Title: 148
Author Anne
Era/season/setting: Late S5/Early S6
Rating: PG
Genre Missing Scene – Drabble series
148
1
Slayers die. They all die. He knows this better than any of them would.
But not this way. It’s supposed to be mano e mano, fists against fangs, not mystical energy and hellgods that no one can defeat.
Except for her. Buffy.
Her body lies broken and lifeless, but even stripped of her spark, he can’t tear his eyes from her. He never could.
She knew he was a monster, but in the end, she made him feel like a man.
He doesn’t try to hide the tears that fall as the Watcher gathers her body and they walk away.
He stands to the side, shovel in hand, watching the others cling to each other as the Watcher speaks, voice breaking mid-sentence.
They leave. He eases himself into the hole, resting his weight on the smooth wood of the coffin. This would be the time for words, but words have always failed him when he needed them most.
He closes his eyes instead, and lies in silence until he feels the approach of dawn.
Oblivion bottled.
He reaches out an unsteady hand, misses, then grasps the slender neck, letting the sharp slug burn down his throat before he drains it dry, tossing it aside.
There’s a creak at the door, a whisper of movement. He turns his head, things blurry and bleary before him.
She never comes silent or soft. It’s not her way. She slams open the door, directing, demanding, determined.
But maybe tonight is different.
“Buffy?” he whispers.
Then he remembers and reaches for the next drink.
“They need you,” she announces.
He shakes his head. “They’ll be fine without me. Better off.” He fumbles for a cigarette, flicking his lighter.
“She won’t be,” she whispers. “Who’ll take care of her if you’re gone?”
He inhales. “She reminds me of you.”
“All the more reason to stay,” she replies. “Then you’ll never forget me.”
He jerks awake to a silent crypt, not even a hint of her perfume in the air.
Keys hang in the ignition. A twist of the wrist and the engine will roar to life, his metal steed to carry away.
But he’s not the white knight. He’s the coward, ready to tuck tail and run away from the promise he made.
The door opens and she slides in.
“Will you take me with you?” she asks. Her eyes are red.
“I can’t, Bit.”
“Then will you stay?”
Which is good, because what’s left to hold the line is a weak defense at best.
He sits on the roof of the Alpert crypt, watching the boy and the shopgirl argue while a vamp stalks closer. Dropping, the wood of a stake – one of hers, slides easily into his hand from his pocket.
The pair walk on, oblivious.
Red’s not someone to be trifled with.
“Dawn said you were still around, that you were patrolling.”
He shrugs. “Need a spot of violence now and then; only thing the chip’ll tolerate.”
“We could use your help. With the slaying, and with . . . Dawn.”
He’s not sure about enlisting with her, but he can’t deny the second.
“What does the ‘Bit need?”
He understands. He has his own dreams, dreams where he saves her, saves her sister, plays the right hero for once. And then he wakes, remembers, and his nightmares begin again.
“Spike?” Her voice carries out the window. “Are you there?”
He strikes a match, his cigarette a bright spot in the dark. “I’m here, ‘Bit. Go back to sleep.”
He doesn’t leave until her breathing evens, and she sleeps once more.
He jerks away from her touch. “I told you before. No touching.”
Her golden head droops, and her eyes well with tears. He feels a pang of regret for her very existence.
“I’m very sorry, Spike. I just-”
He softens his voice a touch. “You just need to go see Willow now. She’s the one you go to, not me. Got it?”
She walks away, obedient to his command and revulsion rolls in his stomach. Why did he ever think that could compare?
Glinda and Red will give him the evil eye if he knicks the tube of lip gloss the Little Bit is eying up. It’s a froofy pink shade in a sparkly container. He picks it up, reads the label. “Dreamy?”
Dawn looks away. “It was Buffy’s favorite. I have hers at home, but I don’t want to use it up.”
He heads for the counter.
They’ll probably run faster when she hits them with her mojo instead. Red’s spells are always a bit off the first time. He’s surprised none of them have been killed yet. Her blinding spell boomeranged and left them all nearly sightless for an hour last week.
But he shuffles to his feet anyway, tucks stakes in his pockets and grasps a battle ax that’s got a good heft. Time to fight.
He knows what’s waiting. Doc. Dawn. Defeat.
Not this time.
He charges ahead, no waiting for the volley of banter and bravado. This time he’ll stay dead. This time, he’ll stop her blood from being shed.
This time, the Slayer will live.
His fists fly. He’s a blur of black leather, catching the demon off guard, pushing him to the edge and then further, watching the body fall, the satisfying thud of flesh meeting concrete.
He wishes it was real.
Hers is the only body to grace the ground here in decades. He suspects she’d rather have been buried ‘cross town, next to her mother. But it’s for the best.
They all carry the secret of her death.
He’d thought the tombstone a bad idea. Not much of a bloody secret when you mark the grave. But the whelp had insisted, drove three hours away to drag back the block of granite.
The letters are carved, simple, precise and deep.
Buffy Anne Summers. She saved the world a lot.
He wishes he’d saved her instead.
“Something up?” he asks.
Willow flips closed her book, her laugh a bit high. “Just the usual trouble a’brewing. Gotta have a Scooby meeting tonight. You’ll watch Dawn?”
The rejection is subtle, but clear. He’s not invited, at least not until they need muscle.
He nods. “’Course. Tell the ‘Bit to break out the cards. I’ll be round at seven.”
He’s not surprised. There’s a weight on the Watcher’s shoulders that bears him down now that his Slayer is gone. Sunnydale has nothing for him now.
“The others know ’bout this?”
“Not yet.”
“They won’t take it well.”
Giles shrugs. “No, I suppose they won’t.” He reaches for the bottle of Scotch from below the counter, arranges two glasses precisely. “This summer, you’ve been quite the asset-”
“Save the accolades for the others. Just keeping my word.” He reaches for the liquor.
Giles raises his own glass in salute.
Then he sees the burden in her eyes and scratches on her hands and understands. Buffy’s been to hell and back.
She sits before him, lets him take her fingers in his. He doesn’t want to ever let go.
The moment stretches, then snaps as the door opens abruptly. He feels her cringe. Her mates are oblivious to her distress, harsh in their joy.
He slips away, determined. For 147 nights, he saved her in his dreams.
It’s her reality she’ll need saving from now.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/447431.html
