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Author's Chapter Notes:
I decided to take pity on my readers and give them a peek at the ending. Also, in Victorian times, things were often said with flowers. Marigolds were a symbol of grief. Please review. ;-)
NOVEMBER 1, 2030

The groundskeeper of this particular cemetery liked his job very much. When it was hot, in the summertime, he kept the grass above his charges from turning dry and brown from the heat. In the fall, he kept the leaves from marring the landscape. And, in the winter he took special care to brush the snow from the stones.

He took care of them all, but for some reason there was one grave, in particular, that drew his attention more than most. Perhaps it was because, in the sea of roses and lilies that he gathered nightly, this one instead was always adorned with a bright bouquet of orange marigolds. They reminded him of the sun, and perhaps that was why, while going on his nightly rounds, William Alistair Dustin received his special care.

Of course, in order to take proper care of that one, he had to work later than was expected, because conditions of his employment here required that he remain unseen by visitors. He understood that. He knew that it was sometimes disquieting for loved ones to know that their dearly departed had been disturbed in any way.

Even if the people who visited them here knew, in their heart of hearts, that someone was taking care of the daily minutia, it was still a difficult thing to actually see a stranger roaming around a loved one's resting place. So, he remained unseen, although with "Marigolds" that was difficult.

That one had visitors well into the wee hours of the morning.

As his wristwatch told him it was three a.m., he was grateful for the small cottage that he had on the grounds. He liked the arrangement; keep the cemetery neat and tidy, in exchange for room and board. And the neighbors were quiet, which suited him just fine.

He knelt and picked up the bundle of blooms from the ground, and smiled, "Well William, I see the wife's been by again. She's a different one, isn't she? I bet you already knew that, though," he looked down at the flowers in his hand, his head tilted in thought, "There's something about these flowers. Something specific. She leaves them every day, and it's always the same. Marigolds are so different, after rows and rows of roses. Don't get me wrong, roses are beautiful, but the marigolds are so refreshing. Almost like she's giving you a bunch of sunshine every day. It's like she knows you miss it."
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Buffy Anne Dustin hated this. She hated walking through cemeteries now, she hated it more now than when she was an active Slayer, and she'd hated it so much back then that she didn't think she could hate it more. At least back then there was a chance of spotting him lurking somewhere close. Now though, she knew all too well were to find him, and she hated it so much.

She was so young then, so much younger than she was now.

And to think, it'd only been two years. No not even that long. It had been six hundred and ninety-eight days, and nights, since he'd died. And, each night was just as fresh, just as raw, as the first one had been.

Buffy approached the gravesite with an ache in her heart. Spike had always been her rock. When she'd first gotten sick, and her world became a haze of pain and needles and antiseptic, he'd stayed with her, even though his eyes told her how frightened he really was, he still stayed with her.

The only thing that gave him any focus outside of her was taking care of Jonina. Willow had told her that their daughter had been the only thing that kept him from sinking into madness when she'd taken ill.

They had seen what the virus could do to a Slayer, and how quickly it took hold. She and Spike had been working on isolating it almost from the moment Jonina was born.

She remembered that Spike took it hard each time a Slayer was stricken with the virus they called "Cassandra's Lace." He seemed to take the virus's appearance as a personal affront to him. And when Joni started showing signs of being a Slayer, nothing else seemed to matter to him more than finding the answer to the puzzle. He seemed driven; haunted by something he wouldn't share.

Then, despite her best efforts to conceal them, she started showing symptoms. She shrugged them off at first, but there came a time when even she could no longer deny what was happening to her. She was dying, and they both knew it. They'd both seen it happen to other Slayers, and now, it was happening to her.

She had accepted it. But, Spike had not. Because of his stubborn refusal to accept their world the way it was, she was the one standing in a graveyard, putting flowers on a grave she never really thought she would ever see. Because of him, Joni was living in a world that once again contained an army of Slayers, albeit a small one, who were now beginning to forget what peril they had been in just a few short years ago.

And she was standing here. That fact alone should have brought her happiness, but it didn't. And the reason it didn't is because, once again, he'd sacrificed himself to save her.

Buffy looked at the stone that bore his name, and tried it out on her tongue. It had been so long since she had been able to stand here. Being here, looking at his name, hurt her in a place she couldn't name. It evoked a pain that she couldn't give voice to. So when she heard her voice sounding like a thimble, small and tin-like in her ear, saying his name aloud, it didn't seem real at all.

She read the stone aloud. It was the eulogy she knew he deserved, but never received, at least not from her. It hurt too much to believe that he was gone, "William Alistair Dustin, beloved husband, father, friend, and champion. Departed, but not forgotten, December 2, 2027," Buffy kissed her fingers and pressed them to the letters of his name, "Who is it that takes care of you now? Where are you? I tried to find you, you know," Buffy felt her lip tremble and tasted the salt water as it slid down her face to her lips, "Just to know where you are. Joni and I miss you so much," her face twisted in sadness and anger. She knew her thoughts were disjointed, but she had so much loss in her right now, that she had to give it an outlet, "Willow said you weren't in Hell, and that's good," she sniffed and wiped her eyes, "But she said you weren't in Heaven either. It didn't make sense. I mean vampires don't die of viruses! They just don't. Okay, there was that time that Angel got sick because of that poison, but I saved him. But when you got sick, you wouldn't let me save you. Why?" she sobbed, "When you were feverish and delirious," she bowed her head, reliving the pain of her loss, "while you could still talk, you kept talking about a trade, some kind of bargain. I know you were in pain. I know it. But you never complained, not once. And then Angel tells me about some kind of prophecy. I tell you, Spike, I was so angry, I could have staked him. Joni nearly did. And now, I come here, every day, just in the hope that, some way you'd find me," Buffy left her bouquet for him, "I know it's silly. But, I wish you were here," she said as she left the graveyard.
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IN THE INTERREGNUM

Spike nearly jumped for joy, "I thought you'd never ask, Love."





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