She could tell the sun would be setting soon as she sat up slowly from her comfortable spot on the grass. The blazing ball of fire move slowly towards the edge of the world, and she remembered her grandmother‘s comment from long ago.
“Something bigger and more beautiful, right Grammy?” Her words drifted across the water as she wiped the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye away. It had been her grandmother’s time, she knew, but it left a hollow feeling to know she was truly gone.
Her feet had pruned in the cool water of the stream and she wiggled her toes, reluctantly removing them. The quiet that wasn’t really, the chirp of crickets, the rushing of the water, the rustle of the leaves cloaked her. She savored the moment as she attempted to make her peace with Gram’s passing and the loss of this place. Her final goodbyes, to all that it had meant in her life.
Her dad was selling the vineyard, though she wasn’t sure who the buyer would be. She just knew it wouldn’t belong to the Summers much longer.
It would be some big corporation, probably. Few of the vineyards in Sunnydale were still owned by families these days, but her grandmother had been stubborn, insisting she’d never sell as long as she was alive. Since her grandfather had passed away it had been rented out each year, but it felt off knowing it would be gone for good now.
It was sad, like a piece of her slipping away. She could hardly protest, she wasn’t in a position to look after the place. After college, she’d gotten a job at a travel magazine based in Chicago, working her way up the food chain to become an assistant editor. She’d been content, happy with her apartment and cat, good friends, and a string of steady but interchangeable guys. And then thirty, which had once seemed so old, loomed on the horizon.
She’d decided to make some changes. A move to L.A. A risky career shift to freelancing. A new scene. The hope she’d fall in love again.
She was self-aware enough to realize the confluence of the last few tumultuous months had likely prompted this particular stroll down nostalgia lane. She’d dated, had long-term relationships, even been engaged once. But she’d never fallen in love since that summer. Never felt a tug towards another human being so strong she couldn’t breathe, so complete she didn’t want to be, if she couldn’t be with him.
She sighed, stood and gathered the hose she had thrown on the grass and slipped her feet into the sensible, yet depressingly matronly pumps appropriate for funeral wear, or so it had seemed that morning when she dressed. She walked over to the oak tree that still spread its limbs over the stream.
She found the heart that held their initials, weathered now into the bark, but still distinguishable. W.A. + E.S. The night he’d carved those initials, she’d believed they could be forever, that those marks would be no less permanent than their love for each other.
Did that kind of ardor only happen when one was young and everything was new? Was she foolish to expect to feel that again? Or would she be a fool to settle for anything less?
She knew the chances that they wouldn’t have drifted apart anyway, even if everything had worked out, were virtually non-existent. She’d had a lot of growing up left to do after that summer, and she wasn’t the same girl now that she’d been at seventeen.
And sometimes she was glad the end had been so sharp and swift. Her grandmother had been right. Time had smoothed out the edges of the pain of what came after, and she was left with the bittersweet memories of the ecstasy of falling in love for the first time. How her heart had felt as though it would burst from the way he looked at her. The flutter of her stomach just from his fingers intertwined with hers. The sweetness of seeing her feelings completely reflected back in his eyes. Beautiful memories of perfect moments frozen in time, which she treasured.
But, sometimes she let her mind wander past those moments, and the what-ifs still ran through her head about what their future might have been. She patted the trunk of the tree as she traced the letters, drew in one last breath of the sweet, fresh air, turned to go.
And stopped dead.
"Hello, Buffy."
"Spike?"
The years had been kind to him. His hair was still blond, though the bleach was now gone from his locks. But the eyes were still there. Oh those eyes, which had taken her from heaven to hell and back at seventeen.
He walked towards her and stopped a few paces away, two bottles of beer dangling from one hand.
"I was at the funeral today. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to speak to you before you left."
Buffy was mute. He looked away, unfocused for a minute. She finally worked passed the frog that had lodged in her throat. "Thank you for coming, Spike. Is it still . . . Spike?"
He ducked his head a little. “Mostly go by Will, now."
She was still having a hard time processing the fact that he was even here. The trip into the past, the dredging of all those memories made his appearance almost surreal, and she fought the urge to reach out and touch him. They stood in silence as the light began to fade. She couldn’t form a single query, though her mind shuffled through a thousand choices.
“Your dad told me I might find you here.” Ah. That answered one question, though it raised many more.
He moved towards the edge of the bank, and held out one of the amber bottles to her. “The sunsets from here were always beautiful.”
She answered his unspoken invitation by taking the bottle, and they sat together in silence for a moment as streaks of crimson began to paint the sky. It felt right somehow, coming full circle with him by her side as she made her final good-byes, not awkward like she might have imagined. Almost as though the years between had never happened. Maybe this place was enchanted after all.
She took a long swallow of the still cold beer and snuck a glance to the side. She was surprised to find him watching her instead of the sunset.
He smiled gently, but didn’t look away, “I was sorry to hear about your grandmum. She was a fine lady. Made me feel very welcome. I know you’ll miss her.”
Buffy nodded and blinked back a couple of tears that threatened again. “I will. She was an amazing woman. But she was never the same after Gramps passed. It was like a light had burnt out inside of her. And the last six months . . . she’d just barely been hanging on at all.”
He handed her a handkerchief and she took it, catching the teardrops that had spilled. “Sorry, thought I was all cried out.”
“Not a problem.”
She dabbed at her eyes and cleared her throat. “Why are you here? In Sunnydale, I mean? You didn’t come all this way for Gram’s funeral, did you?”
“I drove up from L.A. for the day. I’ve lived there for a few years now.”
Oh. She rolled that thought around for a moment and took another sip. He lived in Los Angeles now. Talk about the irony.
“And you?” His voice broke into her thoughts.
She chuckled. “L.A. as well, would you believe? Though just for a few months now. I stayed in Chicago for awhile, but I needed a change of scenery, fresh start and all. I was ready to come home.”
She paused and took a swallow, wondering whether to ask anything more personal and settled on the always safe topic of work. “You’re still with Aetherton, aren’t you?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Been keeping tabs?”
She blushed slightly. He didn’t need to know about that time in London a few years after she graduated. She’d stood across the street for hours from the address she’d written so many letters to that horrible fall, wondering if he still lived there and if she’d have the nerve to approach him if she saw him. It was probably just as well she hadn’t had the chance.
“It’s not stalking when you’re famous. Saw the article in Forbes on the ‘Aetherton Empire’ last year,” she air-quoted. “Your grandfather would be proud of what you did with the company, Spike . . . I mean, Will.”
He peeled at the label on his bottle. “Thanks. And call me Spike. My old friends still do.”
She liked the idea that perhaps they could still be friends. They fell into silence again as the sun finished its nightly display and slid behind the horizon, bringing dusk with it. As she watched, Buffy felt a peace wash over her for the first time since her father had called her three days ago and told her Gram was gone.
“Buffy?” His voice reached out to her through the growing dark, and she turned to him as she sat the now empty bottle in the grass.
“Yes, Spike?”
“I have to confess to ulterior motives for following you out here.”
His words made her heart suddenly beat a little faster. “Oh?”
“There’s something I wanted to speak with you about.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
“Your father called me a few weeks ago. He’s being looking for a buyer for your grandparents’ vineyard, and he thought Aetherton might be interested.”
Oh. Somehow she’d expected him to ask something more . . . personal. She attempted to keep her expression neutral and polite as she tuned back into what he was saying.
“ . . . but I knew this place had so many memories for you. I didn’t want to go ahead with it unless I was sure that’s what you’d want as well,” he finished.
“Spike, it’s my dad’s decision, not mine to make. And even if I had the cash, it’s way more than I could handle. I never had Gramps’ green thumb, you remember?” Buffy replied.
“So you don’t mind me buying it?” he asked.
“You mean your company?” She’d clearly missed something.
“No, me. Personally. I’ve wanted a home outside the city for some time now, and,” he ventured a small smile, “this place is . . . special. So would you mind, me owning it?”
The question hung in the air as she pondered how to respond, how to explain the strange pang caused by the thought of him living here, sharing this place with someone else.
“Spike, you’d take care of it, I know that. It’s just . . . this place,” she threw her arms open wide, “is so much a part of who I am, and how I came to be that way. Everywhere I look has a memory attached.” She finally met his eyes. “Even here. Especially here.” She winced. She hadn’t meant to say that, to go there.
But then he took her hand in his. “I owe you an apology, for not writing you back that spring.”
The breath she’d been unconsciously holding whooshed from her lungs. She laughed a little, nervous for the words. “What does it matter now, Spike? It was so long ago.”
He slid closer, invading her personal space now, but she couldn’t move away. She looked down at his left hand holding hers, noting the absence of a ring, and felt a little flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
“Buffy, you sounded so happy in your letters. They kept me going, those pretty bright envelopes you’d send, like a ray of sunlight in that stark hospital room. I felt selfish, but I didn’t want you to stop writing. But that last letter . . . it was so soon after Grand died, and you had all these plans. I didn’t want to tie you down.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Guess I was making decisions for you again, huh?”
Was he just looking for some sort of forgiveness from her? Closure? “Spike, it was a long time ago. We were both so young.”
“So you’re saying it wouldn’t have mattered, if I had written back?” There was something in his voice, a chord of need that caught at her, reeling her in to those eyes that could see right through her, that kept her from lying and walking away.
“It would have. It doesn’t mean you did the wrong thing. But, yes, it would have mattered.” Her voice cracked then, the weight of the day, the emotions rising to the surface in a flood again. “I loved you. I didn’t want to let you go.”
His arms were around her then, letting her pour out the tears on his shoulder as he rocked her gently. He still smelled the same somehow, and it was like stepping back in time to rest against him and soak up the comfort he offered. As her tears slowed and she sniffled against his shirt, he whispered in her ear, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She batted at the tears on her cheeks with his handkerchief, hoping the waterproof mascara lived up to its promise.
“No, Buffy, it’s not.” He tilted her face up so she could see his eyes. “I regret not responding. I regret not trying.” He ran his thumb along her cheekbone, catching the last of her stray tears, “I don’t want to regret anything else. So I need to say this.”
He took a deep breath. “Buffy, I don’t think I ever stopped loving you. I know that may sound insane, it’s been so long, but,” he shook his head sorrowfully, “no one else is you.”
That shouldn’t make sense, but it did. She found her voice and spoke over the pounding of her heart. “No one else is you, either.”
“No one?” he queried. “Does that mean . . .”
Some things didn’t change, and apparently he still talked too much. She silenced him with a kiss and knew from the second their lips met that the sparkle and fire between them was still there. In spades. His lips on hers felt familiar and yet new, and he could still make the world spin out of control as though she were seventeen again.
She finally managed to tear herself away long enough to answer his question. “It does. Unless . . . are you going to run away again?”
He smiled against her lips. “Not planning on going anywhere. Not unless you come with me this time.”
“I think that I just might.” She jumped up and pulled him with her. “I want you to see something.” She pulled him to the tree and with his hand in hers, traced the letters. “It’s still here.”
He pressed his lips to her fingers. “I knew it would be. You promised me it was magic, remember?” He pulled her into an embrace and his kiss was reverent, soft and sensual. It was a benediction, a closure of their time apart, and prelude to their future. They were both trembling as they pulled apart and he rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve missed you so much, Buffy. It’s like a piece of me had been missing.”
She nodded, holding him closer, “I know. I’ve felt that way for so long.” She snuggled closer into his embrace. “This almost seems like a dream, you, here with me.”
He chuckled. “I’m tired of that dream. I glad to have the real thing back.” He smoothed back her hair and softly kissed her forehead. “You ready to go, shortcake?”
She took the hand he offered, and followed him as they headed towards the path.
The End