She was so fragile, Spike thought, beneath all that strength and power. Even on her deathbed, she wasn’t weak. But she was still fragile.
He hadn’t seen her in so long, staying away because he believed – truly believed – that there was nothing he could give her. And now his soul howled inside that he’d missed her life. Missed all their lives – in the in-between years, he’d heard of the deaths. First it had been Giles, then Xander. Willow followed shortly after, leaving only the two Summers girls. Only by then, they hadn’t been girls, but old women.
Dawn’s death had been the only one he’d cried over. The little bit, whom he’d cared for that one summer, had always lived in his heart if only for the reason that she was part of Buffy. But even then he’d staid away, heard of the funeral later from Angel who’d had the strength to be there and comfort Buffy.
She doesn’t have long, he’d told Spike later. She was aging and growing weaker with every death. And Dawn’s had hit her the hardest, he said. Dawn had been her reason for living.
Buffy had never married, despite what Spike wished for her. She’d had a fling with the Immortal years and years ago, and it had left her without the strength to love again. Spike would have liked to think he’d broken her for other men, that none could compare to the love he’d offered her. Only when it became true did he realize his error; in his selfish possession of her, he’d consigned her to a life of loneliness.
He approached the bed quietly, watching her sleep. Her heart wasn’t as strong as it used to be, faltering every few beats before picking back up. Her breathing was shallow, hard to listen to when he knew how full of life she’d been before. As he sunk into the chair her eyes flickered open, settled on him.
“Spike?” God, she was still gorgeous. He face wasn’t so smooth and full as it used to be, but it hadn’t lost its inherent prettiness, either. Her hair was a soft yellow, silkier in her old age. A lump had formed in his throat, and he could feel the tears welling as he reached for her hand. “You came.”
“That I did, pet,” he whispered, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes.
“I’ve missed you.” Her voice was so weak, but when she grasped his hand he could still feel the Slayer power there.
“Missed you more,” he whispered. She closed her eyes and smiled, and he froze, thinking that if she went now he’d break down into dust and tears.
“Can’t believe you staid away so long,” she whispered, opening her eyes again to fix him with a piercing stare. “You never were good for disappearing long.”
“Couldn’t be such a bloody thorn in your side anymore.”
Her face grew sorrowful, and she batted his hand weakly.
“You can be so stupid, still,” she heaved a breath, continued. “But I’m glad you came.”
“Couldn’t miss it.”
“I suppose I’ll be with them again; with my mom and my friends.”
“Yeah, pet, s’pose you will.” He struggled for unneeded breath now, hunched over her bedside with her frail little hand and clasped between his.
“Will you stay with me, Spike? Until it’s time to go?”
“However long you like, pet.”
She passed sometime in the night, while he watched over her. He’d crawled into the bed at her insistence, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her hair. She still smelt like Buffy, still infused him with her warmth. And when her heart finally stilled, he lay until she turned cold, his tears soaking her hair.
The following day passed in a haze. A swarm of relatives had descended upon the house; children and grand-children and great-grand-children of the original Scoobies all crying and rending their garments over poor Aunt Buffy, who’d watched over the growing families and never had one of her own. She’d been a hundred years old when she finally passed, too tired of living, they said. Too full of sadness and longing for those who had passed before her.
They held the funeral at night – it was Buffy’s favorite time, they said. She would sit out on the porch swing and rock herself with her toe and tell stories to the younger children about her days as a vampire slayer.
He felt as if he should be connecting with these people, Dawn’s offspring and Buffy’s nieces and nephews. But instead he hung back, watched them cry and laugh and joke and share stories about Buffy Summers. He was the last to place his white rose on the coffin, offered to him by one of the younger children with Dawn’s eyes and Joyce’s smile. He was the last left at the gravesite, crouched before the marble headstone and tracing his finger over and over and over her name.
He could hear her voice, when he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cold slab. Could see her eyes dancing with so much life, her laughter ringing high and clear in his ears. As the sky pinkened, he felt her softly brush his arm as her spirit rose up around him.
“Will you stay with me, Spike? Until it’s time to go?”
“However long you like, pet.”
“Good. I can’t stand to be alone anymore.”
“Me either, luv.”
“Do you know I love you? I don’t want to go without knowing you know it.”
“Always was an eloquent one, Slayer.”
“Do you, though?”
“I do. An’ I love you too, Buffy. Never have been able to stop.”
“I’ll wait for you, y’know. I know you’ll be there with me one day.”
“Will I?”
“You will. And we’ll be together forever.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
When the sun came up, it didn’t hurt. He could feel her all around him, tugging him up into the abyss with him, whispering I love you’s in his ear. He felt warm and full and loved for what seemed like the first time in too, too long.
And then he crumbled to ash and was no more – he never was anything but hers.