BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER

The Scooby Gang, Andrew, and the Potentials are immersed in the everyday hub-bub of cereal bowl filling and readying for the day ahead—whatever that may mean with The First becoming increasingly active as its army of übervamps awaits below the manhole cover that is the Hellmouth’s answer to a front door into Sunnydale.

“Why, what you have detected?” Willow responds.

“Well, for one thing he’s been moping in the basement for the last few days except for patrolling, and for two, any time I go near him he tells me to either, ‘bug off’ or ‘piss off.’” Xander employs a bad English accent in his attempt to imitate the gruff vampire.

Anya adds, “Yeah—and yesterday I went downstairs to do my laundry, and he just sat there staring. He didn’t say a word, even when I told him that I’d accidentally washed his tan shirt with my red sweater and turned it pink. He wasn’t asleep either, and he’s no longer shackled, so it isn’t as though he can’t move about. Except for sunlight, of course.”

Buffy has been listening intently to this conversation while munching on a bowl of Wheaties.

“Hmm…I guess I’ll have a talk with him after work to ask what’s up. He has been quiet while we’ve been patrolling the past couple of nights, but with the whole apocalypse thing I just thought he was being all businessee for a change.”

“I think he’s actually brooding,” Xander surmises.

“Well, it doesn’t sound life threatening at least. He’ll just have to brood until after I’m back from school; I’m running late. Gotta run. See you guys tonight. Dawn, Amanda, come on! I’ll drive you to school.”

As she exits the back door, girls in tow, Andrew tells the remaining Scoobies, “Technically nothing is ‘life threatening’ with Spike. He’s already quite dead.”

“Andrew, just bake.”

Willow hands him a box of cake mix and walks away, toward the living room. Andrew begins reading the directions.

It is late afternoon and the house is quiet as the Potentials train in the backyard with Giles. Spike, who has yet to leave the basement, is propped limply against the cement wall adjacent to his cot. He is in his usual all-black garb, but it is wrinkled with wear. His normally gelled-to-orderly platinum blonde locks have become unruly curlicues as well. Upon his bedside table are multiple empty and partially-filled vessels of blood and alcohol.

Suddenly Spike jumps off of his cot excitedly and makes a mad dash for the stairs.

It is early evening when Buffy finally returns home from school. Dawn is sitting in the living room reading from her social studies textbook when her sister enters. Neither says a word as Buffy heads straight for the stairs leading to the basement. She comes back up quickly though, passes through the living room, and heads upstairs. Then she returns to the living room.

“I can’t find Spike anywhere. I meant to come straight home when classes let out, but I got caught up with this student, Jasmine—do you know her?”

Dawn, who has looked up, shakes her head “no.”

“She was upset because she tried out for pom-poms and didn’t make the squad. It took me an hour to calm her down and persuade her that she doesn’t have ‘mongo thighs.’ Anyway, have you seen Spike at all today?”

“He took a shower and then left on his bike as soon as the sun set.”

“I wonder what ‘ol’ broody’ is up to?”

“I don’t know, but he looked determined.”

“How was school?”

“Peaceful considering there was a riot last week. I have a test tomorrow though.”

“I’ll let you study.”

Buffy walks away to check on the progress of the Potentials.

Once Buffy returns from patrolling—alone—she goes up to her bedroom and takes off her jacket. While taking Mr. Pointy out of a pocket and putting him under her pillow there is a hard, rhythmic rap on the door—not aggressive but spirited.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, pet. Can I come in and have a word?”

“Door’s unlocked.”

Spike approaches Buffy quickly and while facing one another, clasps both of her hands into his. She is about to snidely say, “Thanks for helping me patrol,” when Spike interrupts.

“Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“I need to know if you blimy trust me? Will you trust me right here and right now?”

Buffy, looking into Spike’s eyes and seeing their need, answers, “Yes, I trust you.”

“A mo vay ent tiempe par may mende,” chants Spike.

Instantly Buffy and Spike appear standing upon a cobblestone street in London. Horses with buggies move swiftly past them with clomping, wheel squeaking, and an occasional whip. Before them is a pub.

“Where are we? When are we? What did you do, Spike?”

“Simmer down a bit, love. All’s well.”

Spike hesitates, then, becoming grave, continues, “We have an apocalypse ahead, and I don’t know how it will turn out for us. We’ve been mortal enemies, lovers, comrades in arms—we’ve been so close, and yet… yet, you don’t know me, and I need for you to.

“It’s today’s date, only the year is 1880, and it’s the night that Dru sired me. It’s the eve of my 23rd birthday.”

Buffy is voiceless as Spike carefully places his arm upon her shoulder and draws her toward the pub with him. Inside sits William the Bloody, with a journal of handwritten poetry before him, the top one entitled, “Drusilla, My Love.” William stares at this maiden, starry-eyed, as she holds court with the pub patrons, her large eyes aglow and her laugh an intermixed cackle of innocence and insanity. William simply grins.

Buffy fidgets while she looks at the barkeep to see if he notices her and Spike and their seemingly odd manner of dress.

“They can’t see us, Buffy.”

As the evening progresses Drusilla acts more and more taken by the syrupy poetry being poured upon her by the sweet William.

“You eyes insatiable orbs of vitality, how I yearn for love to become reality...”

Spike grimaces slightly as he observes his former self.

In time Dru leads the unsuspecting versifier into an alley.

Buffy and Spike follow.

As Dru leans in to William, Buffy starts toward her to stop her from biting his neck, but Spike hold her back.

Buffy looks at him, confused. Did he want to be sired? He couldn’t possibly.

“Like The First, you’re not in a corporal form. We are only tangible to each other.” Spike explains.

Buffy tests this theory by trying to touch the back wall of the pub only to find her hand going through the brick as though she were an apparition.

Meanwhile, Spike looks on sadly as William the Bloody’s eyes yellow and he grows vertical ridges upon his forehead and fangs for the first time.

He then turns to Buffy. “You see, I wasn’t yet a man. I was a lovestruck pup—at least back then I thought it was love. But now I know it was infatuation—fatal infatuation. An infatuation that lasted for almost a century.”

Yes, Spike had been a victim. Really Drusilla was a victim too; Angelus had driven her insane after killing her family before her and later, all of the nuns in the order she was about to join, thought Buffy. Angelus had been Liam—a victim as well. Darla had sired him, and she had been a dying prostitute when she was bitten. It was like the Breck commercial, “And then she’ll tell two friends.” “And then she’ll sire a vampire…”

“So, today is your birthday?”

“Yes. I’m 146.” His voice sounds beaten. “But there’s more,” he continues as he goes to grab hold of her hands.

“Wait! How are you doing this?”

“An Entiempe demon owed me a favor. I saved his bloody hide once during a particularly disfavorable period with humans around WWI. So I borrowed his temporal powers for a night. Not to worry.”

Spike again clasps the slayer’s hands and performs a ritual chant. This time he and Buffy turn up inside William’s house. He is having breakfast with his mum, pop, and sister; the girl looks to be about 14. William is yanking kiddingly on her long, honey blonde hair.

“William Jacob—cease!” Insists his mum.

“That’s Sarah,” says Spike, his gaze never leaving her.

Sarah escapes her teasing brother only to return with a small gift wrapped in plain paper and tied with a blue hair ribbon.

Buffy looks at Spike and sees that although he isn’t crying, his eyes are filling. She grabs his hand, which dangles by his side, and holds it tight. Spike is too transfixed to notice though.

“Happy birthday, Will! I made it myself.”

She called him Will, thinks Buffy. I’ve called Willow “Will” a thousand times, but Spike never once gave a sign that it was his nickname too.

William looks genuinely touched at his sibling’s gesture even before unwrapping it. When he does, he finds a framed cross-stitch of a chestnut mare. Underneath is sewn, “Blake.”

“Thank you, sis, it’s lovely—what a dear you are.” William plants a peck on her cheek. “I’ll hang it in my room tonight.”

I never hung it...

“Blake?” Whispers Buffy, even though she couldn’t be heard had she shouted her question.

“The name of my horse, after William Blake, the poet. I had studied him the previous year,” Spike returns quietly.

“Studied?”

In the background William’s mum is wishing him a happy birthday and telling Sarah to get ready for school. His pop pats him on the shoulder on his way outside to work his ranch. William gives his mum a peck on the cheek and exits to another room, presumably a bedroom.

“Yes, Buffy. Don’t look so surprised. I was an upperclassman at Oxford when I was sired. Just ‘cause my poetry was ‘bloody awful’ doesn’t mean I wasn’t a learned man.” Spike’s brows furrow a bit and his chin sticks out indignantly as he says this. Then he walks outside.

Buffy follows, and her first thought is to grab him by the back of his jacket and yank him out of the sunshine.

“Damn, I can’t feel it! But it’s good to just be in the sun.”

Spike holds back his head and splays his arms. After a minute or so, he points out Blake to Buffy. The horse is gorgeous with a full beige mane. It prances in the corral as though in the morning habit of awaiting William.

“One more stop and then home for beddy-bye with you.”

Spike looks around once more as though attempting to photograph the sun and scene in his mind’s eye and then, once again, connects hands tenderly and chants.

This time the couple appears in the present, in a field separated from a pasture by a fence. Nightfall has returned.

“Horses can identify vamps by our scent. I was never so happy as when Stanley made the steamer and cars started coming about. For us to ride horses, humans would have to blindfold them and put lye under their noses before we entered the room to mount them. Truth be told, it was a bloody pain.

“Once I was reensouled I would sit in the high school boiler room and feel very bad about it. I always loved horses, and it bothered me that they feared me. Even while evil, I never hurt a horse. Always had great respect for the animal.

“Anyway, one night I rode my ‘cycle out here. I ride sometimes at night once you and your pals are tucked away in your beds. I like the feel of the night air and the silence to think in. Now watch.”

Spike climbs over the fence and whistles. A white stallion walks toward him. It hesitates, and then trots straight to him.

“Did you see that?” Spike says enthusiastically. “She stopped because she knows I’m a vamp, but then she still chose to come to me. She knows I have a soul!” Then he adds, “Climb over.”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know. I’m not much of a horse gal. Woman. Rider.”

“Come now.”

She climbs the fence and walks stiltedly toward the horse.

“Hi, large animal.”

The horse has reins but no saddle. Spike mounts her and gives Buffy a hand up behind him; she climbs on with ease. Then he has the stallion round the pasture once only to gain enough momentum to jump the fence. The trio gallop through woods under a midnight blue sky bejeweled by an incredible full moon. They ride long, hard, and free, through groves of pine and shallow streams, but by the time they return, the stallion has slowed its pace. Buffy’s head is lying contentedly on the back of Spike’s right shoulder blade, and her arms are wrapped snuggly around his middle. Spike’s back is straight, and his head is held high.

Spike feeds the horse a carrot, which, to Buffy’s surprise, he has pulled from the inner recesses of his jacket, and then he pats it on the head. The two exit the pasture.

“Come on, sleeping beauty. I’ll take you home so you can get a bit o’ rest in case you need to save the world tomorrow.” Spike says this gently, voice resonant with admiration.

They face one another and grasp hands. Spike is about to chant when Buffy says, “William Jacob—”

Spike’s eyes soften. “I haven’t heard my own name called in 123 years.”

“Thank you for letting me get to know you, and—happy 24th birthday.”

“24th?”

“Yes. For the past year you’ve had your soul back, and I think it’s time for your life to be continued where it was interrupted—with you becoming a really good man.”