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Thank you so much to dicecanntcry for making this for me! You're so great!


Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Kristi, as per usual, cos she's so great and all that! And to everyone who is reading and reviewing also! Please do some more for this chapter *bats eyelashes*.

Also, this is not going to have any Buffy/other, and this character ISN'T from the Buffy verse, but cookies for those who guess who he is!
When Buffy hung up the phone, she told her assistant, Dawn, that she was going out for a while, needing to clear her mind. Dawn had happily been left in charge and Buffy grabbed her coat and purse, thinking about doing some shopping, - shopping she may not afford, but she had to do something.

An hour later, she found herself sitting in a small café, drinking coffee. She had shopped until she had literally dropped, and so had to stop. She tried to read the paper, she really did but she couldn’t concentrate, so instead she decided to watch the people out of the café window.

“Hey, can I sit here?” A male voice spoke, standing next to her spare chair.

“Sure,” Buffy answered as she looked up. He was tall, about 6 feet, with long dirty blond hair. He wasn’t from California, for sure, his voice had a Southern drawl to it that would make any girl turn into Jell-o. As she stared into his blue eyes, however, all she could think about was how they weren’t as piercing as Sp… Stop it Buffy, all he asked was to sit down, why are you comparing him to Spike?.

“Thank you, Vanilla, been tryin’ to find a seat for a while.”

“Vanilla?” Buffy’s nose turned up at the name.

“Sorry, pixie, I have a thing for nicknames!”

“Really, is that so?” Buffy raised her eyebrow. Okay, maybe it wasn’t just his eyes that were reminiscent of Spike; the attitude was pretty similar, too

“So, what’s your name, gorgeous?” He looked really interested.

“Well, it isn’t Pixie, that’s for sure.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep calling you that if you won’t tell me your real name .” he said with a wink

Against her better judgment, Buffy found her self smiling. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”

“Anything you want, elfin.”

*~*~*~*~*

Spike walked down street after street in the middle of L.A. He had just come out of Wolfram and Hart, where he had met most of the big shots. Not wanting to leave for Sunnydale just yet, he decided to take a look around.

An hour went by, and Spike walked past all types of shops, from chic fashion to sex shops; a few he walked into, but never purchasing anything.

As he walked down a quiet alleyway, he saw a gallery on his left called Summers. Couldn’t be, could it? he asked himself, thinking that perhaps this could be fate knocking on his door. Opening the door to the shop, he walked in, wiping his feet on the mat.

“Hi, may I help you?” A young woman, about 20-years-old, walked over to him.

“No thanks, pet. You work here?” He looked her up and down, surprised that this vibrant looking girl would work in such a small, obviously quiet gallery.

“Yeah, if you want anything, just holler.” The brunette walked away, putting her ear phones in and bobbing along to the music.

Looking around at the pieces of art, he still wondered if this really was the gallery of his first, and only, love. All the paintings screamed pain. He didn’t know enough about art to tell which end was up on a painting most times, but the pain of these paintings would assault the senses of even the most clueless observer. One picture caught his eye, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was a woman sitting at a window looking out into the setting sun. Instead of the sun being the normal round, yellow Orb, its surface was seething with demons, their numbers so great as to nearly darken the light of the sun completely, a great contrast to the peaceful woman sitting in the window.

“Scary, isn’t it? I don’t know what possessed her to paint it. It always gives me the wiggins!” The brunette was behind him again. Spike jumped from shock, as he wasn’t paying attention to anything but the picture.

“How much is it?” Seeing shock flash through her eyes, he knew she had never been asked before.

“I’m sorry, it’s not for sale.”

“Why is it on display then?” Spike looked from her back to the painting.

“Because she says she wants others to see exactly what she’s going through. It’s a new one of hers. I think it’s been here only a few weeks.”

“Who is she?” Spike growled, it couldn’t be, could it? He just thought it was wishful thinking on his behalf, but maybe, just maybe, it really was her.

“The artist is Elizabeth Kalokeri.” The woman looked at him as if he had just sprouted an extra head.

Spike’s face fell, “Oh,” He replied and started to head out of the store.

“She also owns the gallery. She should be back soon, if you want to meet her.”

“No, it’s okay, have to head home anyway.” He had come to realize that's exactly what he thought Sunnydale was, home. Not with his wife, or at work, but where his real family was. It was time to make a few phone calls.

*~*~*~*~*

“Oh, Buffy, you’re back. There was this really weird, hot guy in earlier, wanted to buy your new painting, Demon’s Sunrise, which still freaks me out, btw,” Dawn explained as soon as Buffy walked through the doors.

“Okay, Dawn, nice to see you again, too.” Laughing at Dawn's use of netspeak, Buffy took off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack. “And what’s this about a hot weird guy?” she raised an eyebrow at the overly excited 20-year-old.

“This really cute, bleach blond, Billy Idol wannabe guy walked in and looked at your painting. Told him you weren’t selling that one yet. He asked your name, I told him and he left. Really, really strange. The poor guy though, he looked as if someone had kicked his puppy.” Throughout the babble fest, Dawn never noticed how her boss stood looking at her in shock, until right at the end. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to get some fresh air.” Buffy ran from the gallery for the second time that day, this time not even taking the time to grab her coat. She ran and ran, hoping it was the same direction he had taken. I knew it was him, the artist of her mind whispered. Oh, shut up, miss goody two shoes, the sensible side whispered back, it could have been any bleached blond. “AH!” Buffy let out a frustrated growl, getting a few curious looks shot her way. But it hadn't been just any bleached blond; it was Spike, the man she'd never fallen out of love with. She'd caught a glimpse of someone with platinum hair turning the corner just as she'd arrived at her gallery. As usual, the sight caused her heart to skip a beat, until she reminded herself that it couldn't be Spike, he was in London. Well supposed to be anyway. I told you to listen to your heart. The artist just had to get the last say. Did he really understand the painting, is that why he wanted to buy it? Buffy asked herself. She started walking back to the gallery, hoping that maybe painting would ease her pain.





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