[Reviews - 628]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 5645 times

- Text Size +




Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you everyone for your feedback!! Nerf Herder, please email me! :)
One year later

Buffy hadn’t meant to do it. Really, she hadn’t. She’d been doing some cleaning, mostly trying to unearth the grill she’d shoved in the basement for the barbecue she was having in the afternoon, and she’d had to take a trip up to the attic.

That was her first mistake.

It was while she was up there, lugging a box up and trying to spy a space to put it that it all went downhill. She tried not to look at the side of the attic or as Faith, Doyle’s stepsister called it --“Doyle’s Side”. She kept her eyes clear from that side, knowing that tears would inevitably follow. It was the whole reason why Anya had insisted she clean out his things and shove it up in the attic. She said she was tired of coming over and seeing Buffy a mass of tears with snot running out of her nose and not even having the presence of mind to grab a tissue.

“It’s not healthy for you, Buffy,” Anya told her sympathetically and yet firmly. “You go to bed with his things surrounding you, and you wake up with his things surrounding you. I understand you’re grieving, but it’s my job as your best friend to help you through it. And the first thing we’re doing is boxing it up and putting it away.”

It had helped, but only a little. Often times when grief became too much for her to bare and the ache of missing Doyle threatened to overcome her, she’d rush up to the attic and grab one of his shirts in a box and bury her face in it, trying desperately to find a trace of his scent, to feel him. As the months went by, she started to spend less time in the attic as the musky scent of the attic had started creeping into his belongings causing Buffy to stay away. She had started the healing process because of that.

So, as Buffy plopped the box down in a spot, she started heading for the drop down stairs that led up to the attic when her eye caught on something across the room. Their wedding album was open and on top of a box.

“Now, that’s not right. It’ll get ruined,” she muttered to herself and marched over, intent on taking the album and just shoving it in a box to be done with.

Until it flipped open and landed on them smiling at each other with their hands entwined and their noses practically touching in an Eskimo kiss. Her, all in white and lace, him in his tux . . . Unable to help herself, she reached out to stroke his image. Then she plopped herself down on the floor and started flipping through the pages.

And she started to weep. Even her crying, she noted, had changed. Before it would be huge sobs that wracked her body and hurt her ribcage, left her eyes dry and her body tired. Now, her cries were softer, gentler.

That made her start to sob. It meant she was forgetting and while Anya claimed she only wanted Buffy to ‘heal’, Buffy felt healing to Anya meant putting it completely behind her as if it had never happened. As if she’d never met Doyle.

She landed on a picture of herself, Doyle having manned the camera on that particular day of their honeymoon. She was sitting on a grassy knoll, in jeans, a t-shirt and sunglasses. She was propped up on her elbows, her legs stretched out before her, her ankles crossed. A storm was brewing in the background as clouds were darkening and rolling in. After he’d shot the picture, they’d made love, right there on the knoll just as the storm rolled fully in. It rained on them and Doyle had said the rain was blessing them.

She’d chided him for being so superstitious.

They’d gone to Ireland on their honeymoon, back to his roots, to meet the extended family and for Buffy to familiarize herself with his world. Her husband had come to the States when he was, basically, a fetus. His father passed away when he was five and his mother had remarried and Faith was part of the package. His mother had moved back to Ireland just recently and Faith stayed in Sunnydale, often coming over and keeping Buffy company, the two of them having shared a lot of time together trying to cope with Doyle’s death.

“I miss you,” she whispered through snot and tears. Reaching into a nearby box she knew was filled with his shirts, she reached in and grabbed one out, burying her face in it and rocking back and forth. “I shouldn’t have made you talk to me. I shouldn’t have pushed you to rush. I shouldn’t have . . . “

Remembering what she found when she came upon the accident tore her to shreds. Doyle’s body, bloody and broken, trapped in his car, his wedding ring shining under a streetlight. He had twitched and she thought ‘He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay’.

But he wasn’t okay. Life support was not for Alan Francis Doyle and so she’d respected his wishes, though she railed and screamed, ranted and raved, and pulled the plug, giving away his organs, as he was an organ donor. Of course he was, she thought, he was a pediatrician for Christ’s Sake.

Buffy never heard the front door open, never heard footsteps coming up the stairs or the ‘Oh shit’ that came, muttered, through Anya’s mouth. It wasn’t until she was wrapped up in the woman’s arms that Buffy started and realized she was there. She held onto her friend and looked up, seeing a tall man with bleached blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and striking blue eyes filled with concern staring down at her.

She tried to reign in her sobs, pushing at Anya to release her.

“Buffy, what happened?”

Buffy shook her head, allowing Anya to take Doyle’s rumpled shirt from her grasp. “I came up here to put some boxes away –“

“Oh Buffy,” Anya said sympathetically.

“And I found our wedding album out on a box and I came over,” hiccup, “To put it away and. . . “ And her eyes welled with fresh tears.

“Come on, let’s get you up,” Anya said, jumping to her feet and holding out her hand. Buffy took it and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry you had to find me like this.” She turned to the blond man. “Hi.” she looked around her, feeling very suddenly lost. “Sorry,” she murmured.

“No, luv, it’s okay. Anya told me about your, uh . . .”

“Husband?” Buffy supplied. “It’s okay. You can say it. I don’t always fall apart at the mention of it.”

“Sometimes things like that can take you by surprise, right?” he supplied gently, the corners of his full mouth turning up.

Buffy nodded, “Quite.”

Their eyes met as an understanding that was beyond them passed between them before Buffy shook her head to clear it and stuck out her hand. “Buffy. You must be Spike.”

He took her hand in his warm one and squeezed it gently, giving it a gentle shake. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice deep, calming and gentle.

“My husband kept his accent long despite the fact that he grew up here. How long have you been here?” Buffy asked.

“He’s been here since he was ten,” Anya supplied and wrapped her arms about his waist, giving him a small hug before taking Buffy’s hand and guiding her toward the stairs. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Where’s the grill?”

“Basement.”

“I’ll get it,” Spike volunteered.

Buffy shot him a grateful smile and allowed Anya to lead her to her bedroom.

********
If there was one thing that annoyed Buffy while at the same time made her thankful, was the way Anya took care of her. Or rather, mothered her. She dragged Buffy in her room and shut the door, making her sit on her bed while she went to the bathroom to wet a washcloth. She came back with said washcloth and a brush. While Buffy wiped her face, Anya knelt behind her on the bed and brushed Buffy’s long golden locks. Buffy figured it had to be a throwback to the days when Buffy could barely manage to get out of bed to do anything save relieve herself. Anya had all but dragged her in the shower and practically force fed her in those days shortly after Doyle’s passing.

Buffy sat still and let Anya do her thing, feeling just plain tired. No wonder she would sleep so much in the beginning. Crying took a lot out of a person. That, of course along with the depression and grief. It took its toll that was for sure.

“He seems nice. Handsome,” Buffy said after a while, nodding slightly.

“He is nice. And sweet. And he’s not handsome. He’s bloody gorgeous,” Anya replied, tugging out a knot with the brush.

Buffy smiled. “Spoken like a Brit. He must be rubbing off on you.”

“So many things rub –“

Buffy held up a hand, “Stop right there, please.”

“Sorry. When you’re feeling better, I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”

“Deal.”

“Now, let’s get you changed, shall we?”





You must login (register) to review.