The surf rolls steadily in and out, a Pacific sunset reflected on the water in vivid oranges. On the beach, a young chocolate lab chases back and forth, bringing a bright new tennis ball to Dawn, while Xander and Willow watch on, laughing at the puppy’s antics. Buffy observes the scene from above, leaning against the deck rail, a warm mug of tea in her hands and a soft smile gracing her lips. The December night is cool, the smell of the ocean sharp and fresh. It has been months since the day they took on the First, the day she lost him, and her life has settled considerably. Giles and Willow have been reestablishing the Council in England, but still managed to make it stateside for the holidays. Dawn is in school, and Buffy… well, Buffy is “taking some much-needed time off.” Angel had offered to pay bills and such for her and Dawn so Buffy could wind down and de-stress. He’d even gotten them the beach house – she’d told him once that she’s always wanted to live on the water.
Life was good, quiet, calm. There is a part of her, though, that is restless, anxious. Waiting. For him. She’d never tell her family – couldn’t bear the pity glances she knew she’d get – but she knows they aren’t over. She can’t explain it, but there is a certainty in her gut. He will return to her, if only she’ll wait just a little longer.
The sun slips beneath the horizon, and she closes her eyes and counts to ten. When she opens them again, the sky is the precise blue of his eyes. The breeze slides across her face like a caress of his hand, and she whispers her love into it before heading down to the sand.
The last Chosen One rises every morning forty-five minutes before dawn. She no longer needs an alarm clock. Silently, Buffy slips into deep purple running pants, a blush-pink tank top, and a grey zip-front sweatshirt. Next come the sneakers. She grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge by the back door. The air outside is cold and expels in light puffs of steam from her lips as she stretches slowly.
The Slayer is very nearly startled by the muffled whine from behind her. The chocolate lab peers back at her from inside the house, a pleading look in his dark eyes. With a soft laugh, Buffy lets him outside.
“You wanna come with me today, Hershey?” Bending down, she scratches behind his ears, amused when his tail wags excitedly and he lets out a soft bark. “Hey, now, none of that. You’ll wake the neighbors.” He has the decency to look nearly apologetic. “Come on, then; let’s go.”
In the quiet stillness of the pre-dawn hour, she begins to run.
Half an hour’s jog down the beach, there is a cave. During low tide, all the water drains from it and she like to believe he’ll be there one morning when she arrives. He’s never been there, but he’s never failed her. Every day when she reaches the cave, she looks out over the ocean and the still-dark sky, and sees his eyes, just like ten counts after sunset. Last year, Buffy found her quiet in Spike; now, she finds her Spike in the quiet.
Moments later, the sun explodes over the horizon, and Buffy breathes “I love you” into the crashing waves.
There are lights on in the house when it comes back into view and Buffy slows her pace, a slice of disappointment tracking through her. She loves the reflective quiet of her sunrises and sunsets, and always feels unsettled at their forced interruption. To her, they are like meditating, like a trance, like REM sleep – not meant to be disturbed. There’s a perfect clarity in them that makes all of her slow down, and she has to take a minute, disguised as a cool-down, a good stretch, to bring herself back to speed.
Dawn has left her a mug of tea on the kitchen counter; she is smiling when she takes the first sip.
Dawn sits with her after sunset a few nights later. They don’t speak for long minutes, while Dawn watches Buffy and Buffy watches the sky. Finally, Buffy turns to her sister (she’s more than that; she’s me) and simply nods.
Dawn takes a deep breath, like she’s about to make a confession or a particularly daunting request. When she speaks, she doesn’t look at her sister. “I want you to stay in on Christmas morning. Just until we open the presents.”
Buffy is silent for a moment, considering the idea. “We don’t open presents until everyone is awake. I’ll miss the sunrise.”
“The sun rises every day, Buffy. And you can watch it from here if you want. It’s just… we always had hot cocoa on Christmas, remember? But if you’re gone, I can’t wake you up and make you fix it.”
Buffy smiles at the memory. Buffy’s attempt was always followed by waking their mother to make a much better batch of the warm, sugary liquid (which, in all honesty, was just their crafty way of getting at their presents sooner). They hadn’t done it since that last Christmas with Joyce. Buffy had fallen asleep at Spike’s crypt after a particularly exhausting round of holiday “gift giving” the next year, and had been recovering from her beating by the Turok-Han the year after that.
Tucking a lock of hair behind Dawn’s ear, the Slayer decides her vampire will wait for her. “I’ll stay.”
Dawn’s smile rivals the brilliance of her sister’s sunrise.
Buffy wakes forty-five minutes before sunrise on Christmas morning, and knows, without a doubt, she will never see Spike in the sunrise another day. Today is the last. When the sun crests to horizon, he will be at the cave. But she won’t. She made a promise. She lies in bed with her eyes nearly closed until she feels sick with it, and then tiptoes outside in her pajamas in time to see his eyes, more brilliant than ever, over the Pacific.
When Dawn finds her there after sunrise, an unreadable expression on her face, she wonders if asking Buffy to stay was a mistake.
Buffy’s hot chocolate is considerably better this year; she lies and says it must be luck when Dawn asks why. She had Spike teach her that first year after her mom died, so she’d be good at it on Christmas morning. When she woke in his crypt and realized she’d missed it, she’d cried into him for a good hour. She knew it was the only time he ever felt sorry she spent the night.
Buffy feels at the same time distant and ruthlessly connected as she opens presents. They’re all nice, but Dawn’s gift makes her heart clench and her eyes tear. A small leather purse that smells of his cigarettes. It’s empty save for a silver Zippo lighter, and for the first time Buffy thinks that Dawn realizes more than she’s given her credit for. She draws the lighter out, flicks it into flame, then clicks it closed and kisses it softly before sliding it into her pocket.
The Slayer purposefully ignores the shock of everyone but Dawn at the blatant show of affection toward the dead vampire, and reaches for the next present.
It’s noon before Dawn realizes Hershey is missing. It’s 12:30 before he returns, a chilled and slightly lost-looking human trailing behind. The only one who doesn’t look stunned to see him is Buffy.
“I waited for you,” Spike tells her. “But then the tide came in.”
