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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks for the reviews for the first chapter! Big thank you to Sotia for beta reading. :) Hope you enjoy!
Swings and Roundabouts

Chapter Two

Spike woke up late the following afternoon and, as the early evening sun filtered in through the blinds, he made his plans for the rest of the weekend.

He would visit Drusilla’s grave with only himself for company, no alcohol. He’d sit for a while on the stone bench next to Mr. Tomkins, directly opposite where Dru was buried. He would tell her about life, how Claire was and how well she was doing in school.

He imagined that he would cry; he always did. But this year, he would leave when it got dark. He wouldn’t sit and wallow, drinking himself into stupefaction. This would be the year to finally make an attempt to let go, to make a new start.

His mind made up, he threw back the covers and rolled out of the bed, ready to face whatever ghosts the evening brought.

At four o’ clock, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room, followed by a shouted, “Delivery!”

Spike stood and opened the door to be greeted by a man holding a basket of white roses.

“Mr. Giles?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Spike accepted the flowers and signed the receipt. When the delivery man left, he took a deep breath and put on his coat. It was time.

***

The walk to the cemetery was remarkably pleasant. In previous years he remembered torrents of rain and a general air of gloominess. He didn’t know if it was his new outlook on the visit that was making things that much more agreeable, or if the pall of Dru’s loss had played tricks on his memory in the past, making him remember things with a dismal slant.

Either way, it felt good to be back in L.A. and relatively happy for the first time since he and Claire had picked up and left in the months following Dru’s death.

Thinking about his daughter caused him to slow his steps and dampened his mood slightly. At nine years old, she was just coming to the age when she would really need her mother. Perhaps in a couple of years, he would bring Claire with him, let her see where her mum was buried.

Claire didn’t ask too many questions about Drusilla. She had been only five when her mother had died, and Spike knew that most of her memories of Dru came from seeing old photographs and home videos. As far as he was concerned, her lack of curiosity was a good thing; he had no idea how he would ever tell her—

So lost in his thoughts, Spike didn’t realise that he had arrived at the cemetery.

Taking a deep breath, he double-checked that the roses had survived the walk over and strode through the gates.

Here we go.

***

He found Dru’s grave with ease, the white marble headstone standing out starkly amongst the dark grey and black of all the other plots.

Laying the flowers at the graveside, he trailed his fingers across the top of the marble. It was cold to the touch.

The bench next to Mr. Tomkins beckoned, and he sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forwards to concentrate on Dru.

“Hey, love. It’s me. Back again. Can you believe this makes it four years? Still hurts like a bitch.” He paused, then laughed wryly. “Trying a new thing this year, pet: no drink. That’s progress. You’d be happy, I think.”

A far off car alarm broke into the silence of the early evening, and Spike jumped, taking it as a sign.

“Okay, okay. Enough about me.” He sat back, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Claire’s doing well. Top of her class in English. I’d say she takes after her mum, but…” He paused. “You know what I mean.”

Spike talked for a good hour—about this, that, life back in England. Small, mundane topics that bore no real significance but that he knew Dru would like to hear. He cried, a little. The tears were cathartic, though.

By this time in previous years, he’d have been sloshed and half-way to unconsciousness. This was far better.

When his voice went hoarse, and he looked up to see that night had crept in without his notice, he knew that it was time to leave.

“Bye, Dru.”

***

Spike walked away from Drusilla’s grave, feeling as though a weight had been lifted. He felt lighter than he had in years, and planned to spend the rest of his time in L.A. relaxing. He had almost made it to the gates, when his gaze fell on an odd shape in the grass.

At first he thought that it was a rubbish bag, or perhaps a tarpaulin, but looking closer, he could see feet and hands and bright blond hair. A body. It didn’t look like it was moving, and Spike’s heart began to pound.

Hurrying towards it, he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, ready to dial 911 if he had to. He fell to his knees and saw that it was a woman, curled into a foetal position, her eyes closed. Spike reached out towards her neck, intending to check for a pulse, but when she suddenly opened her eyes and raised her head, he jumped backwards, scared half to death. “Jesus!”

“What are you doing?” She sat up, and Spike realised that she was older than he had first thought. Mid-twenties, maybe.

“What am I doing? Christ, woman, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Standing up, Spike brushed soil from his knees and glared at her.

“I’m visiting.” She nodded towards the grave she was sat next to. “And it’s Bu— Anne.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Anne, not woman.” She smiled, and Spike realised she was beautiful.

“D’you usually fall asleep when you visit?” He knew that he should leave, head back to the hotel and relax, like he had planned, but something about this girl entranced him.

“Sometimes.” Anne shrugged. “I usually stay all night, and sometimes sleep gets the better of me.”

“I used to do that,” Spike said. “Sit and watch over her grave all night. ‘Course, by the morning I’d be passed out unconscious from too much alcohol. Decided to make a change this year.”

There was an awkward pause, and he wondered why he had revealed so much to her.

“I should probably stop,” Anne said, then laughed wryly. “I’ve been doing this for ten years. Sometimes on his birthday, sometimes on the day he died. How insane is that?”

Spike glanced at the headstone. Liam Angelus. Our Beloved Angel. 1981-1999. “Only eighteen. Your boyfriend?”

Anne nodded. “Yeah. It was a car crash.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Anne shrugged. “You didn’t know him.”

Spike looked away. He hated it too when people offered false platitudes. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, I know.” Anne waved her hand, and then smiled again. “Hey, you know what? Let’s go for a walk.” She stood up, and brushed stray pieces of grass and dirt from her skirt.

“What?” Spike stared at her, confused.

“It’s a nice night. We should go for a walk.” She picked up a red bag from the ground, and slung it across her shoulder.

“But—” Spike didn’t really know what to say. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know that you’ve lost someone you loved, like me,” Anne said. “And I know that you’re kind of crazy, like me.” She winked. “The good kind of crazy. And most importantly, I know that you’re strong enough to walk away from the past, and I need that, too. Come for a walk with me?”

Spike nodded wordlessly, and Anne grinned, her smile lighting up her whole face. “Great!” She linked her arm with his, and started to walk to the cemetery gates. “So, what’s your name?”

-TBC-


Chapter End Notes:
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