Description, disclaimers, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 3 notes: Sorry for the inexcusable delay. Blame it on RL crises, a huge pile of Western Civ exams, and a case of writer’s block (read: exhaustion!). This one’s about Christmases past and present and imagined, so hopefully there’s enough holiday spirit left out for this belated chapter. Flashback and dream sequences alert! And in the interests of full disclosure and giving credit where it’s due, I must confess that the idea of remembering what someone looks like and still forgetting what it means to see his/her face is adapted from a line I heard on an episode of “thirtysomething” circa 10 years ago – I just loved the sentiment so much that it stuck with me all this time.

Chapter 3 – Alucinor

Buffy surveyed the dimly-lit living room. It still ran a little light on Christmas cheer and even lighter on presents, but it was the best she could do. The tree was missing half of its normal decorations, but despite exhaustive searching, Buffy couldn’t find the ornaments she and Dawn made or received when they were younger. Those had always been her mom’s favorites, and she made a big show each December of getting them out of her special hiding place when it was time to trim the tree. Now they were just something else Buffy had lost. She felt a sudden pang at the memory of how much her mother loved the holidays, but it wasn’t exactly like Buffy had the money to do Christmas right anyway, even if she had the heart for it. Her first Christmas without Mom. Buffy’s chest felt strangely tight, and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

At least the house was quiet now. Everyone had cleared out a half hour ago, and Dawn and Willow had both gone to bed shortly thereafter. Things were so much easier when she was by herself. When she didn’t have to pretend.

That’s when she heard him coming quietly down the stairs. Quietly, but not quietly enough.

“Spike, what the hell are you doing in my house?” she asked wearily, flopping on the sofa.

“Uh, just came by to wish you and yours a Merry Christmas,” he answered, leaning on the doorframe leading to the living room. He surveyed the empty room with a slight smirk. “Looks like I missed everyone. Pity.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re absolutely crushed at missing Xander.” Buffy suddenly sat upright with a jerk. “Wait a second, what were you doing upstairs?” she demanded. “Were you in my room?”

“Came in through your bedroom window, if that’s what you mean.” Off her look of annoyance, he continued hurriedly, “Don’t get your knickers twisted. I just wanted to be sure everyone had cleared out and you were alone. I wasn’t up there rifling through your delicates or anything. Give me a little credit.”

He looked so indignant that Buffy relented, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She leaned back against the cushions and sighed. “So why are you really here? Do vampires even celebrate Christmas?”

“I thought maybe we could--” He lazily flicked one finger against the wood frame of the entryway with a thoughtful expression.

“Uh-uh. No way. Are you out of your mind?” Buffy exploded, getting to her feet. She kept her voice down, but fury rolled off her in waves. “My little sister is asleep upstairs, and you come over to play a game of ‘hide the candy cane’?”

“Nice euphemism, Slayer,” he said, grinning wickedly. “Full of holiday cheer.” He paused, still smiling. “But not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh, really?” Buffy’s voice was scathing, masking both her disappointment and her disgust with herself. Couldn’t he just offer himself up to her and let her get lost for a little while? Contradiction, thy name is Buffy, she thought. Queen of Mixed Signals. It was his damn fault, she decided. It was always his fault. Blaming him made everything so much easier. “What exactly did you have in mind, then?”

“Come upstairs with me and find out.”

She merely raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” he demanded indignantly. “I watch enough Oprah to know that the holidays can be rough on a person who’s been through as much as you have this past year.”

“Wait, there was an episode of Oprah that talked about how to cope with your own death and resurrection?” she asked sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest. “Damn! I can’t believe I missed that one. Was Christ the special celebrity guest?”

Spike closed his eyes with the air of someone slowly counting to ten to regain his patience. When he spoke, his voice was cautious, controlled. “I just thought maybe you might, you know, want some company tonight is all.”

“What, we’re gonna have a deep, meaningful conversation about my pain now? Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You need a good night’s sleep, Buffy,” he said quietly. “I thought I could at least put you to bed.”

He was looking at her now with that vulnerable look that always made her guilty and irritable. Damn him. “Spike, you’re not gonna put me to anything.” She sighed. “Just go. I want to be alone.”

He didn’t move, merely thrust his hands deep into his pockets and leaned on the wall with a watchful expression.

“God, is this my life?” Buffy asked suddenly, as if her discontent had somehow burst its bounds and could no longer be contained. “This is ridiculous. My life makes no sense to me. Literally, no sense whatsoever. You cannot imagine what that’s like.” She paused, closed her eyes, and laughed bitterly. “Actually, I guess you can imagine exactly what that’s like.”

“Meaning what?” His face was impassive, but his tone was challenging.

“Look at yourself. You’re a vampire in love with a slayer. I don’t think anything could be more illogical than that. Or more pathetic.”

He was in her face in an instant. “Don’t go putting your insecurities on me. I’ve got my unlife figured out just fine.”

“How?” she shot back. “How can your life make any sense to you? To be with me, you have to hate everything you are.” Realization dawned as she looked at him. “I was right that first night – you are in love with pain,” she said with distaste.

“Look who’s talking,” he countered angrily. “Doesn’t being with me mean that you have to hate everything you are? Or does it just mean not facing up to some things about yourself that you don’t really wanna know?”

“Is this why you came over here tonight, Spike?” she demanded. “To piss me off? Fighting with me is some twisted kind of foreplay for you, isn’t it? Well, mission accomplished. I’m pissed off. But you can forget about the main event.”

He bit off a cutting retort and just shook his head, exasperated. “Can’t I not have ulterior motives? Why do you always have to think the worst of me, Buffy?”

“Because it’s *you*, Spike.”

He averted his eyes quickly, but Buffy saw the flash of pain cross his face. She opened her mouth to speak again, to take an edge off the bitchiness, but he beat her to it.

“I turn myself inside out for you, and nothing is enough.” He said the words carefully, but she could hear the hurt and anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Fine, I’ll go and leave you to your misery. Being miserable is what you’re best at these days, isn’t it?” He turned to leave and then stopped abruptly and turned back. “You can be pretty damn unlikable sometimes, you know that?”

Buffy felt a hot flush rising in her cheeks. “Yeah? Good, do me a favor and don’t like me. You know what? It’s not like I asked you to fall in love with me. You know how much simpler my life would be right now if you didn’t love me?”

He glanced at her in surprise, the hardness in his eyes melting away.

“What?” she demanded in confusion. “What did I say?”

“When did I say that you being unpleasant from time to time has anything to do with how much I love you? You do know there’s a difference, right?” He scanned her face questioningly and shook his head in disbelief. “God, no wonder you shut yourself off the way that you do.”

“Spike, cut the psychobabble. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Buffy. How you are. Like why you don’t let your friends in, why you keep secrets from them. I couldn’t figure it before, but now I think I get it. You think that if you show them some side of you that they don’t like, you’ll lose them, that they won’t love you anymore. That’s why you play at being ‘normal girl’ for them, cuz you think that’s all they’ll accept.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Buffy said through tightly-clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I think maybe I do. You think you’ve got to be perfect all the time, that you’ve gotta earn their love—”

“Shut up,” she broke in angrily. “I don’t think that.”

“Really? Then why don’t you tell them about us?” he challenged defiantly.

“Because it’s none of their business if I’m screwing a corpse for a good lay.”

That should have done it, should have made him angry enough to tear the room and her apart, and strangely enough, she regretted the words almost as soon as they had left her mouth. Who was the real monster here, Buffy thought in revulsion. Why did he always do this to her?

But Spike just put his hands up, palms facing outward in a gesture of resignation. “Fine, tell yourself that’s what it is,” he said softly. “But your life isn’t gonna get any easier for you until you figure out how to just be yourself and not worry about what everyone thinks. They’ll still love you. And if they don’t, tell ‘em to piss off. I’ll still love you. Hell, I love you right now, standing in front of me, being a bitch, windin’ me up just for the hell of it.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was tinged with realization and regret. “I think I was wrong before – it’s not just that you think your friends will only accept ‘normal Buffy,’ whoever that is. That’s all you’ll accept, too. Well, let me tell you – I’ve seen the whole package, Buffy, and I love it all. You need to learn to love it, too, or you’re gonna spend your whole life pretending.”

“Spike--,” Buffy began, but he cut her off.

“Good night, Slayer,” he said, turning on his heel and walking out the back door.

Buffy trudged up the stairs and was halfway down the hall before she smelled it, the mingled bouquet of holly, cranberry, and pine that smelled like Christmas. This was how the house used to be at Christmastime. It flooded her with so many memories that the sensation nearly drove her to her knees. Instead, she let her legs propel her down the corridor until she stood in front of her bedroom door, her hand resting on the knob. When she turned it, the door swung silently inward, and the soft light of countless candles greeted her, their flames fluttering at the sudden rush of air that swept through the room with the opening of the door. The candles, sitting on nearly every flat surface, were almost every conceivable shade of green and red, each smelling faintly but sweetly of some Christmas scent.

Then the center of the room captured her attention. It was dominated by a Christmas tree—the top half of a Christmas tree, actually—decorated with all of the ornaments she thought had gone missing. She stared at it in disbelief until a white envelope stuck between two branches caught her eye. She plucked it out, unfolded the note inside, and scanned the message written in a large, bold hand:

“Buffy—
On the off chance I’m not here with you when you’re seeing this (or should I change that to “on the likelihood”? And should I just say sorry now for whatever I’m going to do to accidentally piss you off?), I wanted to explain all this. The Little Bit and I wanted to do something special for you for the holidays, so she squirreled away all your favorite ornaments for your very own tree. She couldn’t decorate it by herself, what with the broken wing and all, so I said I’d help. She’s a taskmaster, that one, but she wanted it to be perfect. Hope you like it.

P.S. The candles were my idea. I love you by candlelight.”

This was what he had wanted to show her. Buffy sank to the floor, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She ended up doing both.

She wanted to go to the window, to look under his tree and see if he was there. She didn’t know which thought scared her more – that he was there, waiting and watching like always, or that he wasn’t. Instead, she sat in front of her tree, with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, until morning, watching the golden flames of the candles sink slowly into soft puddles of fragrant wax.

*

“Buffy?”

“What? What is it?” God, what was it now, she wondered, pushing herself wearily to her feet.

“Sit, Buffy. I just wanted to know if you wanted some company. Everything is fine. Everyone’s all present and accounted for.” Spike was standing at the kitchen door, framed by the glow of the light within, and he appeared to be more rested than she’d seen him look since the night of the rescue. Softer, somehow. The dimness even managed to conceal many of his remaining bruises, although Buffy suspected that she’d never seen the worst of his injuries.

Buffy sank down gratefully on the steps again. “Sure, come on out. Just hurry up and close the door before they all decide that the back porch is the new happening place to be.” She took a long look at him and laughed ruefully. “Couldn’t take it anymore either, could you?”

Spike shut the door behind him, stepped into the shadows, and blew out a breath. “God, the estrogen levels in this house are off the charts. I had to get out of there just to keep my manly dignity intact – there was talk of touching up my roots.” He mock-shuddered. “A man’s gotta take care of some things himself, you know?”

Buffy smiled at him and inched over to the far side of the step, an unspoken invitation for him to join her. “Oh, they’re just trying to be helpful.” She watched him make his way to her and frowned. The darkness couldn’t hide his slightly awkward gait, and she found it disconcerting to see him moving so slowly. Spike was a bounce back kind of guy, but whatever the First had done to him wasn’t something he was bouncing right back from, and it worried her more than a little. She’d gotten used to him being more careful and deliberate since finding him in the school basement, but this was something new.

He was sitting next to her now, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and knee to knee. Mere inches apart but a world away. She had been stunned to find that she ached for his touch now that he didn’t touch her anymore. Notwithstanding the times he’d attacked her under the control of the First, a few accidental brushes since he had come back had been their only physical contact. And each time he would shrink away from her, horrified and apologetic. In the beginning she had wanted him to be horrified and apologetic, thought it was fitting. But that feeling had passed a long time ago.

Missing the feel of him wasn’t a sex thing – it wasn’t about that kind of physicality. It was about the common gestures of familiarity that she’d grown used to from him over the years. The firm grasp of his hand pulling her to her feet. The touch of his fingers when he handed her a weapon. The brush of an arm or a leg when they stood or sat close to one another. That’s what she missed.

And it all came rushing back to her that night in the cave when she’d set him free from the Turok Han, when the feel of his hand settling heavily on her shoulder and the look on his face had set off something in her that she didn’t know quite how to describe or deal with. It was as if his touch was some kind of an anchor; it grounded and balanced her. She had hoped that encounter would mark a change between them, but he seemed so contained within himself now, so far away from her, that she began to doubt it.

She put aside these thoughts and studied him. “Are you okay?”

Avoiding her eyes, Spike peered into the darkness. He ignored her concern, focusing instead on her former comment. “Helpful?” He snorted. “That lot wanna make me their bleedin’ pet project, they do. The ones who aren’t terrified out of their wits around me, anyway. And that number seems to be dwindling these days.” He sobered quickly and finally fixed his gaze on her. “I’m fine, Buffy. Nothing for you to worry about. Gettin’ stronger every day. I’ll be ready when the time comes.”

Buffy shook her head dismissively. “No, I wasn’t worried about that.” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “I was just worried about you.”

His puzzled expression couldn’t mask the pleasure he took in her words, and there was that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach again. After everything that had happened, everything they both had been through and had put each other through, that he could still look so amazed and grateful at hearing her say she was worried about him was hard to process.

“Guess Christmas came and went around here while I was gone,” he said, steering the conversation into less emotionally-charged territory.

“Christmas? Yeah, there wasn’t a whole lot of celebrating here at Slayer Central,” Buffy replied. “We were a little preoccupied. *I* was a little preoccupied.”

The truth was that she hadn’t been preoccupied when he was gone – strangely unsettled was more like it, like she couldn’t seem to get her bearings. She hadn’t been able to sleep, had been barely able to eat. What could she tell him? That part of her felt like it was missing when he’d been held captive? It felt weird to even think that, and yet there was more than a little bit of truth in the thought. Where had it even come from?

Maybe it started that night in the church, when she learned about the soul. Or maybe it had been that phone call, telling her that he’d hurt people, knowing what she would have to do and confessing anyway. It might been that night in her basement, when he forced her to take a long, hard look at the monster he had been before and she did it, only to discover that the monster really didn’t exist anymore.

The truth was that she respected him, respected the man he had become. And somewhere along the line, she had come to depend on him, even need him a little. Even if she couldn’t admit it to him, she could admit it to herself. She knew it wasn’t love. It definitely wasn’t that. But it was something new, this thing that tied them together now.

“I, um, got you a little something,” he said suddenly. “You know, for Christmas. It’s really not much,” he clarified, “considering that I haven’t been getting out much lately and all.”

Buffy smiled in spite of herself. “A present? You got me a present?” Without thinking, she continued, “You’re going to have a hard time topping last year’s tree and candles.”

His eyes widened, as the memories and questions flashed through his eyes.

“Yeah, I know – I kinda forgot the thank you note.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she was suddenly embarrassed at having brought it up. “What’s the statute of limitations on a thank you?” She forced herself to continue brightly, “If you give me whatever you’re hiding, I promise to say thanks right away.”

He wordlessly produced an unwrapped object adorned with a slightly crushed red bow from his jacket pocket.

“Wow. It’s…I don’t know what to say,” Buffy began slowly, turning the stake over in her hands and removing the bow.

“I told you it wasn’t much.”

“No, it’s, um— It’s really thoughtful,” Buffy said quickly. “I mean, look at the quality craftsmanship. I was just telling the potentials the other day that they really don’t make stakes the way they used to.”

He leaned back away from her slightly and regarded her with faint amusement. “If you’d stop tripping over yourself trying to make me feel like less of git for giving you such a lame present, I’ll tell you what it means.”

“Ahh, a symbolic present. I should have known.” Buffy suddenly felt uneasy when a new thought occurred to her. “Spike, this isn’t your way of telling me we’d all be better off if I used this on you, is it? Because I already explained to you that it’s just not gonna happen. We’re gonna figure out some way to stop the First from using you. I promise.”

“Not exactly keen on being dusted these days,” Spike reassured her quietly. “My life is in your hands, yeah,” he continued earnestly, “but I trust I don’t need to give you a stake to remind you of that.”

Buffy closed her eyes and fought down the uneasiness. In the past, she’d reveled in her power over him, but now she found herself really not wanting his life in her hands. She didn’t want to be the one who had to make tough choices about his survival. “Oookay,” she answered warily. “Then what’s the stake for?”

“To remind you who you are,” he said simply.

Buffy’s eyebrows arched in confusion. “As if I could forget?” she asked, gesturing to the houseful of slayers-in-training behind her. “I’m Responsibility Girl, just like always.” She sighed. “I can’t forget it even if I try.”

Spike pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, not that. This,” he inclined his head toward the stake, “doesn’t define you. It’s a tool, Buffy, that’s all. It doesn’t make you. You’re so much more, but I think—” He paused, as if searching for the words, and Buffy thought again how different he was now. The old Spike had a tendency to speak first and think later. Perhaps that’s why his words were always full of bald truths, even if they weren’t always easy to face. But now he played things much closer to the vest, as if he gave voice to only a tiny fraction of his thoughts, as if he were a little less certain now in his former self-appointed role as dispenser of truth. “I think you let this trap you too much sometimes. Don’t be afraid to be yourself, and don’t be afraid to lead them. You don’t have to be the personification of judgment, and you don’t have to fit anyone else’s definition of normal, either. You just have to be Buffy. I know you can do it. You’ve just gotta know you can do it, too.”

She contemplated his words for several seconds. “Am I really more than this?” she finally asked softly.

“Oh, yeah.” He whispered the reply with conviction and reverence, and they sat in companionable silence while she wished she could see herself the way he did.

“Does your life still make sense to you?” Buffy asked suddenly. When Spike looked at her, startled, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I was just remembering something you said once. And wow, that was a really stupid thing to ask.”

“Why?” he questioned curiously.

“Why did I ask? I don’t know, just feeling a little out of sorts right now, post-holiday blues, whatever--”

He interrupted her with a shake of his head. “No, why did you say it was stupid to ask?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Between your soul and the trigger, you’re the only one around here whose life is even more chaotic than mine.”

“Yeah, chaos is a pretty good word for it,” he commented meditatively. “But, oddly enough, there’s still a sort of logic to my life – it’s what drew me back here. It’s you, Buffy.” He took a deep, unnecessary breath. “Me loving you makes order out of the chaos. Everyone has to have something to believe in, and I believe in you.” When she looked away, he rushed on, “And now I’ve said too much. Look, Buffy, I don’t expect you to love me back--”

“I believe in you,” she broke in quietly, studying his face. “Just in case you missed it the first time, what with the harbingers breaking in and the subsequent kidnapping.” He smiled, and she continued, “And I need you here with me because I’m not strong enough to do this on my own. That’s all I can give you.”

“Well, then, that’s enough, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

He put out a hand to steady himself as he stood up, but instead of letting him push off against the step, she reached out and took his hand instead. He looked at her uncertainly, and for moment, she thought he was going to pull his hand free. But then she felt the pressure of his fingers squeezing her own, and he slowly rose. He cleared his throat, let go of her hand, and turned toward the house. “I’ll keep the girls occupied, give you a little more time to yourself.”

“Thanks,” Buffy replied gratefully. “And thanks for my present. But I feel bad – I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

When he turned back to her, his eyes were shining. “Yeah, Buffy, you did.”

*

Buffy was conscious of the sensation of movement. It felt a little like flying, but she knew it wasn’t flying since she could still feel the ground beneath her feet. Spinning, that was it – a slow, rhythmic turning, with a hand in the small of her back to guide her. Another hand in her hair gently pressed her cheek into a smooth, worn surface. She felt against her face the familiar caress of old leather, softened by decades of rain and wind and assaults from other things besides the elements.

“Dancing,” she murmured, almost soundlessly, wrapping her arms more tightly around the figure that held her.

“What’s that, love?”

“Spike, are we dancing?” Buffy answered dreamily. “We’ve never danced before.”

He laughed, and she could feel the rumble of sound in his chest vibrating against her skin. “Dancing’s all we’ve ever done, my queen.”

“’My queen’?” she repeated, amused. “I’m your queen now? Does this sudden craving for monarchy have something to do with your Victorian childhood? Don’t answer that – I’m not thinking about your Victorian childhood right now.” Her face was still buried in the lapel of his coat, but she could see him smiling in her mind’s eye. “If I’m the queen, what does that make you?”

“Your humble and devoted servant, as ever,” he answered easily, brushing his lips against her hair.

“No, not my servant.” She frowned in thought. “How about king consort?” she proposed.

“Consort, eh?” His tone was pleased. “You want to consort with me? That has all kinds of interesting…possibilities.”

“Mind out of the gutter, mister. I was referring to your official kingly duties. Like, for example, the fact that you always have to dance with me at great affairs of state.”

“Well, I think we’ve got that covered. We always dance, you and me. Don’t you remember?”

Remember. There was something Buffy knew she should remember, something she had to tell him, but it felt so good to be in his arms that she didn’t want to know anything else but that moment. What could be more important than this?

“Is this my Christmas present?” she whispered, knowing he would hear her. She could always trust him to hear her.

“Mmm-hmmm,” he replied, the sound of his voice in her ear like velvet against her skin. “How’d I do?”

“You’re gettin’ off kinda cheap here,” she smiled when he laughed again, “but I honestly can’t think of a better present.”

“I aim to please.”

Buffy chuckled softly and nuzzled her face against his chest. The moments slipped by – minutes, hours, days. It was as if time had ceased to exist.

“You didn’t really think it would be this easy, did you?” The voice that disturbed her reverie sounded so wistful that Buffy immediately looked up in alarm. She opened her mouth in a silent scream as Spike stepped away from her, burning, the amulet on his chest glowing with a blinding white light.

“No!” she cried. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me. I wanted to tell you--” God, not again. She couldn’t let him go again without telling him that she loved him, convincing him.

The flames licked at his skin until it turned to gray ash but still he looked at her, blue eyes full of regret. “It’s too late for us now.”

Buffy screamed.

*

“Buffy? Wake up.” Vivienne’s voice was distant, urgent. “Wake up now, Buffy. You’re having a nightmare. ”

Buffy slowly emerged from the dream, sucking in a lungful of air like a diver emerging from great depths. She found it difficult to breathe – it was as if her heart were in her throat, as if she were choking on it. She fought down the momentary surge of panic when she didn’t recognize her strange surroundings. Hotel room. St. Louis. Spike.

She sat upright. “Oh, my God. How long have I been asleep? I just closed my eyes for a second,” Buffy said, her voice accusing. “How could you let me fall asleep?”

“Buffy, you were exhausted. I just waited for the collapse,” Vivienne answered matter-of-factly, opening the bottle of water on the nightstand and pouring Buffy a glass. “You were in no shape to do anything but sleep.” She handed Buffy the tumbler.

Buffy took a long drink of water and nodded. “Sorry. All the way here, I kept thinking that we’d arrive, that I’d rush out and find him, that we’d be together right away. Stupid, huh?”

The flight from London had seemed endless. She should have used the time to rest, but she couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Instead, she had stared fixedly at the graphic at the front of the cabin that tracked the plane’s progress over the Atlantic, willing the tiny animated plane, and by extension, the jet itself, to move more quickly. It may have been the longest nine hours of her life.

And then she had to endure the flight from Minneapolis to St. Louis. And the line at Customs. And the endless barrage of questions that she was surprised she still had any energy left to answer. The agent frowned when Buffy said she hadn’t brought anything with her, but a hurried explanation from Vivienne about a family emergency seemed to satisfy him.

She had vague memories of the taxi from Lambert to the hotel, and when they’d gotten to the room, she’d laid down only for a moment while Vivienne was in the bathroom. And somehow managed to sleep the day away, she thought ruefully, looking out the window at the darkening sky.

“No, not stupid,” Vivienne answered simply. “Are you at least feeling more rested now?”

“Sort of,” Buffy replied, stretching her protesting muscles. “Definitely not the most restful sleep I’ve ever had.”

“Dreams of him?” Vivienne asked quietly.

“And memories,” Buffy answered, brushing the hair out of her eyes and exhaling heavily. “But the last wasn’t a memory.” She briefly described the dream of dancing to Vivienne, and the other woman frowned worriedly. “And before you ask, no, I have no idea if it’s a Prophecy Girl kind of dream. Here’s really hoping it’s not, eh?” She raised her glass, as if in a toast to luck, but her eyes were troubled.

“I doubt it’s so much a prophecy as a signal that you should exercise some caution here. Things may not always be what they appear,” Vivienne cautioned.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll even take along a stake in case I run into any of the local baddies.” Buffy frowned thoughtfully. “Except that I haven’t got a stake.”

“Here,” Vivienne said, grabbing a stake from her bed and handing it to Buffy.

Buffy’s eyes widened, and she laughed. “How in the world did you ever get *that* through Customs?”

“It cleverly doubles as a handle for my hairbrush,” Vivienne replied, her eyes dancing as she rubbed her fingers through her hair. “I never leave home without it.”

Buffy stood and contemplated the blue-gray sky again. “I think we’ve still got another half-hour or so before sunset, so I guess I’ve got a little time.” Buffy stopped herself abruptly with a short bark of startled laughter. “I don’t need to wait until dark to look for Spike, do I?”

“No, I guess you don’t. And I guess I don’t have to ask if you want me to come with you.”

Buffy smiled at Vivienne. “I love that you want to, but I really need to do this myself.”

The other woman nodded. “Do you know where you’re going to look?” she asked.

Buffy sighed and seriously pondered the question. “Not really,” she answered. “I suppose I’ll just wander. Which is absolutely ridiculous because this is a huge city, isn’t it? I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

She hadn’t really thought about any of it, really. Where she would look for him, what she would do when she found him, what she would say. What *was* she going to say to him? She suddenly felt overwhelmed. Where should she even start?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Vivienne’s voice. “Well, it just so happens that I did think about it, and according to the aura casting I did about fifteen minutes ago using this complimentary hotel map of the city, Spike was here.” Vivienne shoved a slip of paper with the names of two streets written on it. “Somewhere in the vicinity of that intersection. Not right there exactly, but within a couple of blocks. Your auras are too close together now for me to get a precise reading.”

Buffy took the paper gratefully and impulsively hugged Vivienne. “You’re handy to have around, you know?”

Vivienne laughed as they pulled apart. “It’s all selfishly motivated, I assure you. I’m dying to meet this guy.”

Buffy smiled and then sighed, staring out at the skyline once more. “What am I going to say to him?”

“You’ll find the words, Buffy,” Vivienne answered gently.

Buffy moved across the room and glanced at herself in the mirror above the desk. She smoothed her hair back into a long, sleek ponytail and tugged at her sleeves, pulling them down to the mid-point of her hands. It was a childish habit, hiding her hands in long sleeves, but it comforted her. She was glad now Vivienne had forced her to buy a change of clothes at Gatwick.

She had always thought clothing stores in airports were ridiculous. Who in the world went to the airport to shop? She liked shopping as much as the next girl, but the airport wasn’t exactly high on her list of prime shopping real estate. But maybe clothing stores at airports were for people who just decided to leave everything behind them in an instant, like she had.

Her choices had been limited – it was either settle for touristy London kitsch-wear (like a “Mind the Gap” sweatshirt) or pony up the big bucks for high fashion. Buffy was surprised she was self-possessed enough to avoid the souvenir shop – somewhere deep down the thought had begun to take root that she was actually going to see him, and that propelled her into choosing the fitted blouse and dark tailored jacket and pants that matched the boots she’d selected for her Christmas Eve dinner with Giles hours ago. Eternities ago.

Buffy grabbed the long coat she’d borrowed from Vivienne and approached the door. “Wish me luck,” she said.

“Luck,” Vivienne replied. “And be careful,” she whispered as the door quietly clicked shut.

*

The cabbie had raised his eyebrows when Buffy had given him the address, but they covered the distance quickly. Few people had occasion to be driving in the city on Christmas night. She gathered from the driver’s expression that they weren’t heading to his favorite part of town, but a large tip had insured that he would be waiting for a call to pick her up later. Perhaps with another passenger. He wished her a merry Christmas, and she stepped out into the night.

Buffy had only been walking a few blocks when something brought her to a sudden halt. Off to her left, less than a block over. She heard the sounds of the struggle, but more than that, she felt it. The thought that maybe Spike was there had her eagerly sprinting off in the direction of the commotion.

When she reached the source of the noise, she found two vamps fighting with a young, dark-skinned girl. Buffy had no choice but to swallow her disappointment as the taller of the two closed in on the girl’s throat. She lunged at him, knocking him off balance. Then she drove a knee into his chest as he fell forward and plunged her stake into his back.

“Hey, that one was mine. I totally could have taken him,” the girl said angrily as Buffy shot her a look of surprise.

“Are you nuts? He was just about to rip your throat out!” Buffy tossed back.

“I can handle myself,” the girl returned indignantly.

“Uh, ladies, fearsome killer here.” The remaining vamp smirked at them. “Now might be a good time to start running for your lives. You can save the bitching for later.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then flashed them a hint of fang. “Actually, I guess you can’t.”

“Oh, please,” Buffy said, rolling her eyes. “You really need to work on your neck-side manner. Distinct lack of scariness.”

“Oh,” the other girl broke in with a laugh, “was that supposed to be scary?”

The vampire growled and jumped between the two women. They each landed several blows, but it was Buffy’s stake that found its mark.

Buffy caught a glimpse of the girl’s dark, heavy braids swirling around her head as she arched forward and landed a solid blow on Buffy’s chin through the collapsing cloud of dust.

“What was that for?” Buffy demanded crossly, rubbing her face. “Hello, just saved your life here.”

“Oh, sorry,” the other answered with false sweetness. “The way you move, I just figured you for another one of them. Maybe an angry girlfriend or something.”

“Yeah, not so much,” Buffy returned, blocking another blow with her left forearm and throwing a right at the girl’s face. She felt a welcome tingle up her arm and into her shoulder as the punch connected.

“Well, well,” the girl answered, smiling with hard eyes, “I guess you must be one of me then.” She feinted to the left as Buffy lunged forward for a follow-up punch, and Buffy had to put out both hands to keep her momentum from causing her to careen into the brick wall.

Buffy snorted and felt another flame of anger pass through her as she turned. “No,” she retorted heatedly, “as a matter of fact, I think you’re one of *me*.” She whirled and aimed a flying kick at her opponent’s stomach.

The girl dropped into a crouch and intercepted the kick, grabbing Buffy’s ankle and forcing it upward. Buffy felt herself losing her balance and gave in to the momentum, flipping in the air and pulling her legs underneath her again. She heard a sickening snap as she landed and glared at the grinning girl opposite her.

“Damn it,” Buffy said angrily, balancing her weight on her left leg while lifting her right so as to inspect the heel of her boot. “Now you’ve really pissed me off. These are my favorite, and more importantly, my only pair of boots.”

“Ooo, I’m trembling in my much less expensive and far more sturdy shoes,” the girl answered, bracing her hands on her hips in a belligerent pose.

“You can drop the whole ‘Grrl Power’ routine with me,” Buffy commented, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let me give you a little tip – I’ve been at it for almost a decade now, and there’s just no way you’re gonna be better at it than me.”

Something passed through the girl’s eyes. “So you’re the one,” she said, her eyes flickering over Buffy with new interest.

“The one and onl—” Buffy began and then stopped. Not one and only anymore. “Yeah, I’m the one. The original,” she amended.

“Hmmm. My Watcher told me all about you,” the girl stated, still sizing Buffy up. “Fierce warrior, she who hangs out in cemeteries, the Chosen One, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Your who told you what?” Buffy asked in confusion. Her Watcher? But there weren’t any Watchers left, were there? The few who had survived the London blast were all at the Academy now.

“Watcher. You know, British guy. He who watches,” the other returned easily, tucking her stake into the waistband of her jeans. “Well,” she continued thoughtfully, “he’s not technically a Watcher. He just knows about Slayers.”

“Uh huh.” Something was definitely wrong here. Giles had carefully tracked all of the potentials-turned-slayers who had been activated by the spell. Every last one of them. What was this girl doing here by herself, with some pseudo-Watcher? “And he knows me, your ‘Watcher’?” Buffy asked warily.

“Knows, no. Knows of, yeah. He told me you existed, but he’s obviously never met you. He’s always on about how special you are, but,” the girl sniffed, “you don’t look all that special to me. I guess I always thought you’d be taller or something.”

Buffy was annoyed, but more than that, she was apprehensive. A slayer here made no sense. And Buffy really wanted to get to the bottom of this “Watcher” business, but the girl wasn’t exactly being cooperative. Perhaps a little show of strength was in order. Punch now, talk later, she decided. “Maybe this talking thing is overrated. I think I’d really like to keep hitting you.”

“Likewise,” the other girl stated flatly, coming forward.

Buffy saw something out of the corner of her eye, a bright orange flare that faded to a smoldering red glow in the blackness of the night. Someone was out there, someone she couldn’t see. She stretched out with her senses, trying to pick up a vamp vibe. She momentarily cursed herself for being so out of touch with her spider sense – her adrenaline was running so high, she couldn’t get a clear read on whatever was out there in the darkness. Buffy hated turning her back, but Supergirl was coming at her again, and she figured it was better to dispatch the enemy she could see before turning to Mr. or Ms. Unknown in the night.

The two women began trading punches, and it wasn’t long before Buffy’s skill began to overpower her opponent. She might be out of battle shape, but she was still The Slayer, double capitals. She’d almost forgotten what that meant. Being the Chosen One wasn’t something that went away, though. It was who she was, after all. No matter how much she might ignore it or push it away, it was inside her all the time.

Not that the other girl wasn’t good. She had an agility and strength Buffy hadn’t seen in the girls at the Academy. This one had been very well trained, and by someone who knew exactly what they were doing, how to tap into all of a slayer’s natural gifts. But Buffy managed at last to pummel her into submission, driving the girl to her knees where she now sat, drawing in gulping breaths and giving Buffy a look of grudging admiration.

“Appreciate it if you’d stop smacking my girl around,” a voice called from the shadows.

But not just any voice. That voice she would know anywhere.

His voice.

Buffy froze at the sound and stepped out of time. She squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head to the side, as if to catch any lingering echoes of the words, to drink in the precious sound of his voice. She heard him speaking in her head all of the time in memories, dreams, and imagination, but the quality of his voice was different now in the cold air, sweeping around her like a living entity. It was as if she could touch this sound, rub it between her fingers, feel it caressing her skin.

This was the moment Buffy had dreamed about, and now that it was upon her, she hardly knew how to exist in it. She had never felt so ill-contained by her own body before. She felt as though she was exploding, bursting everywhere at once. But she also felt an incredible stillness inside, the sense of suspended animation. Her lungs burned with panted breaths, quick inhalations and exhalations that had nothing to do with her physical exertions and everything to do with his proximity. That was funny – for a long moment, she thought she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Her eyes were still screwed tightly closed when she heard his footsteps echoing on the frozen pavement. Coming closer. Her body felt as a tautly drawn as a bowstring as she whirled to face him. But the movement was too much, too fast. Her broken heel suddenly crumbled under the pressure of her pivoting body, and she pitched forward as she stumbled and lost her footing.

He reached her in a couple of long strides, and Buffy felt two strong hands grasping her upper arms and holding her upright. The fingertips of her flailing right hand brushed the soft cotton fabric of his shirt and came to rest in the center of his chest, fingers splayed out over his heart.

Heat. That was the first thing she noticed. There was heat emanating from his flesh. She could feel it even in the frigid air, even through the layers of his clothing. And she could feel something else, too. Feel the soft, steady thudding of his heart beneath the sensitive pads of her fingertips. She was seized by the irrational desire to press her cheek to his chest, to hear as well as feel the beat of his heart, but she couldn’t seem to move. It all felt too much like a spell, and she was afraid that moving might break it.

Her eyes were cast slightly downward, away from his face, fixated instead on the throbbing pulse in his throat that visibly proclaimed his humanity. For a long moment, all the world was that slender white column of flesh. And then, when she could deny herself no longer, she lifted her eyes to his face.

She had remembered every single detail, knew everything there was to know about what he looked like. Memorized those sharp-edged cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, the soft, full curve of his lips. And those eyes that could be a thousand distinct shades of blue. She knew their every expression, the way emotion could pass through them fleetingly or set up residence, full and resonant. Knew what those eyes looked like when he was wounded and in pain, when he was angry, when he was joyful, when he was inside her. She hadn’t forgotten any of it.

And yet, somehow, for all those memories, she’d still forgotten what it was to see his face. Forgotten that feeling, so long resisted and only at the very end embraced, of joy at just seeing him, the physical and emotional experience of it. The way the very act of looking at him could heat every inch of her, the way it set off something in her that was so large and powerful she could feel it vibrating deep inside her until every nerve ending was bright and alive. She could feel the sensation now, echoing inside her, bouncing off her sternum, cascading through her body and leaving her trembling.

His eyes were on her, dark and endless. He must have been unsettled by her expression; he pulled back from her slightly and ran a hand through the riot of curls on his head. His hair was darker now, darker than she’d ever seen it, save for when she had first discovered him in the basement. She had liked the look but never told him. Somehow “crazy-tormented-bed-head-of-redemption looks good on you” seemed a little inappropriate at the time. But now it looked even more right, and she tentatively raised a hand to touch a soft curl that had strayed low on his forehead.

He was speaking again, but she couldn’t seem to make the words register in her brain. Some low sound escaped her throat, and he looked at her, concerned.

“Are you all right?”

“Spike.” She spoke in the hushed voice of someone in a great house of worship, saying his name with such reverence that he flashed her a look of surprise. “You’re real. I think I was afraid to believe until just now. But you’re really here, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, pet,” Spike said, his brows drawn together in an expression of polite confusion. “Have we met?”
 

To be continued...