“William?!” The redheaded witch nearly shouted. Pausing to control herself, she started again “William – Buffy why would you want to go back to William? I mean, he has NO IDEA who you are. What in the, and to borrow from Xander, what in the jumping frijoles is that going to prove?” The past? Wasn’t human-Spike supposed to be all with the growl-y-ness too?
“See that’s the part that you don’t know about Spike or well William” I hope I don’t regret telling her this “Spike told me that he has never really been loved the way that he has loved others. His mom loved him of course, but he’s never known the true love of a woman. Sure he had Dru, but she’s a psycho ho-bag and in love with Angelus. Jealous much!? Anyway, I want to go back in time and prove to him that someone at some point in history loved him for him. That he’s important, a good man – that’s he’s mine the way that he always wanted to be.”
“But why Buffy, why in the past?” The red head questioned with a furrowed brow.
“Because – because… I…When I told him I loved him before Sunnydale collapsed, he didn’t believe me. He didn’t believe me Willow. I just want to prove to him that I do love him and that…” the Slayer broke off into a sob, unable to continue to tell her once best friend how much Spike’s denial of her love broke her heart anew each time she remembered his final moments. How those were the words that echoed in her mind each time she tried to close her eyes at night. Perhaps if they’d had loving times together, when she wasn’t denying their relationship or her love for him, perhaps she could find some peace. However, as it now stood, all she felt was the mind-numbing grief of his death coupled with the undeniable guilt of having denied him the love that, in all reality, he’d had for years.
“Okay…I get that, but why so far into the past? He won’t know you Buffy” Willow tried to placate her friend as best as possible.
“I-I…as much as I hate to think about it. I can’t mess with the timeline Willow. I can’t go back to the situation with Glory or even the Initiative or any other part. He might die sooner or who knows what else. Might not love me in another timeline. All I can hope is that if he can have some memory of me from the past, then… maybe he’ll believe me down in the hellmouth. Please?”
As Willow moved to comfort Buffy, who’d begun crying again. She realized for perhaps the first time that the Scoobies had all misjudged the slayer’s recent feelings and that perhaps, just perhaps the spell that Buffy was proposing was the right choice to getting the California blonde back on track. Let’s just hope that I can get through it without going to the bad place.
“Okay Buffy, I’ll see what I can do. I can ask Gi…”
“NO! No Giles, no nobody. Just you. I don’t want anyone to know what is going on. This is something I’m doing just for me and I don’t want them messing it up” the retired Slayer begged the witch with pleading eyes, threatening to spill even more tears as the other girl contemplated whether or not it was a good idea to keep such a massive spell under wraps.
“Alright Buffy, my lips are sealed, locked, zipped” Willow tried to quip in order to both stop the Blonde’s growing number of tears and also to convince herself that there was no way that one simple time travel spell could go wrong. “Its okay, Buffy, its okay…we’ll get you to see Spike again. Everything will be alright.” Oh goddess, I hope so. I really hope so.
“Well, I turned into an eighteenth century lady for Angel one night, I guess its only fitting that I change into a Victorian maiden for Spike…I mean William…for a couple of months” Buffy thought as she gazed at herself in the ornate mirror hanging in her bedroom. The once chosen and prophecy girl hardly recognized herself as she stared at the yards of fabric that surrounded her petite form. While the undergarments had taken time to get used to, the fashion diva of yesteryear (future-year?) could appreciate the beauty of the gowns. It had taken no time at all to adjust to the primping and pampering that seemed to accompany the use of these clothes, as well as the amount of times that she seemingly needed to change. Her morning dressing gown, her day dress, her evening gown, and then a special gown if she were to go out. The fashion of the time period was definitely something that she would hate to give up…
It had only taken Willow a little over a month to get everything for the spell ready. Despite living in the newly set-up Watcher’s Council, it was surprisingly difficult to get the ingredients needed for the type of spell that the Wiccan was going to cast. Not that Buffy wasn’t clearly listening to all of Willow’s babble, but she at least knew the highlights – spell dangerous, ripple effects in time – yadda yadda yadda.
While most people failed to give the blonde credit for her mental abilities, she did realize that going back in time did jeopardize her current time frame…that maybe she wouldn’t have Spike at all. So that was why Willow developed some sort of magical powder that would erase William’s memories of Buffy’s presence, not completely, but at least enough that she would fade into past, like memories of a favorite and often thought of dream. While Buffy did want William to know that he was loved, truly and wholly, in his life, she could not risk Spike not becoming a vampire, or what he would do for the world in the future. It wasn’t what the heartbroken superhero wanted, but it was as close as she could get to atone for her treatment of her vampire. Willow assured her that by the time the two of them met behind the alley of the bronze, he will have forgotten enough details of the dream to be unable to place Buffy as the leading lady.
At least Willow hoped so.
After all, magic always has consequences.
“Miss?...Miss Elizabeth? ‘ave you been t’inking about the tea t’is afternoon?” the young maid asked Buffy as she fixed her hair, and unfortunately startled the newly Victorian woman out of her thoughts.
“Yes, slightly” Buffy mused as she continued to think about how to act and talk and what to wear for the following event. After all, William might be attending this tea. Who knows? If he’s not there, then I’m sure someone from Mrs. Smyth’s circle must know one William Pratt.
Buffy, that is Miss Elizabeth Sumner, was going to partake in her very fist public outing since she had arrived in London – 1880’s London, that is. Some woman that Buffy knew from Brighton (curtsey of the spell Willow cast that gave Buffy an instant past – no pun intended) was hosting an afternoon tea and had invited all of the single ladies and single men to gather. Mrs. Smyth was a bit of a busy-body, but her intrusive personality was softened by a tall figure that still emanated a stately grace and lingering trace of youthful beauty. Though she intervened, it was done so with the utmost care and diligence toward helping those around her. No one ever found fault with her continual presence in their lives.
As Buffy dressed, she let her mind drift over the details of William’s life. She’d managed to find information about William Pratt (no wonder he’d never told her his last name – he was sure to have loved that) in some lost archives in the old Council databases. However, she was fairly certain that most of the information gathered there was wrong. While Spike certainly presented a certain “bad ass” routine, she knew him to have a sweet and extremely over-protective side that came out when any of his “girls” were in trouble. That type of character didn’t develop out of a ruffian (to use a Giles word) lifestyle. He had to have a proper upbringing, especially since her mother always used to comment on what a gentleman he was to her and to Dawn. And me, if I ever allowed him to show it.
The biggest trouble that the short blonde had, was the differing accounts of when it was that William was turned. Most accounts seemed to center around 1880, though none were really positive if it was ’79, ’80, or ’81; although the most amusing account stated that he was turned so long ago that he was at the crucifixion. The slayer clearly knew that to be false simply by his lack of bragging. If Spike had really been around that long, he would have mentioned it – and often. Plus there was the whole “I’m-the-Master-and-am-so-old-that-I-can’t-shift-out-of-game-face-and-thus-have-fruit-punch-mouth” to use as a valid comparison.
So Willow and Buffy took the plunge and went with 1880. It seemed like the safest bet. Although, that still left them with the very large question of when in 1880. So, Buffy decided, start in the beginning and just hope that it wasn’t until much later in the year that Drusilla got to him. Buffy did want time to get to know him, of course. Willow, being the brainiack that she is, cross-referenced accounts of when the Scourge was in England during that year and did manage to eek out a possible reference to the later summer months. That information would have to do.
Bridget finished with Miss Elizabeth’s outfit and the two of them proceeded to go down the stairs to the solarium for breakfast. Buffy was soon joined by Edward Rawlings her “guardian,” a dear friend of her mother’s who’d agreed to keep Elizabeth in London, so as to have more exposure to a city’s opportunities (which of course meant, available bachelors – after all, Elizabeth was approaching twenty-three, and was soon to be an old-maid).
“Good morning Elizabeth. Did sleep find you with pleasant dreams?” inquired Mr. Rawlings, looking at his ward with admiration. I am quite sure that I will be able to find her a suitable husband. I picture her with someone tall, broad shoulders, and well, I suppose, a rather normal fellow.
“Good morning to you as well.” I hope I sound somewhat like a girl raised in the 1800s should! “I slept very well, I trust you slept the same?” Is that how they talk? I knew I should have read more of those Jane Austin books that Willow’s always pushing on me. Cuz all I can come up with is ‘Oh Rhett, I do love you, I do. I never loved Ashley’ and I don’t think Southern bell is the image that I’m going for.
“Yes, quite well indeed. Though I did spend some time thinking last night that I’ll have to rearrange a few things so that I may attend the tea with you. While I know,” he added with an arched brow as he saw Elizabeth begin to protest, “that you are perfectly able to attend the event yourself, and that Mrs. Smyth is quite renowned for her matchmaking skills, there are a few people that I wish you to meet specifically. And even more specifically that they know you are my ward. It will help you to go far in life.”
“Of course” Buffy replied despondently, wondering how she could go about asking Mrs. Smyth about some man named William, while trying to avoid making Rawlings suspicious, and dance around whatever guys he wanted her to meet. God, Willow should have set me up with some aunt or something – then at least I could have pulled at the old bat’s heartstrings and told her that I would only marry for love. Is that too movie of the week? Oh, well, I’ll have to do the best with what I have. Hell, maybe I should even try out what ol’ Rawlings thinks of Spike. If I’m right about who he really was, then Rawlings must know of him.
The debate between wanting to know if her guardian knew William warred against the fear that Rawlings would immediately reject her choice in partner, causing the slayer’s hands to shake and to blurt out her question before she had time to think it out properly…
“Mr. Rawlings, is William Pratt going to attend the tea?” Well, I guess that ends my inner debate – stupid Slayer senses, always make me fight first, think later.
“William Pratt…Pratt you say. The name does sound vaguely familiar. Pratt…”
“Yes, will he attend?” The supposedly calm and collected girl asked with a rising hope in her voice.
“Why are you so concerned about his attendance? Where do you know him from?” Rawlings asked with intent. Is this why her mother sent her to me? Has she already given herself to someone? I’ll not have a harlot in my household.
“No reason…particularly” she stated hesitantly How to play this? “I just, heard one of the girls at Brighton speak of him and from her description he seemed…nice, perhaps even, well-suited toward me. I thought maybe you would have more information about him and his family before I possibly meet him this afternoon.”
“Oh, I see” Rawlings stated abruptly. Well at least she’s still pure. I do like the little lamb, but really, there are expectations to be maintained. My reputation is as much at stake as her’s is when it comes to courting. “Although for the Pratt fellow, I do not believe that I have ever had the pleasure. If he is ‘well-suited’ as you say, perhaps one of the ladies will know of him.”
“Perhaps” she mumbled. Stupid Council with their stupid inefficient-ness, and their stupid un-record keeping, and…and stupid vampire who goes up in a pillar of smoke and is all ‘No you don’t, but thanks for saying it.’ And with that last thought, the increasingly distressed woman excused herself from the table and flew up the stairs in a torrent of tears as she once again thought about those final moments with the only man she ever really truly loved.
Several hundred tears later, the Slayer finally decided that she best come out of her room and make an appearance, lest she be mistaken for ill and not allowed to go to the tea at all.
All the servants working in at the Rawlings estate gazed at the young blonde as she leisurely browsed through the extensive library. They all thought her quite beautiful, with her green eyes and engaging laughter, yet they could sense a deep sadness in her; for while she laughed and did all the things that a young lady was supposed to do, the happiness never seemed to reach her eyes.
As they worked on the polishing, the cleaning, and the general upkeep of the place, Buffy sat quietly in the library reading poetry to Bridget. While Buffy generally was the non-research girl, she’d learn to appreciate the written word in a time in place where she could not simply flick on the television or the radio or had a demon to slay. Besides, she’d loved her poetry class at UC Sunnydale, so she thought she’d expand her knowledge of poetry while it was currently in vogue – so to speak.
While taking a short break from her reading, Bridget, who sat by her mistress’s side so as to absorb the beautiful words, queried “Miss Elizabeth?”
“Yes Bridget?”
“If you don’t t’ink me to fo’ward, I ‘eard you asking the Master about a Mr. Pratt?”
“Yes!” Buffy nearly shouted and, after calming, “Yes, Bridget I did. Do you know of him?
Please tell me. Anything.” Please know something.
“Well, I don’t remember much about ‘im. T’was quite some time ago. I remember t’at he was a very quiet man, didn’t speak out very much. You know the sort.” Bridget added with a smile.
“Yet he was always very pleasant. Ne’er said a harsh word about anyone did he.”
“How did you meet him?” Buffy interjected.
After thinking a moment, Bridget responded “Well, Miss, I…ne’er actually met him. I…”
“Yes, go on!”
“Well, before I come to work for Master Rawlings, I help’t me mot’er out, who works for the Underwoods and I’d oft see him at one of their gatherings.”
“He was a quiet man, but he went to a bunch of gatherings?”
“Bunch, Miss?”
“Many, Bridget, I meant to say many gatherings.” Must remember to speak in actual English, not the ‘abhorrent butchery of the English language’ that Giles always calls my speech. “I thought you said that he was a quiet man? Why would he attend so many events? Surely he would have liked something simpler?” Not that I usually associate quiet with Spike. I’d never seen a man fidget more than he did.
“Quiet he was Miss, but then, so were the Underwood events. Perhaps ‘event’ is too strong of a word. They were just wee t’ings, a few people in which to talk about the day. Maybe have a bit to drink.”
As Buffy was about to voice her next question, one of the older servants called out “Bridget, come here, the young mistress has more important things to do than keep you entertained.” As Bridget was about to rise, Buffy quickly asked “Bridget, before you leave me, when was the last time you saw Mr. Pratt?”
“A couple of years ago Miss,” was the swift and honest reply as she turned to leave and enter the house as had been requested of her. She left so quickly that she failed to notice the look of bereavement that graced the young woman’s features, so that the sounds of the young woman’s sobs fell on no one’s ears.
Safely concealed on the private terrace of her room, the woman who had faced a hell god and won, the girl who had sacrificed her first love to beat an even greater evil, and the person who had fallen for the right guy too little too late, sat transfixed as the wind blew softly over the trees, remembering…
Chiseled cheekbones, hit only slightly by the iridescent moon. Rich voice, floating, coating her in its magic with the first cadence of sound. *Clap Clap* “Nice work, luv.”
Uncurbed innuendo, heat rising, youth unable to understand the difference between blush and arousal. A soft fluttering in her lower abdomen, coming to her in an indescribably diverse manner than when prompted by her oft brood-some boyfriend. “I just like them. They make me feel all manly.”
Cocky arrogance mixed with the memory of brutal anguish, yet eyes heightened by the ferocity of the fight and the certainty of his claim. “You’re *not* friends. You’ll never be friends. You’ll be in love till it kills you both. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll love each other till it makes you quiver, but you’ll never be friends. Love isn’t brains, children, it’s blood… blood screaming inside you to work its will. *I* may be love’s bitch, but at least *I’m* man enough to admit it.”
Sheer terror trying to be downplayed. The need to preserve the image, but unable to keep the façade amidst swiping claws, flying arrows, and a brigade of unperfected, shovel wielding combatants. “You made a bear! Undo it! Undo it!
Blue eyes, so expressive, dangerously fluctuating with mood. A searing intensity, a frosty echo, a blazing sun. Cobalt extremity, sure in its method to frighten and prove. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna want it. And the second – *clap* – the second that happens…You know I’ll be there. I’ll slip in…have myself a real good day.
Desperation. Longing. Desire. Rage. Unfathomable Love. Inability to put a successive plan in motion. Chains. The laugh track. That look at the end of the day. The epitomized facial manifestation of having your heart broken. Stomped on. Spat out when the taste didn’t agree. A slamming door. An un-invitation. Desolation. We have something, Buffy. It’s not pretty, but it’s real, and there’s nothing either one of us can do about it. Like it or not, I’m in your life, you can’t just shut me out.
A call for definition wrought with frustration and an unvoiced plea to give credence to what had occurred. To rise from below the depths of inconsequentiality and ignominy. To no longer be beneath. To be seen. To be heard. To be acknowledged. A crumb. “We…we kissed, you and me. All ‘Gone with the Wind,’ with the rising music, and the rising…music, and what was that, Buffy?”
Finding surprising warmth tucked next to a cool body, discovering comfort buried in oriental rugs, laughing…having a real conversation. Hearing, on the very rare occasion, that deep baritone laugh, reserved for, or perhaps only since brought out by, a green ball of energy and a kind face wielding tiny marshmallows. “Well, I ate a decorator once. Maybe something stuck.”
Clarity amongst a sea of doubt, cruel words, and reckless barbs that would never be reconciled. A simple stroke of his hand – rejected – feelings too close to the surface to allow. Eyes, littered with resigned knowledge that such a bold action would never succeed. Yet tried anyway. Always. “I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I've seen your kindness and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You're a hell of a woman. You're the one, Buffy.”
Understanding. Such powerful understanding. But so desperately wrong. All intuition, all knowledge, failed in that moment. Not realizing, unable to comprehend that is was true. Is true. Always will be true. “No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.”
Though the slayer found herself once again unable to cope, on the verge of bursting into tears, she instead fought to prevent such an occurrence with a strength and determination unseen by even her most formidable enemies. Though he deserved every one of her tears of anguish, deserved a hundred of hers to every one that he shed, but didn’t think that she saw or cared, she instead decided to honor his memory with a chance to change history.
“Just because Bridget hasn’t seen him for a few years, doesn’t mean that he’s dead…un-dead…whatever. It just means that she hasn’t been to the Underwoods since she’s been working for Rawlings.” Feeling the Scarlet inspired knowledge entering her thoughts, she thus quoted, “As God as my witness, I will not rest until I find him, one way or the other.” And with that she flounced out of the room, ready for the tea and the prospect of having her heart’s desire.
Buffy was about to leave the estate, having heard from Bridget that Master Rawlings would be meeting them later, when Rawlings himself stopped her, a look of mild boredom decorating his features.
“Ah, Elizabeth, there you are. I wanted to tell you that the name Pratt had put me in quite a fit, seeing as I was sure that I knew that name, only could not place its origins. However, it has just come to me. As far as I can remember, he was a rather unremarkable fellow and that something happened to him…or was it something about him? Oh, how my mind goes. Ah yes, well, anyway, I seem to recall that they referred to him as William the Bloody.”
“William…” the Bloody? Oh, God I’m too late! The Slayer thought with anguish.