyons in the hollows of his cheeks; full, pouting lips, frowning slightly instead of curving into his usual smirk; the eminently sculpted body, the lines and contours of which she’d once known so well, hidden beneath layers of black and the ever-present coat that he wore like a second skin.

“Was counting on you still bein’ able to tell the good guys from the bad guys,” Spike returned, eyeing her carefully. She had to struggle not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. She was suddenly self-conscious, aware of how much the years had changed her. Sharp edges had rounded out to soft curves, where flesh now concealed her once-protruding bones; tiny, almost imperceptible lines had spidered out from the corners of her eyes; and L’Oreal Iridescent Blonde had grown out to a darker, more natural dishwater, cut in a textured bob that suited her maturity better than the long, flowing locks he’d loved. Vainly, she found herself wondering if he still thought her beautiful, or if, in his mind’s eye, he still pictured the girl he’d left behind, wanting her to remain as untouched by time as he was.

“So, I guess the rumors are true,” she said, tucking the stake back into her waistband.

“Rumors?”

“That you’re, you know, not dead. Again.”

Looking up at him through the curtain of snow, she relived the ten-year-old wave of pain, the crushing double blow that had been the final report from Los Angeles. She was already furious with Giles for his unilateral decision not to send reinforcements to help Angel – a decision she hadn’t even known about until the eleventh hour, though apparently Giles and Andrew had already discussed it and sent back their reply: Angel was on his own. It made Buffy’s blood boil. What good was an army of Slayers, she’d argued, if they weren’t going to fight evil?

But before she could even rally her own Slayer army to defy her Watcher’s orders and go with her to L.A., the word had come back – the battle was over.

And there were no survivors.

That had been bad enough, knowing that Angel was gone, and Wesley with him, and others she hadn’t met but felt responsible for anyway. If only she’d been there, reacted quicker, been more persuasive with Giles. The guilt and the grief that accompanied the news could have lasted her for years, but it paled in comparison to Andrew’s startling and gut-wrenching announcement.

Spike had been among them.

Spike, whom she thought she’d lost forever. Apparently, the little weasel had seen him when he went to Los Angeles earlier that year and hadn’t seen fit to tell her that Spike was alive.

In her renewed anguish, she’d broken Andrew’s nose – and she would have broken a lot more if Giles, with the help of two other Slayers, hadn’t dragged her off, screaming and sobbing. She’d been so close… so close to having him back, and just like that, he was snatched away again. For the second time in a year, her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

She’d managed to put herself back together the first time – even going so far as to begin dating again. Her lover was gone, after all. She couldn’t mourn forever. But just as her romance with the Immortal had started to settle into the comfort of a long-term relationship, just when she thought she might be able to be happy with someone else, the news of Spike’s second death had undone all of her careful efforts. She’d drawn away from the Immortal, broken and defeated, knowing this was a blow from which she would never fully recover. Spike would always hold her heart, would always hold the power to break it, even from beyond this life.

By the time he resurfaced – years later, when the reports filtered back from the scattered Slayers that a vampire-turned-rogue demon hunter matching his description was operating in the U.S. – she thought she’d experienced every excruciating emotion humans were capable of.

Then, he hadn’t come for her.

Twice, now, he’d cheated death, and still he didn’t seek her out, didn’t even attempt to let her know he was alive. Every day he didn’t come, her heart broke a little bit more. For years, she tortured herself, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong in those last few days, going over every agonizing word they’d exchanged, trying to understand what she’d done to make him stop loving her, until finally, she just shut down. The rollercoaster her heart was on had run its last ride.

She was better off lying to herself, she decided, and she pretended he was dead, ignoring the stories that came in from the other Slayers, closing her mind to the painful reality. She wanted just to mourn for him, spill her grief and move on, so it wouldn’t have to hurt so badly that he didn’t seem to remember or care that, once upon a time, he had loved her.

All of which meant that she was completely unprepared to see him standing there in Highgate Cemetery in the middle of the night. But she wasn’t really surprised, either. Part of her had always expected him, had always waited for him, even while the rest of her was making a brave effort to move on. No amount of denial could ever allow her to let go of him completely, no matter how much her chest ached with his tacit rejection. Even if she never laid eyes on him again, part of her would always still love him.

“Seems that way, don’t it?” he replied, his words pulling her harshly back to the present.

What was he talking about? Oh, right. Him. With the not being dead. “What – what are you doing here?”

He shook his head and sighed. “What do you think, Slayer? Came here to see you.”

“But – why? After all this time?”

“Don’t rightly know,” he said, an admission that felt true, yet at the same time concealed more than it revealed. Spike raked a hand through his hair and dislodged his carefully slicked-back curls. “Listen, could we – go somewhere? To talk?”

She nodded numbly. “My apartment’s a few blocks from here.” She glanced at her watch. “I should be heading back anyway. You’re welcome to come.” He nodded, following her back along the winding path to the cemetery’s main entrance.

“What is wrong with this country?” she groused, more to herself than to him, as they reached the guardhouse next to the padlocked gates. “Who charges admission for a cemetery?” She glared daggers at the welcome sign, which read, Highgate Cemetery, open weekdays 10:00 a.m., weekends 11:00 a.m. Entry £2.00.

Spike smiled slightly. “Isn’t Karl Marx’s grave somewhere in here?”

“And that makes it a tourist attraction?” Buffy rolled her eyes as she began to scale the gate. “Come on, I’m fighting evil here. I don’t have the time to fill out an expense report!”

He snorted at that. “Figure the Council’s paying you now,” he said, following her over the wrought-iron fence. “If you’re living out here.” He landed next to her, scuffing up the light coating of snow with his boots.

“Yeah,” she replied, directing him up Swains Lane to the top of the hill. She waited for him to make some derogatory comment about her selling out for a house in the suburbs, but he didn’t speak again.

He fell into step beside her, and they walked in silence. Small talk seemed like more effort than she could afford to exert, as all her energy was funneled into just keeping her emotions in check. The enormity of their history seemed to weigh them down – despite the years that had passed, the pain of losing him and the sting of rejection were as fresh as the day they’d closed the Hellmouth.

The day he’d used his dying breath to call her a liar.

That was something that had stayed with her through the years, his final denial of her love for him. It was too little, too late. She knew that, and she regretted it every moment of her life. She should have told him every day, instead of lying to herself about her feelings. But by the time that epiphany finally came – sometime during those surreal days before the final battle – it was already too late, and anything she said would sound like goodbye.

Then, it was goodbye, and she had no choice – now or never, Buffy, you have to tell him – and there wasn’t time, no time to make him understand, make him believe her. And so, with eight little words, he’d managed to break her heart forever.

Now, he was back.

But why?