Author's Chapter Notes:
Very big thank you to Brat and Cobweb for betaing and helping with this. I love you guys!!!
“Angel, word please, kind sir.” Swallowing back his terror at the furious look in the vampire’s eyes, he stepped forward with an artificial fearless swagger.

The dreary night and the scent of blood in the air came with a sense of foreboding. A deranged slayer, and amputee vampire; although the headline of the night, they offered no satisfaction to the desires of violence still rippling through the air. Bad as the circumstances may be, it was not the worst of what was to come. They all felt it, though none of them could speak it.

“What now?”

The bark shattered Andrew’s façade. “Here.” His trembling fingers thrust forward a small leather journal into Angel’s palms.

“What am I supposed to do with this?

“I…I grabbed it by mistake. You know, light reading for the flight.” Andrew grinned unconvincingly. “It’s Buffy’s dia…journal. Buffy’s journal.”

“By mistake huh?” Angel stared down at the cowering boy. “Why are giving it to me?”

“I’m not,” Andrew stuttered. “I mean, I am but…it’s not for you.”

“Spit it out.”

“Spike!” Andrew cried out frantically. “I think Spike should have it…especially after…”

Angel sighed. “Why in the world would I give it to Spike, and not back to Buffy?”

“Because she wrote to him.”

“WHAT?”

Andrew looked at the ground, and shuffled his feet. “I didn’t reach much…but…”

“So, you think this will help with a speedy recovery huh?”

“I think he deserves to see it.” Andrew stood up, his voice firm. “After what he did for all of us, especially now that he’s back…”

“No one is to know he’s back. If he wants to tell Buffy he’s alive, he can do it himself.” Because I can’t bear seeing them together.

“If you aren’t going to give it to him, give it back!”

Angel made the decision right then. He would not give it back, and he would agree to Andrew’s terms. His inner jealousy betrayed him however, and he pocketed the journal with every intention of reading it himself, Spike be damned.


***

He was sure if he was subjected to the sound long enough his eardrums would burst. The loud monotone whine drowned out the noises from the city below, and was the origin of the ache behind his eyes. Torture was too kind of a word; unbearable, excruciating, boring. Listening to Angel blather on made him want to take a vacation to Miami Beach and catch up on his long overdue tan.

Every five minutes or so he’d let out a dramatic sigh follow by a well thought out insult.

“Wanker.”

“Poofter.”

“Ponce.”

What was next? Oh yes.

“Just stop yer yammering and get to the point you cheeky bastard.”

As expected, a low growl exploded from Angel. “Damnit Spike, shut up or get out!”

“N’ go where?”

“To Hell for all I care.”

“Already there mate,” Spike muttered under his breath.

“ENOUGH!” The crew took that as there cue, and cleared out of the room leaving Spike and Angel alone.

“What’s crawled up your arse?”

“You Spike. You are driving be INSANE.”

“Nah, you’re just all in a tizzy cause it’s sodding Christmas. Everyone knows how much you love the holidays.” Spike winked at Angel.

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you take the jet to Rome, pay Buffy a visit?” Angel’s tone was cheery, but his face was disgusted. Anything to get Spike out of his hair.

“Not gonna do it; she’s moved on. Her and the Bit are doing well enough without me mucking everything up again. N’ like I said, can’t defame the memory of my grand exit and all.”

“I can’t believe I’m asking this,” Angel muttered to himself, “but why don’t you want Buffy to know you are alive?”

Spike glanced away and out the window into the dark night. “We ended on a good note the Slayer and I; I can’t go back to the way it was before. N’ I’m thinking she won’t really be all that happy to see me undead again. We said our goodbyes…” Spike licked his lips and cast a sly grin back at Angel. “…N’ I’d like to remember it that way.”

“So, you’re scared?”

“M’ not scared! I just,” Spike let out a sigh and stared at Angel seriously. “I don’t think I could go back to being the second man in her life. Just isn’t for me anymore.”

Spike’s self pity and emotional baggage made Angel’s gut twist. Was he actually feeling bad for Spike? But he wasn’t feeling bad for Spike; he was feeling sorry for himself. He’d read some of Buffy’s journal, and her words had tore at his very essence. Spike wasn’t the second man in her life anymore, it was him.

The worst part about everything is that he was alive, well undead, and Spike was supposedly dust. Now, when they had the opportunity to be together at last, Buffy had turned him down. And from reading what he could handle of the journal, he knew why.

He felt no guilt in watching Spike belittle himself, and turn away from Buffy. If he couldn’t have Buffy, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Spike.

And there it was again, the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him to get over it. He didn’t love Buffy anymore, not in that way. He’d spent years believing she was his one true love, and that he had sacrificed that love for her wellbeing. In actuality, he had known it wouldn’t last, and it hadn’t. He cared for Buffy, and she was up on a pedestal high above every other woman. But she wasn’t for him, not anymore. Her stubbornness and immaturity has evolved into wisdom, and strength. He had loved her because she had needed him, and she didn’t any longer.

Spike, on the other hand…he grimaced, and watched a puzzled look come over Spike’s face. Spike needed Buffy just as much as Buffy needed him. Spike was never independent enough to survive on his own, he’d spent around a century with Dru, and when Dru had left him, he’d been with Buffy. But with Buffy, he hadn’t had to physically be with her in order to be content, and that made all the difference.

“ARGHHHG!” Angel let out a frustrated growl, pulled open a drawer in his desk, and took out the journal.

“You really have gone nutty haven’t you Peaches?”

“I’m scheduling the jet, be ready in an hour.”

“M’ not going to bloody Rome.”

“You will go to Rome, if you want to get your hands on this.” Angel held up the journal, and Spike’s eyes widened. Obviously he recognized it for what it was.

“You bleedin’ bastard, why do you have Buffy’s diary?”

Angel sighed, punching the keypad on the phone. “Harmony, get the jet ready to leave in an hour to Rome.”

“But Angel…” he cut her off with a flick of his wrist.

“It was a gift, from Andrew to you. “

“How LONG HAVE YOU BLOODY HAD IT?”

“Just be thankful you are getting it at all.”

“I don’t want it.” Spike crossed his arms and glared at Angel.

“Fine then, I’ll just keep it myself. Didn’t really want to give it to you anyway.” They glared at each other.

“Bloody hell.”

There was no way in hell he was letting Angel hold on to Buffy’s diary. He’d seen similar ones in her room back at Revello Drive. He flipped through them once or twice, but all the “…Angel…Angel….” crap had caused his stomach to turn. This was different though, this was recent. He was probably in there.

“I’ll get on the sodding jet, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to see her.”

Angel slid on his jacket, and looked at Spike. “Uh huh.” Throwing the journal at Spike he moved to toward the door. “Have a nice flight, and oh yeah,” he paused. “Merry Christmas.”

***

It was mocking him; lying there flaunting its worn leather binding, and shiny lettering.

“Just a peek Spike, it won’t hurt anyone.”

With one timid finger he flipped open the cover, and stared down at the first page. The plane jolted, and he cursed. “Bloody karma.”



Dear Spike,

How weird is this? Me writing to you, even more strange now that you’re dead. Well, really dead. Look at me, mocking you, and you aren’t even around to defend yourself. What a great friend I am.

God, I feel like an idiot. I started thinking, that when I started my new ‘post apocalypse’ journal, that I didn’t want to just write to no one. That I would feel better writing to someone who understood, and writing to Giles just gave me the creeps. You were the only one I could ever talk to, and it figures I would finally tell you that after you’re gone. Not that I’m really telling you.

Dawn says I am suffering from post-traumatic stress, whatever that is. Like I didn’t deal with “our” issues when you were around, and with you dying, I’m starting to feel it now. This was her solution. Doesn’t seem to be helping, I still miss you.



Spike let out an unneeded breath and stared down at Buffy’s handwriting. She was writing to him, after everything, she was confiding in him.

*Grow up you nit, she thinks you’re dead. She’s not really writing to you.*



Spike,

Rome just isn’t working out. I hate it here. No one speaks good English, and all they ever eat is pasta. Dawn loves it, her cute Italian boyfriend, and being able to drink. I pretend I love it, but nothing is the same. I miss the California sun, and I miss the Scoobies. The slaying is crap over here. All the demons are under the strict rule of some dude called The Immortal, and every time I come across one, they just run away. What happened to, ‘See Slayer, Kill Slayer’ ?

I know I could count on you for a good fight if you were here. BTW, still not feeling any better. I don’t think this is working.

Spike,

Angel called today, to ‘check in’. Like I am his little sister or something. What did I ever see in him? I so wish you could answer, because you’d have some great cynical comment to make. I’m not that original. He seemed a little weird, and kept covering the phone to yell at someone. I think Giles may be right about that Woflam and Heart, or whatever, is getting to him. I wish I had an excuse to go to LA, get out of Europe. Even if it is to save Angel’s ass. As bad as it sounds, I can’t lose him too.

I’m not saying that I willingly lost you, but I can’t have both the men I have loved go and die on me. Ha. Look at that. I wrote it. It took me years to say it, and I just wrote it without thinking. I know you believed me, I have think that. You were just being a jackass, that’s what you do.... did.

Dawn says I’m procrastinating and not dealing with ‘our’ issues. I think she’s been reading my journal. I don’t know what she expects me to say. I’m not ready to think about what I did to you. I can’t forgive you, I can’t forgive myself. Because then I’d really have to let you go.


Dear Spike,

Today was bad. Angel Fed-Ex’d some stuff over they dug up out of the crater formerly known as Sunnydale. I think he thought that I’d get down and kiss his feet for going through all that disaster to find my house.

There were a couple burnt pictures of Mom, Dawn, and me. Then there was a picture of you, and for some reason he threw in one of your old black t-shirts. I don’t get him at all. I would have thought he would have torched them.

The shirt still smells like you, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wash it. And, I didn’t know we even had any pictures of you. Andrew keeps trying to get me to watch the video he made, but I can’t. I started to once, and then I broke down in sobs. I felt like such an idiot. I didn’t treat you like I cared, I never told you, and now that you’re gone I’m doing this self-pity crap. Like, me missing you is more important than anything, when I treated you like dirt when you were alive.

See, I think I’m making progress. At least I know I’m a self-righteous bitch.




Spike set the journal down, his fingers shaking. He remembered when Angel had sent the stuff to Buffy. He had thrown in the picture of him, and the t-shirt hoping she wouldn’t just toss it out. He was astounded that seeing those things made her cry, and he felt like a right git. He’d made her cry, again.



Dear Spike,

So I’m dating this Immortal dude, Juan. Ha. Right. Giles “ordered” me to get close to him, take him out, get information, whatever. The guy has a huge stick up his ass. He thinks he’s so perfect. I have to hold back the vomit when he touches me.

I don’t know how long I can keep this up. I’m not ready to date, not even if it isn’t ‘real’. I haven’t had a boyfriend in like 3 years. You don’t count. We never dated, we both know it. I’m kind of sorry for it now.

Look at me baring my soul. Might as well do it right then. I love you, I loved you when you were alive, before you got your soul, but I was too chicken to tell you. I kept telling myself it was wrong, that you were wrong, but it was me that was wrong. You were a good man before you got your soul, and everything that we did to each other was just part of the love-hate thing we had. We had passion, which is more than I can say for Angel or Riley. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry, for the way I treated you. I don’t blame you for anything. Hell, you saved us all, you saved me.

Thank you.

Spike,

I dreamt about you last night. You and Angel were together, fighting over something, a cup. Then at the end of the dream, before I woke up, you looked right at me and said, “It’s not the end.”

What does that mean? I don’t usually have slayer dreams of the past, but I guess there is a first time for everything. For a small minute I thought, maybe he’s alive. But that’s ridiculous isn’t it? I know, with all my soul, that if you were alive, you’d come to me. Shit, it’d probably be the first thing you do. See, I’m still conceited.

Why do I have to have the Angel/Spike dreams? Why can’t I have the Spike/Buffy dreams, with the naked sex? I guess this really does help, cause I just wrote that, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Why didn’t we sleep together before the end Spike? Was it because I was scared? Or, you didn’t want me? That’s stupid, you always wanted me. Maybe, you finally believed me after all those times I said you weren’t good enough? What a bitch I was. I remember lying in your arms on that lumpy cot thinking, “Just turn around, and kiss him.”

I guess I thought that you would think I was just using you again. You probably would have let it happen too. But, at that point you were better than me, stronger. Your soul was so much brighter than mine, and I saw it. I was scared that I would fall and never to be able to get back.

I want to fall. Now I want to jump, and you are gone. I miss you so much.

PS

Does this mean I’m cured?





The plane jolted again, and Spike closed the journal. He nearly bounced out of his seat, as the plane skidded onto the runway. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, grabbed a mini bottle of vodka, and downed it one gulp.

She loved him. She missed him.

He couldn’t wrap his head around it. In his perfect world, Buffy was as much in love with him as he was with her and she didn’t want to hide it. She wanted to be with him. Reading the journal, almost made him believe it was possible.

He had his doubts that if he walked back into her life she would run into his arms and tell him she loved him. He was being realistic. She wrote these things because he was gone, and therefore couldn’t do them.

And Angel, the wanker. He’d read the journal, and instead of sending it back to Buffy he’d given it to. He bloody well couldn’t figure out why Peaches would ever do something like that for him. Stranger things had never happened.

The pilot came out of the cockpit and opened the door to the plane, the smells of Rome filtering in. Walking down the steps and out of the plane, he clutched Buffy’s journal to his chest.

*Make a decision you git*

He stood, letting the cool night breeze massage his skin. He saw the car, the black town car waiting for him. And he knew.

It was now, or never.





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