Spike trailed Buffy through the dim rooms of the mansion in her search for something nice enough to hold Angel's ashes. Spike wasn't talking much, just watching her through his lashes and making unimpressed little “Hmm,” sounds each time she rejected a container. She went along the upstairs corridor toward the place where her ex used to sleep. Even though the thought of it made her want to cry, she needed to see his bed once more.
“There was an Art Nouveau jar that I always liked. It has a silver top with pretty, whorly designs,” Buffy said. Spike wrinkled his nose.
“I recall some Tupperware in the kitchen, sweetheart. All you'd need to do is burp the lid and he's fresh for another couple centuries.”
“He deserves more respect than leftover spaghetti sauce.”
“Yeah, right,” Spike grumbled.
When they got to Angel’s room, she was immediately drawn to the king-sized bed. The red and gold leaf-patterned comforter was rumpled, as though Angel had just gotten up to take a shower. The pillows still had indents in them. Without thinking, Buffy stroked the cool sheets still redolent with the scent of the vampire she’d lost. Spike huffed theatrically and tromped over to the dresser behind the bed, snatching up the clear, glass vessel Buffy had been seeking. He tossed the shiny object from hand to hand, lobbing it higher with each throw.
“This the one you wanted, kitten?”
“Yeah. Do you think he’d like it?” she asked.
“He kept this thing for a century. I'm pretty sure it’ll do. Let's finish sweeping up the old poofter before the commandos get wind of this place.”
“Can you give me a minute?”
“Sure, reminisce. I'll just be downstairs looking for a Dust Buster.”
All the bitching finally got to her and Buffy raised her voice.
“Spike, what the hell is your problem? He's gone and you have everything he ever wanted. You won, alright?”
“It's not about that, is it?"
He passed her the faceted jar and she looked down at the intricate design cut into the glass, then back at his sullen face.
“Then what is it? You know what it's like to love two people at the same time. I'd never get childish over Dru, even though she was a skanky ho.”
“Hey now!” His nostrils flared, his eyes winnowed to bright, angry darts and his whole face seemed to get sharper. One corner of her mouth snuck up her face in response.
“Hurts, doesn't it?”
He scoffed, but his expression lost some of the hard edges and he smiled.
“Point taken, love. Still, you can't blame a fella for being worried. How long before you wish you had a vampire at your beck and call again instead of a squidgy, dying man?” He looked at her timidly; a dog readying itself for a kick. His apprehension made her ache to comfort him. She went to Spike and encircled his neck, then rested her forehead on his.
“You still don't know what you mean to me, do you?"
"Tell me."
"You loved me enough to change. That's huge, but it's just the start. You gave me back my heart and when we were in that place, your voice kept me sane."
His reaction to her words shifted across his face.
"Buffy."
He pulled her into a soft kiss that lingered deliciously as he stroked her back. Dragging herself away from him was like trying to roll out of a warm, comfy bed on a chilly morning. She knew he wanted to take things further, but she couldn't do that—not in Angel's bedroom.
"Let's go downstairs," Buffy said, tugging on his hand. He sighed and she saw his eyes flicker toward the ceiling.
"Sure, kitten."
Together they went to the main room of the mansion where Angel's ashes were scattered around a chair near the fireplace. Tears pressed behind Buffy's eyes, but she didn't let them spill. Their footfalls echoed against the marble floor, each step a clanging emphasis on the emptiness. When they stopped, Buffy contemplated the mess and listened to the silence.
"So, how do we...you know. Get him in here?" she asked, holding up the makeshift urn.
Spike suppressed a shrug.
"'Spose we could use the broom. It's what they're for, sweeping up ashes."
She glared and he tried to remain impassive while tittering with repressed sarcastic gestures, before searching his pockets for a pack of cigarettes that wasn't there.
There was an epic scraping sound when she yanked the metal-handled broom free from the rack beside the hearth. She picked up the wrought iron dust pan and knelt down. The hard stone dug into her knees as she cautiously scooped up the fine grit. Life could begin dramatically but it always ended in the most banal of terms, no matter how the person went out. Even the most heroic death left a mess afterward that needed to be cleaned. With each pass of the bristles against the ground, the pile of dust mounted. Buffy wondered how she would transfer the remains, when Spike, who'd been quietly watching her, walked away. It was the first time he'd left her alone, except to go to the bathroom. She was pretty sure he wasn't doing that, as he was so proud of his new bodily functions, he always announced when he had to make a potty break. Without his presence, she felt oddly vulnerable. The muscles in her neck and shoulders were winched tight by her sudden uneasiness. She hunched closer to her work and tried to ignore the discomfort.
A few moments later, Spike came back downstairs carrying two sheets of heavy parchment. She arched an eyebrow at him as he picked up the container from the floor. =He went to a long, oak table which was laden with a decanter of alcohol and positioned just behind the collection of wing chairs scattered before the fireplace. She was surprised when he ignored the booze and began forming the paper into a cone. His tongue poked out of his mouth as he concentrated on folding the edges just so. He was so funny and dear that her chest ached—she wanted to laugh and sweep him into her arms all at once. Spike arranged his creation on the mouth of the jar and walked over to her. He handed her the vessel, being mindful not to knock the funnel loose.
"Look at you with the ingenuity," Buffy said, accepting his gift.
He grinned bashfully and his ears turned pink.
"It's no trouble," he said. When he looked sweet and embarrassed she had the urge to call him William.
She set the jar on the tile and emptied her bin into it carefully, but pouring still kicked up a puff of particles. She wondered if they were breathing Angel in—if he was going to be part of her for just a little while longer.
"It seems like there should be more, even though I know better," she said.
Spike laid his palm on her her short, blonde hair and she relaxed, slightly.
"More what, darling?" he asked, with a sigh.
"More of him. I scatter vamps to the four winds every night, so I should know there's almost nothing left. It just feels wrong, somehow."
"Yeah. It does."
"Who do you think did this to him?"
"Hard to tell. He wasn't exactly Mr. Popular with the human or demon community. Could have been one of his victims from the last time Angelus came out to play. Or maybe one of the helpless he was trying to help in L.A. didn't get their money's worth, so they bootstrapped it over to Sunny D and registered a complaint with a stake."
"Angel let the person who killed him in and sat with his back to him, so I'm guessing it wasn't a stranger."
"Soon as this blows over, we'll talk to your friend, Cordelia. She'll know something." Spike kept his hand right where it was, reassuring her with its warmth and weight. There'd always been something dangerous about the coolness of Angel's touch. It had given her a thrill to be close to the death his hands signified, yet remain unscathed. That felt like a long time ago, but it had only been a year since she'd lain with Angel on the very spot where she was gathering up his ashes.
They listened to the scrape of the broom and dustpan against the marble for awhile. Buffy hated to think the sound would be Angel's only requiem.
"Should we maybe say a prayer or something?"
Spike snorted and stopped stroking her hair, choosing to fold his arms over his chest instead.
"After what the old boy did to all those nuns it doesn't seem appropriate."
"I would have thought out of everybody, you'd understand what he went through. And he was trying to make amends—"
"Sorry, kitten. Still, you know as well as I do he wasn't really the praying sort."
"Yeah. Maybe a poem then? You've got all that stuff memorized."
He shifted from one foot to the other and angled his head.
"There's one that springs to mind when I think of Angelus. He made me learn it. Said it was written about him."
"Go ahead," Buffy said, tipping the last salvageable part of Angel into his final resting place. She screwed the lovely lid on while Spike took a deep breath and glanced down, trying to dredge the words from his memory.
"Je te frapperai sans colère. Et sans haine, comme un boucher—"
She used his arm for support as she stood, then resisted the urge to pat the dirt from her jeans.
"Wait, is that French? I totally flaked on all things Franco during high school."
She hugged the jar to her.
"Could translate it for you, but it would lose something of the spirit. Plus, it might not be the best verse for the occasion, anyway. What did he fancy when you knew him?" Spike asked.
"He gave me 'Sonnets from the Portuguese,' for my birthday one year, but I just sorta skimmed it. There was one, though, that I really loved. It always made me cry."
Spike grinned.
"Number forty-three, of course. That bloody, sentimental git. Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Barry fucking Manilow. Fine, I'll say it, kitten, but don't say I never did anything for you." He held the sides of her face and trained his eyes on hers. "I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints—I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death." Tears collected on the corners of her lashes like pearls of rain cradled in a spider web. He kissed her forehead and then wrapped her in a hug.
"Thank you," she whispered against his chest.
He made a soft, "Mmm Hmm," sound in the back of his throat. She looked up at him and saw he was on the verge of crying, too. She swept the drop from his cheek with her thumb.
"Will you miss him?" she asked.
Spike let out a short, gurgling laugh.
"No chance, love."
"Then why—"
"Just hate seeing you sad. Now let's take leave of this place."
He put his hand on her waist, and together they crossed the floor. They went outside into the vibrant daylight and wound through the garden. Buffy listened for danger, but she only heard the birds chittering and water tinkling in the fountain beside the mansion. She glanced at her companion and noticed the look of absolute wonder had returned to his face. It seemed impossible that he was the same person who'd once tried to kill her. Then again, everyone close to her had tried to kill or assault her, even her mom. One of the perils of living on a Hellmouth.
"What's it like, thinking about what you used to do? Angel wouldn't talk about the time before he got his soul."
Spike considered her question as they moved from the shadow of the house to the steps cut into the hill.
"You know the stupid stuff you did as a kid? It's a little like that. I'm the same person, but only technically. I can recall how it felt, but I can't imagine ever making the same choices again. I was disconnected—nobody's pain mattered but mine and Dru's," Spike said.
"And now?"
"I want to save puppies and Christmas, just like you."
"But why?"
"Because I love you, and I might be of some use," he said. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead.
"I can think of a couple uses for you right now."
"Saucy bint."
They ambled companionably down the hill with their hands interlocked until reaching Xander's black Skylark. Buffy gasped when she saw what was happening in the front seat and Spike laughed. Xander sat behind the wheel and Willow straddled him. Her head was thrown back, her mouth was open and her eyes were shut tight. Xander's head was between her breasts. Luckily, Willow's shirt was hiding most of his face, but the entire situation was still nothing Buffy wanted to see. The redhead shrieked in a paroxysm of pleasure and one of her hands pawed at the window.
"Wow, this is deja vu all over again," Buffy said.
“Bloody hell. We're gonna be stewing in their juices the whole ride home,” Spike mumbled.
Buffy and Spike waited until Willow slid off Xander's lap, then waited a little more while the pair fixed their clothes, before knocking on the window. The rap startled the couple. Willow trembled like a snared rabbit and Xander's eyes got huge before he waved at them. Buffy and Spike got in the back seat.
"Hey," Buffy and Spike said at once.
"Hey," Xander and Willow replied.
"So you guys are..." Buffy let the sentence hang, hoping either of her friends would finish it for her.
"We're together now," Willow said, smoothing her hair.
"That was a bit obvious," Spike said.
"Okay. So you're dating?" Buffy asked.
"Nope. We're engaged," Xander said, looking proudly at Willow. "I know what you guys are thinking, but it's not because we could die any minute. This is something I've wanted for a really long time."
"Actually, that wasn't what I was thinking at all," Buffy said.
~*~*~*~
Author's Note:
The poem Spike begins to recite is called, "The Man Who Tortures Himself," or "The Self-Tormented," by Charles Baudelaire. In the Angel episode called, "She," the character of Angel implies that he knew Charles Baudelaire and the poem, "The Vampire," was written about a real vampire. However, "The Vampire," was clearly written about a female. This one seemed to fit Angel's character a great deal more. Enjoy!
The man who tortures himself or the Self-Tormented
By
Charles Baudelaire
I shall strike you without anger
And without hate, like a butcher,
As Moses struck the rock!
And from your eyelids I shall make
The waters of suffering gush forth
To inundate my Sahara.
My desire swollen with hope
Will float upon your salty tears
Like a vessel which puts to sea,
And in my heart that they'll make drunk
Your beloved sobs will resound
Like a drum beating the charge!
Am I not a discord
In the heavenly symphony,
Thanks to voracious Irony
Who shakes me and who bites me?
She's in my voice, the termagant!
All my blood is her black poison!
I am the sinister mirror
In which the vixen looks.
I am the wound and the dagger!
I am the blow and the cheek!
I am the members and the wheel,
Victim and executioner!
I'm the vampire of my own heart
— One of those utter derelicts
Condemned to eternal laughter,
But who can no longer smile.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story. I know it's been a lot of subplots lately, but this is a return to form with the Spuffy.
Thanks to Science and Puddinhead for their help with this chapter.
Thanks to Science and Puddinhead for their help with this chapter.
Chapter End Notes:
Let me know what you thought, good, bad or somewhere in between. All feedback is welcome and valuable.