The last name on Spike's list belonged to Oliver Locksley, aged thirty-six; Antigone Esquillera's watcher. It had taken a few days to travel from London to Rome by car, then train. Nigel had programmed Locksley's street address into his phone. When Spike finally located Locksley's apartment, the Watcher's landlord said Oliver and his wife, Antigone, had left in a hurry.
“I don't think they're really married. Those other guys in the council would've been all over it if they had,” Buffy said.
Spike didn't need to close his eyes to hear Buffy's voice anymore. He liked that in one regard, in another, it was disorienting to hear her and not be able to see her. Neither of them talked about the fact that they were finally in Italy, just like her dreams, because the situation was so much a nightmare.
“Too right, love, so what do you suggest. Don't say a trip to the beach,” Spike thought.
“Ha, ha.”
Spike thralled the landlord and had a look at the abandoned objects still littering the room. There were a few newspapers discarded on the carpet and some very old food in the fridge. The sheets hadn't been changed and Spike could definitely pick out the scent of sex. In the bathroom there was a half a bottle of girly shampoo and a black bobby pin in the sink. That was all.
He sat on the floor beside the toilet and closed his eyes. Buffy was kneeling next to him. The gashes on her shoulder kept appearing and then vanishing, flickering like a television channel with bad reception.
“He can't do anything without the council, Spike.”
“He has her. He can keep using her to whatever end he sees fit.”
“They're lovers, maybe he's not using her at all,” Buffy said.
“You don't believe that.”
She touched his face, fingers trickling like cold water.
“Can we rest, Spike? I just want to rest.”
He leaned into her cold hand. Blood was oozing down the side of her face, just as it had the last seconds of her life. Spike opened his eyes, panting with useless breath.
***
It took three days of playing cub reporter before he found out where the slayer and her Watcher had run. He'd been sitting at a bar in Vatican City that catered to demons, when a chatty Lament demon responded to his questions and calculated flirting. The friendly demon had spilled her guts after a few glasses of Limoncello and seemed disappointed when Spike didn't offer to take other types of liberties due to her inebriated state. Lament demons looked human except for the long, blue tail and the incredible super strength. She said that Locksley had paid off a tribe of them to keep the vampire population under control and being that Lament demons saw themselves as more human than demon, they readily agreed.
She also told Spike that Locksley was hiding in a convent in rural Italy.
Three more days were spent driving through the Italian countryside at night. Buffy's voice was with him all the time, but her image was fading. He couldn't seem to concentrate on keeping her form pristine. She would lie with him covered in blood, glassy eyed, like the last time he held her. When she spoke, her lips didn't move. It was like she was dying all over again.
When he reached his destination, Spike abandoned the car and hiked up the rugged hill toward the monastery. The impressive stone structure dated back to the fifteen hundreds and was built into a rock face overlooking a lush valley in Abruzzo. Spike figured Locksley had donned a cowl and was mingling with the Franciscans, hoping to remain undetected.
All were welcome into the chapel attached to the monastery, being that it was a house of God, so Spike did not need an invitation to enter the holy space. Spike walked through the Gothic splendor of the sanctuary. As he passed by the crucifixes etched at intervals along the wall, Spike brushed his fingertips against them. They singed the skin and by the time he reached the altar, his fingers were smoking. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew that, but he needed the reminder of what he was in order to complete his task.
Spike had come to the conclusion that he would have to slaughter all the monks in order to get to Locksley. Spike saw no other way seeing as they'd stumble upon him when they came to say their vespers at dawn. Spike laid down on the altar for a bit of kip and to say goodbye to his wife. When he closed his eyes, Buffy was sitting in the corner of the room, facing the wall. She didn't stir in response to his presence.
“Not even a fight then, love?” Spike asked. He walked over to her and squatted beside her. Spike touched her bloody, ragged shoulder and then pulled her into his arms.
She didn't push him away when he kissed her, nor did she return the embrace. She just laid against him, limply, with no expression on her face.
It occurred to Spike that nothing in life had broken Buffy, not being stripped of all the people she loved, not being betrayed by those sworn to protect her, not even having her identity taken away and living like specter. Nothing could break her except for him. The man who loved her most was the one who was finally able to crush Buffy Summers.
The realization gutted him.
Spike looked at her for a moment.
“Maybe we should just go watch the sunrise instead, Toy. What do you say to that?” Spike asked. She turned to look up at him and slowly smiled.
***
Tara watched Billy carrying Buffy up the jagged cliff. Her brother set his wife on the flat roof of an old building that was the color of polenta and then sat beside her, pulling Buffy's lifeless form into his lap. As the sky began to lighten his skin got hot. As the sun rose, gradually blotting out all the feathery pink streaks in the heavens with solid blue, Billy's skin smoked, then bubbled. In the last moments before he burst into flames, he whispered:
“I'm sorry and I love you, Tara.”
Tara woke up with a scream wedged in her throat, knowing her brother was dead.
She rolled out of the lonely twin bed in her friends' guest bedroom. Tears clouded her eyes as she maneuvered in the dark. It was almost five in the morning and she didn't want to wake up her hosts, but she couldn't sleep any longer. Tara decided to go downstairs to make a cup of tea.
She was staying with her friends, Gwen and Gwen's husband Rhys, in Cardiff. Tara couldn't stay in the States after Buffy's death. She had been over on a student visa that had long expired. Besides, everything held bitter memories of Tara's loss. Part of her had hoped if she went to stay in England, Billy might find her.
That hadn't happened, though, and now it never would.
Gwen had been trying to help her adjust and had suggested Tara apply at the place where she worked. It sounded like an interesting job, but Tara wanted to go back to school. Oz had given her a rather large check before she left, so there was no rush. In fact, she could afford a place, but Tara didn't want to be on her own just yet. Things weren't close to normal, but they hadn't been in years, had they? The only sense of Billy she had were the nightmares, made worse because she knew they were real.
Tara put the cheery, red kettle on the stove and took out a yellow polka-dotted mug from the cupboard. She took the tin of tea up from the counter, fished out a bag of chamomile and stuck it in her cup. She sat down at the round kitchen table and held herself as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her throat was burning and her nose was smothered in snot. She looked at her reflection in the dark window; with her silver hair and her light, blue robe, Tara thought she looked like a ghost.
Rhys shuffled into the room. He was a sweet fellow with big, brown eyes and curly hair; soft around the middle in a way that was good for hugging.
“Saw the light on, sweetheart. You have another nightmare?” Rhys asked, opening the white refrigerator and rooting around like a sleepy bear.
“Billy's dead,” Tara said.
Rhys abandoned his search and stood up, a serious expression on his unsmiling face.
“I'm so sorry, love. I didn't hear the phone ring or anything. How did it happen?”
“Fire. He was in Italy,” Tara said, suddenly knowing the second part was true.
Rhys walked over and knelt beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder.
“Poor, poor dear,” Rhys said.
He held her like that, patting her back until the kettle began to whistle.
“Come on, let's get you a cup of tea,” Rhys said.
Tara nodded and he stood, pouring the steaming water into the cup she'd prepared.
“That's dreadful,” Rhys said, then he nodded wisely, “at least you know he's in a better place now.”
He handed her the drink.
Tara thought on that for a moment, watching the steam rise from the surface of her tea. She seemed to drift away and then a smile lit her face, turning her expression beatific.
“Yeah, he really is,” Tara said.
The End.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is the end! Thanks so much for sticking with this story, the most difficult one I've ever written. Please let me know what you think, if the ending was worth the wait!
Chapter End Notes:
Are Rhys and Gwen the same Rhys and Gwen from "Torchwood?" Do you believe in reincarnation?
Is it wrong to use that line from "Beneath You?"
All will be answered if you ask, in the comments...
Is it wrong to use that line from "Beneath You?"
All will be answered if you ask, in the comments...