Into the Light

Author: Jen
Rating: R for language and adult content
Summary: What happens when something ordinary comes
between two extraordinary people.
Feedback: Always welcome. jen_nsync_landl@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just like to pretend that
I'm the puppetmaster of MasterSpike Theatre from time
to time. ;)
Thanks: To my wonderful betas, Bridget and Mezz. Their
suggestions were absolutely invaluable. Thanks also to
Jodi for the encouragement.

Note to the Reader: Although this is a B/S story, the
Spuffy journey itself isn't my primary focus here. My
concern in this matter is the destination. Let's just
say for the sake of some structure that this is set
roughly five or six years from some point in S6 or S7,
in a world where Spuffy blossomed into an actualized
love story. I'll leave it to you to decide whether
Spike needs a soul to act as he does in this story.
We've got a couple of time shifts -- just watch me for
the changes.



Even now, her beauty could still just lay him to
waste. And this was when Spike loved looking at Buffy
the most, early in the morning hours. No matter how
accustomed he was to the human schedule of wakefulness
and rest, dawn still stubbornly signaled the end of
his day, and so he loved to study her in the faint
light afforded by daybreak, to make her the last thing
he saw before his natural urge to sleep would overtake
him.

And although he hated for her rest to be disturbed, he
loved it best when she would open those stunning eyes
to smile sleepily at him, if only for a second. Her
eyes remained closed now, as he carefully pulled the
cold steel chair up next to her to end another day at
her side.

He brushed his fingers gently over the vivid bruise
darkening her left cheekbone. He'd seen a thousand
abrasions mar her skin over the years, and none of
them even remotely dimmed her beauty. Some things
never changed.

He still loved her with all that he was.

She was still the center of his world.

But now he had to say good-bye to her.

***

"Spike?" Buffy called impatiently, tugging a wool cap
over her hair and searching for her keys.

No answer.

"I know you can hear me, despite the fact that the TV
is loud enough to entertain the whole neighborhood.
Hello?!" Aha, keys located. A victory on one front
was better than nothing, she thought, as the only
response to her latest comment was the sound of
screeching tires, courtesy of whatever show Spike was
watching at record decibels in the living room.

"Spike!" she repeated, stomping into the front
hallway. "Don't make me come in there and kick your
ass."

A smile tugged at the corners of Spike's lips. He
silently held up one hand while the cacophony of sound
blaring through the television's speakers reached a
crescendo and then abruptly descended into silence.

"You've got three and a half minutes -- go," he said
cheerfully as he hit mute on the remote, taking in her
flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

God, he loved sparring with her. Physical, verbal, it
didn't matter. Here he was, self-proclaimed Big Bad
(once removed), caught up in a mundane domestic
tableau at the end of an ordinary day, and it felt
pretty close to perfect.

"Are you suggesting that I confine my comments to the
duration of this commercial break?" Buffy demanded,
tapping her foot in annoyance.

"It would be brilliant if you could -- there's just
been a drive-by, and we're about to find out whether
it was the grizzled veteran cop or his eager,
well-intentioned young partner who was wounded," he
answered, watching her irritation grow by the second.
Nothing like trying to get a rise out of her.

"Uh-huh. Sounds riveting," she ground out. Then she
saw his poorly-disguised smile and changed tactics.
Two could play the "getting a rise" game. Buffy
crossed the room to his chair and nestled into his
lap. "Since I'm on the clock, I'll keep this short,"
she said sweetly. She suddenly shifted positions,
straddling him and grinding her hips into his.

"Christ, woman, you're definitely gonna start
something here that can't be finished in three and a
half minutes," he gasped.

"Got your attention now?" she whispered, and he merely
groaned in response. "I'm going out."

"Now? You're going out now?" he choked, pulling her
closer. "Oh, I don't think so."

"Wait, what about the grizzled cop and his young
partner?" she asked innocently, leaning forward to
nibble on his bottom lip.

"Fuck 'em. Probably just some stupid git on the
sidewalk that bought it anyway," he answered, tangling
his fingers in her hair. He pulled back abruptly and
studied her. "Oh, you're good, Summers. You're very
good. 'Course, if this little routine is my
'punishment' for pretending not to listen and blowing
you off in favor of the telly, it's not exactly what
I'd call negative reinforcement."

"I'm the best," she corrected with a grin, settling on
his lap in a little less provocative position and
digging in her jacket pocket for gloves. "But we will
have to table this reinforcement, as you call it, for
later. I really do have to go out. 'Tis the season,'
and all that."

"Last minute gifts, eh? You taking Dawn with you?" he
asked, sucking her earlobe. She shivered.

"Um, no. I asked, but she's busy talking to Patrick.
She'll come out with me and Will tomorrow."

Spike scowled.

"Spike, she's not a little girl anymore. She's a
senior in college, for crying out loud. And you'd
better get used to Patrick, cuz I don't think he's
going anywhere soon." Buffy ignored the lip that
jutted out in a pout, despite its undeniable sexiness.
"In fact, I have it in strictest confidence that
Patrick may be popping the question sometime before
graduation."

Spike's mouth fell open, sullen pout forgotten. "Oh,
you've got to be kidding me!" he spluttered. She's
only known him--"

"For two and a half years," Buffy supplied. Really,
he was adorable when he was flabbergasted.

"Oi! That's *nothing.* What do two and a half years
tell you about a person? We still hated each other
after two and a half years!"

"I don't think we're exactly what you'd call a normal
couple, dear." Buffy laughed. "I'm guessing our
timetable will never be repeated. Besides, Patrick is
a good guy, he's already got a good job, and he
loves Dawn as much as you love me."

Spike raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"Okay, again, the comparison doesn't really work."
She smiled benevolently at his mood. "Nobody loves
anybody as much as you love me."

"Damn right," Spike growled possessively in her ear.

He sighed, and Buffy leaned back onto his shoulder.
"Hard to let the kids grow up, though, isn't it?"

"I'll be all right," he replied mock-stoically. "But
yeah."

He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist for a
long moment before she stirred. "I really should go.
The longer I wait, the more nightmarish trying to find
parking at the mall is gonna be."

"Be careful out there. Weather Channel says we're
gonna get freezing rain." He craned his neck to see
out through the front curtains and into the dark. "In
fact, why don't you just skip it, save it for another
night?" He tucked his tongue behind his front teeth.
"I'm sure we could find something else to occupy our
time instead."

Buffy stood, pulled on her gloves, and smiled
suggestively. "Oh, there'll be some occupying later,
you can count on it." The little minx. It took
everything in him not to leap on her that very
second. "I've just gotta pick up one very special
little item for a very special someone," she smiled at
him, and he grinned back, "and then I'm all yours --
what do you say to a patrol around 8:30?"

"What time is it now?" he asked, punching the time
display on the TV remote.

"Yeah, you wanna explain to me how you can only tell
what time it is relative to the broadcast schedule of
'Passions'? Aren't you supposed to a sixth-sense
about the whole time thing?"

"Just sunrise and sunset, love. The rest is kind of a
blur." He stood and pulled aside the curtains.
"Seriously, pet, it's already looking nasty out there.
Did I put the snow tires on your car yet?"

"The fact that we don't own snow tires probably points
to 'no,'" she answered, leaning forward to follow his
gaze out the window. "It's southern California.
Where's our traditional Christmas heatwave?"

He chuckled. "Just take it easy out there. Drive
slow. And don't slam on the brakes, pump them gently.
And turn into a spin, don't jerk the wheel the other
way."

"Yes, Dad." Buffy fought to keep from rolling her
eyes. "You won't even know I'm gone, if you'd just
let me get out the door."

"Okay, okay. Patrol at 8:30, extracurricular
activities very shortly thereafter." He grinned
wickedly and pulled her in for a final kiss.

"'Bye, baby," she said, pulling her bag onto her
shoulder.

Something on the screen caught his attention as she
turned to leave. "I'll be damned -- the veteran cop
bought it! Bloody hell -- who saw that coming? How
can they do that?" Spike exclaimed, frantically
punching the volume button on the remote.

He heard her laugh as the front door clicked shut
behind her.

***

8:45 and still no Buffy.

Damn it, he though irritably, isn't this what cell
phones are for? Why doesn't she at least bloody call?
Oh, yeah, the phone was currently occupied by a
love-struck twentysomething whose call-waiting
philosophy was, "If it's important, they'll call
back." A cold needle of worry shot through him as he
watched KOUS's coverage of the accidents resulting
from the ever-deteriorating road conditions.
California or no, he was getting the woman a bloody
set of snow tires.

Five more minutes, he decided. He tapped his fingers
impatiently against the chair arm, a gesture that
Buffy frequently commented on as indicative of a
raging case of ADD, and watched the minutes tick away
on the living room clock.

He bounded up the stairs and stopped in the hall
outside of Dawn's door, gesturing that he needed to
talk to her.

"What's up?" Dawn asked, pressing her palm over the
phone's mouthpiece.

"Your sister was supposed to be back 20 minutes ago,
and I'm thinking I'll just take a little stroll and
see if anything's keeping her, car trouble on the way
home, whatnot," he answered, affecting nonchalance,
leaning lightly against the door frame.

Dawn knit her brows in concern. "Want me to come
with?"

"And break up the phone love-fest?" he snorted. "I'm
sure it's nothing. She probably lost track of time at
the bloody Nine West store. I swear, if the woman
buys one more pair of shoes, she'll give that Imelda
Marcos bird a run for her money."

Dawn laughed. "I'm telling her you said that."

"Said what?" he remarked archly. "She'll never
believe it -- not after she gets a look at the black
Italian leather boots I got her for Christmas. She'll
think I'm her dealer." He winked and then cleared his
throat awkwardly. Suck it up, you ponce, he thought
to himself. "Uh, tell Patrick that we're looking
forward to seeing him on Boxing Day."

Dawn squealed and jumped off the bed to give him a
quick kiss. "Buffy said you'd come around."

"While I'm still basking in the love, I think I'll
take off." He pushed away from the door. "We'll be
back in a bit."

A cold wind slapped him in the face as he stepped onto
the porch. He rolled his eyes. Cold and wet were
mere inconveniences to him, but an inconvenience was
an inconvenience, and he'd make her pay for it later.
His eyes gleamed wickedly. Oh, yes, he had several
ideas as to how she could make it up to him.

When he reached the front gate, he rolled his neck and
shoulder slightly, inhaling deeply. Left it is, he
thought as he stepped into the night.

***

He sensed the accident long before he saw it. He
could smell the acrid smoke and the metallic scent of
blood from blocks away, heard the dull, off-key bleat
of a jammed car horn, and he broke out into a dead
run. The sleet stung his face, and his vampiric sense
of balance alone kept his feet on the slick pavement,
but he pushed on. Only when he reached the corner did
he skid to a halt.

The sight that greeted him at the intersection of
Carter and Pine had the biting impact of a knife to
the gut. Both cars were twisted ruins now, but
Buffy's car had clearly sustained the most damage, the
mangled front end butted up against a now-listing
telephone pole. It was the trunk of the car that
faced him, but even at this angle he could see that
the crumpled metal frame no longer remotely resembled
its former shape.

His eyes swung over to the other car, where a young
woman in a bright pink track suit -- a passing jogger,
he thought dimly -- was knocking frantically on the
windows. She was yelling something; he could see
her lips moving, almost in slow motion, but he
couldn't seem to make out the words. He turned back
to Buffy's car, noted offhandedly that there were no
windows left to knock on. The shards of broken glass
that surrounded her car glittered like diamonds under
the harsh glare of the neon streetlights.

And he knew. He was still 25 feet away, but he knew.
There was no heartbeat inside.

***

"Off," Buffy said, exasperated. "Spike, I mean it.
We have a house full of people, one of whom is Giles
-- the thought of what we might be doing up here alone
is probably enough to have him snapping his glasses
from vigorous over-wiping."

Spike pushed her gently against the back of the
bedroom door and nuzzled her neck.

"They've got booze, they've got food, they've got
whatever it is that you all think passes for music
these days. What do I need to do? Hold their hands
and entertain them personally?" He rubbed his blunt
teeth over the pulse point beneath her ear. "There's
just one person I want to entertain personally, with
my own two hands, and she's not downstairs."

"We are the worst hosts ever," Buffy replied with a
chuckle. "Seriously, don't you want to celebrate?"

"Celebrating is exactly what I had in mind," he
responded seductively, easing the sparkling clip out
of her hair and watching the golden threads fall
around her shoulders.

A muffled burst of laughter from the crowd below had
her reluctantly pushing him away. "We can't -- we'll
be missed."

He captured her wrists with one hand, pinned them
against the door above her head, and smiled. "I told
Dawn I wanted you all to myself for quarter of an
hour. She'll play Martha Stewart 'til we go back
down."

"Great. My little sister thinks we came up here for
booty call." She'd be icked by the ewww factor if she
weren't so damn turned on by that thing he was doing
with his tongue.

"Probably. A semester of college seems to have only
enhanced her natural intelligence," he murmured into
her ear while his free hand went to work on the
buttons of her blouse. He tugged it free of her
skirt, and it hung open down to her navel, revealing
her cream-colored lace bra. Front closure. The woman
was a goddess.

Buffy cast a hazy glance over Spike's shoulder to the
pile of coats covering their bed. "Hmmm, the bed
seems otherwise occupied."

He snorted. "When has that ever stopped us?" He bit
at the slim band of fabric between her breasts and
twisted gently until the hook was unlatched.

"Let me see if I've got this right." Her eyes danced
as she encircled her legs around his waist, and he
finally released her hands. "We've got limited time
combined with a high risk of getting caught by our
guests combined with non-traditional and exciting
positions?"

"That's my girl -- cuts right to the heart of the
clinical picture." Spike grinned, feeling her shiver
as he nibbled lightly at one of her newly-exposed
nipples. "Up for it?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" she retorted,
reaching down to open his belt and loosen his pants.

He hoisted her upward to slip a forearm beneath her
ass for extra support, and a low moan slipped out of
his throat as the rolling of her hips created a
dizzying friction between them. He lurched forward
until he felt a corner of her vanity table brushing
against the back of his hand and deposited her on its
top, her legs dangling off the edge. Her insistent
hand tugged his head lower, and she caught his lips in
a deep, probing kiss.

She pulled back but never broke eye contact as she
scooted backwards a few inches and slipped out of her
panties. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as
she raised one foot and then the other to the top of
the table's surface, planting a high heel on either
side of her hips, and drew up her skirt over her
knees.

Although he ached to be inside her and although time
was of the essence, he still paused for a moment to
look at her, half-clothed, half-breathless, cheeks
suffused with color, pulsing with life. He reached
out, resting the palm of his hand against the side of
her face, skimming his thumb across the delicate skin
of her cheek.

She was extraordinary, this woman to whom he belonged,
this woman who belonged to him. He'd seen her weak,
seen her strong, made her laugh, made her cry, made
her angry, comforted her. There was no part of her
that he didn't know intimately and love passionately.

She could overwhelm him, consume him in an instant.
Or she could push him gently but irrevocably and
relentlessly to ecstasy.

She could make him remember exactly what it felt like
to stand in the light of the sun, even after a century
and a quarter in darkness.

And then she smiled at him, a slow-spreading smile
that lit every corner of her face and every corner of
his being, and drew him into her.

***

He approached the car in a daze. She must have gotten
out somehow, gone for help. That would be so like
her. Try to save the bloody pillock who'd wrecked her
car. Driving too fast for the conditions, the
bastard.

No.

He saw her, slumped forward against the shoulder
harness, the long golden curtain of hair falling
forward to obscure her face, and all other thoughts
dissipated. He started to reach his fingers through
the gaping hole where the driver's side window should
have been, but a gloved hand on his forearm halted his
progress.

"She's gone," the jogger said breathlessly, pushing
her dark hair out of her eyes and turning to scan the
road for traffic. There was none. "I tried to get in
there to shut off that damn horn when I checked for a
pulse, but the door's jammed. Doors're jammed on the
other car too, but I think they'll be okay over there.
Fire and Rescue are on their way, but I think it's a
busy night, so they may be a while." She met his eyes
for the first time, saw the pain etched across his
face. "Oh, God, you know her?"

He swallowed hard, nearly gagged on the lump in his
throat, and nodded once. "Stand back," he said
hollowly, reaching for the door handle.

"I don't think it'll open." Her voice was quiet,
gentle, her eyes sympathetic. "Why don't we just wait
over by the curb? Someone'll be here soon."

"Stand back," he repeated and begain pulling at the
wrecked door. He felt a white hot flame of pain in
his shoulder as it disconnected from the socket, but
his grip on the handle didn't loosen. He could hear
the harsh scraping of metal against metal, felt the
hinges give way. With a cry of rage he flung the door
away and lunged inside the car, driving his shoulder
solidly into the steering wheel. Anything to shut up
that fucking horn. It cut off with a sickly whine,
and then there was silence, save for the soft ping of
falling ice drops hitting already frozen surfaces and
the faint buzz of the streetlights overhead.

He reached around her waist and disengaged the seat
belt. She fell forward into his arms, and he bit back
a scream of grief. He cradled her to him for a long
moment, noticed with horror that her eyes were
still open, staring fixedly ahead, a slight look of
surprise frozen on her face. With shaking fingers he
drew her eyelids down and eased her out of the car.

Why was there so little blood? A bloody scrape
highlighted the dark welt on her left cheek, and there
was a deep gash on her forehead. The broken glass of
the windshield had cut little nicks in her ungloved
hands, and her blouse was dotted with tiny red specks.
But there were no gaping or violent wounds, nothing
indicative of a fatal injury. It seemed darkly
obscene to die from what looked like mere cuts and
bruises. He'd seen her look a hundred times worse
than this and open her eyes. If she'd just open her
eyes....

This had to be some kind of mistake. His beautiful
girl, his amazing warrior couldn't die in a cold
intersection in a car wreck. It was so stupid, so
fucking ordinary. Someone who cheated death regularly

and thwarted apocalypses at least once a year couldn't
be banished from this earth by something so common.
It just wasn't right.

Her head hung limply over his left arm, and her legs
swung slightly over his right, and he stood there in
the freezing rain, trembling. He squeezed his eyes
shut and tilted his head skyward. Please let
this be a mistake.

Had she been afraid? Had there been time for that?
Had she felt the car slip out of her control, or had
there just been blissful ignorance? The questions
tormented him with ruthless intensity, and his knees
buckled. The only thing he knew for sure was that she
had been alone. He always promised her that he'd
protect her from anything, and it turned out that he
couldn't even protect her from a trip to the mall.

His eyes jerked open when he felt a hand on his
shoulder. "Let's set her down, okay?" It was the
jogger again, watching him with sad eyes.

He nodded numbly and sank to the ground, pulling Buffy
close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder.

"Is there something I can do? Let me help you." The
girl's breath plumed out, white and frosty, into the
stillness of the night.

"Can you--" His mouth felt like it was full of ashes.
"Do you see her bag in there?"

"Let me check," she answered. Her head and arms
disappeared from view as she reached into the car and
felt around in the dark. "Got it."

She extracted herself from the car and held the bag
open for him. As he reached in for Buffy's cell
phone, his fingers brushed a velvet box. He pulled
both free and took an unnecessary steadying breath.

"Hello?"

"Xander."

"Hey, Spike. Listen, call I call you back? I've got--"


"There's been an accident," Spike said thickly, his
voice sounding distant in his own ears. "I need you
to go to the house and get Dawn. We'll be at
Sunnydale Memorial."

"Oh, my God. Are you okay?" Xander paused for a
moment, and a note of panic had edged into his voice
when he continued. "Is it Buffy?"

"I can't--. I have to go." He hit the off button,
and the phone struck the asphalt next to him with a
reverberating clatter.

The velvet box was still tightly clenched in his right
hand, and he moved to open it. A thin paper receipt
fluttered out first, and he read the time of payment:
8:19. He crumpled the sleet-dampened paper in his
hand and took out the box's other contents, a silver
watch that gleamed as it reflected the bright lights
above him. He turned it in his hand, caught sight of
the small, precise letters engraved into its back:
For all time. All my love, Buffy.

Merry Christmas, baby, he thought, as the shriek of
approaching sirens assaulted his ears.

***

The doctors talked of a closed-head injury and massive
internal bleeding. The police explained that although
the driver's side airbag in Buffy's car had inflated
when she was struck from behind by the other vehicle,
it had deflated before the initial accident's momentum
rammed her car into the telephone pole. Spike heard
it all, and it meant nothing to him. Empty words that
he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

Willow had arrived first. She had already been
downtown when Xander called and arrived just minutes
after the ambulance. She hugged him wordlessly, a
steady stream of tears slipping down her cheeks, and
Spike patted her back stiffly, distractedly. Numb.

Dawn had collapsed in Xander's arms when she saw
Spike's face. He'd expected her to be hysterical, but
after the first shock of discovery, she shut down, all
hollow eyes that stared sightlessly ahead.

Willow and Xander saw to the paperwork, made the
necessary calls.

It was all very civilized, this ritual of death. And
achingly familiar.

***

The cup of coffee that Xander had pushed into his hand
hours ago before he'd taken Dawn and Willow home was
stone cold now and sat untasted at his elbow. Spike
set down the pen and cast a tired glance over what
he'd written.

"Dawn-

I'm so sorry. I didn't want to disappear and leave
you never knowing what happened to me. But now that
she's gone, I just can't be here anymore. I don't
want to leave you alone, but I know that you won't be.
Let the people who love you take care of you.
They'll need you as much as you need them.

It's not that there's nothing left here that I care
about. As long as you're here, this place will have
something precious to me. Always know that. I know
you're going to be an amazing woman -- you already
are. She and I have been more proud of you than
you'll ever know.

I just can't do this again. I survived her once, but
I think I must have known somehow that she wasn't
finished, that I wasn't finished. Not then. But now
it feels like I'm done, Dawn. Hell, it's selfish, and
I know it. But it's something other than that too.
If I do nothing, I'll just keep going on and on, a
freakish perversion of the natural order, and I
honestly can't bear the thought of it. I want to rest
now. It's time to rest. I think she would
understand, and I hope you do too -- and that you can
find it in your heart to forgive me someday.

I just want to see daylight one more time; it reminds
me of her. Remember that I love you."

He folded the sheet carefully and penned her name
across the paper. Xander was coming by later to pick
up Buffy's belongings, and he would find the letter
that Spike now tucked into her purse.

Then he turned back to the gurney. He traced the soft
curve of Buffy's lips with his fingers and bent for a
final kiss.

***

Spike stood in the shadows of one of the hospital's
seldom-used side entrances and pressed his eyes shut
against the growing brightness outside. Last night's
storm was only a memory now, and the day bloomed as
fresh and clear as a crisp spring morning. He'd
almost forgotten how brilliant the early morning sun
could be, set like a jewel against the pink and blue
sky. When he opened his eyes again, he saw her, his
shimmering, golden goddess, holding out her hand to
him. Glowing, glistening...effulgent. He smiled and
stepped out into the light.