Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spike’s anguished, tearful, sobs shattered the silence around them, a raw and broken soundtrack to the grief they were all experiencing at the same exact moment. One arm clutched his shattered ribs, the other swiping at his bloodied face, as if wiping away his painful tears could make them stop. The night air pressed against him, thick with the acrid scent of burning debris and something worse—failure—they had all failed.

Xander’s gaze momentarily landed on the vampire, and his haunted face struck him, an expression of raw agony like his entire world had just ended that night—and perhaps—no, for sure, it had, for them all. This was it—ground zero. The moment everything fell apart, and shit got incredibly and irreparably real.

They watched as the vampire stumbled closer, his body battered and bruised from being thrown off the tower—how he was still able to stand at all after taking that fall was a wonder to them all. His knees hit the pavement with a sickening thud, sending pain through his bones that he barely registered as he knelt beside the fallen Slayer.

Buffy lay still and limp, her eyes closed. The fight was gone from her—her spirit was already somewhere far beyond this world, and as a result, far beyond them now. 

Dawn stood frozen, her eyes locked on her sister’s still form, trying to make sense of what had just happened, with the same words echoed over and over in her head:  Be brave. Live… for me.

Living without her felt impossible. Dawn was stuck in a loop, replaying the moment Buffy jumped—over and over again in her head. 

Her nails dug into her arms, leaving red crescents in her skin—the only thing keeping her tethered to reality as she kept waiting for Buffy to wake up. For the universe to realize its egregious mistake and send her back.

But it didn’t.

Once a symbol of impending doom, the makeshift tower now cast long shadows over their desolation and despair. Buffy’s sacrifice had been absolute and final. She’d jumped without hesitation, straight into the heart of the portal—to save Dawn, to save the world.

Was this always going to be the outcome? Could they have done something to prevent it?

Giles's mind raced as he attempted to process the hard reality they faced—a life without Buffy. In his darkest thoughts, he had always imagined Dawn being the one sacrificed for the greater good, not his Slayer. The weight of this burden weighed heavily on his heart and soul. He couldn't help but feel a tinge of resentment towards the innocent girl who had lived when the beacon of goodness that was Buffy had perished in her place. Dawn was not worthy of such a sacrifice, nor was the world if he was being honest, he thought to himself as he scanned the area for anyone who might stumble upon the scene. 

The others—Willow, Tara, Xander, and Anya—stood as if rooted to the spot, their expressions all frozen in shock. Willow clutched Tara’s hand so tightly her knuckles whitened while Xander dragged a trembling hand down his face, smearing sweat, grime, and tears. Even Anya, usually sharp-tongued at any given time, stood mute, her wide eyes darting to each face, searching for someone to say something, anything, to make this better. It was all too much to bear for any one of them.

No incantations, no spells, no amount of research in Giles’ musty books could undo this finality. CPR wouldn’t help this time—not that anyone thought it would do anything at this point. Not after the fall from the tower…. 

No one could stop the portal from taking her, just as no one could stop her body from shattering when she fell. Xander shuddered when he wondered if she felt her body colliding with the earth or if she was taken by the force of the portal’s energy alone. 

I can fix this , Willow thought stubbornly for a brief moment. She knew she could do it. The witch could feel the magic speaking to her, telling her she was strong enough, powerful enough. But her grief dampened the thought, and she tucked it away for later, for when she could think straight. 

“Come on,” Xander finally murmured after several long moments of staring at her lifeless body, his voice brittle and strained under the weight of despair. He stooped, gently lifting Buffy’s body into his arms. “We can’t stay here.”

As they suddenly woke up from their shock and finally turned to leave, Dawn’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding despite the tears streaking her face. “Help him,” she ordered, her gaze fixed on Spike. “We’re not leaving Spike behind.”

Hesitation flickered momentarily among the group, but it was quashed under the fierce glare of a young girl who had already lost too much and wasn’t taking no for an answer. 

Giles was the one to reluctantly move to Spike’s side and offer his shoulder for support. “Come on then,” he urged, his voice low and clipped, betraying no sign of the unease tightening his chest.

“Don’t need your bloody help,” Spike rasped, even as he leaned heavily against Giles, every step sending echoes of pain through his broken body. 

Together, they made their way to the Summers’ house, a somber procession carrying the body of their fallen hero. Not a word was spoken, not a dry eye among them, as they walked the long way there in silence. 

Xander still felt the lingering warmth of her body as he held her, the heat fading with every passing second. Some desperate, perhaps, foolish part of him wondered if she was just asleep, if she might wake up despite the awful stillness of her form and the silence where her breath should be.  A fool’s hope , he thought bitterly.  Always the fucking fool…

In the dim glow of the dining room, Buffy was gently laid upon the table, her body resting in the very space where life had once been so ordinary—where meals were shared, laughter had filled the air, and now, only dreadful, painful silence remained. She looked almost ethereal in the faint light, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders like a halo, like she was an angel. Even in death, her sun-kissed skin retained a trace of life, a cruel illusion.

No one spoke. The room itself seemed to hold its breath while they all hesitated on what to do next.

Tara swallowed hard, her heart aching as she stepped away. In the hallway, she opened the linen closet, fingers brushing over neatly folded sheets before settling on the softest white one she could find that would work to cover her. 

Returning to Buffy’s side, she unfolded the sheet with trembling hands. With a gentleness that made her chest ache, she draped it over her friend’s body. The moment the fabric settled, her composure cracked.

Her tears came silently, falling in endless streams as she clutched the edges of the sheet, as if smoothing it could undo the truth beneath it before she eventually stepped away back to Willow. 

They stood suspended in time for several moments until Giles’ voice broke through the stillness. “We’ll need to make… arrangements,” he said heavily. “For the body.”

The body? He can’t be serious. 

“She’s not just a body!” Dawn’s voice cracked as she screamed, stepping in front of her sister protectively. “Buffy’s barely… she’s barely even cold! And you’re already talking about her like she’s… just a  thing  to get rid of!”

Spike slumped against the wall at the mention of what they were going to do with her corpse, looking on with vacant eyes. His soul may have been non-existent, but his heart had been irrevocably pierced. The fight seemed to have left his body the moment it left Buffy’s. Silent tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision as he refused to wipe them away—he didn’t want to see anyways. He couldn’t be in this moment. He couldn’t pay attention to the conversation about what to do with the body of the woman whom he loved most desperately. 

Tara placed a tentative hand on Dawn’s shoulder. “Dawnie… Giles di-didn’t mean…” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue. “She’s still Buffy. But we can’t leave her here for too long. You know that.”

Dawn was silent as she stared at the sheet. She couldn't bear to think that they were discussing this already, that they were giving up hope so soon. What if there was still a chance for Buffy to wake up? A glimmer of frantic hope flickered in Dawn's heart as she clung to the possibility, unwilling to let it slip away just yet.

“Do you know what she would have wanted?” Willow asked softly, her eyes red and her tone careful.

“Get away from her!” Dawn demanded, her small frame vibrating with desperation and anger.

The adults, save for Spike, tensed and then backed away, retreating quietly outside to discuss what to do with Buffy’s body without alerting the world to the loss of its protector. 

Inside, Dawn remained, her tears falling freely as the awful realization crashed over her. Her mother was gone. Her sister, her protector, her hero— gone .  Everyone was gone .

Her sobs shattered the silence, a keening sound of utter devastation as she slumped forward, resting her face on Buffy's stomach over the sheet.

“I’m alone,” she gasped through tears. “I have no one left. She was all I had, and now she’s just… gone !”

Spike stirred then, the instinct to care for the Bit overriding his stupor. His hands trembled as he braced himself against the wall, teeth gritted against the stabbing pain in his ribs. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, each step toward Dawn like walking through broken glass. When he reached her, he hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering awkwardly, before finally pulling her close and enveloping her in his arms. Her sobs shook his chest, the vibrations sending fresh spikes of agony through his body, but he didn’t let go, he just held her tighter. 

“You’re not alone, Niblet,” he whispered fiercely after a few minutes of consoling her. “Still got me, ‘aven’t you?” Spike’s arms held her protectively while his own grief clawed at him. But he shoved it down, locking it away. The girl needed strength, not more tears.

“Are you going to leave me too?” she asked, her voice a cracked whisper among tears. “Everyone leaves… everyone dies.”

“Vampire here, remember?” Spike leaned back a little to look at her and managed a ghost of a smile. “Got years on me yet. ‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

For a long while, he held her, rocking her gently until her sobs began to subside. Then he cupped her face in his hands, wiping her tears away with his thumbs.

"Go outside," she urged, her voice still shaky but determined. "You should be part of the  grown-up  conversation about Buffy…I'm just a kid to them. They'll listen to you."

Spike hesitated. “Not sure I’ve got anythin’ worth sayin’.”

“Please, Spike,” Dawn whispered.

With a reluctant nod, Spike pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He glanced at Buffy’s covered form for a long moment, his stomach turning in painful knots, then shifted and walked outside, plastering on a brave face to deal with the humans.

The cool night air wrapped around Spike as he stepped outside, joining the others. Their muted voices drifted through the yard, low and cautious. Giles was the first to notice him, pausing mid-sentence before continuing on.

“We can’t report this,” Giles said again, his tone tight. “If word gets out that the Hellmouth is unguarded, it will draw every manner of evil to Sunnydale. And with Faith in prison—”

“There’s also Dawn,” Willow added, twisting her hands anxiously. “If Buffy’s death goes on record, Dawn becomes a ward of the state. They’ll take her away.”

Xander paced in agitation, his hands gripping the back of his neck. “So what’s the solution? We just bury Buffy in the backyard and hope no one notices? The town needs the Slayer.”

“And Dawn needs family,” Spike growled, his voice sharp and cutting through the group’s hesitations like a blade. He leaned heavily against the porch railing, his body screaming in protest. “The Slayer’s gone, but that doesn’t mean we toss the Bit to the wolves.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Even Xander, despite his typical disdain for the vampire, paused, seeming to weigh Spike’s words.

"The solution seems obvious, don’t it? Red fixes up the Buffybot. She patrols to keep up appearances," Spike continued, his voice steady despite the pain lacing every word. "We give the real Buffy a proper burial, and Dawn gets to stay right where she belongs. Safe with us."

“ Us ?” Xander asked him with a scrutinizing glare.

“Made a promise…” Spike started, choking back a sob at the words. “I’ll dust before I let anything happen to Dawn…Won’t fail  her  again. So yeah, with  us .” 

Spike fiercely glared back at Xander, and to the whelp’s credit, he backed down once he realized that Spike was being sincere. 

“I believe Spike may be right. The robot may be our only way to keep control of the Hellmouth,” Giles agreed as he cleaned his glasses. 

Willow’s head shot up at the mention of the Buffybot. “I—I think I can repair it,” she stammered, her brow furrowed. “But it’ll take time. It was pretty badly damaged.”

“We don’t have much time,” Giles said gravely. “If we delay too long, questions will be asked, and Dawn’s situation will be precarious at best.”

Xander finally stopped pacing, his face pale and drawn. “So we’re actually going with this plan? We bury Buffy quietly, fix the bot to set it up in her place, and… and pretend everything’s fine?”

An uneasy silence followed. Spike glanced around the group, his jaw tight. “Nothin’’s ever gonna be  fine  again, innit? But she made her choice. Gave her life for the girl… Least we can do is respect that—keep Dawn safe and give her as normal a life as we can bloody well manage.”

Giles furrowed his brows as he considered Spike’s statement and his desire to help the young girl despite the object of his infatuation now dead. The vampire was an odd being that he would never quite figure out. However, considering the fact that they were down the one true warrior of the group, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in its fangs. 

He needed the help—they all did. 

Willow and Tara exchanged a look, and then Willow nodded. “Okay. Tara and I can start working on the bot tonight. We’ll go get her now.”

“I will handle the arrangements for Buffy’s private burial,” Giles added. “There is a demon-run establishment that handles these matters discreetly. It’s the best option.”

“I know the owner, so I can probably get us a discount,” Anya offered, and Giles gave her an appreciative nod. 

"Angel should be there," Willow added softly, and the humans nodded in reluctant agreement. “I’ll, um, call him.” 

At the mention of his old adversary's name, Spike's lip curled in disdain, but he held his tongue. This wasn't about him, or Angel, or any past grudges. It was about honoring Buffy and protecting Dawn. He’d just have to begrudgingly bear his presence when the git showed up. 

As the group began to disperse, each retreating to their tasks, Spike lingered on the porch, staring blankly out into the night. Xander hesitated before stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

After a tense silence, Xander spoke, his voice subdued. “I never thought I’d see the day. Buffy was… She always seemed kind of invincible, you know? Like she’d always be here… no matter what came.”

Spike swallowed hard, his throat tight around the lump that had formed, but he said nothing.

“You really loved her, didn’t you?” Xander’s voice was low, almost tentative.

Spike didn’t look at him. “What’s it to you?”

Xander sighed, his gaze dropping. “I saw your face when you realized that she was…gone. It was like… it was like your heart had been torn out.”

For a fleeting moment, Spike pictured just that—his heart ripped from his chest, the sweet release of death by dusting taking him away, sparing him the torment of unliving in this world without her. The idea was tempting, achingly so, but he couldn’t do that to Dawn, not after the promise he’d made to the girl.

Have to keep at least one bloody promise in this wretched excuse for a life.

“Don’t need your pity, Harris.”

“It’s not pity,” Xander said softly. “Just… an observation.”

For a moment, an uneasy truce hung between them like a fragile thread. Then Spike pushed off the railing, limping toward the door. “The girl needs someone solid to hold on to, someone strong. With Buffy…gone.” His voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat before finishing. “Guess that’s me now.”

Spike stopped momentarily before stepping inside and glanced back at Xander. “We may not be mates, but we all care about Dawn. Got to stay strong for her, yeah? Make sure what the Slayer did wasn’t...That it meant somethin’.”

Xander watched him go, the weight of their shared loss hanging heavily in the air. For the first time, he didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The dreaded day had come swiftly, almost too swiftly. The humans had thrown themselves into action, working as a team to prepare for the Slayer’s burial, moving with a kind of desperate efficiency that surprised him. He figured that for them, being productive was better than grieving. 

If only it worked for him.

Barely forty-eight hours had passed since her death, and already they’d arranged everything. None of them had slept much—Red least of all—working tirelessly to get the bot up and running, tweaking its programming to make her as human and Buffy-like as possible. Giles, meanwhile, had taken charge of the arrangements: the casket, the headstone, and even finding a remote corner of Restfield for her final resting place. He’d greased the necessary palms to ensure it was all done quietly, quickly, and well under the table.

Spike had preoccupied himself with taking care of the Bit. Making sure she ate, showered, slept, and cracked a smile every so often. During the day, he played undead caregiver, and at night, he wept into his cot in the basement that Dawn insisted he inhabit for the time being. He couldn’t bear to disappoint the girl, not with the funeral fast approaching, but being in that house was a sensory nightmare. Buffy’s scent was everywhere, lingering in the air and tricking him into thinking she was still alive. It was wretched, but he would endure it to make sure the girl felt safe. 

There were no ancient all-powerful gods after Dawn anymore, but she still lived in Sunnydale, where evil coalesced, and the Bit had had a knack for walking into trouble. It made some sense for him to stay there and to continue to look after her. Xander and Giles appeared visibly uneasy about him staying in the house, but Glinda, the good witch of the bunch, offered to share Joyce’s old room with Willow since they were practically living there anyway. That seemed to calm the two sods’ concerns, and the subject wasn’t brought up again. 

Tara, bless her, even stocked the fridge with blood. That had been unexpected. He couldn’t tell if it was out of pity or if her years of thinking she was part demon made her soft toward his kind. Either way, it was a kindness he hadn’t anticipated. He thanked her as much as his pride allowed, which wasn’t much, but she seemed to understand.

Now, as the day crept closer to the hour of finality, Spike found himself restless. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that weighed heavy, like the stillness before a storm. He knew the humans were doing their level best to keep it together, for Dawn’s sake, as much as their own. But the cracks were there, just under the surface, ready to splinter under the weight of grief.

They’d all agreed to hold the funeral in the evening. Dawn had insisted Spike be able to attend, and no one had the heart—or the energy—to argue with her. Willow had casually mentioned as well that his twat of a grandsire planned to make an appearance, much to Spike’s chagrin. He’d been tempted to argue that Angel had no right to swoop in for the grand finale after being absent through the worst of it, but he bit his tongue. It wasn’t about him. Not today.

Giles had taken it upon himself to prepare words to say over her grave. There would be no minister, no official ceremony. Technically, Buffy hadn’t “died”—at least not in any way the world could acknowledge. Spike supposed the watcher’s effort was better than nothing, though he doubted any words could do justice to the Slayer they were putting in the ground.

Red and the Whelp had decided to say something too, each rehearsing little speeches to themselves, trying to honor Buffy’s legacy. But, of course, no one had asked Spike if he wanted to speak. Not that he expected them to. They probably assumed he’d make a spectacle of himself, spout something inappropriate, or use it as an excuse to pick a fight with Angel.

They weren’t entirely wrong.

He had plenty of words prepared, all right, though none he wanted the lot of them to hear. Words like: She was the love of my sodding life, or, You lot never deserved her.

But what good would it do? Telling them how she made him feel alive, even when he wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all? How her smile, of course never directed at him, had been like sunlight, searing him to his core in the best possible way? No, those words were his, and his alone.

Instead, he’d chosen a poem. Something somber, something that wouldn’t give away too much, but might say a little of what he couldn’t. He’d stumbled across it once in one of Giles’ old books he had nicked when he lived with him briefly. It had stuck with him then, and now, it felt like the words belonged to her.

Spike rolled the paper between his fingers after he had briefly scarpered the previous night to retrieve the book he’d torn it from, the edges crinkled from where he’d clutched it too tightly. He could hear the others moving about upstairs, their hushed voices and heavy footsteps a reminder that time was slipping away—the funeral fast approaching.

He went outside and shoved the paper into his coat pocket, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. He let the smoke fill his lungs and held it there for a long moment before exhaling, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. He didn’t know if she’d hear him when he read it. Didn’t know if she’d even care. But the thought that she might—that somewhere, Buffy Summers might be listening—was enough to keep him steady.

“Here’s to you, Slayer,” he murmured, flicking the cigarette into the dirt. “One last bloody goodbye.”

***

Spike watched as Giles cleared his throat and clutched the neat pages of paper where he had written what he was going to say before they buried the body of the woman he adored and would never see again. Spike could tell he was having a difficult time starting, the facade of strength wavering in front of the humans as they looked to him to lead the funeral. 

They all stood around in front of Buffy’s casket wearing black, no one having the foresight to bring chairs for them to sit. The witches both held onto Dawn, who was crying silently as she stared at the casket. They hadn’t invited anyone who hadn’t been there that night she died besides Angel, who, of course, was late. Couldn’t show up for Buffy in life, and not even in death could he manage to show up on bloody time. 

The watcher eventually got himself together and began his speech.

"Buffy Anne Summers was an extraordinary young woman," Giles began, his voice trembling slightly. "She was called as the Slayer at the tender age of fifteen, a burden few could bear with such grace and courage. For years, she stood as the guardian of the Hellmouth, protecting not only Sunnydale, but the world, from the forces of darkness."

He paused, removing his glasses to wipe at his misty eyes. "But Buffy was more than just the Slayer. She was a devoted friend, a loving sister, and a daughter who brought joy to all who knew her. Her strength of character, her unwavering loyalty, and her capacity for love were unmatched."

Dawn's quiet sobs punctuated Giles' words, and Tara pulled her closer, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

"In the end," Giles continued, his voice thick with emotion, "Buffy made the ultimate sacrifice. She gave her life to save the world, to save her sister. That selfless act epitomized who she was—a true hero, in every sense of the word."

Giles took a shaky breath and replaced his glasses, his hands trembling as he gripped the edges of the paper. “Her loss is immeasurable, and her absence will be felt in ways we cannot yet comprehend. But as we lay her to rest, we must remember the light she brought to our lives. Buffy taught us that even in the darkest of times, there is hope, there is strength, and there is love…” He added in a near whisper before he finished, “I will miss you immensely, my dear girl.”

He stepped back, folding the paper with care before tucking it into his coat pocket. For a moment, no one moved. The silence was heavy, filled only by the sound of quiet sobs.

Willow was the next to step forward, her face pale but determined. “Buffy… she was my best friend,” she began, her voice trembling. “When I met her, I was just this awkward, nerdy girl who didn’t think I could ever be anything special. But Buffy… she saw something in me. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” Her voice cracked, and she paused, blinking rapidly as tears spilled down her cheeks.

“She saved me in more ways than one,” Willow continued, her voice breaking. “And she saved all of us.” She pressed her trembling lips together and stepped back, burying her face in Tara’s shoulder as she quietly wept.

Xander cleared his throat and moved forward, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Buffy… she was the strongest person I’ve ever known. And not just physically, though yeah, she could totally kick my ass without breaking a sweat. She was strong here.” He tapped his chest. “In her heart. She always had the courage to do what was right, even when it was the hardest thing in the world.”

He looked down at the casket, his face tightening. “She was our friend. Our hero. And I…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “I miss her. I miss her so much.” Xander quickly stepped back, his head bowed, and Anya quietly slipped her hand into his.

Finally, Spike stepped forward. The humans turned to watch him, some of their expressions one of surprise or trepidation. He ignored them all, his focus fixed entirely on the casket before him.

For a long moment, he said nothing, simply standing there with his head bowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “Borrowed some words from Oscar Wilde,” he began, earning startled glances from the others. “Didn’t trust my own to do her justice.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the casket. “Not sure she’d even want me to speak…” He huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

Dawn stepped forward and gave him an encouraging nudge, her sad little smile piercing through him like a stake. His dead heart clenched as she stepped back, leaving him alone to face the silence.

Spike reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out carefully, his hands trembling slightly, and then he began to read.

“Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.”

His voice faltered on the last line, and he swallowed hard, shoving the paper back into his pocket. For a moment, he just stood there, head bowed. “I don’t have fancy words like the rest of you,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “But she was a hell of a woman. Better than any of us.”

He stepped back, his shoulders stiff, his eyes avoiding the others. Before he could retreat too far, Dawn broke away from Tara and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his waist. He froze for half a beat before wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly as she sobbed into his chest.

The silence stretched out again, heavy with unspoken words. Giles cleared his throat and nodded toward the casket. “It’s time.”

One by one, they stepped forward, each placing a single flower on Buffy’s casket. Dawn lingered the longest, her trembling fingers brushing the polished wood. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered her final goodbyes. When she stepped back, Giles gave a solemn nod to the half-demon funeral director, who began lowering the casket.

The casket descended slowly, the groan of the straps blending with the soft sobs of the mourners. Spike stood frozen, his head bowed, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. He couldn’t bear to look, but Dawn’s shoulders shook in heaving sobs against him, anchoring him to the moment.

When he finally lifted his gaze, it wasn’t Dawn or the Scoobies who caught his eye. It was Angel, leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed, his face carved from stone.

Typical. Always on the periphery, Spike thought bitterly, pretending like he wasn’t choking on his own misery. A sneer tugged at his lips as he turned his attention back to the grave. The only thing worse than being surrounded by people—save for Dawn—who hated him was knowing Angel was here, brooding over Buffy like he had the bloody right to.

Spike’s fingers brushed against the pocket where the poem rested. He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring under his breath so quietly even Dawn couldn’t hear. “Goodbye, Slayer. Rest easy. I’ll take care of her. You’ve got my word.”

The casket settled into the ground, and the half-demon began shoveling earth over it. The finality of the sound hit Spike like a blow, but he stood firm. Dawn needed him. For her, he would stay standing.

***

The humans, all cried out for the evening, had retreated back to the Summers’ house, leaving Spike alone at the grave site. His eyes remained fixed on the mound of freshly turned earth, a stark reminder of the finality of it all. Buffy was gone. Truly gone. And he was left behind, a promise to a dead woman his only tether to this world.

The crunch of footsteps on grass alerted him to Angel’s approach. Spike tensed, his shoulders squaring as if preparing for a fight. He didn’t need this—not tonight. But when Angel came to stand beside him, he said nothing at first, merely staring down at the grave with a guarded expression.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with a shared grief neither wanted to acknowledge. Finally, Angel spoke, his voice low and rough. “I should have been here, done something...”

Spike scoffed, shaking his head as a bitter laugh escaped him. “Bit late for that now, innit? You didn’t seem too fussed about bein’ here when it mattered.”

Angel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I didn’t know,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, as if they cost him something to admit. “If I had…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “If I’d known, I would’ve come.”

Spike turned to him, his eyes flashing with anger. “Right. Because you’ve been so bloody attentive, have you? Girl was facin’ a hell god, and where were you? Off playin’ hero in LA? Weren’t exactly rushin’ to lend a hand, were you?”

Angel’s expression darkened, but his voice remained calm, low, and dangerous. “You don’t get to judge me, Spike. What happened? You fail so many times trying to kill her that you decided to stick around and play champion instead?”

Spike flinched, his shoulders stiffening as the words struck home. Angel’s barb landed too close to the truth. He’d failed to kill her, yes, but that failure was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The idea that she could have ended up in the ground by his hand—his fangs—was a thought too horrific to bear. It twisted in his gut like a knife, and for a moment, he felt sick.

“Yeah, I came here to kill her once upon a time,” Spike said quietly, his voice rough with self-loathing. “Thought I’d make my name as the big bad that took down another Slayer. That was the game, wasn’t it? Vampire versus Slayer. But she wasn’t just a Slayer, was she? She was Buffy…No girl like her in the whole bloody world, and I’d sooner rip out my own heart than hurt her.”

Angel stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he studied Spike’s face. “And what? You loved her? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Spike laughed bitterly, a hollow sound. “Yeah, I sodding loved her...Couldn’t bloody help it.” His voice softened, his gaze dropping back to the grave. “Didn’t save her though, prevent what happened...Wish I could trade places with her, but heaven wouldn’t consider it an equal trade, I reckon…”

For a moment, Angel said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “You’re not the only one who loved her, Spike.”

Spike turned to him, his eyes blazing. “Yeah, but I was the one who stayed. While you were off brooding and playin’ knight in shining armor somewhere else, I was here. I fought beside her, bled for her. Took care of the Bit when she needed me.”

“That supposed to impress me?” Angel shot back. “You think sticking around makes you a hero?”

Spike shrugged, his lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t need to impress you, mate. Lot’s happened since you scarpered, you prat. I became the resident vampire muscle in your stead. Got a problem with that?”

Angel’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark and stormy. “Ah, I see now. You think you’ve earned a place here, earned the right to be at her grave just because you changed sides in the end and  helped  instead of trying to kill her. What a fucking joke.”

Spike stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t need your bloody permission to be here. I made her a promise, and I aim to keep it. I’ll look after Dawn, and I’ll fight for this town if I have to. So if you’ve got somethin’ to say, say it. Otherwise, bugger off back to LA.”

The two of them stood toe-to-toe, the air between them charged with tension. Angel’s eyes flicked to the grave, then back to Spike. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed it, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Fine, stay, take care of Dawn,” Angel said quietly. “But if I hear you’re causing problems you’ll be dust before you even have the chance to hear me coming.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Spike alone once more with the grave. Spike lit a cigarette with trembling hands, the sharp scent of tobacco mingling with the cool night air.

“Bloody wanker,” he muttered, taking a long drag. But when he looked down at the grave, his expression softened. “Don’t worry, Slayer,” he murmured. “I’ll keep my promise. You’ve got my word.”

The night grew quiet again, the sound of Angel’s retreating footsteps fading into the distance. Spike stayed a while longer, the lone sentinel standing watch over Buffy’s final resting place.

Chapter Text

Giles sat back in his armchair, the amber liquid in his glass catching the dim light as he took slow, deliberate sips from his third glass of whiskey that night, trying to chase the blissful calm being inebriated offered. He still needed about another glass to truly get there. 

The funeral felt like a blur, a series of disconnected moments stitched together by grief and a duty to honor his fallen Slayer. He vaguely remembered reading the words he’d spent hours writing for her, agonizing over them. Or the way his voice had faltered and the few silent tears he’d allowed to slip down his cheek before banishing them with a swift wipe of his hand.

As a watcher, he had always known this day would come as it was the nature of the calling. The Slayer’s life was one of sacrifice, and the Watcher’s burden was to carry on when she was inevitably gone. But knowing it in theory was one thing. Living it—standing over her grave, speaking words that could never encompass all she was despite his best efforts—was something else entirely. He was left to wonder, as he had feared he would, how he could have prevented it, what he could have done better, and how he could possibly get on with his life now. 

Buffy had been remarkable in every way: Resilient, intuitive, quick on her feet, and resourceful. But most impressive of all, she was  good —not just in her abilities as a Slayer, but in her heart. Her moral and ethical code was something he didn’t even share completely—Giles knowing deep down he would do whatever was necessary for the greater good, no matter the cost to his own soul. Her instincts were entirely unmatched, even if he didn’t always trust them at first. Giles had prided himself on his principles, but he knew there were lines he was willing to cross that Buffy ultimately never would.

The memory of Ben’s lifeless body briefly flashed in his mind as he took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat, grounding him in the here and now. There had been no hesitation that day nor doubt. Ending Ben meant ending Glory, and ending Glory meant saving Buffy and preventing the beast from attempting anything in the future. He hadn’t enjoyed taking a life—he didn’t think he was that far gone—but he didn’t feel remorse about it either. It wasn’t the Ripper in him, though that would have been an easy excuse. No, it had been something colder, more practical. He had done what needed to be done and acted as he thought a Watcher should.

And still, he had failed. Buffy was gone forever, and there was nothing he could do about it—not a damn thing.

He stared into the depths of his glass, his thoughts spiraling deeper and deeper into despair. What tied him to this godforsaken town now? A group of grieving young adults who looked to him for answers he didn’t have, an ex-demon navigating humanity with questionable tact, a child who wasn’t really a child, and a vampire who refused to leave. It wasn’t much of a legacy.

He wanted to make his exit and leave at once, well, after his hangover subsided the following day at least. Giles wanted to pack up, get on the first plane out to Merry Old England, and let the children figure things out on their own. Surely, they could manage. But deep down, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Buffy wouldn’t have wanted that. His Slayer would have expected him to stay, to look after her sister, to guide her friends, to ensure that Sunnydale didn’t descend into chaos in her absence.

The weight of that expectation settled heavily on his shoulders, fueling his bitterness. He resented the role that now felt hollow without her. She had been, for all intents and purposes, like a daughter to him, and now she was gone. He had buried his Slayer, his family, and his hope for the future—what was truly left?

The whiskey burned as he drained the glass, setting it down with a soft clink. He would make the best of the situation for as long as he could. Dawn needed to be cared for, the magic shop’s affairs needed to be resolved, and above all, the illusion that Buffy was still alive had to be maintained. For the town’s sake. For the world’s sake.

Giles slouched in his seat, his face covered by his hand. He would stay. Not because he wanted to, but because Buffy would have wanted him to. And despite everything—despite his failures, his grief, his anger—he owed her that much and a lot more.

A knock at the door annoyingly disrupted Giles’ melancholic thoughts. He rose reluctantly, his glass of whiskey still in hand, and opened it to reveal none other than Angel. The vampire’s icy glare nearly mirrored his own. Without a word, Giles turned away, leaving the door ajar, and moved to refill his glass—something he absolutely needed to endure this conversation.

“You’re not going to invite me in?” Angel questioned, irritation lacing his tone as he stepped closer to the threshold.

“No, I shan’t,” Giles replied dryly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “How may I assist you, Angel?”

“How did this happen?” Angel asked, his voice low but edged with urgency.

“Did Willow not inform you of the particulars over the phone?” Giles responded coolly.

“She gave me the highlights. I want the details.”

“And you thought it best to receive them from me?”

“You were her Watcher.”

Giles paused, his jaw tightening at the title. “Yes, I  was . And I am afraid I’m not inclined to rehash what has proved to be the most difficult few days of my life. I suggest you direct your questions to Willow or Xander, should he be feeling particularly charitable.”

He moved to close the door, but Angel’s voice cut through, sharp and pleading. “Wait! Please… just give me something. Anything to make sense of this. She was so young, so strong. I don’t understand how this happened.”

Giles sighed, the weight of the last few days pressing harder against his already strained patience.  Can’t I got one bloody moment alone to grieve?  He removed his glasses, rubbing at them as though their clarity would somehow clear away the souled vampire before him. When he replaced them on his nose, Angel was still there, his broad frame tense, his dark eyes desperate.

“I never rescinded your invitation from the last time you were here,” Giles pointed out, his tone clipped.

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Fine,” Giles said curtly, gesturing toward the living room. “Come in if you must.”

Angel stepped inside, his movements heavy with tension, and settled into a chair opposite Giles. He clasped his hands together, his posture rigid, waiting for Giles to speak although he wanted to do anything but.

Resigned to the fact that Angel wouldn’t leave without answers, Giles sat back in his chair and took a long sip of his whiskey before meeting the vampire’s insistent gaze. “Where shall I start?”

“How about why the hell you’re letting Spike around Dawn?” Angel snapped, his voice sharp.

“Ah, yes. Of course, you would start there,” Giles replied with an exasperated eye roll. “As much as I detest any vampire playing a starring role in our little band of misfits, Buffy trusted him to protect her. And, as things stand, I am in no position to refuse help—unless, of course, you’re willing to move back to Sunnydale and take his stead?”

A tense silence followed. Giles watched as Angel bit back a retort, clearly displeased at the idea of his grandchilde being accepted into Buffy’s inner circle. But Angel said nothing, unwilling—or unable—to commit to such a sacrifice himself.

“Start from the beginning, please,” Angel finally said, his voice softer now. He leaned back in his seat, his posture relaxing slightly, though the tension in his eyes remained, something he assumed to be grief behind them.

Giles regarded him for a moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he gathered his thoughts. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and began. “It started when a ball of green mystical energy that unlocked dimensions took shape in the form of a young girl that was sent to my Slayer to protect…”

***

“So there was nothing that could have been done. It was too late…” Angel murmured softly, his pained gaze fixed on the floor.

Giles leaned back in his chair, his fingers absently toying with the rim of his empty glass. He had recounted the events of the past several months in painstaking detail, sparing none of the most pertinent moments that led to Buffy’s ultimate sacrifice. In a way, it had helped him process everything—made it all feel more real, no longer a surreal nightmare but a tragic, unchangeable truth.

“It would seem so,” Giles replied heavily, setting the glass aside. The retelling had been exhausting, each detail a sharp reminder of his own failings. “We did everything we could. In the end, Buffy made a choice. She sacrificed herself to save Dawn. To save us all.”

Angel nodded slowly, his face tight with pain. “That’s Buffy. Always putting others first, no matter the cost to herself.” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “But Dawn… she’s not really Buffy’s sister?”

“No, not in the strictest sense,” Giles confirmed. “But Buffy loved her as if she were. The monks who created her were thorough, implanting memories and forging bonds. To Buffy, Dawn was family. And she died to protect her.”

Angel was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and laced with regret. “I should have been here. I should have helped.”

Giles sighed, adjusting his glasses with a weary hand. “Perhaps. But there’s no use dwelling on what might have been. We must focus on the present. Buffy is gone, and there is no changing that fact. We shall have to endure.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that bore down on both men with its weight. Angel’s jaw ticked, his fingers clenching briefly before releasing, as though he were trying to rein in emotions that threatened to surface. When he spoke again, his voice was strained but steady. “So what now? The Hellmouth is unguarded. Every demon and vampire in town will crawl out of the shadows when they realize the Slayer is gone.”

“Yes, that is a concern,” Giles admitted. “However, we have a plan to mitigate it. A… robot, created in Buffy’s likeness. An exact replica, really. It will patrol in her stead, at least for the time being. With Faith in prison, another Slayer has not been activated. This is our best option.”

Angel blinked, his expression shifting from disbelief to faint incredulity. “A robot? How realistic are we talking?”

“She would seem identical to Buffy in appearance. There are no visible wires or mechanical movements to betray her nature. Her speech patterns, however, are… lacking subtlety, though Willow is working on improving that. Despite the shortcomings, the bot is strong and capable in battle.”

“Did Willow—” Angel began, but Giles cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

“No, not Willow,” Giles said, his tone tinged with irritation. “Your grandchilde is the one responsible for the bloody thing. Spike had it commissioned in secret. Why Buffy didn’t dust him for the act, I’ll never fully understand.”

Angel’s face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Wait, you’re telling me Spike had a Buffy  sex robot  built, and she let him live? Was she soft on him or something?”

“Certainly not!” Giles snapped, his glare cutting. “Spike has been… helpful, to an extent, over the past year or so. A covert military operation abducted him and implanted a chip in his head, rendering him incapable of harming humans. While I wouldn’t say he turned over a new leaf, his inability to bite or kill has forced him to adapt.”

“And you trust him?” Angel’s voice was sharp, his disbelief palpable. “He was clearly obsessed with her. I know how he gets when he fixates on someone.”

Giles pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience fraying. “Yes, quite. His obsession did seem to evolve into something… deeper. But by the end, Buffy trusted him enough to protect Dawn, and I am not in a position to question her judgment now that she’s gone. Regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, Spike has proven himself useful, and I have far larger concerns than worrying about his presence. He’s harmless by any means.”

Angel leaned back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. “Useful or not, I don’t like it. He’s dangerous and practically a ticking time bomb.”

Giles raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp as he replied, “And yet, here I am, speaking to another dangerous vampire, asking myself which one is the greater liability. If you’re so concerned about Spike’s role here, Angel, as I said earlier, I invite you to stay. To take over his duties. Surely,  you’d  be a far more comforting presence for Dawn.”

Angel’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Giles thought he might take the bait, but after a tense pause, Angel shook his head. “I have responsibilities in Los Angeles.”

“Of course you do,” Giles replied dryly, standing and moving to refill his glass. “Then it’s settled. Spike remains, and if there’s nothing else, Angel, I suggest we end this rather tiresome conversation.”

Angel hesitated, his eyes flickering to the empty whiskey glass on the table before finally rising. “For her sake and the others, I hope you’re right about him,” he said, his voice soft but laced with obvious warning. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door, thankfully disappearing into the night.

Giles sighed and returned to his chair, whiskey in hand and glad to finally be alone again. As the door clicked shut, the weight of the day seemed to settle heavier on his shoulders. He stared at the bottle on the table—his mind shifted back to churning with what-ifs and unresolved fears.

He feared that from now on, there would be no escape from his inner turmoil over what happened, as all he had left was his regret, and it tasted  bitter .

Chapter Text

The days after Buffy’s funeral dragged on forever, like someone had hit slow motion on her life. Everything felt heavy, like trying to wade through wet cement. Dawn drifted through the house like a ghost, barely talking, barely eating, barely anything. When people spoke to her, she heard the words, but they didn’t stick. It was all white noise. Spike did his best to take care of her, making sure she got up out of bed and ate something, even if it was just a few bites of whatever he or the witches made for her. 

Like any of it mattered. 

Sometimes, she’d hear him crying late at night when she couldn’t sleep and wandered the house, half-hoping Buffy would magically appear in one of the rooms. But it was just Spike, breaking down in the basement where he thought she couldn’t hear.

Willow and Tara had basically moved in. They were always around, tidying up, cooking, talking in these fake cheerful voices like if they acted normal, she might feel normal too. Spoiler alert: she didn’t. They weren’t Buffy. They could never be Buffy. And no amount of vacuuming or grilled cheese sandwiches was going to change that. Dawn tried to appreciate their efforts—they meant well—but all she really wanted was a time machine. Go back, stop Glory, save Mom, save Buffy. Undo it all. But time machines weren’t real, so here she was, stuck.

Xander and Anya stopped by a lot, which was nice, she guessed. They brought food, like lasagnas and casseroles, because apparently, people thought feeding her would fix everything. Xander tried to make jokes, but they all fell flat. Even Anya’s blunt, weird comments didn’t make Dawn crack a smile like they used to. She didn’t want to laugh or eat or cry. She didn’t want anything. Without Buffy, everything just felt… empty. Gray.

And Giles? He hardly came by. When he did, he didn’t stick around long. He’d check in on the Buffybot, nod at whatever Willow said about its progress, and then disappear again. He looked older, like grief had aged him overnight. Dawn didn’t blame him for avoiding the house. If she could’ve left, she would’ve too.

The Buffybot was almost ready. Willow was obsessed with it, tweaking its voice and movements to make it seem more human. Dawn hated it. It looked like Buffy, sounded like Buffy (mostly), but it wasn’t her. It was just this creepy, fake version of her sister. Watching it walk around the house made Dawn’s stomach churn, so she avoided it as much as she could.

Spike seemed to hate it, too, though he didn’t say anything outright. When the bot was being tested, he’d stay in the background, arms crossed, watching it with this weird, pained look on his face. Dawn wondered if it bothered him the same way it bothered her—if seeing it made him feel like Buffy was being replaced or erased. But she didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer.

Spike was the only one who didn’t try to push her to feel better. He didn’t force her to talk or leave the house. When things got too overwhelming—like when Xander or Willow started hovering—he’d step in and distract her. Sometimes, it was just a sarcastic comment, something dumb enough to make her lips twitch, almost-smile territory. Other times, he’d just sit next to her, quiet, like he knew she didn’t need words, just someone who wouldn’t leave. And he didn’t, he stayed, even though he really could have easily left. 

Dawn had started to think of Spike as family, and that was terrifying. Her track record with family wasn’t just bad—it was terminal. But Spike was different. He’d somehow kept himself unalive for over a hundred years despite being recklessly impulsive. That gave her a little faith that he might actually stick around. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be the one person in her life who wouldn’t leave her—not by choice, not by death.

She remembered one night in particular, a couple of weeks after the funeral. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, the same images replayed: Buffy jumping, the blinding light of the portal, the sound of her sister hitting the ground. It was like her mind was stuck on a loop, a broken record that wouldn’t stop.

Finally, she gave up and padded downstairs in her pajamas, hoping some mindless TV would numb her enough to rest. Instead, she found Spike on the couch, a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. His eyes, red-rimmed and bleary, lifted to meet hers when she entered. For a moment, neither of them said anything, just staring across the room like two ghosts in a house full of memories.

"Can't sleep either, Bit?" he asked, his words slightly slurred.

Dawn shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. "Every time I close my eyes, I see her jumping," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I see her… hitting the ground."

Spike flinched like she'd hit him. He patted the couch cushion next to him, an invitation. Dawn hesitated for a second before sinking down beside him, tucking her knees up to her chest. He snaked an arm around her shoulders, and she shifted to nestle more comfortably against him. He wasn’t as cold as she thought he would be, more room temperature leaning on cool. Despite his lack of warmth she still felt better having him to console her, not pushing her to talk if she didn’t want to. 

That night, though, she actually did for once. 

“It sucks being human,” she said after a long silence. “We’re so fragile. Buffy was the Slayer, and even she didn’t make it.”

“Slayers aren’t meant to live forever, pet,” Spike replied quietly, rubbing soft circles on her arm.

“I know, I just… I thought somehow she would.” Her voice wavered, and she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I know it’s stupid. I mean, I remember how she nearly killed Faith after she stabbed her.”

Spike’s head tilted. “Your sis stabbed a human?”

“Another Slayer,” Dawn clarified. “She was called after Kendra but was kind of nuts. She ran with the Mayor. It’s a whole story, but Buffy stabbed her in the gut, and she was in a coma for a long time. She only woke up last year. I think if she wasn’t a Slayer, she definitely would’ve died. But she didn’t, so by default, it kind of made me think my sister was kinda invincible, too. Is that dumb?”

“Not dumb, love,” Spike said softly, his tone full of the rare gentleness he seemed to reserve just for her. “Hoped she’d live a lot longer than she did, but, truth is, I tried not to think about it. Knew deep down that eventually some nasty’d have their good day, and we’d have our worst.”

Dawn turned her head to look up at him. “Was it? Your worst day? I mean, I know you’ve lived a long time…”

“Worst day of my existence,” Spike confirmed without hesitation. His voice was rough, but there was no hiding the rawness behind it. “Don’t reckon anything else could come close—save for you finally kickin’ the bucket one day after you turn a hundred.”

Dawn managed a weak laugh, shaking her head. “I really don’t plan on living that long, Spike.”

“Not up to you, is it?” he countered, a small, teasing grin tugging at his lips. “Plan on makin’ sure you eat your greens and stay away from all manner of dangers. Maybe I’ll even get you a posh bubble to live in.”

Dawn smiled for real this time—just a little, but enough. It didn’t fix anything, didn’t change the gaping hole in her chest where Buffy used to be, but it was something. No one else left in her world had come close to breaking her out of her depresso party. 

“Can you tell me why you loved her?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Spike hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His gaze dropped to the floor, and Dawn immediately regretted asking. She hadn’t meant to dredge up more pain for him, not when he was already carrying so much.

“She was…” Spike began, but he trailed off, his voice thick with emotion. He sighed deeply and shook his head, like he was fighting something inside himself. “She was unlike anyone I’d ever met. And I’ve met a lot of bloody people.”

“Did you eat most of those people?” Dawn quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

Spike snorted softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Nah, maybe a third. Or less. Probably closer to a quarter, actually, now that I’m thinkin’ about it.”

“Glad you’re reformed now. A one-in-four chance of ending up as your dinner? Not great odds.”

“Oi!” he said, mock-offended. “I’d give my life for you if it came down to starvin’ or drinkin’ your blood. You’re my charge now, Summers.”

“How is that?” she asked, tilting her head curiously. “I mean, I know we’re buds, but you could leave, you know. I have other people to take care of me.”

Dawn half-posed the question to test him, to see if he’d bite and come up with some excuse to leave. Deep down, she didn’t think he would. She didn’t believe he could. But her anxious brain wanted to hear him say it out loud—to make it real.

Spike leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze. “None of them have half a chance at keepin’ you safe from whatever goes bump in the night,” he said firmly. “And I’m not just here because of a promise. I care about you, too, pet. You’re basically my little sis now. So don’t get any ideas of pushin’ me away. You’re stuck with me—fangs and all.”

Dawn blinked, her heart catching in her chest. It wasn’t like she’d doubted Spike exactly, but hearing him say it out loud, in his gruff, no-nonsense way, was something else entirely.

“Well,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I guess I can live with that.”

They ended up watching some mindless late-night TV, the flickering glow of the screen casting shadows across the room. Dawn found herself drifting off, her head lolling against Spike's shoulder as exhaustion finally caught up with her. For the first time in weeks, she didn't dream of Buffy falling. Instead, her mind was blessedly blank, a reprieve from the constant replay of her sister's death.

When she finally woke, she found that she was tucked into her own bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Spike must have carried her upstairs after she fell asleep. The thought brought a small smile to her face.

As she lay there, staring up at the ceiling, Dawn felt the tiniest flicker of something she hadn’t in weeks—comfort. It wasn’t much, just a faint reassurance that maybe, somehow, she’d survive this. That she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Her gaze shifted to her nightstand, where a note lay folded next to a glass of water. She reached for it, unfolding the paper to see Spike’s neat script scrawled across the page.

“ Hope you dreamt of sunshine and unicorns, little Bit. When you’re up, maybe tackle that rat’s nest you call a room—unless you fancy me rooting through all your girly things. When you’re done, wake me, and I’ll whip up some anchovy pancakes or whatever other madness your wacky little mind fancies. —S ”

She chuckled softly, a real laugh that felt foreign in her throat. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get her through another day.

For now, that was all she needed.

Chapter Text

She was perfect—or as perfect as Willow was going to get her programming at this point. Willow felt a quiet swell of pride as she surveyed her work. Not only had she stitched the Buffybot back together after Glory’s fight, but she’d also managed to use her intimate knowledge of her best friend to make the bot as realistic as possible. Sure, there were hiccups. It still asked about Spike whenever it powered on, but at least it accepted redirection now without the pouty face.

Tonight, they were going to test it out on patrol. Spike had done his best to keep the fledgling numbers down on his own, but they needed Buffy’s face to keep the demon populace in line—to remind them that the Slayer was still alive and still slaying. Willow had even learned a few new spells to help with said slayage. The Buffybot wasn’t ready to go out solo, and judging by the way Spike avoided it like the plague, they couldn’t exactly ask him to supervise it.

So, it was a team effort. The Scoobies would head out together, a united front. Dawn had asked to come along, but before anyone could gently shut her down, Spike roared with, “Over my dead and dusted remains!” Dawn stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her and blasting her usual melancholy music loud enough to shake the walls.

The tension in the house was thick. They all walked on eggshells around Dawn—and each other. No one talked about Buffy directly, at least not in the ways that mattered. Discussions about patrol routes or quippy one-liners for the bot’s programming came easily enough, but the raw grief lingered in the spaces between conversations, unspoken but ever-present. Willow avoided it by burying herself in practical tasks: keeping the house in order with Tara, perfecting the Buffybot, secretly looking into resurrection spells, and hacking into the Summers’ bank accounts.

With Anya’s help, they’d unearthed the family’s financial situation. There was a life insurance policy that had been mostly eaten up by Joyce’s medical bills, leaving just $10,000. Dawn was receiving $1,000 a month in Social Security survivor benefits and another $700 in child support from Hank, who—shockingly—still direct deposited the payments. The house was paid down considerably, with only around $50,000 left on the mortgage, thanks to Joyce’s divorce settlement prior to purchasing the home, keeping payments low.  Social security and child support barely covered everything to keep the household running, but luckily, for now, they weren’t in the red.

Then there was the art gallery. It had been shuttered since Joyce’s death, but Anya’s calculations showed that after expenses and taxes, it had historically brought in around $6,000 a month.

“Dawn deserves that money,” Spike asserted that night as they discussed the gallery’s future in the living room. His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “When she turns eighteen, she’ll be on her own. Joyce would’ve wanted her to have a solid start.”

“Well, yeah, you’re right,” Willow agreed. “But none of us know how to run an art gallery. And with Tara and me back in school this fall, we’re not gonna have much time to devote to it.”

“I’ll do it,” Spike said nonchalantly, taking a swig of his beer before setting it on the coffee table.

Willow raised an eyebrow. “During the daytime? How’s that going to work, exactly?”

“Never stopped me before,” Spike replied with a shrug. “I’ll use the sewers or get there right before sunrise.”

“We could install some blackout blinds at the gallery,” Willow mused, though her skepticism remained. “But still… what do you know about art?”

“A bloody lot more than you,” Spike retorted, smirking. “I’ve been around for over a century, Red. Seen more art movements than you’ve had birthdays. Always had a thing for the arts.”

“What about sourcing new pieces?” Tara asked softly. “Joyce had relationships with suppliers and local artists…”

“Oh, I can help with that!” Anya interjected, flipping through the stack of papers in her lap. She pulled out a list of suppliers and artists Joyce had worked with. “Here. It’s all detailed. You just need to send the orders.”

Spike took the list and scanned it, nodding. “Seems manageable.”

“What about, I dunno, customer service?” Xander cut in, gesturing at Spike. “You’re not exactly Mister Friendly, and the punk look from last decade might not scream ‘professional.’”

Spike chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Just because I’m not charming with you lot doesn’t mean I can’t turn it on when it counts. I can clean up when I need to. Ditch the duster, even. ‘Sides, it's the art world, filled with a bunch of freaks like Warhol. I’ll fit right in”

Willow sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay. So, you’re serious about this? You really want to run the gallery?”

“Dead serious, Red,” Spike replied, his tone losing its usual sarcasm. “I’ll make it work—for Dawn. She’s got no blood family left in this sorry world, not counting that useless sod of a father who couldn’t give a toss about her. She deserves some stability, some financial security going into adulthood.”

“That’s really generous of you, Spike,” Tara said softly, leaning toward him on the couch to squeeze his hand. “You’re already doing so much—helping with Dawn, the slaying. It’s more than anyone could’ve expected.”

Spike seemed taken aback for a moment, his eyes flicking to her hand before clearing his throat and giving her a half-smile. “Made a promise to a lady, is all.”

Xander, sitting in the corner, crossed his arms. He didn’t say anything, but the skepticism on his face was obvious. Willow could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Spike taking on even more responsibility, but like her, he didn’t have a better suggestion. They were all barely keeping their heads above water.

The room fell into an awkward silence, the only sound the faint thump of Dawn’s music upstairs. Finally, Willow cleared her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the task at hand.

“Okay. So, it’s settled. Spike takes over the gallery. Anya, you can help get it back up and running, right? Deal with the lease and paperwork?”

Anya nodded confidently. “Of course. I’ll have it sorted in no time. Joyce was surprisingly organized for someone who wasn’t a demon.”

Spike chuckled softly at that, while Xander just shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Willow pressed on, eager to move forward.

“In the meantime,” she said, standing up and glancing around the room, “we’ve got a Buffybot to test drive.”

Xander grimaced, leaning back in his chair. “Anyone else majorly wigged out by the idea of a robot version of Buffy walking around? I mean, I get it. I really do. But it’s all kinds of wrong.”

“It’s what we have to do,” Willow said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly at the edges. “To keep up appearances. To keep the Hellmouth under control until…”

She trailed off, unwilling to say the words hanging in the air.

Until the next Slayer is called.

Considering Faith’s situation—ironically safe in prison—that might not happen for a long, long time.

Spike broke the silence, his tone darker, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s just hope the baddies in town don’t suss out the difference between flesh and wires anytime soon.”

Willow nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah. Let’s hope.”

The group sat in uneasy quiet for a moment longer before Willow clapped her hands, trying to break the tension. “Alright. Let’s gear up and see if this thing can pass for the real deal.”

Spike drained the rest of his beer, setting the bottle down with a dull clink. “Guess it’s time to find out just how good you are at playin’ God, Red.”

As Willow flipped the switch to power on the Buffybot as the group gathered weapons, the knock at the door startled them. Everyone froze for a moment before Spike muttered, “That’ll be the Watcher. Always impeccable timing.”

Willow glanced at the bot, watching as it blinked to life. “I’ll get it,” she said, brushing her hands on her jeans as she moved toward the front door.

When she opened it, Giles stood on the porch, looking as tired and worn as he had the last time she’d seen him. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his tweed coat, and the lines on his face seemed deeper in the dim porch light.

“Evening,” he greeted quietly, his voice edged with fatigue. “I trust everything is… ready?”

“As ready as it’s going to be,” Willow replied, stepping aside to let him in. “The bot’s up and running, weapons are being gathered, and morale is at an all-time medium.”

Giles offered a faint, tired smile at her attempt at humor and stepped inside, glancing toward the living room where the rest of the group was waiting.

The Buffybot stood in the center of the room, smiling its perfectly programmed Buffy smile. “Oh, Giles!” it exclaimed brightly. “You’re just in time for the Scooby meeting!”

Giles froze mid-step, blinking at the bot. His lips pressed into a thin line as he adjusted his glasses. “Good Lord. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Join the club,” Xander muttered, handing Anya a crossbow.

Giles stepped closer to inspect the bot with a critical eye. “Let’s hope it’s convincing enough to fool the creatures of the Hellmouth,” he said, his tone clipped. “Though I suspect the subtleties of Buffy’s personality remain… difficult to replicate.”

“Oh, come on, Giles,” the bot chirped. “I’m totally myself! I mean, I love to slay, I care about my friends, and I think Spike is just the cutest!”

Spike groaned, running a hand down his face. “Right, we’re done here. Let’s get on with it.”

“Agreed,” Giles said, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he were already regretting his decision to join them tonight. “Shall we?”

Willow handed out the last of the weapons and turned to face the group. “Okay, so here’s the plan: the bot takes point, and the rest of us back her up. We’ll stick to the main cemeteries tonight—keep it simple, test her out, and make sure nothing goes haywire.”

“And if it does?” Xander asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Then we improvise,” Willow said firmly, though her fingers twisted nervously in the hem of her shirt.

“Splendid,” Giles muttered under his breath. “Nothing like improvisation when one’s life is at stake.”

With the plan laid out, the group filed out of the house, the Buffybot leading the way. The cool night air wrapped around them as they headed toward the cemetery, weapons in hand and nerves stretched thin. The Hellmouth was waiting, and tonight, it would get a taste of their new Slayer.

***

“Well, all in all, that didn’t go so bad,” Willow said as she settled into bed next to Tara, her body heavy with exhaustion. She let out a long sigh, glad the night was finally over.

Tara smiled softly and wrapped her arms around Willow, pulling her close and rubbing gentle circles on her back. “You did an amazing job with the bot, sweetie. She took out a lot of vampires tonight. A few glitches aside with her awkward banter, she really held her own out there.”

Willow chuckled, shaking her head as she burrowed deeper into Tara’s embrace, seeking her warmth and comfort. “Yeah, I’ll have to work on that. Turns out my Buffy-speak needs a little fine-tuning. Too much cheerleader, not enough Slayer.”

Tara laughed lightly, her hand stilling on Willow’s back. “You did great. Besides, I don’t think the demon population caught on. We all worked pretty well as a team.”

Willow nodded, her mind drifting back to the patrol. She thought about how Spike and the Buffybot had taken point while the rest of the Scoobs took backup, cutting through the fledglings with an almost unnerving efficiency. The bot’s exaggerated cheeriness was jarring at first—quipping things like, “Time to kick some vamp booty!”—but it had been effective enough. Spike, by contrast, had been deadly silent, a relentless force of muscle and fangs.

From her perch on top of one of the crypts, Willow had directed the group telepathically, weaving spells and barking orders in their minds like a battlefield commander. She realized she liked being the new leader of the group, and she did well in that position. Being the most powerful one of the bunch had its perks for her ego, but she’d give it up in a second if they could have Buffy back.

“I know,” Willow said, her smile fading as her voice softened. “I just wish we didn’t need her at all. I wish Buffy was still here.”

Tara’s face grew somber, and she pressed a tender kiss to the top of Willow’s head. “We all do. But you’re doing the best you can in an impossible situation. Buffy would be proud of you, Willow. Of all of us.”

Willow was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing slow, idle patterns on Tara’s arm. Her thoughts swirled with the weight of unspoken doubts, the gnawing worry that wouldn’t let her rest. When she finally spoke, her voice small and hesitant. “Do you think she’s in a better place? Like… heaven?”

Tara tilted her head, considering the question. Her brow furrowed slightly, but her voice was steady when she replied. “I think Buffy’s spirit is at peace. She sacrificed so much, gave everything she had to protect the world. If anyone deserves eternal rest, it’s her.”

Willow nodded, but the answer didn’t soothe the ache in her chest. She swallowed hard, the doubt pressing against her thoughts like an insistent whisper. She hadn’t told anyone—not even Tara—but she’d been losing sleep over the idea that Buffy might not be at peace. What if the portal hadn’t sent her to heaven? What if it had torn her spirit somewhere darker, somewhere she didn’t deserve to be?

She’d done the research, scouring every spellbook she could find. There was no way to confirm where Buffy’s spirit was, but if there was even a chance she wasn’t at rest, wasn’t it their responsibility to save her? To bring her back the right way, as more than just a reanimated corpse?

The thought lodged itself deeper into her mind, refusing to let go.

Tara’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, soft and full of love. “You okay?”

Willow forced a smile, leaning up to kiss Tara’s cheek. “Yeah. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Tara nodded, pulling Willow close again. “Get some sleep, sweetie. You’ve earned it.”

Willow closed her eyes, but her mind didn’t stop racing. She decided not to bring it up yet—not to Tara, not to anyone. Not until she found the right spell. Not until she could plead her case to the group and make them understand.

She knew deep down that no matter their answer, she would find a way to bring Buffy back. She just needed to get the timing right and figure out the best spell. They would all be appreciative when the real Buffy was back, and in the off chance she was wrong and Buffy was at peace, well…Buffy would understand, she had to. Even a one percent chance that she was in hell was enough of a reason to try. 

Willow went to sleep that night feeling more at ease, knowing she was doing the right thing. 

They would all see. 

Chapter Text

Xander glanced at his watch and noticed it was close to quitting time. He’d promised Dawn he’d take her out for ice cream after work, but he wasn’t exactly eager to see what kind of mood she’d be in today. He loved her like a little sister, but he was barely more than a kid himself, and figuring out how to support her without setting off her temper was still a work in progress. He wanted to be the rock she could lean on, but sometimes, it felt like he was fumbling around in the dark.

None of them had really figured it out—well, aside from Spike. Somehow, the undead pain in the ass managed to get the least amount of eye rolls and the most cooperation out of her. Tara came close, with her naturally calming demeanor and quiet patience, but even she wasn’t immune to Dawn’s sharp edges. It made Xander wonder, not for the first time, why a  demon  of all creatures seemed to have the magic touch with Buffy’s sister.

That thought didn’t sit well. Not at all.

Xander would never admit it out loud, but he resented Spike for it. It wasn’t just the fact that Spike had somehow wormed his way into their circle—into the life Buffy left behind—but that he’d managed to become Dawn’s favorite. Xander had always thought of himself as Dawn’s go-to Scooby, the one who could make her laugh with a dumb joke or distract her with a silly outing. But now? Now, he felt like an outsider looking in.

And yeah, even Xander had to admit at this point that Spike was one of them. A black sheep, sure, but still part of the family. That didn’t mean Xander had to like it.

 He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he mentally prepared himself for the evening ahead. Dawn was a good kid—smart, tough, and dealing with way more than any teenager should have to. But Xander wasn’t Buffy. He couldn’t be the hero Dawn wanted, and sometimes, he wasn’t even sure how to be the friend she needed.

Still, he’d promised her ice cream, and he wasn’t about to let her down, even if it meant enduring a few well-earned eye rolls. Parking in the Summers’ driveway, he killed the engine and climbed out, making his way to the front door. By now, he didn’t bother knocking, using the copy of the key he’d had made a few weeks ago.

“Dawnie, I’m here! You ready to go?” he called out as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Silence. No hurried footsteps, no shouted,  “One sec!”  from upstairs. Instead, Spike appeared from the kitchen, a mug of blood in one hand and his usual smirk of indifference plastered on his face.

“The birds left for the mall,” Spike alerted him lazily. “Willow and Tara were headed there, and the Niblet decided to tag along. Told me to tell you she’d take a rain check. Or some such rot.”

Xander sighed, irritation rising within him. “That would’ve been nice to know  before  I drove all the way over here.”

Spike arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Bet that fifteen-minute drive was bloody gruelin’. Poor sod. This town’s barely big enough to  need  a car.”

“Well, gas money isn’t free,” Xander snapped.

“You’re not exactly scrapin’ pennies, are you? Make decent dosh as a handyman, I reckon,” Spike said, taking another sip from his mug.

“I’m not a handyman. I’m a foreman for an  entire  construction crew, Spike. There’s a big difference.”

“Sure there is,” Spike replied with a shrug, his tone dripping with mock sincerity.

Xander rolled his eyes, already halfway out the door. “Whatever. If she gets back before I see her, let Dawnie know I stopped by, and I’ll remember that rain check.”

“Hang about,” Spike called after him, stopping Xander in his tracks. “You got your tools with you?”

“Uh, yeah? Why?”

“Fancy helping me at the gallery?” Spike asked, his tone almost casual. “Got some new paintings in. Could do it myself, but seein’ as you’re a  fancy foreman  and all, thought you might be better at makin’ sure everythin’’s level. Grand reopening’s Friday.”

Xander paused, his initial reaction to shut Spike down warring with the nagging voice in his head, reminding him that the gallery’s success wasn’t for Spike—it was for Dawn. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of doing the right thing.

“Fine,” Xander said through gritted teeth, pointing a finger at Spike. “But this is for Dawn.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Spike said with a smirk, already grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “You drive.”

Xander stared after him, muttering to himself as he followed. “I better score some major karmic points for this.”

***

The drive to the gallery was mostly quiet at first, save for Spike snickering when Xander turned on the radio, and Anya’s Celine Dion CD started playing. Spike raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with barely contained glee.

“Big fan of  My Heart Will Go On , are we?” Spike teased, crossing his arms and leaning back smugly.

Xander’s face flushed as he fumbled to turn off the radio. “It’s Anya’s,” he snapped. “She left it in here. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Right. Left it in here,” Spike repeated, his smirk widening. “Sure, mate.”

Xander huffed, his embarrassment stealing his desire for any background noise. He drove in silence for a few minutes, but the tension in the air started to get to him. If he had to spend the next several minutes with Spike, he might as well try to make it bearable.

“How’s Dawn doing?” Xander asked, glancing at Spike out of the corner of his eye. “She seems a little better now that she actually wants to leave the house.”

Spike sighed, fiddling with the keys in his hand. “Wouldn’t say she’s better. More like she’s tired of everyone fussin’ over her, so she’s playin’ at bein’ fine rather than how she really feels.”

Xander frowned. “She told you that?”

“Nah,” Spike replied, shaking his head. “Can tell. You don’t get over your big sis dyin’ for you right in front of your eyes—not in a month, not in years even.”

Xander nodded, reluctant to admit Spike was right. For a creature of the night, he was annoyingly perceptive.

“She seems to open up to you more, though,” Xander said after a beat. “Out of all of us.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t treat her like a kid,” Spike replied matter-of-factly. “She hates that, even though she is one. Wants to feel like she’s got more autonomy than she actually does. You lot make her feel like she’s still in diapers.”

Xander bristled, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “We’re just trying to look out for her.”

“Yeah, well, you can look out for her without wrappin’ her in cotton wool,” Spike said, glancing out the window. “She’s tougher than you think. Smarter too. Just needs someone to remind her of that.”

Xander didn’t respond right away, mulling over Spike’s words. As much as he hated to admit it, there was some truth there. Dawn was tough—she’d proven that time and again. Maybe they hadn’t been giving her enough credit. 

“I guess you’re not completely wrong,” Xander said begrudgingly, keeping his eyes on the road. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

 Spike chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Too late, Harris.”

Another minute of silence passed, the kind that felt heavier with every second. Xander kept his eyes on the road, struggling to come up with something to say. Spike, for his part, seemed content to let the quiet stretch on, doing his best impression of the “man of a few words” archetype.

The next question slipped out of Xander’s mouth before he even realized he was thinking it.

“How are  you  doing lately? I mean… I know you took Buffy’s death pretty hard.”

He regretted it immediately. Not because he cared deeply about Spike’s well-being, but because he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer. Still, Spike was helping, and he didn’t ask for much in return. Offering a shred of empathy didn’t seem unwarranted. At least, that’s what Xander told himself.

Spike frowned, his jaw tightening as he stared out the window. The discomfort was obvious. “How do you think?”

“I dunno, man… It’s hard on me, too,” Xander admitted, his voice quieter than usual.

Spike let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

The car fell silent again for a beat before Xander surprised even himself by continuing. “You know, I was in love with Buffy once upon a time…”

Spike arched an eyebrow, glancing at him with a faint smirk. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Back when we first became friends. I mean, how could you not, right? Someone like her… she was amazing. Just being around her, it was hard not to fall a little bit in love.”

Spike didn’t respond immediately, his gaze returning to the window as Xander spoke.

“She rejected me,” Xander continued. “Really nicely, too, which almost made it worse. And I was an ass about it. I was young, stupid… petty.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. “I never apologized for that. Thought I had time, you know? I figured one day, I’d be able to say, ‘Hey, sorry for being such a jerk back then.’ But now…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I’ll never get the chance.”

Spike remained quiet, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Xander expected. “She knew.”

Xander blinked, glancing at him briefly. “What?”

“She knew you were sorry,” Spike said, his gaze fixed on some distant point outside the window. “Didn’t need to hear it from you to know it. Slayer was good like that—saw the best in people, even when they couldn’t see it in themselves.”

Xander let the words settle, his chest tightening in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He nodded, gripping the wheel a little tighter as he blinked back the sting in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “She was good like that.”

Another silence fell over the car, but this time, it felt less oppressive. For a fleeting moment, they weren’t two guys who barely tolerated each other—they were two people mourning someone who had changed them both in ways they couldn’t put into words.

***

When they finally arrived at the art gallery, Xander had to admit—he was impressed. He wasn’t expecting much, but Spike had clearly put in the work. The place was clean, organized, and looked… well, professional. There were only a few large paintings left to hang—definitely a two-person job—but aside from that, Spike had done everything himself. And not half-assed, either.

The artwork lining the walls was modern, expressive, and surprisingly sensual. Xander didn’t know much about art, but he knew what looked expensive, and this definitely did. The kind of stuff you’d see in a swanky high-rise apartment. It had a certain mood to it—bold strokes, deep colors, pieces that made you stop and actually look.

“Huh,” Xander said, scanning the room. “Gotta say, Spike, didn’t think you had this in you.”

Spike snorted, rolling his eyes as he shrugged off his duster. “Right, ‘cause being undead means I’ve got no taste.”

“I mean, based on the way you dress, yeah, kinda.”

Spike flipped him off without looking. “Sod off, Harris.”

They got to work without much more back-and-forth, falling into an easy rhythm. Xander assessed the backs of the paintings, deciding on the right type of hanging for each, while Spike fetched the ladder and handed over tools as needed. For once, Spike wasn’t being an ass—just working, quietly appreciative of the help, though he’d never say it out loud.

When they were finished, Xander took a step back and scanned the room. “Well, gotta say, looks good. You might actually pull this off.”

Spike gave a noncommittal grunt, already adjusting one of the frames to make sure it was perfectly level.

As Xander wandered the room, he stopped in front of a particular painting that caught his eye—a nude woman, tastefully done, bathed in bold colors and shadows. It had a moody, almost haunting quality to it.

He studied it for a moment before glancing at Spike. “Did  you  pick this one?”

Spike smirked, flicking his cigarette lighter open and shut absentmindedly. “Yeah, picked almost everything here, save for a few that Joyce hadn’t sold yet. What, too risqué for you, mate?”

“No, actually, I think everything looks pretty classy. Just surprised, is all…How’d you manage to get everything?”

Spike leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed. “Joyce had some money saved in her business account—Anya found it when she was working out the lease. Landlord asked if he should take the rent from it since they already had the routing numbers, so I figured, why stop there? Got in touch with Joyce’s old contacts, took a quick trip or two to L.A. to scout some pieces. Wasn’t that hard.”

Xander snorted. “Right, because high-end art dealers just love doing business with vampires.”

Spike smirked, eyes gleaming. “Told you, mate—I can be charming when I want to be.”

Xander rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you batted those pretty blue eyes of yours, and the art world just fell at your feet.”

Spike chuckled. “You’d be surprised what a well-placed lie and a bit of flattery can get you. ‘Sides, not all of ‘em were human.”

That caught Xander’s attention. “Wait—so some of this art is from demons?”

Spike shrugged again, pushing off the wall. “Art’s art, Harris. And money’s money. The underworld’s got just as many posh collectors as your high-rises in L.A. Half of ‘em have better taste, too.”

Xander blinked, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Huh. Guess I never thought about that.”

“Yeah, well.” Spike gestured vaguely to the paintings. “You lot think demons are all blood and bad breath, but some of ‘em have been around longer than humans have been building museums. Even monsters appreciate beauty.”

Xander considered that, rubbing his chin. “Okay, I’ll admit it—you did good here.”

Spike smirked. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me, Harris.”

Xander scoffed. “Right, ‘cause that’s what I’m known for.” Spike snorted and shook his head.

Okay, maybe he isn’t the worst person to spend time with. 

“Alright, well, my karmic debt is paid for the night. Anything else you need, or am I free to go before I start actually enjoying your company?”

Spike smirked. “Nah, you’ve suffered enough. Go home, Harris. And try not to weep into your Celine Dion CD on the way.”

Xander groaned. “Oh my God,  it’s Anya’s! ”

Spike waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he strolled toward the private office. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the help.”

Xander shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “You’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. 

Yeah, he wasn’t warming up to the unsouled vamp at all. Nope, not even a little. 

 

Chapter Text

The Buffybot stood in the living room, waiting for her next set of instructions.

She was very good at waiting.

Her primary functions included slaying vampires, protecting Dawn, and smiling reassuringly at her friends. All of these were currently unnecessary.

There were no vampires present.

Dawn was at her friend’s house.

And her friends had not required a reassuring smile in approximately six hours and twenty-three minutes.

Perhaps she should offer one anyway?

The Buffybot turned toward Willow and Tara, who were seated at the dining table, deep in conversation. She activated her Friendly Facial Expression™, tilting her head at what she calculated to be the most empathetic angle.

“You guys are my best friends! I love you both so much!”

Willow flinched. Tara squeezed Willow’s hand.

Buffybot processed this reaction. That was not the expected response. Statements of affection should result in smiles or hugs, not averted gazes and awkward silence.

Had she said something incorrect?

She ran a quick self-diagnostics scan: No errors detected. All emotional programming within normal parameters. Love and friendship algorithms functioning properly.

Perhaps another reassuring statement would fix the problem.

“Also, I would die for you.”

Willow made a strangled noise. Tara’s brow furrowed in concern.

Buffybot recalibrated. That was still not the expected response.

She analyzed all available memories of Buffy interactions and determined that statements of devotion were generally well-received. The probability of success had been 87%. And yet, the room remained silent.

This did not compute.

Perhaps offering food would yield a more positive outcome.

“Would you like me to make pancakes?” she asked. Pancakes had a 92% approval rating in previous interactions. Pancakes were good.

Willow cleared her throat. “Uh, no thanks, Buff—” She hesitated, then quickly corrected, “—Buffybot. It’s a bit late for pancakes anyway. That’s, uh… more of a breakfast thing. It’s nighttime.”

Buffybot processed this new information. Pancakes had a designated time of consumption. A new data entry was required.

She beamed. “Okay! But remember, breakfast is the most important meal of the day! So is lunch. And dinner. And snacks! Do you want snacks?”

Willow sighed. “No, we’re good.”

Buffybot took note of the sigh. Willow had been sighing a lot lately. So had Spike. And Xander. And Giles. And Dawn. Even Anya, though she tended to sigh in a much sharper, exasperated way.

Excessive sighing indicated sadness.

Buffybot did not understand sadness. She had Grief Processing Subroutines, but they were largely theoretical. Grief was an inefficient emotion. It did not help solve problems, nor did it contribute to immediate survival needs. Still, everyone around her seemed affected by it.

She needed a task. A purpose.

“Buffybot, why don’t you—um—go patrol?” Willow suggested hesitantly. “You like patrolling, right?”

Buffybot’s entire system brightened at the suggestion. Task acquired. Mission objective: accepted.

“Oh! Yes! I love patrolling! Patrolling is what I do!” She perked up, systems clicking into high alert. “I will go now and keep the town safe! I will kill all the vampires!”

She turned on her heel and marched toward the door, arms swinging with precision. Before she reached it, the door swung open.

She stopped abruptly, scanning the new arrival.

Spike.

Buffybot’s Recognition Software activated instantly, bringing up a full catalog of interactions, recorded behaviors, and preprogrammed responses.

Spike’s expression darkened. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Buffybot’s smile widened. “Spike! Hi! I missed you! I find your sinister attraction very appealing still, even though I am not allowed to fornicate with you anymore.”

Spike groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Brilliant.”

Buffybot took a step forward, undeterred. “Are you here to patrol with me? Because that would be so fun! And we could talk about things! And maybe smooch? That should be acceptable.”

Willow and Tara cringed in unison.

Spike’s eyes snapped open, his jaw clenching. “No. No smooching. None of that. Look, just—just go patrol, yeah? Find some vamps, dust ‘em, do whatever it is you’re meant to do. Just go.”

Buffybot processed his tone. He was upset. That was consistent behavior. She still did not understand why.

She tilted her head, running a final Social Response Analysis™.

“Affirmative! I will patrol now and stake all the bad guys!”

She spun on her heel and skipped out the door, humming to herself as she went.

Behind her, she heard Willow hesitate.

“Wait! Spike, can you go with her, you know, just in case?”

Spike groaned. “She’s patrolled a few times already without us, hasn’t she?”

“Well, yeah, but I tinkered with her fighting style a little. It’d be nice to get some feedback.”

There was a long pause. Buffybot didn’t turn back, but she calculated Spike’s hesitation lasted exactly eleven seconds.

Finally, she heard him mutter, “Just what my night bloody needed.”

His footsteps followed.

Buffybot logged the data.

New subroutine added: Spike accompanies Buffybot on patrol. Spike does not enjoy this.

She did not know why.

But she would figure it out.

Eventually.

***

The Buffybot skipped cheerfully through the cemetery, movement sensors detecting no immediate threats.

Heart rate monitor: inactive.

Scanning… 72.6% probability of vampire activity within a 500-foot radius.

She swung her arms and hummed an off-key tune, a randomized melody selected from her internal playlist labeled “Buffy’s Greatest Hits.”

Spike trailed several paces behind, expression: scowling.

Posture: tense.

Probability of enjoyment: 3.2%.

“Isn’t this fun, Spike?” the bot chirped, executing a 180-degree spin to face him mid-step. “You and me, patrolling together, just like old times!”

Spike’s jaw tightened.

Facial analysis: agitation detected.

“Not like old times. You’re not her.”

The Buffybot’s smile faltered for 0.4 seconds, then instantly reset to default.

“Of course I am! I’m Buffy! The Vampire Slayer! Chosen One, she who hangs out a lot in cemeteries!”

Spike sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Predictive analysis: he will repeat this action within the next 20 minutes.

“Right. Let’s just get this over with, yeah? Find some nasties, dust ’em, and call it a night.”

The Buffybot nodded enthusiastically.

“Affirmative! I will locate and eliminate all threats.”

Initiating Threat Detection Mode… scanning…

She paused, adding with a pre-programmed suggestive wink, “And then maybe we can smooch!”

Spike groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Confirmed: action repeated in 3.8 minutes. Accuracy of predictive analysis: 100%.

“Bloody hell, not this again.”

The Buffybot tilted her head, facial recognition database scanning… matching: 97% match to prior “frustrated Spike” expressions.

Her processors whirred.

“But I have multiple stored memories of kissing you! Conclusion: you like smoochies.”

“Yeah, well, those memories are as fake as your bloody hair,” Spike muttered, quickening his pace.

Analysis: he is increasing walking speed by 14.2%.

Is he attempting evasion?

Unclear.

The Buffybot adjusted trajectory to remain exactly 2.5 feet from him.

Proximity to Spike: optimal.

“I also have historical information of kicking you in the face. Would you prefer that instead?” she asked brightly.

Spike exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Frustration levels increasing.

Suggested course of action: change subject.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he muttered.

Before the Buffybot could calculate an appropriate response, her Threat Detection Mode activated.

Peripheral motion detected.

Night vision sensors engaged.

Scanning… vampires confirmed.

Quantity: 3.

Level: low to moderate threat.

She whirled around, locking onto a trio of vampires emerging from behind a mausoleum.

“Threats detected!” she announced, executing Battle Mode: Engaged™.

She widened her stance, striking a fighting pose.

“Prepare to be slain, evil-doers!”

Spike rolled his eyes.

“For the love of—just stake ‘em already.”

The Buffybot processed this request.

Confirmed: direct combat now required.

She leapt into action, charging toward the vampires with an exuberant grin.

“Time to meet Mr. Pointy!” she declared, reaching into her Right Jacket Pocket Stake Compartment™ and withdrawing her weapon.

The first vampire lunged.

The Buffybot dodged effortlessly, calculating his trajectory and executing a 67-degree spin, driving the stake into his back with optimal force ratio: 98.6%.

“Dust to dust!” she chirped as he disintegrated within 2.4 seconds.

The second vampire hesitated.

Analysis: fear detected.

Response: capitalize.

The Buffybot executed a low sweep maneuver at his legs, knocking him to the ground before plunging the stake into his heart.

“Two down, one to go! I’m on a roll!” she announced cheerfully.

The third vampire attempted Escape Tactic: Fleeing Like a Coward™.

Incorrect.

The Buffybot calculated optimal interception route, adjusted running speed to 87% capacity, and executed Leap Maneuver™ over a tombstone before tackling the fleeing vampire to the ground.

“Oh no, you don’t, mister!” she declared.

Engaging Final Execution Mode.

With a precisely calibrated jab, the stake connected with his chest.

Dust cloud formed.

Disintegration complete.

Target neutralized.

The Buffybot hopped to her feet, brushing 2.8 ounces of vampire dust from her clothes.

“All threats eliminated!” she reported, beaming at Spike.

“I’m the best Slayer ever, aren’t I?”

Spike rolled his eyes and moved to lean against a tree, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

“Sure, pet. You’re a real marvel,” he muttered, lighting up and taking a long drag.

The Buffybot processed his tone.

Analysis: Sarcasm detected.

Probability of sincerity: 8.3%.

She frowned, a pre-programmed expression of Confusion™ flashing across her features.

Response invalid. Requesting clarification.

“I don’t understand. My performance was exemplary. I eliminated all threats with 98.7% efficiency!”

Spike exhaled a plume of smoke, shaking his head.

“Yeah, and you looked like a bloody wind-up toy doing it. All that chirpy chatter and posing… it’s not right.”

The Buffybot’s processors whirred.

Accessing Slayer Behavioral Database…

Searching for “chirpy chatter” and “posing”…

0 results found.

She blinked.

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough data on those behaviors,” she admitted. “Should I add them to my Slayer Repertoire™?”

Spike’s jaw clenched.

His hand tightened around the cigarette between his fingers, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something .

But instead, he just exhaled another slow drag of smoke and muttered, “Forget it.”

The Buffybot logged his response.

New entry added: “Forget it.” Interpretation: Unknown. Further analysis required.

Spike took another slow drag from his cigarette, eyes fixed on the ground.

The Buffybot remained standing exactly 2.5 feet away, her systems recalibrating his behavior.

Silence.

She had calculated an 87% probability that after defeating the vampires, Spike would want to return to the house. And yet, he wasn’t moving.

Her posture remained perfect, feet planted at optimal combat readiness, but her processors flagged a discrepancy:

Spike was not behaving as expected.

He was looking at something far away, cigarette burning down between his fingers, face tight in a way that suggested…

Emotion detected.

She ran a facial scan.

Sadness? Yes.

Frustration? Yes.

Anger? 34% probability.

She watched as he shoved the cigarette out against the bark of a nearby tree, then stuffed his hands into his duster pockets, jaw clenched. He turned and walked away, his pace slow but determined.

This was new behavior.

Her systems whirred.

Where was he going?

She scanned the area and found no active threats. No vampires. No demons.

And yet, he was walking deeper into the cemetery.

Without waiting for a direct command, she followed.

They reached a small clearing just behind a row of gravestones. The moon cast long shadows across the ground, illuminating a single headstone set apart from the others.

BUFFY ANNE SUMMERS

1981 – 2001

BELOVED SISTER

DEVOTED FRIEND

SHE SAVED THE WORLD

A LOT

Spike stopped in front of it and stared.

The Buffybot’s eyes flickered between the engraved name and Spike’s unmoving form.

She had seen this stone before—but only in passing. She had never been called here for any task, nor had anyone given her instructions regarding its significance.

Her internal database flagged a contradiction.

Buffy Summers was alive.

She was at home.

She had just patrolled and defeated vampires.

So why was her name here?

Her processors buzzed louder, confusion climbing.

She opened her mouth to ask but stopped.

Spike’s hand came up roughly across his face. His shoulders tensed, his jaw working, his entire body wound tight like a wire stretched to its limit.

The Buffybot observed two tears slipping down his cheek.

Her system flagged this as highly unusual behavior for Spike.

Sadness. Probability: 96.2%.

She stepped forward.

“Spike,” she said. “You are crying.”

His whole body stiffened.

“Brilliant analysis, love. Maybe next you can tell me the weather.”

She tilted her head, running Sarcasm Detection.

Result: 98.5% likelihood.

Spike exhaled sharply, shaking his head. His fingers twitched toward another cigarette, but he didn’t light one. Instead, he stared at the grave, his voice low, quiet in a way she had not previously logged.

“It’s not right,” he muttered. “All of it.  You.  This.” He gestured vaguely at her, then at the grave. “I hate it.”

The Buffybot blinked, taking in this information.

He hated her?

This was confusing.

“I do not understand. I have memories of you stating that you love me.”

Spike let out a dry, bitter laugh.

“Yeah. That I did, but it wasn’t real, was it?”

She frowned, scanning her memory files for a response.

“Would you like me to apologize?” she asked helpfully.

Spike scoffed. “Apologize? What the hell for?”

“For being here.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, and for a split second, he looked startled. Like she had said something he wasn’t expecting.

She tilted her head. “You said you hate this. I am included in ‘this.’ Therefore, I am part of the problem.”

Spike shook his head and sighed deeply. 

“Bloody hell. No, that’s not—” He stopped, looking exhausted, like he didn’t have the energy to explain. “Forget it, Bot.”

Her systems processed this.

“Why?”

Spike let out a groan. “Because you don’t get it, alright? You  can’t  get it. You can’t feel it.”

Her processors whirred.

“It?”

“ Grief.  ”

She ran an immediate search.

Definition: Grief (n.) – Intense sorrow, especially caused by someone’s death.

She scanned Spike again.

Sadness detected.

Sorrow detected.

She ran a subroutine for “intense.”

Confirmed.

“I understand,” she said confidently. “Grief is sadness because that Buffy is dead. Sadness is distress. Distress is unpleasant.”

Spike let out another bitter laugh, turning his back to her.

“You don’t understand a damn thing.”

This was incorrect.

She had just provided the definition.

She paused, recalculating. “If grief is unpleasant, why do you continue experiencing it?”

Spike stiffened. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“…Because it doesn’t go away,” he admitted. “Doesn’t matter how much you drink, or fight, or pretend it ain’t there. You wake up, and it’s still sittin’ on your chest like a bloody anvil.”

She processed this.

Error.

“If grief does not go away, how does one fix it?”

Spike let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“You don’t,” he said. His voice was lower now, rough, quiet. “You just… get up. Keep moving. Not ‘cause you’re ready. But because you don’t have a soddin’ choice.”

Her systems logged this information.

New data entry: Grief cannot be fixed. It is carried.

She did not understand why.

But she would.

Eventually.

A silence stretched between them. For once, the Buffybot did not fill it with cheerful declarations or preprogrammed responses. She simply stood beside him at the grave.

She did not move.

She did not process new tasks.

She just existed, beside him, in the stillness. Then, after seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, she spoke.

“You keep moving. I do that, too!”

Spike’s head tilted slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to speak.

She smiled brightly. “I keep moving until I get new instructions.”

Spike snorted, shaking his head.

“Must be nice, knowing what your orders are.”

She processed this statement.

“Yes!” she agreed. “It is!”

Spike chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. He exhaled, gaze flickering to the grave one last time.

“C’mon, Bot,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

And for the first time, she didn’t ask why.

She simply followed.

Chapter Text

It had been almost two months since Buffy’s death, and Tara was starting to feel like they had somehow found a new normal. The Buffybot was fulfilling its purpose with less need for supervision during patrols as Willow continued tweaking its programming. Dawn had been opening up more, leaning on Tara and the others instead of shutting them out. She was still moody at times, but the worst of the silent treatment seemed to be fading.

Spike had, surprisingly, turned the art gallery into a success. The income helped keep the house more than afloat, and they had even managed to start a college fund for Dawn—something that would have seemed impossible just months ago. Tara and Dawn pitched in at the gallery whenever they could, helping with customers and keeping things organized. 

Even Spike and Xander were getting along. Maybe even… friends? They had started grabbing drinks together sometimes after work, joking instead of just sniping at each other, working as an unexpected team. It was strange, but nice to see. They all had, in one way or another, formed something close to friendship with Spike rather than the begrudging acceptance they had previously. He had become, in a way, a rock for them.

Whenever there was a problem, he fixed it or offered a perspective none of them had considered. And even though Dawn and Spike had their share of arguments now and again—she was still a teen, and he was a stubborn vampire, it was inevitable—she obviously adored him. They had even talked, her and the scoobies, more than once, about how wrong they had been about him. How unfairly they had treated him before Buffy died, refusing to give him a chance.

Tara saw it clearer than anyone. She had coffee with him almost every morning, quiet moments before the rest of the house woke up. Out of everyone, he was the most honest with her about how much he was struggling.

“Still in the thick of it,”  he had admitted to her one morning, staring into his mug like it held answers.  “But I’m managing. ‘Cause the Bit needs me to. ‘Cause Buffy would’ve wanted her to have a shot at something better. That’s what she gave her life for. Gotta make it count.”

Selfless. That was the word for him, as impossible as it seemed. Tara had read his aura a few times—pain, deep and aching, but underneath it, waves of devotion. A love so strong, it almost hurt to look at.

Giles had been somewhat distant lately but when he infrequently came around, he looked a little less weary than before. He was even performing again at the Espresso Pump. Somehow, Giles had managed to convince the Council that Buffy was still alive—a deception that ensured his continued paycheck and avoided anything unsavory happening to Faith. Things were… stable. Or as stable as they could be.

Except for Willow.

Tara had noticed the changes—the late nights, the borrowed black magic books, the hours spent online, researching something. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t pried because she wanted to believe that there was nothing to be afraid of. Because she wanted to trust Willow. But deep down, she was starting to wonder if she should.

Tara hadn’t been looking for anything, trying to give her some space and let her open up when she felt ready to about what she had been researching. But with Willow pulling all-nighters at the dining table, the room had become cluttered—papers stacked on the floor, books piled high, empty coffee cups left half-drunk. Tara had been picking up when one of the books slid off the desk and fell open at her feet.

She bent to pick it up and the title immediately made her stomach twist.

It wasn’t one of the usual magic books Willow borrowed from the Magic Box. This one was different—older, its cover leather-bound and cracked with age. Tara brushed her fingers across the worn surface, her pulse quickening as she translated the gilded title in her head from Latin to English.

Resurrection and Rebirth: A Guide Beyond the Veil.

Her breath caught in her throat. Tara had read about resurrection magic before. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t safe. No magic came without consequence, but bringing back the dead? That was the kind of spell that demanded more than most could ever give.

And yet… here it was, pages creased and with notes scribbled in the margins.

Tara traced the ink absently, seeing Willow’s familiar handwriting in the margins. She had been studying this. Not just skimming—learning. Preparing.

Her chest tightened. She didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that this was what Willow had been obsessing over. That Willow was actually considering it.

Her heart pounded as she flipped to the next page. There were diagrams, incantations, descriptions of rituals that required grave dirt, blood, and sacrifice. Some spells referenced the Powers That Be. Others whispered of darker forces, things no witch should ever seek out.

And then, at the bottom of the page, her breath hitched. There, in Willow’s handwriting, were potential dates when the spell could be done corresponding with the correct phase of the moon and a list of things she needed to do it. 

Before she could process further, the front door creaked open. Tara snapped her head up just as Willow stepped inside, freezing at the sight of her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Willow’s gaze dropped to the book in Tara’s hands. A flash of something—guilt? Panic?—crossed her face before she plastered on a bright, casual smile.

“Oh! Hey, baby. What’cha doin’?”

Tara’s grip tightened around the book. “Willow… what is this?”

Willow’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Oh, that? Just, uh—some research.”

“Resurrection magic?” Tara’s voice was quiet but firm.

Willow hesitated before walking a few steps closer, then let out a breathy little laugh, waving it off. “It’s just theoretical! You know, magical curiosity. I like to expand my knowledge base.”

Tara stared at her, waiting for her to admit the truth. But Willow only held her smile, her fingers twitching at her sides. She felt something heavy settle in her stomach. Tara had always trusted Willow. Had always believed that, no matter what, Willow’s intentions were good. But this? This wasn’t just curiosity.

Tara took a deep breath. “Will… are you thinking about using this?”

Willow’s expression flickered, something tightening in her jaw. “Of course not.”

It was a lie. Tara felt it like a pulse of magic in the air, an instinct deep in her bones.

“I just…” Willow continued, her voice softer now. “I miss her, Tara. We all do. Don’t you ever wonder if maybe… maybe we don’t have to?”

Tara swallowed hard. “Buffy’s gone, Will.”

“But what if she doesn’t have to be?”

Willow took a step forward, her eyes shining with something close to desperation. Tara’s stomach twisted at the look in Willow’s eyes, something telling her that she had already made up her mind, but Tara wasn’t going to let this slide.

“We need to call a meeting,” she said firmly.

Willow blinked. “What?”

“A Scooby meeting,” Tara clarified. “If you’re seriously considering this—if you’ve been researching resurrection magic—then everyone deserves to know.”

Willow let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Tara, come on. I told you, it’s just theoretical. No need to—”

“No,” Tara interrupted. “This isn’t just theory, Willow. You’ve been planning this. You made notes. You picked out dates.” She held up the book, pages marked with Willow’s own handwriting. “You’re not just thinking about it. You’re preparing for it.”

Willow pressed her lips together, jaw tightening. She didn’t deny it.

Tara exhaled sharply. “Then we’re telling the others.”

***

The meeting was tense from the start. They had gathered at the house, everyone sitting in the living room, all of them seemingly apprehensive about what exactly they were here to talk about, their last meeting like this having been the night Buffy died. Giles had arrived first, taking a seat at the desk. Xander sat on the couch, fidgeting, clearly sensing something was wrong, and Anya perched on the armrest next to him, her arms crossed. Dawn sat curled up on the couch, uncharacteristically quiet.

And then there was Spike—leaning against the wall, arms folded, face unreadable.

Tara placed the book on the coffee table and stood in front of them, Willow sitting nervously in the armchair, fidgeting with her bracelets.

“Willow has been researching resurrection magic.”

Silence.

Then Giles stiffened, adjusting his glasses. “Excuse me?”

Willow rolled her eyes. “It’s not—”

“Resurrection magic?” Giles repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. He turned to Willow, his expression dark. “Please, tell me this is some kind of mistake.”

Willow sighed, frustration creeping into her tone. “It’s not what you think—”

“It is exactly what I think,” Giles snapped. “You are playing with forces far beyond your understanding!”

“I’m not some amateur, Giles,” Willow shot back. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You do not! Not about something like this. A spell this dangerous.” Giles’ voice was sharp, his usual patience gone. “You have no idea what kind of damage this could cause, the kind of which that could bring about an apocalypse. Magic of this nature is never without consequence, Willow.  Never .”

Xander let out a nervous chuckle. “Okay, so, uh… wow. This is a lot. But maybe we just take a breath and—”

“I just want to help,” Willow cut in. “I—I don’t think Buffy’s at peace.”

Dawn’s head snapped up at that, her expression suddenly more alert.

Willow pressed on. “We don’t know where she is. What if she’s in hell?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Giles muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Is it?” Willow challenged. “She was taken into a portal made of raw, chaotic energy. What if she didn’t go somewhere good? What if she’s suffering, and we’re just sitting here doing nothing?”

The silence that followed felt suffocating as they all processed the idea of Buffy somehow being in hell. Tara didn’t want to believe it, it didn’t seem possible, but there was a slight fear within her that there was a chance Willow was right. Still, the spell was too risky to attempt, and instinctively, the cons outweighed the pros for her.

Giles was the first to break the silence after several long beats. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood. “You cannot be serious,” he said, voice low but sharp.

Willow lifted her chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “I’m not serious? Giles, we don’t know where she is. What if she’s—”

“You do not tamper with resurrection magic, Willow!” Giles snapped, his usual composed demeanor cracking. “It is not a game. It is not a problem to be solved with your increasing obsession with spellcraft!”

Willow’s expression darkened. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” Giles countered, “is you assuming you have the right to decide this. Have you learned nothing? Have you forgotten the costs of magic that meddles with life and death?”

“Buffy shouldn’t be dead!” Willow shot back, her voice rising.

“And yet she is,” Giles said coldly.

Xander raised his hands like he wanted to slow things down. “Okay, okay, everyone, take a breath. Let’s not make this a shouting match. We’re all friends here. We’re not enemies.”

Willow turned to him. “Xander, don’t you want her back?”

Xander hesitated. “Of course I do, Will. We all do. But—”

“But what?” Willow cut in. “Why are we just accepting this? Buffy saved the world, and now we’re supposed to just move on?”

“That’s what people do when someone dies, Will,” Xander said, rubbing the back of his neck. “They grieve. They miss them. They don’t—” He gestured vaguely toward the book. “—do this.”

“You think I want to be doing this?” Willow demanded. “You think I like staying up all night trying to figure out if there’s a way to fix this?”

Tara placed a hand on her arm, trying to calm her. “Willow, Buffy isn’t something you can fix.”

“But what if she needs fixing?” Willow’s voice was desperate now. “What if she’s not in some great, peaceful afterlife? What if she’s trapped? In pain? What if she’s suffering, and we’re just—just letting it happen?”

Anya, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly spoke up. “It’s actually not a completely unfounded concern,” she said matter-of-factly.

Xander turned to her in disbelief. “Anya, not helping.”

Anya shrugged. “I mean, portals can be unpredictable. The one she jumped into was made from unstable dimensional energy. It is possible her soul got yanked somewhere unpleasant instead of floating up into the clouds.”

Willow gestured wildly toward Anya. “Thank you!”

Giles looked like he was about to pop a blood vessel. “That is not the point!”

“Then what is the point?” Willow challenged. “That we just sit around and pretend we don’t have a choice here?”

The argument was reaching a boiling point, voices overlapping, frustration crackling in the air like static electricity.

And then—

“Bloody hell, enough.”

Everyone turned.

Spike, who had been leaning against the wall in brooding silence, finally pushed himself upright. His voice wasn’t raised, but its weight cut through the tension like a blade.

“Are you lot hearing yourselves?” he asked, his tone low and edged with irritation. “This ain’t some daft what-if scenario. The girl’s gone.”

Willow’s arms folded defensively. “You don’t know where she is—”

Spike’s expression darkened, his voice sharpening. “Oh, and you do, Red? You got a hotline to the Great Beyond I don’t know about? ’Cause last I checked, you weren’t in the business of chatting up the Powers The Be.”

Willow opened her mouth, but Spike didn’t give her the chance. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, fixing her with a look that dared her to argue.

“You’re actin’ like she got bloody sucked away somewhere like Angel did. Like we need to rescue her from another dimension. But that’s not what happened, is it?” He tilted his head, gaze piercing. 

Willow swallowed, but Spike kept going, voice quiet but firm.

“She jumped, and her body fell after she paid the ultimate price to save the soddin’ world…She died. And you know what happens when people die?” He let the silence stretch before answering his own question. “Their spirit moves on where it’s supposed to go.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop.

“You think for one second that Buffy—a girl who saved the bloody world—would’ve gone anywhere but heaven?” He scoffed. “That’s rich. If there’s some great cosmic scorekeeper tallyin’ up who gets to kick back in paradise, I reckon she’s right up there at the top of the list.”

Willow hesitated, her certainty seemingly cracking.

“She’s at peace,” Spike continued, softer now. “And what you’re talkin’ about? Draggin’ her out of it—without her say-so—that’s not right. That’s not for you to decide, is it?” He raised a pointed brow. 

Willow looked away, jaw tightening.

“An’ let’s say, just for argument’s sake,” Spike went on, “that you did bring her back. Ever stop to wonder if she’d want that? If she’d thank you for it? Or do you just assume she’d come skippin’ back into this life, all sunshine and gratitude?”

Silence. Willow’s arms crossed tighter, but she didn’t say anything.

Xander exhaled slowly. “I hate to say it, but I think he’s right, Will.”

Giles adjusted his glasses, his expression scrutinizing. Tara kept her eyes on Willow, watching, waiting.

Finally, Willow let out a slow breath. “Fine,” she muttered. “I won’t do it.”

Tara should have felt relieved, but she knew Willow, knew that look in her eyes, and that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

She hated that it had come to this, but Tara knew that something this dangerous couldn’t be handled with just a quiet conversation. Willow needed to hear it from all of them, she needed to  see  that this wasn’t just her decision to make. Tara could only hope that, in time, Willow would forgive her—and, more importantly, understand.

After Willow reluctantly agreed not to pursue the resurrection spell, the meeting adjourned in an uneasy silence. No one seemed fully satisfied with the outcome, least of all Willow. Her expression remained tight, her posture rigid as she stalked off to the bedroom without another word.

Tara lingered behind, gathering up the scattered papers and books Willow had left strewn about. As she reached for the resurrection tome, a cool hand brushed against hers. She glanced up to see Spike, his blue eyes dimmed with exhaustion.

"Let me take that," he murmured, gently prying the book from her fingers. "I'll see it gets lost, nice and quiet-like."

Tara hesitated but nodded. She trusted Spike, perhaps more than anyone else at that moment. He had been the voice of reason, the one to cut through Willow's desperate rationalizations. If anyone could ensure the book stayed out of the wrong hands, it was him.

"Thanks," she said softly, meeting his gaze. “You know, she didn’t mean—”

“I know, pet,” Spike interrupted, his voice low but steady. “Know her heart’s in the right place… Hell, if I were younger, if I didn’t know any better, I’d be the first to go along with it. But it’s not right. Not worth the risk of Buffy comin’ back wrong—or worse, if we pulled her out of heaven, how could she ever forgive us? As much as I hate her bein’ gone, I’d never do that to her.”

Tara offered him a small, sad smile. “I know,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “And I think, deep down, Willow knows too. She just—”

“Doesn’t want to feel the loss,” Spike finished for her, exhaling a quiet sigh. He turned the book over in his hands, his thumb running along the worn edges. “She wants to fix what can’t be fixed. But some things… they ain’t meant to be undone.”

Tara nodded, glancing toward the empty living room where the others had just been. “She’s not going to let this go, is she?”

Spike met her gaze, his expression grim but knowing. “No, luv. I doubt she will so easily.”

Tara swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. She had known the answer before she even asked, but hearing it aloud made its weight settle even heavier on her chest.

Spike tucked the book under his arm and reached into his coat pocket for a cigarette, hesitating before lighting it. “I’ll make sure this stays lost,” he assured her. “You just… keep an eye on her, yeah?”

Tara nodded again. “I will.”

Spike gave her a brief nod before turning toward the door, but before he could leave, she called after him.

“Spike?”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said simply.

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe even gratitude—but he just offered her a small, tired smirk. “Yeah, well… somebody’s got to be the sensible one.”

And with that, he slipped out the door, the book disappearing with him into the night.

Chapter Text

Anya was frustrated. 

It had been exactly three months since Xander proposed, and she was no closer to getting him to announce the engagement. He always had some excuse—it wasn’t the right time, things were still too raw, they should wait until everything settled down. 

Well, when the hell would it be the right time?

Engagements were supposed to be happy human occasions! There were supposed to be cheers, gifts, cake tastings, and maybe some good-natured capitalism. Sure, Buffy’s death had put a damper on things, but wouldn’t their happiness lift everyone up? Xander didn’t seem to think so, and that was very frustrating.

No one seemed that mopey about Buffy anymore—not in an active, constantly crying way, at least. Of course, Anya understood that grief was complicated. Blah blah, pain is eternal, memories last forever, etc. But she also believed in moving forward. And wasn’t a wedding the perfect way to remind everyone that life still had good things in it?

She had been sad about Buffy, too. Not in the way the others were, but in her own way. Buffy had been a friend. Not a close one, and not always a kind one, but a friend. That meant something. And she knew Buffy’s death had hurt Xander. It had ripped a hole in him, made him hesitant, made him retreat inward in a way she didn’t know how to fix. Not that she wanted to fix it. She was very supportive. And understanding. But also… impatient. And possibly a little resentful. Still, three months was a long time. Surely it was time for something good to happen? 

Like, for example, her wedding?

She didn’t understand, and Xander did a terrible job of explaining himself. Sometimes, she worried—deeply, terribly, privately worried—that maybe… maybe he didn’t actually want to marry her. Maybe he had proposed in a moment of  the-world-is-ending panic,  and now that it hadn’t, he was stalling because he didn’t actually want to go through with it—but didn’t know how to back out. The thought made her chest tighten uncomfortably.

Before he had proposed, she hadn’t even thought much about marriage. It had always seemed like an archaic human practice, a tradition rooted in property exchange and outdated social customs. But now that she had a shiny diamond ring that she wasn’t even allowed to wear, all she could think about was picking out a big white dress and becoming Xander’s wife.

She had even started a wedding fund. It was full of cash that she couldn’t even spend because there wasn’t a wedding date to plan for. It was infuriating.

She had attempted withholding sex as leverage, thinking it might motivate him to set a date. Unfortunately, that strategy had backfired immediately because, as it turned out… she really, really liked sex. It was one of the few joys of being human. One of the only things that made sense. And Xander was a giving, attentive lover. Not especially inventive, but that was fine—she had enough knowledge and ideas for the both of them.

Depriving herself of that? An absolute nightmare. So, after exactly four days, two hours, and thirty-nine minutes, she had called off the sex strike and decided on a new plan.

A confrontation.

Xander was going to give her answers, whether he liked it or not, and if that required an ultimatum, then so be it. She wasn’t going to wait around forever for him to make up his mind. She was a smart, resourceful, independent woman who deserved to get what she wanted. Xander could either get with the program or she’d move on without him.

At least, that’s what she told herself—what she rehearsed over and over in her head—before she actually sat down to have the conversation that evening.

Anya had planned to be calm. Collected. Completely in control of the situation. Instead, she found herself pacing the apartment, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

Xander sat on the couch, watching her with increasing wariness. “An, what’s going on? You’re making me nervous.”

She stopped abruptly, spinning to face him. “Good. You should be nervous.”

His brows furrowed. “Okay… I don’t love that. Can we start with, like, a clue about what I did?”

Anya exhaled sharply. “You know  exactly  what this is about, Alexander Harris.” She gestured wildly to her ringless finger. “It’s been three months! Three months, and we’re still engaged in secret like it’s some shameful thing you regret.”

Xander’s mouth opened, then shut. He rubbed a hand over his face before sighing. “An, it’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” she shot back, folding her arms. “Because that’s  exactly  what it feels like. You proposed. I said yes. And yet here we are, still sneaking around like we’re having an affair. When are you actually going to tell people?”

Xander groaned, standing and pacing a few steps away. “Look, I  want  to tell them. I do. I just—now isn’t the right time.”

Anya let out a strangled noise of frustration. “ When  is the right time, Xander? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re never actually going to do it.”

He turned to her, his face pulled tight. “Buffy  died  three months ago, Anya. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

Anya flinched but recovered quickly, hands curling into fists at her sides. “Of course, it matters to me! But life keeps going, Xander.  We  keep going. Life doesn’t stop because someone died, in fact, it’s more of a reason to continue on. To have things to look forward to, things to celebrate.”

Xander shook his head. “Not yet, it’s just not the time. It’s too soon.”

Anya stared at him, something cold settling in her stomach. “So that’s it? I just have to  wait  until you decide it’s okay?”

“Is that so hard?” Xander asked, exasperated, plopping back down on the couch. “I’m just asking for a little more time. That’s  reasonable. ”

“No, Xander,” Anya snapped. “What’s  reasonable  is  three months.  What’s  reasonable  is me wanting to tell people that I’m getting married instead of sitting around hoping you actually mean it.”

His face twisted, defensive. “You really think I don’t mean it?”

“I don’t know , ” she admitted, voice rising. “Because every time I try to talk to you about it, you brush me off like it’s not important.”

Xander exhaled through his nose, gripping the back of the couch like he was holding himself back. “This isn’t fair.”

Anya scoffed. “Oh, you think  this  isn’t fair? You think  I’m  being unfair?”

“Yes!” he shouted. “I think you springing this on me like some kind of  test  is unfair! I think you trying to  force  this when I’m not ready, when I’m still grieving, is unfair! I lost my best friend! I don’t need a deadline for when I’m supposed to be okay again!”

Anya took a step back, her throat tight. “So what? I just wait around forever? Hope one day you wake up and suddenly decide you’re ready?”

Xander’s jaw clenched. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s exactly what you’re saying,” she shot back. “And I won’t do it. Either you tell them  soon , or—” She swallowed, forcing herself to say it. “Or I don’t know if I can be engaged to you anymore.”

The words landed between them like a slap. Xander’s expression darkened, his shoulders rising defensively. “Wow. That’s really great, Anya. Real supportive.”

“I shouldn’t  have  to be supportive of this!” she snapped, voice sharp with anger and something dangerously close to hurt. “It’s not something you put off. It’s not something you hide. Either you want to marry me, or you don’t.”

Xander looked away, his hands curling into fists. “I can’t do this right now.”

Anya’s chest burned. She let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, grabbed her purse, and stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

She had no idea where she was going, only that she needed to get away.

***

Eventually, her feet led her to the Bronze, because, truly, this lame-ass town only had about a handful of places to go. It wasn’t like she had an abundance of options for dramatic storming-out destinations. And if she was going to be miserable, she might as well do it somewhere with alcohol and questionable lighting.

She stepped inside, scanning the dimly lit room. The usual crowd was there—groups of high schoolers trying to act older, college kids drowning their academic sorrows, and a handful of regulars who had probably been there since the place first opened.

Her eyes eventually settled on a flash of white-blonde hair and expensive leather.

Spike sat alone at the bar, hunched over a drink, swirling the liquid absently in his glass. He looked like he’d been there for a while, which wasn’t surprising. Drinking and sulking were basically his entire personality when he wasn’t killing things, taking care of Dawn, or playing art gallery director.

Anya paused, considering her options. She could go home and stew over Xander’s excuses, let the frustration build until she either caved or exploded. Or she could sit next to someone who probably understood what it felt like to be angry and stuck in a relationship that wasn’t quite going the way it should, considering everything she heard about him and Drusilla. 

With a huff, she made up her mind and slid onto the stool next to him.

Spike barely glanced at her before taking another sip of his drink. “Well, if it isn’t the resident ex-demon. What’s got you looking like you’re ready to curse someone?”

Anya flagged down the bartender before answering, ordering herself a martini. “I can’t curse anyone anymore. And even if I could, it wouldn’t work on Xander—unless I found someone who hated him enough to make a wish, and unfortunately,  I  don’t count.”

Spike arched an eyebrow at that. “Harris, huh? What’d he do this time? Leave the toilet seat up? Forget an anniversary?”

Anya let out an exasperated noise. “No. He—” She hesitated, fingers drumming on the bar before finally blurting, “He won’t tell anyone we’re engaged.”

Spike blinked. “Come again?”

Anya sighed dramatically. “He proposed to me three months ago.  Three.  And he keeps saying it’s not the right time to tell people.”

Spike stared at her, then snorted into his drink. “Harris? Proposed? And you  said yes? ”

“Yes, obviously!” she snapped. “Why is that so shocking?”

Spike smirked. “No offense, but didn’t think you’d be the type for the whole ‘til death do us part’, white picket fence trope.”

She scowled. “Well, I wasn’t. But then I got a ring, and I thought,  Hey, marriage might actually be fun!  Only now, I’m not even allowed to wear the ring because Xander thinks it’s  too soon. ”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell. That’s rich, even for him.”

Anya exhaled sharply. “ Right?  I gave him an ultimatum. Either he tells people soon, or I don’t know if I can keep waiting around for him.”

Spike let out a low whistle. “And here I thought I was the impulsive one.”

“I’m not being impulsive!” she huffed. “I’m being  practical.  You don’t get engaged and then  hide it  for months. That’s not how this works.”

Spike took a slow sip of his drink, watching her. “And what if he doesn’t change his mind?”

Anya frowned, staring down at the bar. “Then… I guess I’ll have my answer, won’t I?”

Spike didn’t say anything for a moment, just tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. Then, finally, he muttered, “For what it’s worth, if he’s too much of a wanker to tell the world he’s lucky enough to have you, maybe he’s not as ready as he thinks he is.”

That comment settled inside of her like a knife in the gut, triggering her inner insecurities about her relationship.

Anya turned to him, vulnerability flickering across her face. “You ever get the feeling that you care about someone  way  more than they care about you?”

Spike let out a short, bitter laugh. “More than you know, love.”

Anya sighed, taking a sip of her drink that finally arrived. “Great. So, I’m officially drinking my feelings with  you.  This is what my life has come to.”

Spike smirked. “Could be worse.”

Anya raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“You could be drinking  alone. ”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, she clinked her glass against his, and for the first time that night, she felt validated for once. 

“So what do you think I should do? I love him, I love our life together, but this is hurting me  immensely.  I hate feeling rejected, and he’s not doing anything to make it better.”

“His excuse is that the timing’s not right?”

“Yeah, because everyone is still grieving Buffy. And don’t get me wrong—Buffy dying was  very  unfortunate and regretful—but this isn’t the 1800s. We don’t have to wear black for six months and abstain from any frivolity because it would be  unseemly.  I’m sure our engagement would bring everyone a lot of joy.”

Spike scoffed, swirling his drink in his glass. “Yeah, can’t imagine anything Harris-related bringin’ me joy, exactly, but sure, let’s go with that. No offense.”

Anya sighed, rubbing her temples. “Don’t act like you aren’t friends. I know you two talk sometimes. Anyway, I’m  serious,  Spike. I don’t understand why he’s so afraid to be happy. It’s like he thinks moving on is some kind of betrayal.”

Spike shook his head and took a sip of his drink before answering. “It’s guilt, love. Survivor’s guilt. Feels wrong to be celebratin’ when someone he cares about is six feet under.”

Anya frowned. “But  I  care about Buffy too! And I still want to celebrate. Why does his grief get to overshadow everything else? Why does my happiness have to be put on hold?”

Spike studied her for a moment before taking another sip of his drink. “I reckon it’s because he’s a wanker who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Anya huffed. “That’s not helpful.”

Spike smirked. “Didn’t say I was here to be helpful.”

She rolled her eyes, turning back to her drink. “So, what do I do?”

Spike tapped his fingers against the bar, considering. “Well, you could keep waitin’ around, hopin’ he grows a spine. Or you could tell him to sod off and find someone who actually wants to shout it from the rooftops.”

Anya pursed her lips. “Neither of those options sound particularly appealing.”

Spike shrugged. “I guess I could talk to him. See what’s the hold-up really about.”

Anya’s eyes widened, and she sat up straighter. “You  will? ”

He smirked, amused by her sudden enthusiasm. “Yeah, why not?”

“Yes! I think that would help  a lot! ” she said eagerly, nodding. “You have a way of getting under his skin. Maybe you can make him see how ridiculous he’s being!”

Spike chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, I can do that, no problem.”

Anya clapped her hands together. “Perfect! Maybe you can tell him how stupid it is to keep something so happy a secret. And that it’s hurting me. And that if he doesn’t fix it soon, I  will  start shopping around for a better fiancé.”

Spike smirked into his drink. “Now  that  I’d pay to see.”

Anya exhaled, a weight lifting off her chest. “Thank you, Spike. This was a very productive conversation.”

Spike gave her a lazy salute. “Always happy to stir the pot, love.”

Chapter Text

Spike didn’t make it a point to play therapist to the Scoobies, but damn if they weren’t especially needy and misguided at times—some of them more than others, of course. Yeah, he could admit—to himself only—that there was some fondness within him for the humans. It seemed almost a curse that living so long had given him a level of wisdom and insight they tended to lack, and bugger if he was going to deal with any unnecessary drama when he could just point out how daft they were being and avoid it altogether.

So that’s how he somehow found himself having a heart-to-heart with Xander, which ended up uncovering the fact that not only was the git scared of committing, but he was also starting to worry he’d turn out like his useless parents. Spike talked him down from that emotional ledge and made him realize that the sins of his father weren’t destined for him to inherit.

Anya was solidly out of his league, and he was lucky to have her. And more than that, if he kept waiting to announce the engagement, he was going to lose her. Xander still seemed hesitant, the weight of his fears written all over his face, so Spike suggested the obvious: be honest. Talk to Anya. Get his shit sorted. It wasn’t like they needed to get married tomorrow—they could pick a date a year from now. That gave him plenty of time to sort through his doubts and get his head on straight.

But the bottom line was simple—he wasn’t going to end up with another chit half as good as Anya. So he could either make her happy, follow through on his commitment, or lose her forever.

Xander was quiet for a long moment before nodding, realization dawning across his face. A muttered, “Thanks, man, for talking to me,” before he got up and ran off to make amends with his bird.

A few days later, everyone gathered at the Magic Box, where Xander and Anya finally announced their engagement. They were met with genuine cheers and smiles, with talks of a little party to celebrate. Spike even offered to use the art gallery space to host the shindig, and the girls immediately started planning.

Of course, because things never went that smoothly in Scoobyland, the engagement party wasn’t without its incidents—squabbles between Anya’s demon friends and Xander’s nightmare of a family made things more than a bit tense. In the end, the happy couple decided they’d keep the actual wedding a much smaller affair, limited to only their closest people.

With that issue put to bed, Spike went back to his usual routine. Working. Patrolling. Being a parent of sorts to Dawn. Getting away every once in a while to play poker, hit the Bronze for a drink, or—shockingly—meet up with Xander to hang. Which, fine, yes, they were solid mates by then, even if neither of them would ever acknowledge it out loud. 

His life had found a sort of solid routine that kept him grounded, and so did the people around him who somehow became part of his orbit. 

Still, grief wasn’t a thing he was able to lay down and move on from; no matter how long time had passed, it still felt the same to him. Every week or so, he’d go to Buffy’s grave alone, spend a few minutes talking to her headstone, laying fresh flowers against it. He’d give her updates on her people, reassuring her that everyone was okay.

He didn’t know if she could hear him, but he did it anyway, just in case.

One saving grace was that Spike didn’t cry as much anymore when he was alone. Only sometimes, when he dreamt of her, but those dreams weren’t as frequent now. It had been six months since she died. A lot had changed, and so had he.

He found that he preferred the company of humans to demons. He no longer dreamed of getting his chip out and sinking his teeth into fresh blood. Even if he could, he was certain Buffy’s face would flash in his mind, and he’d lose his appetite.

The humans treated him like a person. They respected him. Trusted him. Maybe even—God help him—were proud of him.

He liked that feeling.

Deep down, he’d always wanted to be accepted. Even as a demon, that had been his driving force behind becoming the biggest bad he could be—wanting the respect he never got as a human. And for the first time in his existence, he had that.

It was… nice.

There was one night, a few months ago, when he realized they actually wanted him around. It wasn’t anything special—just a movie night at the Summers’ house. He’d been heading down to the basement when Willow called out, “Hey, where ya going? The movie’s about to start.”

“Yeah, it’s a really good one. Lots of blood and fighting,” Dawn added. “It’s called  Gladiator.  You’ll love it.”

“While you’re up, can you grab me a beer?” Xander chimed in, reaching over to steal some popcorn from Willow. “I think we could squeeze you in on the couch with us. Unless you don’t mind the floor, I’ll toss you a pillow.”

Spike stood there for a second, taking it in. Then he cleared his throat and nodded, making his way to the kitchen. When he returned, he handed Xander his beer and then plopped himself down on the floor in front of Dawn. Xander handed him the pillow, and he accepted the offering, using it against his back.

Dawn leaned down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a quick hug before nestling back into the couch, her legs tucked to the side.

Spike allowed himself a small, fleeting smile as the movie played, letting the warmth of being wanted settle in his bones.

For the first time in over a century, he felt like he belonged. And that hadn’t been more apparent than when they decided to throw him a birthday party…

***

“You’re making me regret telling you the date of my human birth, Niblet. All this fuss is makin’ me itch,” Spike grumbled, sprawled out on Dawn’s bed as he stared at the ceiling while she brushed her hair.

“It’s totally not a fuss,” Dawn argued, rolling her eyes. “It’s just a little get-together downstairs. I mean, the only person besides the usual gang that’s going to be there is Clem. Barely different from a regular night.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we always have streamers, music playin’, and bloody party favors just lyin’ around,” Spike quipped.

“Oh, don’t forget the cake! Tara and I made one. I promise—no weird flavors this time.”

“Like you ‘aven’t made me eat your monstrosities every time you get the urge to set the bloody kitchen on fire.”

“Hey! Some of my ideas are actually good.”

“Sure, one out of every ten.”

Dawn stuck out her tongue at him, and he smirked, giving her a cheeky wink.

Dawn huffed and set down her brush, turning to face him with a smirk. “Well, if you’re gonna be so ungrateful, maybe I should eat your cake myself.”

Spike let out a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh no, not the cake. Whatever would I do?”

“You’d sulk and then steal a slice when no one’s looking.”

“Damn right, I would,” he said, smirking.

Dawn rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. She crossed the room and flopped onto the bed next to him. “Seriously though, Spike… it’s just a little thing. It’s not like we’re throwing a huge surprise party or something. We just thought… I dunno, you deserve it.”

Spike turned his head to look at her, some vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dawn nodded, nudging his arm with her elbow. “You’ve done a lot for us. For me. I mean, it’s been six months, and you’re still here. You didn’t have to be, but you are. So… yeah. We wanted to do something nice. No big deal.”

Spike swallowed, feeling something tight in his chest that he wasn’t about to examine too closely. Instead, he scoffed, waving a hand. “If this is your way of gettin’ me all choked up, you’re gonna have to do better than a few streamers and a cake, Bit.”

Dawn grinned. “Give it time. We’re just getting started.”

Spike groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Bloody hell.”

She laughed and hopped off the bed. “Come on, birthday boy. Everyone’s waiting.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he pushed himself up. “If this turns into some sappy, heartfelt nonsense, I’m biting you.”

“Oh, it will,” she said cheerfully. “And you’ll love it. The feels, not the other thing.”

Spike muttered under his breath but followed Dawn downstairs. If he were being honest, he was chuffed that they’d even bothered to throw something for him, but bugger if he was going to make that fact obvious. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

They made their way into the living room, where he was met with a chorus of greetings from the usual lot, plus Clem. The bot had blessedly been powered down and tucked away in Buffy’s room, sparing him from that particular discomfort. Even Giles was there, giving him a polite nod and a surprisingly civil, “Happy birthday, Spike.”

Things between them had changed since Buffy’s death. They weren’t exactly friends, but there was… an understanding now. A reluctant respect, perhaps. They were still British, of course, so heartfelt sentiments were out of the question.

The living room and dining area were decorated with streamers, a banner, and the whole lot. The table had snacks, drinks, and an actual decent-looking chocolate cake. But what really made something tighten in his chest was the small pile of presents sitting neatly on the table that he tried not to linger too long in staring at. He hadn’t received an actual gift from anyone in all the time he was a vampire, and for some reason, the sentiment made him feel things he hadn’t felt in forever. 

They ate, they drank, and, somehow, they even danced. Dawn dragged him up for that ridiculous Macarena nonsense, and despite himself, he went along with it. All in all, it was a quaint but oddly lovely evening that eventually found him sitting on the couch, opening gifts while Dawn handed them to him one by one.

“This one’s from me,” Clem said, grinning as he looked at the bottle-shaped gift.

“Ah, Clemmie, you shouldn’t have,” Spike teased as he tore away the wrapping paper, revealing a bottle of Glenlivet—14-year-old single-malt scotch.

Not the usual cheap swill he drank—the good stuff.

“Thanks, mate. I’ll make sure my first drink is with you.”

“Feel free to count me in for that drink,” Giles added, smirking slightly over his glass of whiskey.

Spike gave him a nod before Dawn thrust another box into his hands.

“Open this one next.”

Inside was a pouch filled with three throwing knives.

“That one’s from us,” Anya announced proudly.

“Yeah, figured you’d want something manly to balance out the fluff fest of the night,” Xander added.

Spike chuckled, turning the knives over in his hands, testing their weight. “You really do know me.”

He stood, giving Xander a manly half-hug and planting a quick kiss on Anya’s cheek. “Appreciate it.”

Dawn eagerly passed him the next gift. “This one’s from me.”

Spike unwrapped it to reveal a leather-bound journal.

“I know you write things sometimes,” she said hesitantly. “And that notebook you have is pretty much full and falling apart, so… I figured you could use a new one. Saved up my allowance and everything to get you a nice one.”

Spike swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He beamed, pulling Dawn in for a tight hug and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Thanks, Niblet. Love it.”

After releasing her, Giles cleared his throat and handed him a small box. Inside was a silver chrome fountain pen with gold finishes.

“I took Dawn to get the journal,” he explained, “and figured you might appreciate a pen more suited to what you likely used in your youth.”

Spike turned the pen in his fingers, testing the weight of it. Modern pens never had the same feel.

“Thanks, Rupert. Really,” he said, sincerity laced in his voice. Giles nodded back at him with a slight smile.

Willow and Tara stepped forward next, identical grins plastered across their faces as they handed him a small pouch. Spike took it cautiously, opening it to find a hammered black tungsten ring with an offset silver inlay.

Spike studied it for a moment before sliding it onto the ring finger of his right hand. It fit perfectly, and—if he was honest—it suited him.

“Rather fetching, yeah?” He smirked, admiring it. “Might have to make this a yearly thing if I’m gettin’ prezzies like these.”

He went to give both witches a quick kiss on the cheek, but before he could pull away, Tara gently gripped his arm, her expression suddenly serious.

“Spike, this isn’t just any ring,” she said, holding his gaze.

Spike frowned, glancing back at it warily. “What d’you mean, ‘not just any ring’?”

“We enchanted it,” Willow revealed.

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Enchanted how, exactly?”

Willow hesitated, then continued, “We had a secret Scooby meeting to figure out what to get you. We all wanted to do something big—to thank you for everything you’ve done. For Dawn, for all of us.”

“I brought up how I wish you could drive me to school sometimes,” Dawn added quickly. “Or pick me up. I hate taking the bus, and I’m sure it takes forever to navigate the sewers just to get to the gallery on time.”

Spike looked between them, confused. “Not following, pet.”

“We wanted you to be able to walk in the sun,” Xander chimed in. “Since Angel destroyed the Gem of Amara, we figured we’d make you the next best non-invincible option.”

“This is a daylight-walking ring,” Willow explained. “As long as you wear it, you won’t burn in the sun. It doesn’t have all the other fancy features the gem had. You’ll still be dustable but won’t burn to a crisp in the sunlight, so consider it a vamp upgrade.”

Spike stared at them, speechless. His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked, looking at their faces—at Giles, at Xander, at Dawn, at all of them.

“You’re all… okay with this?” His voice was quieter than usual, uncertain.

They nodded.

“You deserve it,” Tara said gently, squeezing his arm. “We trust you.”

Something in Spike cracked, deep inside, in a place he hadn’t realized was still capable of breaking. He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes, and before he could stop them, they slipped free. He quickly wiped them away and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “All of you. I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

“Eternal thanks will do,” Xander quipped, smirking.

Dawn launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and he hugged her back tightly.

Tara nudged his arm with a knowing smile. 

“Do I feel a group hug coming on?” Xander said playfully. 

Dawn lifted her head from his chest and grinned. “Yes, group hug!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike groaned as the lot of them piled in. Even Giles, begrudgingly, when Anya yanked him forward.

And just like that, he was well and truly buggered.

These bloody humans had wormed their way into his dead heart, and he had never felt  luckier .

Chapter Text

Another few months passed fairly quietly. There had been a minor incident with a trio of self-proclaimed “master villains”—a group of absolute dweebs led by none other than Warren, the poofter who had made the Buffybot. They had grand delusions of taking over Sunnydale, but Spike and the Scoobies shut that down quickly. A bit of detective work connected them to a recent bank robbery and a diamond theft, and with the right evidence handed over to the police, the trio was arrested before they could escalate their antics. Crisis averted.

Buffy’s birthday had come and gone recently, and it had been a particularly hard day for Dawn. To honor her, they all gathered at her grave, laying out blankets for a sort of morbid picnic. Tara baked cupcakes for them to eat to celebrate her, and they each took turns sharing memories—little things about Buffy that made them smile or just talking about how much they missed her.

Dawn had been quiet for most of it, but when she finally spoke, her voice was small but steady. She admitted that sometimes, for brief moments, she was okay. She would almost forget that Buffy was gone. But then something would remind her—an inside joke, a song, even just walking past Buffy’s room—and the weight of her loss would crash down all over again.

She confessed to feeling guilty for moving forward, like every step she took away from that night meant she was letting Buffy fade away. They reassured her that wasn’t the case, that Buffy’s sacrifice had been for  her —so she could have a chance at a full life. Spike added softly that Buffy wouldn’t want her to be miserable forever. Dawn admitted that maybe a part of her always would be, but every day, it got just a minuscule bit easier.

Another bloody group hug happened—one Spike only  mildly  grumbled about—before they said their goodbyes to Buffy and headed home.

Spike didn’t share much of his grief, preferring to keep it to himself. He had never been one for pouring his heart out unless it was to a woman he was in love with—and he didn’t think he’d  ever  be in love again. Not that he hadn’t had opportunities for at least  temporary  entertainment. Over the last eight months, there had been plenty of offers, but he wasn’t interested. 

None of them were Buffy.

That evening, as he finished up his closing duties at the gallery, a knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up, surprised to see Giles standing outside. The Watcher rarely stopped by unannounced.

Spike hesitated for only a moment before unlocking the door and pulling it open.

“Evenin’, Rupert. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Giles stepped inside, his energy uneasy as he adjusted his glasses. He took a slow glance around the gallery, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

“Wondered if we might have a quick chat if you are not currently occupied.”

Spike nodded his head and locked the door behind him before leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “Not much for the arts, are you? Don’t reckon you’re here to pick up a nice landscape for your flat.”

Giles huffed a quiet breath, his lips twitching with something that wasn’t quite amusement. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Spike studied him, picking up on the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he was avoiding looking directly at him. It didn’t take a genius to suspect he had something unpleasant to say.

“Alright, out with it,” Spike said, tilting his head. “What’s on your mind, Watcher?”

Giles let out a slow breath and finally met his gaze. “I wanted to inform you before I finalize the arrangements—that I’ll be returning to England soon.”

Spike’s expression barely flickered, but his grip on his forearms tightened. “Runnin’ off, are you?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that,” Giles replied stiffly. “But yes, I believe it’s time. The Council, thankfully, still believes that Buffy is alive. I can simply inform them that I will be taking a sabbatical and that Buffy does not wish to be assigned another Watcher at the present moment. And frankly…” He hesitated, removing his glasses to clean them, his expression heavy. “I no longer feel I serve much of a purpose here.”

Spike scoffed, pushing off the counter. “That right? You don’t think they need you?”

“They’re not children anymore,” Giles said, though there was something hesitant in his tone, as if he were trying to convince himself. “They’ve grown up. They are capable, resourceful… and you’ve managed to assist them successfully thus far for anything that has been beyond their depth. They look to you now for guidance when needed.”

Spike barked out a dry laugh. “Oh, is that what this is? You want me to keep playin’ den mother while you wash your hands of ‘em?”

Giles exhaled sharply. “You know that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it, Rupert?” Spike challenged, stepping closer. “’Cause from where I’m standin’, it appears as though you’re pissin’ off because you simply don’t want to be here anymore…You’re right, they don’t depend on you like they used to, but ever consider the fact that they just want you around because you’re family to them?”

Giles’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t deny it. He merely sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before speaking again.

“I know it’s cowardly,” he admitted quietly. “And I don’t expect them to understand, or you for that matter. But the truth is, without Buffy…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I care for them deeply, I do, but my role has always been to guide the Slayer, and now there is no  real  Slayer to guide.”

Spike’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s Dawn.”

Giles nodded. “Yes. And she has the others. And you, Spike… you’ve done more for that girl than I ever could.”

Spike opened his mouth, but Giles cut him off. “I’m not saying this to flatter you. It’s simply the truth.” He met Spike’s gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “I need to know that they’ll be alright. That Dawn will be alright. That if anything should happen, you’ll—”

Spike clenched his jaw, already knowing where this was going. “You want me to promise I’ll take care of them.”

“I know you already have,” Giles said quietly. “But yes, I need to hear it.”

Spike let out a slow breath and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t need to bloody promise anything. You know I will.”

Giles nodded, some of the tension in his shoulders easing.

They stood in silence for a moment before Giles glanced toward the door. “I’ll be leaving in a few days. I would appreciate it if you could inform the others after I depart. It will be easier coming from you.”

Spike let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, right. So they can hate me instead of you.”

Giles gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “Something like that.”

Spike sighed but didn’t argue. “Fine. I’ll tell ‘em. But you’re makin’ a bloody mistake doin’ it like this.”

“Yes, well…” 

Giles gave him a reluctant nod of gratitude before heading toward the door. He hesitated for a moment before turning back.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I was wrong about you.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Giles met his gaze, expression sincere. “I misjudged you. And I… I am grateful for what you’ve done—been doing. For all of them.”

Spike swallowed, shifting slightly. Compliments from Giles were rare, and this one hit deeper than he cared to admit.

He smirked instead. “Careful, Watcher. Almost sounded like you meant that.”

Giles huffed a quiet laugh before nodding and letting himself out.

Spike stood there for a long moment, staring at the door after it closed. Then, with a sigh, he turned back toward the counter, already dreading the conversation he’d have to have with the Scoobies once the old man was gone. Even so, he understood why Giles wanted to leave.

Some wounds went too deep. This town, these people—they must have been a constant reminder of the Watcher’s failure. His one purpose in life had been to guide the Slayer, and now that she was gone, what did he have left? He always seemed burdened of late, his smiles hollow, his presence more like that of a ghost than a man. And let’s face it, Sunnydale didn’t have much charm compared to Merry Old England.

The poor sod deserved to live out his retirement in peace and quiet, lamenting his past mistakes. And Spike reckoned that bird of his—the one who’d visited when the town lost their voices—was probably waiting for him. The children—which they still were no matter what Rupert tried to convince himself—wouldn’t understand, not right away. But eventually, they’d come to accept it.

Just as Spike had come to accept his own new lot in life—keeping together a group of humans who had somehow made it their mission to take up Buffy’s responsibilities in her absence. They’d all made an effort to acknowledge him for doing the noble thing and sticking around to help, and yeah, even he could admit it was a big deal for an unsouled vampire to care enough to change his very nature.

But Spike thought about it sometimes—how Buffy’s people, mostly normal aside from Willow, who had learned the craft of magic to help Buffy (and Tara, who was a natural witch that had stumbled upon the group later on), really had no ties to this town or to the duty of keeping it and the world safe. Willow was genius-level smart; she could be at any of the Ivies if she wanted and Tara would follow her wherever she went. Anya was sharp enough to start over anywhere, open up franchises, build something of her own, and it wasn’t like Xander couldn’t find construction work wherever his bird wanted to settle down.

Dawn, though—Dawn had no such choice. Sure, she could go live with her aunt in the Midwest, but this was her home. Leaving behind everything she knew would be another huge loss, one she couldn’t afford emotionally,  and the Scoobies knew that. They stayed for  her  and because, somehow, they felt responsible for the life Buffy had left behind.

They were all behaving selflessly in one way or another. It wasn’t just him.

Even so, he couldn’t blame Giles for leaving. Thought he was a twat for it, sure—but deep down, he understood. It was a cross Giles was too weary to bear any longer without Buffy, and he knew that Spike and the rest of them were capable of handling things.

They would all endure, with or without Giles.

***

Meanwhile, a couple of hours away from Sunnydale by car, Willow sat in a dimly lit bar in Los Angeles opposite the one person she knew could help her.

Angel.

It had been awful the night her plot to bring back Buffy was uncovered—hearing from Spike and the others that the spell she had planned was too dangerous even to consider. But afterward, once the anger and disappointment settled, she realized they were right. Buffy could very well be in heaven. And even if she wasn’t, there were too many unknowns, too many ways things could go horribly wrong. The risk was too great.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t other options.

She had spent weeks considering what to do next. She had tried first to contact Buffy through magical means, only to find herself blocked at every turn. She sought out a reputable medium, only to get nothing. Desperate, she even tried a psychic, who could only tell her that Buffy’s future—if she even had one—was impossible to see. The only thing the psychic could offer was a single piece of advice: If Willow wanted answers, she needed to seek out the Oracles in Los Angeles.

That was when Willow called Angel.

He had been skeptical at first, questioning her motives, but it hadn’t taken much convincing to get him on her side. As soon as she suggested that Buffy’s spirit could have been trapped in a hell dimension, he was all in.

Angel had explained over the phone that the Oracles had been killed some time ago, so they were no longer a direct line to the Powers That Be. But in their place, a conduit remained—though making contact with it was difficult. He had promised to try, but given that the Powers had already denied his last request to remove Cordelia’s visions, he warned her that it was a long shot.

And sure enough, when Angel attempted to make his case, it had backfired spectacularly. Not only had they refused, but they had outright banished him from ever returning to the conduit, stating that since he was no longer respecting the balance between life and death, he couldn’t be trusted with access.

It had been a crushing disappointment.

But then, months later, she received an unexpected call from Angel. He had news. Urgent news. He told her to meet him in L.A. the next evening at six.

Willow had made an excuse, telling Tara she was borrowing Joyce’s old car to attend a computer programming expo in the city. Tara accepted the lie easily, not even offering to come with her since she had little interest in tech stuff. Willow felt bad for lying, but she told herself it was for the greater good. Tara would forgive her.

So, that was how she found herself in L.A., sitting across from Buffy’s ex, anxiously awaiting any news he had to share with her.

Angel regarded her carefully, arms crossed. Willow took a breath and leaned forward, her hands folded in front of her. “So, what did you find out?”

He cut right to the chase. “Whistler showed up the other day—my original agent to the Powers. He heard I was trying to appeal on your behalf about Buffy. He wants to talk to you.”

“He—he does?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure why, but he said he was willing to let you plead your case. I think he’s curious why you’re taking this route.”

“Instead of just doing the resurrection spell?”

“I guess. He seemed… amused.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Mostly. He set me on my path toward redemption, so I owe him that much.”

“Is he human?”

“Hardly,” a voice behind her answered.

Willow turned in her seat at the booth to see a short, human-looking man wearing an old-style fedora. He smirked, gesturing to take a seat next to Angel. Angel begrudgingly moved over, crossing his arms as Whistler settled in, a knowing expression on his face.

“Angel,” Whistler greeted with a nod. Angel gave him a curt nod back before he turned his attention fully to Willow. “So, you wanna bring back your dead Slayer. Ambitious for a fairly new witch.”

“Hey! I’m not that new at witchcraft, and you don’t even know me,” Willow shot back.

“Unless you’ve got at least a decade of experience under your belt, you’re new to the craft, toots.”

Willow rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as Whistler ignored her reaction, gesturing to the bartender for a beer on tap. Once it arrived, he took a long sip before wiping his mouth.

“Look, what you’re asking for has never been done before. It’s unprecedented, which is why the Powers got so pissed at Angel for asking. But me? I’m a big-picture guy. I make connections for the future.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “So go on, what’s your spiel? Why should Buffy be brought back from wherever her soul’s at?”

“Well… for starters, she died a supernatural death. It wasn’t your everyday fight to the death. It was mystical portal energy that killed her. That in itself defies the laws of nature.”

“Good point, but I’m gonna need something more compelling than that, doll. What else you got?”

“Okay… Buffy is a champion. She gave her life to save the world, and if she’s in some kind of hell—if the portal took her soul anywhere other than eternal peace—she deserves to be taken out and given a do-over.”

“Hmm, interesting angle,” Whistler mused, taking another long sip of his drink. Angel visibly tightened his jaw at his casual response to the idea of Buffy being in hell but said nothing.

“Look, I can’t tell you where Buffy is. Humans aren’t supposed to know any details about the great beyond, assuming that there is one, of course.”

“Are you saying there’s nothing after death?”

“I’m saying that if there is or isn’t, I’m not gonna be the one to spill any secrets. But point taken. Any other last arguments before I decide whether I’m helping you or not?”

Willow frowned, considering what final point might win him over. She thought on it for a long moment before a small smile appeared. She knew exactly what to say.

“You know Faith is in prison, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Well, she’s technically the active Slayer after Buffy died the first time. Of course, she went all crazy and killed a guy, so she had to be locked up. But Buffy was still around to take over for her. The balance of good and evil was maintained—well, as balanced as one Slayer in all the world fighting against the forces of darkness can be.”

He regarded her carefully but gestured for her to continue.

“Anyway, Buffy is gone, Faith is in prison, and there is no active Slayer. The balance of power is off.”

“Last I heard, you and your little crew had taken over slaying duties with a certain robot-shaped Buffy.”

“You know about that, huh?”

“Don’t worry, no one else knows. We’ve made sure of that.”

“So, what, you plan on stepping in until Faith dies at the ripe old age of ninety—maybe even a hundred with Slayer healing—to keep that fact a secret? That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Slayers were meant to be the ones keeping evil at bay, not bots made of wiring and silicone. Real Slayers.”

Whistler considered her argument for a long moment, furrowing his brows in deep thought before eventually straightening up and taking one last swig from his beer.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Ms. Rosenberg. I gotta hand it to you—you’re pretty convincing. Even got that little determination face goin’ for ya.”

Whistler stood, and Willow followed his lead, anxious for an actual answer.

“So? What do you say?”

“You’ve made enough points to warrant a conversation with the Powers. I can’t promise you anything—I don’t have the authority to decide this on my own, I’m just a glorified messenger. But I’ll plead your case and see what they say. Might take a while—time moves differently on their plane—but you’ll hear from me sooner rather than later with their decision. I’ll be in touch.”

He turned to leave but gave her one last look. “In the meantime, keep up the good work keeping the Hellmouth safe. And try not to go off the deep end with the magicks.”

With that, Whistler nodded at both of them and swiftly walked out of the bar. Willow let out the breath she was holding and sat back down. 

“‘Course I have to pay for his drink,” Angel muttered.

“Do you think he’ll be able to convince them?”

“Hard to say. But he’s our best shot. If we’re ever going to bring Buffy back without disrupting the balance of life and death, it’s on the Powers to decide. It’s out of our hands now, Willow. Try to put it out of your mind. Whatever’s meant to happen will happen.”

Willow tried to take comfort in his words, but patience had never been her strong suit. She sighed and rubbed her temples, hoping that the universe would throw them all a bone and do the right thing for once. 

After a long minute of silence, Willow asked in a quiet voice, “Do you miss her?”

Angel swallowed, his expression pained. “Every day,” he admitted, the weight of his loss evident in his strained voice.

Without thinking, Willow reached across the table and took his hand. Angel hesitated for only a second before giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, and a weak smile. They sat in the booth together for a few more minutes, talking a little about Buffy, about their regrets and their grief, before eventually saying their goodbyes and going their separate ways. 

She felt the weight of the interaction sitting heavy on her chest the entire drive home. Was she even doing the right thing here? Would the Powers even care to intercede? And if they did, in what condition would Buffy come back in? So many questions hounded her mind during the drive. 

Willow could only hope that things would eventually work themselves out in the end. She really had nothing else to hold onto.

Chapter Text

The past month hadn’t been as weird as Dawn thought it would be with Giles gone. He’d tried to sneak off quietly at the airport, but once Spike spilled the beans, they all showed up to give him a proper sendoff. He got a good scolding for not telling them, then lots of tearful goodbyes. Dawn wished he would have stayed—because seriously, yet another grown-up in her life bailing on her? Not great. Her dad had already set the gold standard for that, but she  kind of  got why Giles wanted to leave. Still, that didn’t mean he  should have .

She made him promise to come back and visit, and he swore he would once he got settled in Bath—which, okay, weird name for a town, but the English were kinda weird, so it tracked.

After that, things went back to normal. School was boring as usual, but she was actually doing okay—mostly As and Bs, thanks to Spike’s whole watchdog routine. Not only did he confirm with her teachers that she was showing up ( humiliating ), but he also went through her homework and helped her with the hard stuff. Willow covered math and science, Anya handled economics, and Spike was all about history and literature. Basically, she had a whole team of tutors at her disposal.

And because Spike had decided to go full-on  Dad Mode , he had already started talking to her about college. Dawn hadn’t really thought about it before—like, what was even the point? But lately, she’d started considering maybe medicine. Neurology, specifically. Maybe she could help some other family avoid what happened to her mom. That was a nice thought… even if the idea of years and years of school really didn’t sound appealing.

Spike had told her she didn’t need to figure it all out yet—just keep her grades up so she had options. She rolled her eyes when he said stuff like that, but deep down, she liked that he cared so much. So she tried, even though school still sucked.

At least there was one thing that made showing up  way  more worth it.

Kyle.

He was in her fourth-period biology class, and  holy crap , he looked almost exactly like Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. Tall, curly brown hair, hazel eyes—total heartthrob. She’d been crushing on him hard from a distance, sneaking glances whenever she could, until one day, he asked to borrow a pencil. Which meant he actually knew she existed.

She gave him her extra pencil, and he smiled at her, and wow, that was  swoon central . By the end of class, he handed it back, but she told him to keep it. He thanked her by name ( by name !!!), and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming as he walked away.

After that, they started talking more. Sometimes, he’d even walk with her to her next class since it was on the way to his. He was funny, sweet, and so easy to talk to. Definitely the best part of her day.

The problem? She still couldn’t tell if he  liked-liked  her or if he was just being nice. There was  maybe  some flirting, but it wasn’t clear. She needed a second opinion.

Willow and Tara would probably just tell her what she wanted to hear, and Anya… well, Anya would just tell her to go for it in the most TMI way possible. Spike, on the other hand? He’d tell her the truth, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. He might go full-on overprotective mode and threaten to rip the guy’s spine out if he so much as looked at her wrong, but he was probably all bark, no bite. Probably…

Dawn made her way downstairs to the basement to remind Spike that he promised to start teaching her how to drive now that she had her learner’s permit—something he had been purposely putting off. She’d had to demand he pick a date so she could hold him to it. No more excuses. She figured it would be a good time to bring up the whole Kyle situation, too—a two-for-one deal. 

When she reached the basement, she found him sprawled on his bed, nose buried in one of his old paperbacks. He was always reading something when he was down here. Now that he had a proper bookcase—courtesy of Xander, who had also helped him fix up the basement so it was actually livable—Spike had a decent collection of books to choose from. He mostly stuck to the classics, though. Dawn thought it was kind of weird, a punk-rock vampire being into Pride and Prejudice and The Count of Monte Cristo ,  but whatever.

“You know,  some  people actually honor their promises,” she said pointedly.

Spike didn’t look up. “Some people also have a healthy fear of death. You behind the wheel? That’s a bloody horror show waitin’ to happen.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. I’ve had my permit for weeks now! I’ve read the whole manual, and I’ve been paying attention when other people drive. I am totally ready.”

Spike let out a dramatic sigh and finally closed his book, resting it on his chest. “Niblet, reading about driving and actually doing it are two very different things. ‘Less you plan on convincing all the other drivers to pull over and read about their cars before getting back on the road, I don’t see how that’s gonna help you.”

Dawn groaned and threw her hands in the air. “Ugh! You are  so  impossible. Just let me drive! I thought you were supposed to be the  cool  one.”

Spike snorted. “Cool doesn’t mean stupid, pet.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then smirked. “Oh, I get it. You’re scared.”

That got his attention. Spike sat up, tossing his book onto the nightstand. “Scared?” he repeated, affronted. “Of  you ?”

“Well, whatever, scared or not, you made a promise, so let’s go!” Dawn said in a huff, gesturing with her hands for him to get up and follow her upstairs. 

Spike scowled at her for a long moment, like he was debating whether or not to keep arguing, but in the end, he just groaned and got up from the bed at a snail’s pace, making a big show of stretching like it physically pained him to do this.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, hurry up before I die of old age.”

“You’ll be lucky to make it past your first left turn,” he muttered, grabbing his duster and shrugging it on.

Dawn ignored him and practically bounced up the stairs, excitement outweighing her annoyance. She had won this argument, and she wasn’t about to let his bad attitude ruin it.

“Keys,” Spike grumbled as they made their way outside.

Dawn smirked, holding them up and dangling them in front of his face. “Already got ’em.”

Spike gave her a flat look, and she grinned and practically skipped toward the car, Spike dragging his feet behind her like a man walking to the gallows. 

Dawn got behind the wheel of her mom’s Jeep Cherokee and buckled in while she watched Spike sigh for the millionth time and get in after her. He stared at her for a long moment, gesturing for her to turn the car on.

“Nah, uh, safety first. Seatbelts!” Dawn insisted. 

Spike rolled his eyes but relented to buckling in, and Dawn promptly turned on the ignition. 

“Okay, hands at ten and two, checking my mirrors, and now I’m looking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s behind me before I pull out.”

“Are you planning on narratin’ the entire ride, pet?”

“Maybe,” Dawn shot back, flashing him a cheeky grin. “Depends on if you keep acting like I’m about to drive us off a cliff.”

Spike huffed and gestured for her to get on with it. “Just bloody drive.”

Dawn carefully shifted into reverse, easing the car out of the driveway with slow, deliberate movements. She kept her eyes darting between the mirrors and over her shoulder, feeling Spike’s intense stare burning into the side of her head.

The second she straightened the wheel and switched to drive, he muttered, “Not bad so far.”

Dawn beamed. “Ha! I told you I’d be good at this.”

“Let’s not break out the champagne just yet, Bit. We haven’t left the neighborhood.”

She rolled her eyes but kept her focus on the road, her hands gripping the wheel just right. A few quiet minutes passed as she navigated through the familiar streets, her confidence growing with each successful turn.

Eventually, she couldn’t resist. “Sooo… hypothetically, if I  were  interested in a guy, and I wasn’t sure if he was interested back, how would I know?”

Spike groaned dramatically and dropped his head back against the seat. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Don’t be a jerk. I’m serious—I need help. I don’t know anything about boy stuff, and, well, let’s face it, you’re a captive audience.”

Spike sighed—yet again—and shook his head, clearly trying to summon the patience needed for this conversation. Dawn didn’t care; she knew he’d cave eventually.

“Fine. What’s the poor sod’s name?”

“Kyle.”

“Already hate him.”

“Spike!” Dawn huffed, shooting him an exasperated look.

“What kind of poncey name is  Kyle ?” Spike scoffed, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know, what kind of name is Spike?” she shot back, arching a brow.

Spike smirked. “It’s a bloody brilliant name, that’s what. Strikes fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Nothing says ‘terrifying vampire’ like being named after what’s basically a large nail to secure railroad parts.”

“It’s not about what it’s traditionally used for, it’s about what  I  used spikes for,” Spike shot back, smirking. “Which I won’t go into, since it’s not exactly a kid-friendly story.”

Dawn made a face. “Ugh, can we get back to my original question, please?”

Spike rolled his eyes before waving her on. “Fine, fine. Tell me about this  Kyle —and, more importantly, why I should allow you within fifty feet of him without putting the fear of God in the lad first.”

Dawn groaned, gripping the steering wheel dramatically. “You  cannot  threaten him. I mean it, Spike.”

“No promises.”

“Spike!”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, though his smirk told her he’d do whatever he damn well pleased. “Now, first things first, before you start blathering on about loverboy, drive, yeah? Let’s not get us both killed before you’ve even gone on a date.”

Dawn muttered under her breath but refocused as she pulled out of her neighborhood and onto the main road. “Okay, I got this.”

“Easy on the gas, Bit. You’re driving, not launching us into orbit.”

Dawn eased up a little on the gas as directed. “There. See? I got this.”

Spike grunted. “So far.”

She rolled her eyes and continued down the road, gripping the wheel with both hands. “So, anyway. Kyle’s  really  cute, and smart, but not in a ‘knows he’s smart’ way, you know? He’s funny too, like,  actually  funny, not just dumb boy funny. And he’s nice! Like, genuinely nice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be mean to anyone, even the annoying kids.”

Spike hummed, clearly unimpressed. “Sounds like a real bloody prince.”

Dawn shot him a glare before flicking on her turn signal to make a right turn. “He is. And we talk a lot—like, more than I’ve ever talked to a guy before, and he walks me to my next class almost every day. And I think he might like me, but I can’t tell for sure.”

Spike sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dawnie, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t know much about deciphering teenage boys’ thoughts. S’not exactly my area of expertise.”

“Yeah, but you  do  know guys, right? I mean, you’ve been one for—what—a hundred and twenty years?”

“Hundred and forty-eight,” Spike corrected, “but sure, round down.”

Dawn waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Point is, you do know how guys think, and I need an actual answer here. What do I do?”

Spike exhaled deeply, clearly debating whether to actually engage in this conversation or throw himself out of the moving vehicle. Finally, he muttered, “Alright. First off, keep your eyes on the road, not me.”

Dawn snapped her attention forward.

“Second,” Spike continued, “if the bloke’s walking with you between classes, chattin’ you up all the time, and not runnin’ for the hills, he’s probably into you.”

Dawn’s heart did a little flip. “You think?”

Spike shrugged. “Seems likely. Blokes your age aren’t in the habit of spendin’ extra time with girls they don’t fancy at all. But if you want to know for sure, ask him.”

Dawn gaped at him like he’d suggested she throw herself into an active volcano. “Are you  insane ? I can’t just  ask  him!”

Spike scoffed. “Why the hell not?”

“Because what if he doesn’t like me like that?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” he pointed out. “Better than sittin’ around, wringin’ your hands over it, wonderin’ what it all means.”

Dawn frowned, considering. “Okay, yeah, I guess… But what if it gets all awkward afterward?”

“Then that’s on him,” Spike said simply. “You’re Dawn bloody Summers. If he’s got half a brain, he’ll be thrilled you fancy him. And if he doesn’t feel the same? Sod him. Someone else will.”

Dawn chewed her lip, mulling over his words. As much as she hated to admit it, he kinda had a point.

She turned onto a quiet street, heading back around to the house, and Spike nodded approvingly. “Good. Now take it down to thirty— thirty , Bit, not fifty.”

Dawn rolled her eyes but complied.

“See? Not bad,” he said, sounding almost proud. “Maybe I won’t have to be white-knucklin’ the dashboard the entire time after all.”

She grinned. “High praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t get cocky,” he warned, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Okay, okay. Now that we have that out of the way, maybe you can give me the birds and the bees talk now.”

Spike shot her a sharp look, eyes narrowing. “Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?”

Dawn grinned mischievously. “What? I think it’s about time someone gave me  the talk .”

Spike groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You’re takin’ the piss, aren’t you?”

She snorted. “Obviously. Mom already gave me the talk when I was thirteen.”

Spike exhaled in relief. “Thank hell for that. Thought I was gonna have to find a way to throw myself out of this car without crashin’ it.”

Dawn giggled, pleased with herself. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Bit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You keep drivin’, I’ll try to keep from having a bleedin’ heart attack.”

Dawn smirked, eyes back on the road. “Your heart isn’t even beating, Spike.”

“I’ll be the first vamp to dust from one then.”

Dawn giggled, and the tension in the car settled down as they chatted about school and other less mortifying topics for the rest of the drive. When they finally pulled back into the driveway, Spike let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well, look at that. We both survived," he declared as Dawn put the car in park. "Suppose miracles do happen."

Dawn rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her grin as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Told you I could do it."

Spike smirked and ruffled her hair affectionately as they got out of the car. "Not bad for a first go, Niblet. We'll make a proper speed demon out of you yet."

She swatted his hand away but couldn't help preening a little at the praise. Coming from Spike, that was high acclaim.

As they headed inside, Dawn nudged him with her elbow. "So...same time next week?"

Spike groaned. "Bloody hell, you're gonna be the death of me, you are…"

“Wait until I start going on dates and having s-e-x,” Dawn teased him. 

Spike visibly flinched, throwing his hands over his ears. “Nope! Absolutely  not  hearin’ that. La la la, not listenin’,” he muttered, striding toward the house with purpose.

Dawn burst out laughing, following him inside. “Oh, come  on , you had to know that was coming! You can’t avoid it forever,  guardian of my virtue .”

Spike groaned, rubbing his temples. “I  can  and  will  avoid it, thanks very much. I’ll just pretend you’re still playin’ with dolls and watchin’ Saturday morning cartoons.”

Dawn smirked. “You do know I’m almost sixteen, right?”

“Sixteen goin’ on  six ,” he grumbled as they walked into the living room. “And for the record, the second you bring a boy home, I will be polishin’ a very large, very sharp axe.”

Dawn rolled her eyes, flopping onto the couch. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Oi, I’m realistic. You Summers women have a track record of attractin’ trouble. First, your sis goes and dates the most broody sod in existence, then you’re here tellin’ me you’ve got eyes for some bloke named  Kyle —”

“Oh my God, we’re not dating!”

“Yet,” Spike muttered darkly, collapsing into his chair with a groan. “’M gonna need a drink.”

Dawn shook her head, watching as he rubbed a hand down his face like he was already exhausted from future possibilities. She felt a warm glow in her chest—he cared. Like, really, truly cared about what happened to her. It wasn’t just about fulfilling some promise to Buffy.

She didn’t say anything, though. Didn’t want to spook him. Instead, she stretched out on the couch, arms folded behind her head, and smirked.

“Same time next week, then?”

Spike let out  another  long-suffering sigh but didn’t say no.

Chapter Text

Tara woke that morning in Willow’s arms, both of them snuggled up close. It was a lazy Saturday, and neither of them felt like getting up just yet. Saturdays were usually for big breakfasts with Dawn, and sometimes Anya and Xander would join in. It had become a nice weekend ritual.

Spike, on the other hand, was always up early on Saturdays. The gallery was only open one day on the weekend, and it was the biggest sales day, so he rarely stuck around for breakfast—aside from occasionally grabbing a bite on his way out if they started cooking early.

Speaking of Spike, he had finally reclaimed—well,  stolen back —his old Desoto from the impound lot where it had been gathering dust. Now, the household had two cars, which made things easier with Dawn learning to drive. Not that Spike would  ever  let her behind the wheel of his car. The Desoto was essentially a death trap on wheels, and he wasn’t about to let her be the one to test its limits.

Tara, however, had let Dawn drive the Jeep a few times while running errands, and surprisingly enough, she was a pretty solid driver—only hitting a curb or two every once in a while.

Beside her, Willow stirred, shifting slightly before pressing a soft, lazy kiss against Tara’s lips.

Things had been really good between them lately. They had started attending a new Wicca group outside of school and had been practicing more earth magic together. Tara had been deeply worried when Willow had been researching dark magic and talking about resurrecting Buffy, but that was months ago now. Since then, things had taken a turn for the better.

Tara had seen a real change in Willow. She was practicing magic safely, no longer treating it as the solution to every little problem. It finally felt like they were on the same page again, like Willow was truly healing from Buffy’s death and moving forward.

But…

There were moments when Willow seemed anxious. When there was a knock at the door or an unknown call, she would tense, as if she were waiting for something. Tara couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and Willow wasn’t offering any explanations. She tried not to dwell on it as everything else had been  near  perfect between them. Tara wasn’t trying to poke holes, either. She chopped it up to past trauma or something related to Buffy’s death. 

Most recently, in terms of spells, they had worked on putting wards around the house to prevent any baddies from getting in and to alert them if anything tried anyway. The Hellmouth had been relatively quiet—at least in terms of world-ending type stuff.

There had been a weird incident when Riley showed up out of nowhere, accusing Spike of being a demon egg smuggler. The Scoobies had shut that down quickly, defending Spike and explaining how much he had changed. There was no way he was involved. Instead, they helped Riley track down the real culprit—some lame demon who had used Spike’s empty crypt as a storage unit.

Apparently, after the mix-up was cleared, Riley and Spike had a chat about Buffy, her death, and everything that had happened before Riley left. According to Spike, they had come to some understanding about the past, and before leaving town again, Riley gave Spike a way to contact him in case they ever needed Initiative backup or something else. Spike, of course, still mostly hated the guy, but things had ended on civil terms. After that, life settled back into their regular day-to-day routines.

The Buffybot continued excelling at patrolling and, surprisingly, hadn’t been exposed yet. Considering her  quirky  conversational skills, that was a miracle in itself. They mostly kept her shut down when she wasn’t out keeping up Slayer appearances. She wasn’t really needed around the house, and having her out and about around them was clearly still deeply unsettling for Dawn and Spike—not to mention the rest of them.

So, all in all, things were quiet on the Summers/Scooby front. Aside from the lingering grief, these past ten months without Buffy had gone as well as anyone could have expected. Tara was grateful to be part of a family that actually wanted her around, one that didn’t make her feel used or like an afterthought. Everyone contributed to the house, and they all took care of each other.

They also weren’t struggling financially, thanks mostly to Spike, and aside from the copper pipes bursting late last year, there hadn’t been any major unexpected expenses. With Anya’s help, they had a solid budget they mostly stuck to and a good amount of money saved for both the house and Dawn’s future.

Whenever Tara or Willow helped out at the gallery, Spike paid them an hourly rate so they had their own spending money. The rest of the earnings—aside from a very modest salary Spike kept for himself (mostly to pay for his smokes, booze, and books)—went directly into the Summers’ bank account, which they used to cover bills, groceries, Dawnie’s weekly allowance for completing chores, and other household expenses. It was a solid and fair system that thankfully worked. 

Still, Tara sometimes wondered when the other shoe would drop. Her life had never been this good, and the fact that it had only come about because of a friend’s death was not lost on her. There were moments when she would just sit and look around the house—this house that technically didn’t belong to any of them—and wonder how she got here, how her life had taken so many twists and turns.

Before coming to Sunnydale, she had never really thought about her future. She had always assumed she’d be stuck in a life of servitude to her family, with no real way out. But now? Now, she was only a year away from completing her double major in sociology and gender studies. She was living with her long-term girlfriend. She was close friends with a vampire, a part-time parental figure to an interdimensional key made human, and growing stronger in her witchcraft every day.

She was loved, cared about, and, most of all, respected. Things were good, and she thanked the universe for her current life circumstances every day, knowing from past experiences how different life could be in the other direction. 

As she turned to hold Willow tighter, a knock at their bedroom door disturbed her fluffy, happy thoughts. Tara turned toward the door just as it creaked open, revealing Dawn standing there with an eager expression on her face.

“Hey, guys,” Dawn said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “So, I have a totally not crazy, super reasonable request.”

Tara raised an eyebrow, already bracing herself. “That’s…a concerning way to start a conversation.”

Willow, still half-asleep beside her, groaned into her pillow. “Dawn, it’s Saturday morning. Can it wait until coffee?”

Dawn ignored the complaint and stepped further inside. “Okay, so you guys know my friend Janice, right?”

Tara nodded. “Of course. You just went to the mall with her last weekend.”

“Right, right. So, slight problem—her parents are jerks, and they made her drop off her dog at the shelter because they ‘don’t have time for it’ or whatever.” Dawn’s face twisted with frustration. “He’s only two years old! And he’s, like, the sweetest, bestest dog ever. And I was thinking, you know…we could adopt him.” 

Dawn flashed a sweet smile and fluttered her lashes at them, and Tara realized that she really wanted this. Dawn barely asked for anything aside from something small from the mall every now and again. A dog, though, that was a big commitment. 

Tara blinked. “Adopt him? As in, bring him here?”

“Yes!” Dawn clapped her hands together. “Come on, we have the space and a big backyard! He’s totally trained already and he needs a home. I love him already, so, please, please, please can we rescue him?.”

Willow groaned again and finally sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Dawnie, we don’t even know if Spike would be okay with it.”

Dawn waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Spike’ll be fine. He acts all grumbly and tough, but deep down, he’s a big softie. He’ll come around to the dog”

Tara exchanged a skeptical glance with Willow. “Maybe we should talk to him first—”

“Or,” Dawn cut in quickly, flashing her most persuasive smile, “we could just go meet the dog, and if we fall in love with him—and trust me, we will—we’ll figure out the Spike thing later.”

Willow sighed. “This feels like a bad idea.”

Tara hesitated. “It’s…not the worst idea. I mean, we all love pets, and the Miss Kitty Fantastico situation was a freak accident…” Dawn looked suddenly guilty but perked up when Tara added, “Anyway, there is usually someone home at any given time, so we’d technically be around to take care of him.”

“Exactly!” Dawn said, triumphant. “So, come on, get dressed. Let’s go before someone else snatches him up!”

Willow shot Tara an uncertain look, but Tara offered a reassuring smile. “Let’s at least go and see the little guy,” she said. After a moment, Willow sighed and nodded, finally getting out of bed to get dressed and see the situation through.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived at the animal shelter. The place was small but well-kept, the sound of barking echoing through the building as a kind-looking woman greeted them at the front desk.

“Hi, we’re here to see Barry,” Dawn announced brightly.

The woman smiled. “Oh, Barry’s a sweetheart. Right this way.”

They followed her through a row of kennels until she stopped in front of one. Inside sat a small, floppy-eared, medium-sized beagle with warm brown eyes and a wagging tail. The moment he saw them, he perked up, trotting forward and pressing his nose through the bars, his tail wagging even faster.

“Oh my god,” Dawn whispered, crouching down. “Isn’t he the cutest!”

The shelter worker unlocked the kennel, and as soon as the door was open, Barry eagerly bounded out, rubbing his head against Dawn’s legs as if he already knew she was there to take him home. He was incredibly friendly and affectionate, licking Tara’s hand as she knelt beside him and letting Willow scratch behind his ears without hesitation. Taking on another responsibility wasn’t perhaps the logical move, but the pup had already stolen Tara’s heart. 

“Okay,” Willow admitted, watching as he happily rolled onto his back for belly rubs. “He is pretty cute.”

“He’s more than cute,” Dawn said. “He’s perfect, and I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty sure he’s ours. How can you turn a dog this sweet away?”

Willow and Tara looked at each other and they both smiled, knowing that the answer was yes, they couldn’t say no to taking him home at this point. 

“I guess that means we’re getting a dog,” Tara affirmed. Dawn screamed and gave them both tight hugs before picking Barry up and giving him a hug as well. 

As they finalized the paperwork, Dawn beamed at the beagle in her lap. “You know, Barry doesn’t really suit you. I think you need a new name.”

Willow tilted her head. “Like what?”

Dawn thought for a moment before her face lit up with a grin. “Lucky. Because, you know, we saved him from the pound. And also because he’s the luckiest dog ever since he’s joining our little family.”

Tara smiled, her heart swelling at the mention of  family . “Lucky it is.”

With everything settled, they piled into the car, Lucky happily wagging his tail in the backseat. His paws pressed against the window as he stared outside in excitement, while Dawn held him close, a wide grin plastered on her face.

Tara hadn’t seen Dawn this happy in ages, and in that moment, she knew adopting Lucky had been the right decision. Seeing her so light, so genuinely  joyful , made it more than worth it. Lucky was already a perfect addition to their home.

***

By the time Spike got home that evening, the beagle had already made himself comfortable, sprawled out in Dawn’s lap on the couch. When the front door opened, Lucky’s ears perked up, and he immediately hopped down, trotting over to investigate the new arrival.

Spike barely had time to react before Lucky enthusiastically jumped up on him, tail wagging furiously.

“The hell—?” Spike scowled down at the dog, holding his arms out as if it had personally offended him. “What is this mangy fleabag doin’ in the house?”

Dawn beamed. “Spike, meet Lucky! Our new dog.”

Spike turned a slow, incredulous look on the three of them. “You got a dog?”

Tara offered him a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

Spike sighed, rubbing his temples. “Bloody hell, I am not takin’ care of it.”

“Don’t be such a sourpuss. Lucky is super sweet, just give him a chance, I know you’ll warm up to him,” Dawn urged him. 

Spike shot her a flat look. “Highly doubt that, Bit.”

Dawn pouted, nudging the beagle toward him. “C’mon, just  look  at him.”

Lucky, as if sensing the moment was crucial, wagged his tail furiously and padded over to Spike, his big brown eyes wide with hopeful innocence. He let out a small, friendly  woof  and nudged his wet nose against Spike’s hand.

Spike grimaced. “Oh, for—” He jerked his hand away like he’d been burned. “That’s how it starts. First, it’s the sad puppy eyes, then suddenly I’m the one takin’ him out at all hours, pickin’ up after his mess, and talkin’ to him like he’s a  person .”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only one who lives here Spike, the rest of us can make sure he’s taken care of if you’re that opposed to the idea.”

Spike ignored her, pointing an accusatory finger at Tara and Willow. “And you two just  let  her bring home some flea-ridden mutt without so much as a word to me?”

Willow raised her hands in defense. “Hey, we had our doubts! But then we met him, and he’s  really  sweet.”

Tara nodded, smiling as she scratched Lucky behind the ears. “Besides, it’s good for Dawn. She’s been through a lot, and he makes her happy,” she said pointedly, giving Spike a  chill-out  look. 

Spike groaned, glaring at all three of them before looking down at Lucky, who had settled at his feet, his tail still thumping softly against the floor.

“Oh, you’re  loving  this, aren’t you?” Spike muttered at the dog.

Lucky gave a contented huff and rested his chin on Spike’s boot.

Dawn beamed. “See? He already likes you!”

Spike sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine. Whatever. But, again,  I am not  takin’ care of it.”

Dawn grinned. “You  say  that now…”

Spike just grumbled, but when he thought no one was looking, Tara caught his foot nudging gently against Lucky’s side, and the beagle gave a happy little wiggle in response.

***

Some weeks later, Willow was eating lunch outside on the quad between classes when she felt a hand on her back. She flinched, turning sharply, her heart hammering in her chest. Whistler stood behind her, looking as smug and self-satisfied as ever.

Her breath caught in her throat.  This is it.

She knew that this was the moment she would find out if Buffy was coming back or not, and to say that she was incredibly anxious to hear the answer would be an understatement. 

Whistler smirked. “Jumpy, aren’t ya?”

Willow set her sandwich down, hands shaking slightly. “You try waiting  months  to hear back from the all-powerful cosmic overlords and see how relaxed  you  are.”

He chuckled and took a seat beside her, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “Fair enough. Well, I won’t keep you in suspense. The Powers made their decision.”

Willow leaned forward, barely breathing. “And?”

Whistler tilted his head, watching her like he was gauging her reaction before delivering the final blow. “They’re bringing her back.”

The words sent a jolt through Willow’s entire body. She felt lightheaded, like all the air had been knocked out of her lungs.  Buffy’s coming back. She’s really coming back.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. “She’s—when? How? Is she okay?”

Whistler held up a hand. “Slow down, Red. You’re gettin’ ahead of yourself.”

Willow forced herself to focus, gripping the edge of the bench as if it might steady her.

“She’ll be back in two weeks,” he continued, “on the night of the full moon.”

Willow nodded rapidly, her mind already racing with preparations.  Two weeks.  That wasn’t a lot of time, but it was enough time to mentally prepare for her return. 

“You should probably think about the fact that coming back will be a bit of an adjustment for her,” Whistler went on, his voice taking on a rare note of seriousness. “She’s been  gone  a long time, and comin’ back… It’s probably not exactly going to be a seamless experience for her emotionally. She’ll need some time to adjust. You gotta be ready for that.”

Willow frowned. “What do you mean?”

Whistler exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, don’t expect her to wake up, throw on her Slayer boots, and pick up where she left off. Death changes people. You think she’s just gonna bounce back like nothin’ happened?”

Willow swallowed, her excitement faltering slightly. She hadn’t really thought about that part. She had been so focused on getting Buffy back that she hadn’t considered what that might mean emotionally for her, which, in retrospect, was kind of short-sighted on her part. But still, it was Buffy, the strongest person she’d ever met. If anyone could handle this, it would be her. 

“She’s Buffy,” Willow insisted, straightening her shoulders. “She’s strong. She’ll be okay. We’ll help her.”

Whistler studied her, then gave a slow nod. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Willow’s pulse pounded in her ears. “What do I do now?”

Whistler shrugged. “That’s your call. You can tell the others, or you can keep it to yourself. But either way, you better be ready.”

Willow stared at him, mind spinning. “How will she come back? Like, do we meet her somewhere or—”

“No, she’ll come to you. Just hang tight at the house that night,” Whistler said, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Any other questions before I skedaddle?”

Willow hesitated, her heart still hammering in her chest. “Um, I guess just one. Will there be any repercussions from her coming back? Like… any consequences?”

Whistler smirked. “Nothing that goes bump in the night, no, kid. No need to worry about that.”

Willow let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “Oh. Okay, good.” She shifted on the bench, still trying to wrap her head around everything. “Um… thanks? For asking them for me. I hope it wasn’t a whole  thing .”

“The PTB weren’t exactly thrilled, but they ultimately conceded to your point about the balance of power. So, nice thinkin’. But I wouldn’t go askin’ for any more favors if I were you.”

“This wasn’t exactly a  favor  per se…” Willow muttered under her breath.

Whistler raised an amused brow but didn’t comment. Instead, he gave her a casual salute. “Well, anyway, I’ll take my leave then. Good luck, kid.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Willow alone with the staggering weight of what had just happened.

Buffy was coming home in two weeks.

Willow exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. She had so much to do, so much to  prepare . And now, the question that kept gnawing at her mind refused to be ignored any longer.

Do I tell the others?

She wanted to, obviously—this was news that would change absolutely everything. But what if they didn’t agree with what she’d done? What if Spike, or Tara, or even Xander thought this was wrong, and that she made a mistake in interfering? What if they were angry at her?

Her stomach twisted at the thought, and she clenched her hands into fists.

No. It didn’t really matter what they thought at this point. This was happening. Buffy was  coming back,  and that was all that truly mattered.

Right?

Chapter Text

Buffy understood that she had died and her spirit had been sent to heaven. It was a place bathed in light and felt warm and safe. She had no form here, no body, no pain—just a presence of self, floating in an expanse of warmth, contentment, and peace. There was no fear, no struggle—only the quiet certainty that everything was as it should be and everyone she loved would be okay. Things that used to matter to her simply didn’t anymore. 

It was all over… until it wasn’t.

The shift was subtle at first, like a ripple in still water. Then, a voice—no, not a voice, something deeper, something that resonated inside her very essence.

Buffy Anne Summers… Slayer .

Her name. Spoken—not in sound, but in understanding. She was being addressed, pulled from the depth of her peace into awareness.

We have come to offer you a choice .

Buffy didn’t speak—she wasn’t even sure if she could in this formless existence—but the question formed inside her.

A choice?

The warmth around her pulsed, as if in response.

You were taken before your time. Your destiny, unfullfilled.

Buffy resisted that. No, her destiny had ended the moment she sacrificed herself. She had fulfilled her purpose, saved her sister, and saved the world. That was supposed to be the end of it.

The world needs you still .

Buffy’s essence shuddered. She didn’t  want  to go back. The idea of returning to the endless battle, the weight of expectation, the pain—God, the pain of living—made something deep within her recoil.

But then, an image. Dawn, sitting alone in her bedroom, hugging a pillow, face streaked with silent tears. Spike, standing by her grave, head bowed, hands clenched into fists, whispering words she couldn’t hear. Willow, pacing, restless, her eyes burning with an almost manic desperation. Xander, holding Anya’s hand just a little too tight, as if afraid to lose one more person. Tara, standing at the sink in their kitchen, staring blankly out the window, a dish forgotten in her hands. Giles… gone.

Then she saw Faith, sitting alone in a prison cell, absently whittling a stake she’d never get the chance to use. Sher saw fresh graves shifting, dirt stirring as fledgling vampires clawed their way to the surface—no Slayer there to stop them. People running, screaming, chased down by demons in dark alleys—the Hellmouth, vulnerable, unguarded.

Buffy felt something shift inside of her, something she hadn’t expected to feel in this place. Something close to longing and a sense of duty. She wasn’t sure if it was for them, for what she saw, or if it was for herself— for living —but it was there, pulling at her like an anchor in the vastness of eternity.

Should you return, you will not age. You will be as you were, but you will not succumb to time or disease. But you will still bleed. Still break. Still feel .

Buffy didn’t know how to feel about that. Forever young, forever fighting an unending war against the forces of darkness, knowing that her eternal peace was no longer guaranteed. 

The choice is yours.

She hesitated before thinking,  they need me.  But she had needed peace. Hadn’t she earned it? Hadn’t she done enough?

And yet…

Dawn’s face flashed in her mind again, bright and hopeful, her eyes lighting up at her presence. She’d left Dawn alone all this time, feeling deep within herself that she was okay. But with the Hellmouth unguarded, that hardly could have been the truth. Buffy made the ultimate sacrifice for Dawn’s life, but if there was even a chance she was in danger, then she’d jumped for nothing. Her sister had no one with her mother gone; she’d left her all alone in the world. 

Suddenly, Buffy knew her answer.

I’ll go back.

The moment she made her choice, everything shifted.

The light began to dim, and the warmth receded. She felt her body forming around her, bones, muscle, and flesh knitting back together from nothingness. She gasped as the weight of existence crashed down on her. Sound—deafening at first—pounded in her ears: the distant hum of streetlights, the chirping of crickets, the rustling of wind through trees. Her heart thudded violently in her chest, and her lungs seized, her skin prickled with cold.

Then, silence.

Buffy blinked. She was standing in front of a familiar house. It was the  Summers  house, her home. She stared at the house number for a long time, mesmerized by the familiar set of numbers. 

Her breath was shaky, her hands trembling at her sides. The world felt too much—too bright, too sharp, too  real.

But she was here, and there was no going back, or so she thought. Buffy took a step forward, her boots scuffing against the pavement, movement still shaky and awkward feeling. Her stomach twisted as she reached the porch, her fingers hovering over the doorknob.

She hesitated.

What if they don’t want me back? What if I’m different? What if I made the wrong choice?

A cleared throat behind her pulled Buffy from her thoughts. She turned, blinking at the figure watching her—a man in a hat, standing with an easy sort of confidence. It took a few seconds for recognition to settle, her mind still adjusting to the concept of thinking in words again. And then, the memory surfaced.

Whistler.

The last time Buffy had seen him, he’d shown up with a sword to help end Angelus. She hadn’t thought about him since, so his sudden appearance the night she returned to Earth was… unexpected. Coincidence? Not a chance.

“Heya, Slayer. Welcome back,” Whistler said, tipping his hat. “You gonna stand there gaping, or can we skip to the part where you say hello?”

Buffy just stared, her brain still catching up with the whole being-alive thing. Words felt heavy on her tongue, so she settled for crossing her arms and staring blankly at him.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he said, leaning casually against the porch railing. “Look, your people are inside, and trust me, a lot’s changed since you took that swan dive. Sorry about that, by the way. Rough gig.”

She didn’t respond, which didn’t seem to faze him.

“Anyway, I’m here on official business. The Powers That Be—yeah, those guys—wanted me to give you the rundown. They didn’t yank you out of paradise on a whim. In fact, they’ve never done something like this before. You earned that peace, no question. But without a Slayer to take over after you bit it, and with Faith… otherwise occupied, they figured bringing you back was the lesser of two evils—the other evil being calling a new girl. So, since you agreed to this mess, they’re tossing you a bone.”

Buffy blinked, finally managing to stammer, “W-what… what do you mean?”

“What I mean,” he said, straightening up, “is they didn’t just stitch your old body back together. They rebuilt you from scratch and stuck your spirit inside. Your body is brand new, in a sense, but you got back your old powers. And here’s the kicker: you’re not exactly human anymore. You’re immortal now, kiddo. A heavenly being of light, or some crap. Fancy, huh?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a lot,” he said, holding up a hand. “So here’s the deal. You get seven days—one week—to decide if you’re sticking around or heading back to your cozy little eternity. Think of it as a return policy. After that, no take-backs. You’re in for the long haul. Use the time wisely, ‘cause let’s be real, the Powers ain’t exactly known for their generosity. This? This is them being downright charitable. So, good luck.”

“You’re serious?” she asked incredulously.

“As a freakin’ heart attack, toots.”

Buffy frowned, considering the deal. It was surprisingly fair, considering the Powers had never been this considerate before. They’d forced being a Slayer on her without her consent at the tender age of fifteen—no choices, no options. But this? This was different. For once, she got to choose her path, her life. Choose immortality.

Still…

“What about my friends? My sister? I can’t just come back and then leave them again.”

“Oh, right,” Whistler said, snapping his fingers. “Forgot an important part. Sorry, this is new for me too. Your people won’t know you came back—anyone who interacts with you, for that matter. If you decide to leave, the memory of your return gets wiped from their minds. So, no harm, no foul.”

Buffy wrestled with the idea, uneasy. The thought of people she loved having their memories altered didn’t sit right. But maybe it would be easier on them, less traumatic, if she ultimately decided to go back to where she was.

Still, it didn’t feel right.

“Any questions, Buff?”

She thought for a moment before finally asking, “I’m still… I’m still me, right?”

“Yeah, you’re still you, kid. Same memories, same stubborn personality—just a factory-sealed body and the knowledge of heaven. Take a few days to adjust. Learn to be human again. Things will come back to you soon enough. I’ll see you in seven days for your answer. Take care of yourself.”

He tipped his hat again and disappeared into the night, leaving Buffy standing on the porch, her head spinning.

Seven days.

That’s all the time she had to decide—to stay in this world or return to the peace she’d left behind. The choice should have been simple, but it wasn’t. She had known true peace, a rest so complete it felt like home. And yet, here she was, back in the fight, expected to decide if she belonged in a life that had already moved on without her.

But there was Dawn. She was the reason Buffy had jumped in the first place. Making sure her sister was okay—that was the whole point, wasn’t it? The thought of leaving her again made Buffy’s stomach twist. But what if Dawn didn’t need her anymore? What if coming back only made things harder?

Would it be crueler to stay or to go?

Seven days to figure it out. Seven days to make peace with whatever she chose. She swallowed hard, then, with a deep breath, she grasped the front door knob, turned it, and finally stepped inside.

Chapter Text

Willow was being a coward, and she knew it. She had been chastising herself internally for the past two weeks. She’d had plenty of opportunities to tell everyone that Buffy was coming back, but she wasted each one. The anxiety was eating her alive. She knew she was making the wrong choice by keeping it to herself, but every time she tried to say the words, they wouldn’t come out.

She’d rehearsed her confession a million times, something along the lines of:

“So, um, remember months ago when I brought up bringing Buffy back? Well, funny thing… I kinda made that happen—just not directly. So, uh, yay! Buffy’s coming back?”

She could already picture their stunned and furious faces—and then she’d chicken out all over again.

Now it was Tuesday morning, the day Buffy would return, and Willow had woken up at the crack of dawn, absolutely spiraling over the fact that she had waited this long.

She slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to wake Tara, and crept downstairs to make a phone call. If there was anyone who deserved to know before it happened, it was Giles. She knew he wouldn’t arrive until the next day at the earliest, and she could only hope he’d forgive her for waiting so long to tell him.

She dialed the number and listened to a few rings before he finally picked up.

“This is Rupert,” Giles answered, his tone casual.

“Giles? Hey, it’s Willow,” she said sheepishly.

“Willow? Is everything okay? You are calling rather early for your side of the world.”

“No—no, everything’s okay, I just… Look, I don’t want to explain this over the phone, so I’m going to have to make with the vague, okay?”

“Alright…” Giles answered, though he already sounded suspicious.

“I did a thing. Well, actually, it wasn’t me that did the thing. I didn’t cast any spells—just to calm your nerves, okay?”

“Willow, what exactly is this about?”

Willow sighed, gripping the phone tighter. She struggled to find the right words before deciding to just rip off the band-aid. At least she didn’t have to see him scowling at her through the phone. This was kind of a test run.

“I need you to settle whatever you’ve got going on over there and get on the soonest plane back. Take a day if you need to, but… I don’t think you’re gonna want to leave again for a while.”

Giles was silent for a moment. Then, his voice came through the line, wary and laced with frustration.

“Willow, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! I swear—no Willow magic was used.”

“In what?”

She hesitated, her stomach twisting as she tried to find the right phrasing. But in the end, the words just slipped out:

“Buffy is coming back. Tonight. The Powers That Be granted my request to bring her back.”

The line went deathly quiet. She could practically hear the wheels turning in Giles’ head.

And then, after a beat, he muttered, “You daft girl… I’ll be back on the soonest flight I can manage.”

Then the call went dead. Willow slowly placed the phone back on the receiver, exhaling shakily.

Okay,  she told herself.  That could have gone worse.

***

She let the rest of the day play out as usual, not wanting to make everyone as anxious as she was just because  she  was a total chicken. But she did stress—multiple times—that there was going to be a Scooby meeting at 6 p.m. sharp and that everyone  needed  to be there on time. It was  very  important. Deciding she would finally tell them then. She figured Buffy wouldn’t come until the full moon was higher in the night sky. 

Xander had agreed over the phone, suspicious but accepting. Tara gave her a look, brows scrunched in quiet analysis, but didn’t pry. Spike just shrugged and said, “Whatever, Red, this better be worth closin’ the gallery an hour early.” Then he finished off his mug of warmed-up blood, rinsed it in the sink, and buttoned up his shirt before heading out. On his way to the door, he paused long enough to kiss the top of Dawn’s head quickly, reminding her to feed Lucky, before striding outside toward his car.

Tara had class that morning, so after finishing breakfast, she ushered Dawn into the car, dropping her off at school before heading to campus. That left Willow alone in the house, stewing over her decisions for  hours  until everyone finally returned.

She had classes that afternoon, but there was no way she was going to get through them, Willow could barely sit still as it was. So, instead, she stayed home—pacing, overthinking, and trying, unsuccessfully, not to spiral…

***

Willow sat stiffly on the couch, hands clenched together in her lap as everyone gathered in the living room exactly on time. The air felt thick and heavy with the weight of what she was about to say and the fact there was no going back now. They were all staring at her as she hesitated to start the conversation. 

Xander leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed. “Okay, Will. We’re all here. What’s the big emergency?”

Willow swallowed, her throat dry. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, the words felt impossible to say, ridiculous almost.  She glanced at Tara, who gave her a gentle nod of encouragement.

Willow exhaled shakily. “Buffy’s coming back.”

Stunned silence ensued for a long beat.

Xander blinked. “I’m sorry…  what ?”

Tara frowned. “What do you mean she’s coming back?”

Willow pushed forward before she lost her nerve. “The Powers That Be are bringing her back.  Tonight .”

The silence stretched longer this time, shocked expressions frozen in place.

Then—

“You’re joking,” Xander said flatly.

“Wait, how?” Tara asked.

“Oh, wow. Well, that certainly complicates things,” Anya mused.

Spike didn’t say anything. He just sat there, staring, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might shatter.

Willow forced herself to keep talking. “A while back, I found a way to petition the Powers, and… they heard me. I didn’t know if anything would come out of it, but then Whistler showed up and told me they’d decided to bring her back. It  wasn’t  my decision. I didn’t cast a spell. The Powers made this choice, not me.”

Xander exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “ Buffy . Alive...” He shook his head like he was trying to physically process the words. “So, what, she’s just gonna walk through the door like nothing happened? Like, all in one piece like we saw her last before she died?”

Willow shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Whistler didn’t give me a ton of details. Just that she’ll  come to us .”

Tara squeezed Willow’s hand. “Then we trust that there’s a reason for it.”

“I still don’t get why they did this…It’s not making any sense…What did you tell them?,” Xander questioned Willow.

“I just reminded them that the world doesn’t have a real Slayer protecting it with Faith locked up…and of course, the whole Buffy doesn’t deserve to be in hell thing.”

“Jesus, Wil, you still think she was there? Was that even confirmed?” Xander pressed.

“No…Not exactly…Whistler wouldn’t tell me anything about where she was.”

Spike crossed his arms and looked away, muttering something to himself Willow couldn’t quite hear but he looked like he wanted to strangle her for a moment. She was glad he didn’t speak up this time, figuring he knew it was no use. Buffy was coming back regardless of what anyone had to say at this point. 

Anya tilted her head. “So, does that mean we should be celebrating? Maybe throw a welcome-home party with balloons and cake?”

Xander turned to her, exasperated. “ Anya .”

“What? Is this not a happy thing? Someone coming back from death seems like an objectively good thing, if not extremely rare.”

Tara sighed, trying to explain to her gently. “We don’t know how she’s going to feel like celebrating when she gets back.”

Willow nodded. “Exactly. We don’t want to overwhelm her.”

Dawn had been silent the entire time, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks as she held onto Lucky, who sat cuddled into her lap and gave her kisses. 

Finally, she let the pup go and stood, her voice quiet but firm. “You guys need to leave and wait at the Magic Box.”

Everyone turned to her.

Dawn sniffled, lifting her chin. “She’s going to come home, and when she does… I don’t want her to walk in and see all of us just staring at her like some freak show…She shouldn’t be bombarded with questions and everyone hovering the first minute she’s back...”

Willow hesitated. “Dawnie, I don’t know if—”

“It’s  my  sister,” Dawn cut in, her voice unwavering. “It’s my call. Spike and I will be here to meet her. The rest of you wait at the Magic Box. When she’s ready, we’ll bring her to see you.”

Willow opened her mouth, then shut it.

Tara was the first to nod. “She’s right.”

Xander sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. We wait at the Magic Box.”

Anya shrugged. “Fine. But I’m still getting cake for later.” Nobody bothered to argue with her.

Spike still hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He sat motionless, staring at nothing, his mind clearly miles away.

Dawn turned to him, her voice softer. “Spike?”

His head snapped up, like she’d broken through a fog, his eyes unreadable.

She swallowed. “You’ll wait with me, right?”

Spike blinked once. Then nodded. “Yeah, Niblet. ‘Course I will.”

And with that, the decision was made. They would wait elsewhere while Dawn and Spike acclimated her to being back to the land of the living. Willow didn’t like the idea of not being here when she got back, but reasoned that she’d see her soon enough. She knew Spike could handle the situation, and out of everyone, he was the least hovery. She only hoped everything would work itself out.

***

Spike sat on the stairs, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes remained fixed on the front door, unblinking, as if he could will it to open through sheer force of thought. Dawn had retreated to the living room, curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest as she stared blankly at the TV, though Spike doubted she was actually watching it. The air felt stuffy, weighed down by a tense anticipation that made it hard to breathe, even for someone who didn't need to.

The house was deathly silent—the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant hum of the refrigerator. He didn't think he had ever felt this anxious, this on edge, in his entire unlife. Not when he was turned, not when Drusilla left him, not even when he realized he was in love with the Slayer. This anticipation, this desperate hope mixed with sheer terror, was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

His hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically, blunt nails digging into his palms. He wanted a cigarette, or a drink, or a fight—anything to take the edge off. But he couldn't move. Couldn't risk not being right here the moment that door opened.

Because she was coming back. Buffy. His Slayer. The woman he loved more than anything in this world or any other. She was coming home and he still couldn't quite wrap his head around it. After all these months, all the grief and the longing and the sheer emptiness of existing in a world without her. Sure, he had tried to make the best of the situation, and things were as okay as they were ever going to get with how he truly felt deep down, but there was still an open wound there. Still a hurt that would never fully heal, until now, when Buffy was supposed to come back into his life and fix all of the pain he had been holding onto. 

Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity. Spike's mind raced, a dizzying whirlwind of memories and emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. The last time he'd seen Buffy, her body had been cold, lifeless, laid out on the very table he'd sat at countless times since then. He remembered the way the light had gone out of her eyes, the way her skin had lost its warmth, its glow. The way the world had seemed to tilt off its axis, like gravity itself couldn't quite hold without her there to anchor it.

He tried to shake those thoughts away, tried not to think about when he’d seen her face last. Tried to focus on the here and now, what was awaiting on the other side of that door when she would finally be returned to this plane. Spike was upset with Willow for interfering, for taking away from the eternal rest he was sure she’d been awarded with. But deep down, he could admit to himself that he wanted this, wanted her back. Was absolutely craving to hear her voice, see her golden hair again, and finally smell her scent again. 

Spike exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair, his fingers threading through the bleach-blond strands in agitation. He needed to get a grip. Needed to steel himself. Because any second now, that door was going to open, and Buffy—his Slayer—was going to walk through it, and he had no bloody idea what to say to her.

Would she even want to see him? Would she be angry? Confused? Would she even remember everything the way they did? He had no clue what kind of state she’d be in, and that scared the hell out of him. But regardless of how she came back—regardless of whether she pushed him away, screamed, or cried—he was going to be here. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The ticking of the clock echoed in his ears, each second another pull of tension in his gut. His knee bounced restlessly. He heard Dawn shifting on the couch but didn’t look back. He could feel her energy, nervous and tense like his own. She hadn’t spoken in a while, probably wrapped up in her own thoughts about what was to come.

He wanted to say something reassuring, something that might ease the nerves coiling between them, but what the hell was there to say? Nothing could prepare them for this.

And then, suddenly, he felt it.

A shift in the air. A hum of energy—subtle, barely perceptible, but there, like the air itself had thickened. A prickle ran down the back of his neck, a sense of something just beyond the veil of reality.

And then… a soft  creak .

Spike’s entire body went rigid as the doorknob turned and the door opened.

Buffy, miraculously, quietly stepped inside, and the world stopped.

She stood there, looking remarkably human and herself, framed by the dim glow of the porch light. Her golden hair caught the soft illumination, and her wide green eyes darted around the room, taking in the familiar sights with a distant, unfocused look.

Spike couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

Because she was here, she was really here, and he had no bloody idea what to do next.

***

Buffy blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting of the house. It smelled the same—home. Warm, lived-in, with faint traces of vanilla and something floral, probably from whatever candle had been recently light. But there were little things that were different. The furniture had been slightly rearranged, a couple of new picture frames she didn’t recognize sat on the mantle, and there was a pile of textbooks and papers stacked neatly on the coffee table, probably Dawn’s schoolwork.

Then, finally, her gaze landed on him.

Spike.

He was frozen on the stairs, his hands clasped together tightly, knuckles white, as if the force of his own grip was the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes—blue and sharp, always so  alive  despite his lack of a pulse—were wide with something she couldn’t quite place. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe something deeper, something rawer.

She swallowed. “Hey, Spike.”

Her voice was soft and hesitant—testing. The weight of it in the air felt like a rock dropped into still water, ripples spreading out in every direction.

Spike didn’t move at first. He just stared, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitch beneath his cheekbone. A thousand emotions flickered in his expression—ones she couldn’t quite decipher.

Then, he exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath for  too  long, and finally, he stood.

“Slayer,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

She almost smiled. Almost. It was ridiculous, really, that was what he called her the first time seeing her again—the title feeling foreign to her after so long of just  being , without any responsibilities or weight on her shoulders. But there was something grounding in the familiarity of it. Something steady in a moment that felt anything but.

Spike took a hesitant step forward, as if worried she might vanish if he moved too fast. His hands flexed at his sides, as though he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if he  should .

“Are you—” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat before trying again. “Are you real?”

Buffy’s lips parted slightly, her heart twisting at the sheer  need  in his voice. She hadn’t expected that—the raw vulnerability, the quiet plea beneath the words.

“I think so,” she said, and it wasn’t even meant to be a joke. She was still trying to convince herself.

Another step forward.

Spike’s eyes swept over her as if he were trying to piece together the reality of her presence. As if he had blinked, she might have disappeared. His fingers twitched again, but Dawn moved first.

Buffy barely had time to register it before she was tackled into a bone-crushing hug. Dawn’s arms wrapped tightly around her, her face buried in her shoulder, and Buffy stumbled back a step at the sheer force of it.

“You’re  real ,” Dawn choked out against her. “Oh my God, you’re  really  here.”

Buffy’s breath hitched, emotion swelling in her chest as she tightened her grip around her sister. “Yeah,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against Dawn’s hair. “I’m here.”

Spike watched them, unmoving. His hands were still clenched at his sides, his face unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes told a different story.

Buffy wasn’t quite ready to face what she saw in them just yet.

“I missed you so much. Oh my god, it was horrible. I can’t believe you’re back,” Dawn sobbed against her. Buffy threaded her fingers through her sister’s hair, trying to console her the best she could.

“It’s okay, I’m here. It’s me. I love you so much, Dawnie,” Buffy reassured her.

Dawn eventually pulled back and smiled at her, and Buffy wiped away the tears on her cheeks. It was a sad smile, one that broke Buffy’s heart into a million pieces—like her sister had lived a dozen lives in the time she’d been gone. She took a real look at her then. Dawn was taller, her features a little older, more defined. She was still a kid, but the subtle changes told Buffy that more time had passed than she had initially thought.

“Where is everyone?” Buffy asked.

“The Bit figured you’d be less overwhelmed if they weren’t all here when you got back. We can take you to them in a bit. They’re all waitin’ for you at the Magic Box,” Spike explained.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah… I guess this is better.”

She didn’t know exactly why he was there. She remembered that he had helped during the final battle, that he cared about her—no, that he  loved  her—but that still didn’t explain why he was the one left alone with her sister while her friends were at the Magic Box. What had happened while she was gone?

Dawn guided her to the couch, taking a seat beside her. Spike sat in the armchair across from them, clearly tense, his hands clasped together, his jaw tight. There was a shimmer of wetness in his eyes, something he was trying to blink away.

“Willow just told us today that you were coming back. We had no idea this was happening,” Dawn admitted.

“Really?” Buffy frowned. “I didn’t know Willow was involved…”

“Red didn’t do a spell, or so she says. Told us she reached out directly to the Powers. How she managed that, she hasn’t shared yet…”

“Oh. So she’s part of the reason why I’m here, I guess.”

Dawn hesitated before speaking again, her voice softer. “Did you know? That you would be coming back? I hope you weren’t… pulled out of wherever you were without knowing first.”

Buffy smiled gently, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear before answering, “I knew. I was asked. I just… I didn’t know there wasn’t a Slayer to take care of the town. I didn’t really think about it when I jumped off that tower.”

“So you remember then? Everything that happened?” Spike asked, leaning forward slightly.

Buffy met his gaze, steady and sure. “Yeah… I think so.”

Dawn let out a shaky breath, eyes scanning Buffy’s face like she was still trying to make sense of her being here. “So, where were you?” she asked quietly.

Buffy hesitated, glancing down at her hands. The warmth, the light, the peace—it was already starting to feel distant, like a dream she couldn’t quite hold onto.

“I don’t really have the words for it,” she admitted softly. “It wasn’t a place, exactly. More like… a feeling. Safe, warm, whole.” She lifted her eyes, meeting Dawn’s. “I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t in pain. It was like… being finished.”

Dawn bit her lip, guilt flashing across her face. “Oh…”

Buffy reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “But I’m here now,” she reassured her. “And I  chose  to be.”

Spike was watching her intently, his face tense, his fingers twitching against his knees. “Why?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant. “Why come back to all this?”

Buffy inhaled deeply, choosing her words carefully. “Because I wasn’t done .  Because I saw… I saw Faith in prison, no Slayer here to protect the Hellmouth. I saw people—innocent people—getting hurt because I wasn’t here.” She glanced back at Dawn, squeezing her hand tighter. “And because I couldn’t leave you alone.”

Dawn let out a tiny, choked noise, throwing herself into Buffy’s arms again. Buffy held her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, her own throat tightening.

Spike exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head incredulously. “Bloody hell…” he muttered under his breath.

She looked at him then, really  looked  at him, and something inside her clenched. He looked… different. Tired, in a way she hadn’t thought possible for a vampire. There was something about the way he held himself, the tension in his jaw, the way his blue eyes held so much weight. She had seen him heartbroken before (because of Drusilla), but this? This was something else entirely.

“How long has it been?” she asked softly, dreading the answer.

Spike’s gaze flickered to Dawn before settling back on her. “Three hundred and thirty-six days,” he said, voice raw.

Buffy blinked. “You… counted?”

Spike let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Never forgot about you…about your…  absence . Not for a single soddin’ day...”

A wave of something she couldn’t name rolled through her, leaving her feeling unsteady. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she just nodded, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat.

Dawn leaned back and looked at her before saying, “It’s been almost a year, and so much has changed. I don’t even know where to start.”

Buffy nodded, her gaze drifting around the room before she stood up to investigate further. As she moved, her eyes landed on a dog bed near the couch. She frowned slightly, glancing back at Dawn. “Do we have a dog now?”

Dawn gave her a sheepish smile and nodded. “Yeah. He’s kinda new here—only been with us for a few weeks. His name’s Lucky. He’s a beagle. You’ll love him when you meet him. The Scoobs took him with them to the Magic Box.”

Buffy raised her brows in surprise, never having considered getting a pet before, but she didn’t linger on the thought. Instead, she moved toward the mantle, scanning the new pictures that had been added since she’d been gone.

Her eyes landed first on a familiar one in the center—her own smiling face frozen in time, taken sometime the year she died. Right beside it was something that made her pause: a picture of the gang, all huddled together around Spike in the middle, grinning from ear to ear, a “Happy Birthday” sign hanging in the background.

Had they… celebrated his birthday together? The idea was something she never would have imagined.

She kept looking, her gaze falling next on a picture of Dawn holding Lucky, the beagle’s floppy ears and soulful brown eyes making him look impossibly cute. But it was the last picture that shocked her the most.

It was a beach scene.

Spike was carrying Dawn on his back in the sunlight—actual daylight—next to Tara, who was holding seashells in her hands. In the background, Xander and Anya were waving at the camera, all of them smiling, looking… happy.

Buffy stared at it, her breath hitching. After a long moment, she took a step back, almost like the image itself had burned her, before looking back at Spike with a scrutinizing stare. 

“Are you… I mean, it doesn’t make sense. I can feel you, I know you’re still a vampire, but how—”

Spike swiftly stood up and walked over to her, slipping a ring off his finger and holding it out to her. She hesitated before taking it cautiously, weighing it in her palm before flicking her gaze back up to him.

“Red and Tara made me this,” he explained. “Lets me walk in the sun, but that’s it. No invulnerability like the gem… You can keep it if you don’t like me wearin’ it. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His voice was steady, but the way he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down almost as if ashamed, made her chest tighten.

She didn’t know what to say again, so she just nodded and slipped the ring into her jeans pocket—a topic to consider for another time after she had more answers.

Dawn stood abruptly, a frown on her face. “Um, I’m gonna make some tea in the kitchen for us. Be right back…”

The room fell into silence after she left, tense with uncertainty between them.

Buffy turned back to Spike, taking in the emotions flickering across his face. He looked different. And yet… not.

“I do remember what I said,” he murmured. “The promise. To protect her… If I had done that—if I’d been faster, better—maybe you wouldn’t have had to jump.”

Buffy held his gaze, letting the words settle. She didn’t blame him. Not for a second. But she didn’t say anything yet, just gave him the space to go on.

“But I want you to know I did save you,” he continued, voice rough. “Not when it counted, of course, but… after that. Every night after that, for a long while after… I’d see it all again, do something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens of times, lots of different ways… Every time I thought about it, I saved you.”

His confession sent a ripple through her, something deep and aching. She hadn’t expected this. The sincerity, the regret, the sheer weight of how much he had carried in her absence.

Before she could think better of it, her hand reached out, fingers curling gently around his arm.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For…caring so much. I—I don’t blame you. It wasn’t… It wasn’t anyone’s fault... Sometimes things just don’t go the way you’d hoped they would, because they weren’t meant to.”

A tear slipped from the corner of Spike’s eye at her reassurance, and he let it roll down his cheek as he gazed at her. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted a hand, cupping her cheek as if he expected her to pull away. His thumb ghosted over her skin, his expression one of love and longing.

Buffy felt the coolness of his palm against her warmth, and, for some reason, she didn’t move, didn’t pull away. She wouldn’t have allowed this level of closeness between them before, and yet… she couldn’t deny that it felt nice.  Real  and surprisingly sweet.

What the hell did that mean?

Chapter Text

The moment between Spike and Buffy felt suspended in time, the world around them fading into insignificance. The warmth of her skin beneath his hand was nothing short of a miracle. She was looking at him—softly, gently—in a way she never had before. He could hear the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, loud in his ears, proof of her life, her return.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a few long beats, but it felt like an eternity as they held each other’s gaze. For the first time, he truly appreciated the exact shade of green in her eyes, the tiny flecks of gold threading through them like veins of sunlight.

Buffy was alive. She was home—and he was touching her, and she was touching him.

A bloke could dust from a feeling like this—the ache of his heart mending, piece by piece, just from the simple fact that she was  real . That after all these long months of going through the motions of unliving in a world without her, she was breathing again.

The moment was broken when Dawn returned from the kitchen, balancing three mugs of tea in her hands. Buffy tensed first, pulling away just before Dawn handed her a mug. She took it with a quiet “Thanks” before settling back onto the couch, staring into the cup like it held answers. Spike forced himself to shake off the daze, accepting his own mug and leaning back into the armchair as Dawn settled beside Buffy.

“This is really good, Dawnie,” Buffy murmured after taking a sip.

Dawn grinned. “You can thank Spike for that. He taught me how to make ‘proper English tea’ with a kettle. He thinks microwaving tea is blasphemy.”

“That’s ‘cause it is,” Spike muttered, taking a sip of his own.

“You microwave your blood every day,” Dawn shot back.

Spike rolled his eyes. “That’s different. Animal blood is never gonna taste like the good stuff, no point in heating it up fancy. Still gonna taste like shite.”

“ Whatever , Spike. Anyway, the tea’s actually from England. Spike used to buy it from a specialty shop, but now Giles sends it down to us—oh wait, you don’t know about Giles being gone…”

Buffy’s eyes flicked to hers. “No, actually, I kind of caught a glimpse of that. The Powers didn’t let me see much, just enough to convince me to come back. I still don’t really know anything that’s happened here since I was…  gone .”

Dawn shifted uncomfortably before explaining. “Well… Giles left a bit ago. I think it was just too hard for him to be here anymore.”

“He’ll come back when he hears you’re alive,” Spike interjected reassuringly. “I know he will.”

Buffy didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly, but he could tell she was holding onto that thought like a lifeline.

“So,” she finally said, clearing her throat. “What else have I missed?”

Dawn perked up at the question. “Hmmm, let’s see. I have my learner’s permit! Spike and Tara have been teaching me to drive. Oh! And I’m on the honor roll at school.”

Buffy raised a brow. “You are?”

Dawn scoffed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m, like, super smart.”

Spike snorted. “When she actually does her homework.”

Dawn shot him a glare and stuck her tongue out at him. Spike just smirked and took another sip of his tea, but he noticed Buffy’s eyes lingering on him, her brows furrowed as if she couldn’t figure out how they had gotten so close.

He couldn’t blame her. The vampire he’d been before she died was a far cry from the man he’d become now—if he could even call himself that. Taking care of Dawn, stepping up in ways he never would have bothered with before, taking on responsibilities for a group of humans he once despised—it had changed him down to his bones. He wasn’t sure if Buffy would believe it. Hell, sometimes he hardly believed it himself.

“What else?” Buffy pressed on.

“Oh! Xander and Anya are engaged! They’re getting married in August.”

Buffy’s expression barely changed, but he caught the way her fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Really? That’s… nice. Really nice for them.”

Dawn nodded. “Yeah, it’s good to see them happy, and Tara and Willow are, like, disgustingly happy too. They moved in and took Mom’s room—since, well, they weren’t gonna take yours, and it’s the biggest. I hope that’s okay.”

Buffy smiled softly at Dawn, reaching for her hand. “More than okay. They took care of you?”

Dawn nodded again. “Yeah. Them and Spike, of course.”

She furrowed her brow at the,  of course,  part but said nothing and simply nodded in acknowledgment.

Turning to Spike, she asked, “The Hellmouth—how bad has it gotten?”

Spike sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s handled. I patrol some nights. The, uh…” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Well, the, uh—”

“The Buffybot patrols most nights,” Dawn finished for him, and Spike clenched his jaw when Buffy’s brows pulled together.

“The bot?” she repeated.

Spike nodded, bracing himself.

“Oh. Okay. I guess that makes sense…” Her voice was even, measured. “So… does no one know I’m dead? Like, officially?”

“No,” Spike admitted. “We kept it quiet. Figured it was the best option since there wasn’t another Slayer. Worked alright so far, although we keep the bloody thing powered down when she’s not slayin’.” His voice dropped slightly. “Can’t stand to be around it more than necessary.”

Buffy gave a slow nod, like she was sorting through the information in real-time. He half-expected her to be upset, but if she was, she didn’t show it.

“I think it’s best if we go meet the guys now,” she finally said after taking a long sip of her tea, voice a little stronger. “I feel okay. I can handle it.”

Spike studied her carefully, searching for any signs of hesitation, but Buffy’s expression was resolute. There was something different about her—not just the obvious that she had come back from the dead, but something in the way she carried herself. Like she was absorbing all this information, compartmentalizing it, filing it away to deal with later instead of just reacting like she would have in the past. Maybe she was still processing, or she was just tired—he wasn’t sure just yet what to make of it. 

He set his empty mug down on the coffee table and stood up, stretching his arms behind his head. “Right then. Let’s get you to the Magic Box before Red combusts from anticipation.”

Dawn got up, practically vibrating with excitement now that the initial shock had worn off. “They’re gonna freak,” she said, and it was hard to tell if she meant that in a good or bad way. Probably both.

Buffy exhaled a steadying breath and moved toward the door. Spike followed closely, keeping a careful eye on her. It wasn’t that he thought she’d suddenly collapse or fade away, but a part of him still couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t actually here. That at any moment, he’d wake up, and she’d still be gone.

As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Spike pulled his keys from his pocket, but Buffy stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Can we walk?” she asked. “I think I need some air.”

He nodded without hesitation. “‘Course.”

Dawn looped her arm through Buffy’s, holding onto her like she might disappear again if she let go. And with that, they made their way toward the Magic Box, the three of them together again, as if the past year had been nothing more than a long, cruel dream.

***

The moment Buffy stepped inside the Magic Box, the air in the room shifted, but before she could take another step, a blur of black, brown, and white fur launched itself at her.

“Whoa!” Buffy barely had time to react before Lucky, tail wagging like a propeller, skidded to a stop at her feet. He sniffed at her excitedly, ears flopping as he let out a joyful bark.

Buffy blinked down at him before crouching slightly, giving him a tentative scratch behind the ears. Lucky responded immediately, licking at her wrist with eager affection, his entire body wiggling in excitement.

Dawn grinned. “Told you you’d love him.”

Buffy let out a small, surprised laugh. “Yeah. He’s a cutie.”

Buffy, despite everything, found herself smiling as she ran her fingers through Lucky’s soft fur. It was strange—so much had changed, but this? This was something purely good. The warmth of the moment was quickly overshadowed, however, as she looked up and met the wide, disbelieving eyes of her friends.

Xander was the first to move, stepping forward cautiously like he was afraid she might vanish if he got too close. “Buffy?”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say. All she could do was nod yes.

That was apparently enough, because the next thing she knew, she was crushed into a hug so tight she could barely breathe.

“Xan, you’re kind of… squishing me,” Buffy managed to gasp out.

“Oh! Sorry, Buff.” Xander pulled back quickly, laughing a little, but his eyes were red-rimmed. He squeezed her arm instead, his touch lingering, as if reassuring himself that she was really there. “You have no idea what a sight you are for sore eyes. God, you look—well, you look like Buffy.”

“And Buffy is me,” she quipped. The way he kept staring at her, like he was memorizing every detail of her face, reminded her just how much they had all been through while she was gone. He pulled her into another hug, this one gentler, and she hugged him back tightly.

When he finally stepped away, Anya was next. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward and wrapping Buffy in a somewhat stiff but well-intentioned hug.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Anya said matter-of-factly. “It was very depressing when you were gone. Xander cried—a  lot.  He could barely even have sex with me. That was very disappointing—”

“An, remember what we talked about? TMI,” Xander interjected with an exasperated sigh.

“I’m just explaining how much we missed her,” Anya defended. “She should know, right? Am I wrong?”

Buffy offered her a small, amused smile. “No, Anya, you’re not wrong.”

“Oh, good. I bought you some cake in case you were hungry. They told me a welcome home party was inappropriate, but I figured dessert would still be acceptable.”

Buffy blinked at the unexpected offering, then nodded. “I’m… good for now, but I’ll keep the cake in mind. That was really thoughtful, thank you.”

Anya beamed triumphantly and threw a smug glance at Xander, as if to say  told you so.

Tara approached next, offering a soft smile before pulling Buffy into a warm embrace. “It’s really good to have you back,” she whispered. “You were really missed.”

“Thanks,” Buffy murmured, squeezing her before letting go.

Her gaze shifted to Willow, who stood slightly apart from the others, twisting her hands together. Her face was tight with emotion—something that looked dangerously close to guilt.

Buffy wasn’t sure she was ready for that conversation.

“Are you okay?” Willow asked in a small voice.

Buffy hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think so. It’s just… weird being here again.”

“Yeah, I figured… God, Buffy, I missed you so much. I didn’t—” Willow took a shaky breath, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know if what I did was right, but I  had  to do something. I just—I couldn’t leave you there, not knowing where you were. Not knowing if you were… suffering.”

Her composure cracked completely, and Buffy didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Willow, holding her as she sobbed into her shoulder.

In truth, Buffy had some mixed feelings about Willow interfering. But ultimately, she didn’t blame her. Buffy had  chosen  to come back—whether or not the Powers had manipulated her into it by showing her carefully curated visions to push her toward that decision.

Now, she was starting to see it all more clearly.

The Powers had only let her see what  they  wanted her to see—the town in danger, demons running wild. Freshly risen vampires with no one to slay them. But walking to the Magic Box earlier… she hadn’t seen any of that. The streets had been quiet. The Hellmouth had been  handled.  And her friends? They had moved on .  They weren’t drowning in grief and had clearly found ways to live without her.

The choice to stay suddenly didn’t feel as obvious as it had before. Still, she’d play out the seven days until she ultimately made her decision.

She pulled back slightly, looking Willow in the eyes. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I don’t blame you. I’m okay.”

Willow nodded tearfully, wiping at her face before stepping back, giving Buffy a watery smile.

The weight of Spike’s gaze lingered on her, even as he stood slightly apart from the group, watching everything from the background. Buffy wondered how long he intended to stick around. He had brought them to the Magic Box, and waited with Dawn, but did he really need to be here for the rest of this conversation?

She appreciated what he had done for her sister, for the town, and for her—his quiet care earlier, the vulnerability he had shown. But the feelings stirring inside her were unsettling, creeping in from nowhere, making her skin feel too tight.

The truth was that Buffy didn’t  know  Spike. Not really. And just because he had helped— even after she died —didn’t necessarily mean she trusted him. He was still a vampire,  an unsouled vampire  at that. And in her experience, that meant he could never truly be noble or care about humanity beyond his own self-interest. Whatever he had done while she was gone had to be out of some misplaced sense of duty, or guilt, or—hell, maybe even some weird obsession with her. That was what she told herself, anyway.

She shook those thoughts aside and turned her attention back to the group. “I want to talk about everything,” she said, taking a deep breath. “About what happened that night I jumped, about the Powers sending me back, about… where I was. Everything that happened while I was gone. I’m so happy to see that you’re all in one piece somehow, and that you took care of Dawnie for me.” Buffy pulled Dawn into a side hug, squeezing her tightly. “I love you all, and I know it must have been a hard eleven months, but I’m back now.”

She hesitated for a moment before shifting her gaze to Spike. He stood in the periphery, tense, waiting.

“Thanks for waiting with Dawn,” she said, her voice measured. “And for… for helping to protect her. For helping with the town while I was gone...” She crossed her arms, suddenly feeling unsure. “But, uh… you don’t have to stick around for the rest of this. Feel free to head off to your crypt or wherever. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

Something flickered across his face, too fast for her to catch, before he schooled his expression into something indistinct. He nodded stiffly, glancing at the others before landing on Dawn and giving her a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Glad you’re back, Slayer,” he murmured. Then, without another word, he turned and made his way toward the door.

Dawn, however, immediately started shaking her head. “Wait, Buffy—”

Buffy shot her a look, silently telling her  not now , but before Dawn could argue, Xander stepped in, raising his voice just as Spike was about to step outside.

“Spike, wait! Dawnie, you didn’t explain to her?”

Dawn shrugged, looking a little guilty. “I figured it was  obvious ?”

Buffy frowned. “What’s obvious?”

Spike tensed but didn’t turn back around. He pushed open the door and swiftly stepped out into the night.

“Geez, Dawn,” Xander muttered before jogging after him, leaving Buffy staring at the others in confusion.

She turned to Dawn, waiting for an explanation.

Dawn shifted nervously and then met Buffy’s gaze. “Spike is one of us now. He’s a Scooby.”

Buffy blinked. “Wait.  What ?”

“He’s done a lot, Buffy,” Tara said gently, her voice filled with quiet sincerity. “For all of us. He’s taken care of Dawn, helped keep the house running, and been there for us in ways we never expected. And he’s… he’s changed. Really changed.”

Buffy shook her head, still trying to process what they were saying. “Spike’s a vampire. He  can’t  change.”

Willow stepped forward, her voice hesitant but firm. “He has, though. He’s different. I mean, he’s still snarky and kind of a pain sometimes, but in an  I’m-busting-your-chops  way, not a  murdery  way. And he’s… Buffy, he took over your mom’s gallery and single-handedly turned it into a success. He’s the reason we’re not struggling financially. He even set up a college fund for Dawnie.”

Buffy’s breath caught. “What?”

“We  trust  him,” Willow continued. “We kind of… love him…He’s one of us, like Dawn said.”

The ground beneath her feet felt unsteady, like reality itself had shifted. Everything she had ever believed about vampires—about  souls  —was being rewritten in real-time.

Her friends would  never  have gone to bat for him like this before. Not in a million years.

She swallowed hard, trying to reconcile the image of the Spike she had known with the one they were describing. If everything they were saying was true—and she was inclined to believe it was—then he had done more than just  help . He had earned his place among them. He had earned her respect.

Buffy exhaled slowly, rubbing her arms as a strange, foreign thought settled in her mind.

Maybe there was something in Spike worth seeing. Maybe, this time, she just needed to open her eyes and see what was really there beneath the surface. Either that, or she was literally in the twilight zone. One way or another, she was going to find out…  

Chapter Text

Xander didn’t have to chase after Spike for long. The guy did his whole bad-guy walk—which, let’s be real, was more of a strut than anything else—so he wasn’t exactly running. Xander called his name a few times, getting nothing but a dismissive wave in response, until he finally dashed in front of him, blocking his path.

“Come on, man, will you stop trying to make a getaway for a friggin’ minute?”

Spike sighed, clearly annoyed. “Got places to be, Harris. Stuff to pack up before the Slayer gets home.”

“Are you nuts? You’re not moving.”

“Not your home, mate. Not your call,” Spike shot back before stepping around him and continuing his march toward the Summers house.

Xander huffed in frustration and sped up to keep pace. “Spike, please, just stop for a second. Buffy doesn’t have the full picture yet.”

Spike halted suddenly, spinning on him, his face tight, like he was trying not to look hurt—even though it was painfully obvious that he was.

“Oh, and you think that’ll make a difference?” he said, voice low but sharp. “Buffy’s only ever tolerated me before she died—if that. Sure, she let me hide her sis a time or two, drive the bloody Winnebago when she was runnin’ from Glory, but she never trusted me. Not really…And she’s sure as hell not gonna want me livin’ under her roof.”

Spike exhaled hard, forcing himself to calm down before continuing in a quieter tone, “Look, I know my place in the world, and it ain’t livin’ with the Slayer. Don’t matter how much I still love her—”

“You do?” Xander blurted before he could stop himself.

Spike shot him a look. “Are you daft?”

“Okay, yeah, stupid question,” Xander admitted, shaking his head. “Listen, we’re going to talk to her. Please, don’t do anything rash. Just come back with me—”

“Don’t bother. No point in tryin’—”

“Spike, you are  not  getting kicked out of your own home. Not on my watch.” Xander’s voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “I love Buffy, but you’re my friend too, and don’t you forget it.”

Spike stared at him, visibly taken aback, his expression shifting from disbelief to something softer. He looked down at his boots, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“It’s not…Don’t think I’m entitled to anythin’ just because I helped,” he muttered. “Not angry at her. She has every bloody right not to want me around for cuddles and kumbayas.”

“No one thinks you feel entitled, I promise,” Xander said earnestly. “But Spike, we  want  you to stay. It wouldn’t be the same without you at this point. Buffy being back doesn’t change that.”

He clapped Spike on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Spike swallowed hard, nodding quietly, though he still wouldn’t meet Xander’s eyes.

“Christ,” Spike muttered after a long pause. “Can barely think about anythin’ other than the fact that she’s back…Doesn’t feel real.”

“I know, man. It’s wild. Gonna take us all a while to get used to it.”

Spike let out a heavy breath and finally looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“I’ll go wait back at the house,” he decided. “You lot have your heart-to-hearts.”

“Don’t pack anything up just yet, okay? I’ll tell her to come to the basement and talk about the living situation. Worst case scenario, you’ll come live with us, but I  highly  doubt you’ll need to.”

Spike scoffed but gave a slight nod. “Fine. But I’m not holdin’ out bloody hope that the Slayer wants me under the same roof…” He paused for a moment before asking, “Is there laundry in the unit?”

Xander snorted. “No, but there’s one in the building. Hopefully, this time, you won’t have to borrow my shirts.”

Spike rolled his eyes and started walking back toward the house, grumbling under his breath.

“As if I ever want to wear your god-awful fashion again.”

Xander smirked, watching Spike go for a moment, but the amusement didn’t last long. He couldn’t shake the image of Spike’s face when Buffy asked him to leave the meeting—the way he had masked the hurt, schooling his features into something unreadable. But Xander had seen it. And yeah, okay, that  bothered  him a lot. 

Caring about Spike had snuck up on him months ago, when he least expected it. Sure, they still snarked at each other, still butted heads more often than not, but somewhere along the way, it had stopped being about  hating  each other and turned into real care. 

Spike was easy to love in that weird, reluctant way—loyal, intuitive, and surprisingly kind when no one was looking. Xander had seen it firsthand, the way he looked after Dawn, how he put others before himself without expecting anything in return. Hell, Spike had even helped him with his relationship with Anya, something that still blew his mind when he thought about it.

The guy had earned his place with them, and there was no way in  hell  Xander was going to let Buffy kick him to the curb like he didn’t matter. Not when he’d done everything  right  for once and still ended up on the outside.

No, this was fixable, and Xander was going to be the one to fix it.

***

He turned on his heel and strode back inside the Magic Box, where the group was still gathered. Buffy was standing near the table, arms crossed, looking deep in thought while Dawn was frowning at her, clearly displeased. Willow and Tara both wore hesitant expressions, like they wanted to step in but weren’t sure how. Anya, as always, looked impatient.

Xander didn’t waste time. He marched straight up to Buffy.

“Buffy, I gotta tell you, I love you to pieces, but how you just dismissed Spike?  Not cool. ”

Buffy crossed her arms, leveling him with a look. “Don’t worry, I’ve been told.” Then, raising an eyebrow, she added, “When did  you  turn into Spike’s number-one fan girl?”

“Somewhere between him stepping up for Dawn and saving my future marriage with Anya,” Xander shot back. “We’re engaged, by the way. If you weren’t aware.”

“Yeah, I was filled in on that little detail,” Buffy muttered, casting a glance at Dawn, who looked back at her with a guilty expression.

“He’s at the house right now, probably packing up all his stuff before you get back. You  need  to talk to him.”

“And tell him what, exactly?” Buffy’s voice was sharper now, defensive. “I’ve been back, what, an hour? And somehow, I’m already the bad guy? Give me a break, Xan.”

That stopped him. Xander exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. Okay, maybe he was coming on too strong.

“You’re right,” he admitted, softening his tone. “I’m sorry, Buffy. This is… this is huge. We were all hurting for a long time without you, and then,  boom , out of nowhere, Willow tells us a few hours ago that you’re coming back. It still doesn’t feel real.” He paused, then added, “Obviously, emotions are high. Didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just… well, Spike’s our friend now, and you asking him to leave clearly hurt him... But you didn’t know. So, let’s just… sit down and talk, okay?”

Buffy hesitated but eventually nodded, moving toward the table. The others followed suit. Lucky hopped up into Dawn’s lap, tail wagging as she absently scratched behind his ears.

Xander cleared his throat. “Why don’t we start from the beginning… That night. The night you left us.”

Buffy took a breath. “It’s okay. I mean, I know it’s sad—I  literally  died and everything—but it’s what I had to do. I didn’t suffer. Well, the portal didn’t feel great or anything, but it didn’t last long, and then…” Her voice faltered for just a second before she glanced at Willow.

Willow already looked like she was bracing for impact.

“Then I was in… well, I think it was heaven.”

The room went silent. Xander felt like someone had punched him in the gut. His head snapped toward Willow. And just like that, the realization hit him like a truck:  Buffy had been at peace. She had been safe, and she was pulled out at Willow’s request.

Buffy, meanwhile, gripped the table, grounding herself. “Look, I know it’s a lot to take in. I mean, I was the one there, and I’m still coming to terms with it myself…. When I was there, time had no meaning. It felt endless. Warm. Safe. I didn’t have human worries or concerns. I  knew , deep down, that you guys would be okay.” She exhaled sharply. “But then feelings suddenly came back. Visions... I saw the town in danger. I saw Faith in prison. I saw Dawn…” She swallowed hard. “And then the Powers gave me a choice. I wasn’t torn out. But there was a huge caveat.”

Xander’s stomach churned. “What do you mean?”

Buffy hesitated before finally meeting their eyes. “I’m immortal now.”

Stunned silence ensued.

“I don’t really know what that means yet,” she eventually admitted. “I don’t know if it also implies invulnerability, but they told me I won’t age. I won’t get sick. But I’ll still feel pain. I’ll still bleed. I’m not exactly anxious to test out whether or not I can still be killed, but… yeah.”

The words settled like lead in Xander’s stomach. His hands curled into fists as his resentment towards Willow rose.

Quietly but firmly, he muttered, “Spike warned you not to do this.” His gaze snapped toward Willow, the anger bubbling beneath his voice. “We  all  did.”

Willow shrunk beside Tara, her eyes shimmering with tears in her eyes.

But before she could speak, Tara squared her shoulders. “Hey, back off. She didn’t know, and it wasn’t  her  decision in the end.”

“Yeah?” Xander let out a humorless laugh. “But would they have done this if she hadn’t gone looking? Hadn’t begged them to bring her back?”

There was a tense silence again between them.

Buffy finally spoke. “Guys, listen… If I hadn’t come back, they would’ve eventually called another girl. Someone would’ve had to take my place.”

“But that’s how it’s  supposed  to be, Buff,” Xander shot back. “It’s a crappy deal, but it’s the order of things. You weren’t supposed to take this job on forever. On what planet is that fair?”

Buffy hesitated, and for a second—just a  second —he saw it in her eyes.

She knew it wasn’t fair.

But then she shook the thought away and pushed forward. “Regardless, I’m here. I had to make sure Dawn was okay. And without another Slayer, I couldn’t say no to their offer. It just… is what it is.”

Her gaze softened as she turned to Willow before glancing back at Xander.

“Willow did what she thought was right. I  don’t  blame her for that, and I don’t want you to either.”

Xander let out a deep breath. He was trying. Trying to let it go. Trying to accept this, but it was hard, because Buffy didn’t deserve being pulled out of heaven, by her choice or not. She had been at peace, and now she was being forced to carry this burden  forever .

What's more, was the fact that there wasn’t a damn thing any of them could do about it.

***

The drive back home was mostly quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio filling the silence. Buffy stared out the window, her mind buzzing, thinking about the conversation at the Magic Box. Them learning the conditions of her return, her newfound immortality, and the reality of what she had been pulled from left her feeling untethered. So, instead of dwelling, she forced the conversation to shift and asked about everything she had missed.

Tara took the lead, filling her in on the details. She explained how they had sorted out all the financial stuff—with Anya’s help, of course—and how Spike had stepped up to take over the gallery. She reassured Buffy that Dawn was doing well in school and that, thankfully, social services hadn’t come sniffing around. The bot had done its job, keeping up the pretense that she was still alive and, surprisingly, had been an effective tool in keeping the demon population in check.

Then came the part Buffy wasn’t sure how to process.

Tara shared that Spike had been living with them since the night she died—that he had played a major role in making sure Dawn was okay, especially in those first few months when everything felt impossible. Dawn herself admitted, without hesitation, that she wouldn’t have been okay if it weren’t for him. That he had helped all of them—without asking for anything in return.

The idea of  Saint Spike  was… wiggy, to say the least. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe them. Her friends weren’t trying to sell her some fantasy version of Spike where he was suddenly perfect, just that he had  tried,  that he had changed for the better.

Buffy couldn’t deny that something about him felt… different. She could feel it. The air around him carried something unfamiliar, something less heavy with selfishness or restrained evil and more with… restraint? Purpose? But she needed time to wrap her head around it.

Then, when she casually mentioned that Spike had given her his daylight ring, everyone collectively lost their minds. Xander nearly choked on air, Willow’s eyes went wide with shock, and Tara and Dawn immediately insisted that she had to give it back.

Buffy had already been considering it—Spike had handed it over so freely, without her even asking, and that alone had made her suspicious. But with the encouragement from her friends, she realized that keeping it wasn’t the right call. It wasn’t hers to take.

And if what they were saying was true—if Spike had done nothing nefarious with the ring all this time, had never used it for anything other than protecting them, or literally just going to work to support the household—then it didn’t make sense to assume he would suddenly start now just because she was back.

At least… she hoped that was the case. Either way, that issue was settled. She’d give it back. 

Regardless, she kept turning Xander’s words over in her head, replaying the conversation in the Magic Box. The weight of the ring in her palm felt heavier now. They trusted Spike. They all stood up for him without hesitation. Even Xander, of all people, had been the first to speak up.

Buffy had never expected to come back to  this .

The house was dark when they pulled up. Buffy and Dawn stepped out first, Lucky trotting behind them, while Xander and Anya waved their goodnights and drove off. Willow and Tara trailed behind, heading to their own room as Dawn lingered in the living room, giving Buffy a careful look.

Buffy let out a breath. “I need to talk to him.”

Dawn nodded. “You should.” Then, with a hesitant smile, she added, “He really missed you, you know. I think…I think he was in the worst pain out of all of us.”

Buffy didn’t know how to respond to that admission; it was too heavy for her brain to process fully, so she just nodded back and turned toward the basement door. She gave it a knock first before opening it and making her way down the stairs. 

When Buffy stepped into the basement, she wasn’t sure what she expected, but it certainly it wasn’t what she was greeted with. 

The last time she’d been down here, it had been little more than a storage space with a  questionable  cot, some shelves, and a long table in the middle. There was a washer and dryer in the corner and not much else to suggest it was anything more than a glorified laundry room in an unfinished basement with a camping bed thrown in as an afterthought.

Now? Now, it actually looked like someone  lived  here.

A  real  bed, not a cot, sat against the far wall—complete with an actual headboard and dark sheets that looked well-worn and slept in. A small nightstand sat beside it, a dim table lamp casting a soft glow over the area, making the space feel… warm.

On the opposite wall, a wooden bookshelf had been filled with a mix of old, worn paperbacks and newer titles. A record player sat atop a lower shelf, a few vinyls stacked neatly beside it like it was used regularly. A plush, oversized chair was positioned next to it, worn just enough to show that Spike spent a lot of time sitting there, probably with a book or a cigarette in hand.

A hot plate, rolling island, and mini-fridge had been tucked into a corner, giving him a makeshift kitchen setup. A clothing rack stood beside it, housing his leather duster along with some other articles of clothing—mostly black, obviously. There was even a folding privacy screen, something she assumed was for changing, which was… thoughtful.

The concrete walls had been softened with tapestries draped over some of the space, and an old, well-loved rug covered the floor near the bed, making the whole area feel less like a basement and more like an actual bedroom.

This wasn’t just some dark pit for him to crash in, it was a home. Spike had made a home here. For someone who always acted like he could pick up and leave at a moment’s notice, there was no denying it—he had put down roots, and Buffy wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

She noticed that he sat tensely on the bed, a duffle bag packed by his feet, refusing to make eye contact with her. 

Buffy took a hesitant few steps closer to him, arms crossed. “You’re leaving?”

“Didn’t figure you’d want me under the same roof,” he replied, voice tight. “Didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Buffy shifted on her feet. He sounded… off. Not angry. Not snarky. Just… defeated.

She swallowed. “I wasn’t fair to you earlier.”

Spike turned then, looking at her fully. His eyes, usually so full of fire, were dimmer. Guarded. “Not like I expected anythin’ different, Slayer.”

That made something twist inside her.

She took another step closer. “I mean it. I told you to leave before even hearing the full story. That wasn’t right.”

He blinked, caught off guard, before letting out a dry chuckle. “Did Xander guilt-trip you into this?”

“No.” Buffy frowned. “Well, maybe a little. But mostly, it was… everyone. Dawn, Willow, Tara. They all trust you… That means something.”

Spike exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “So, what now?”

Buffy hesitated a moment before walking closer to the bed and taking a seat next to him, then extending her hand to him as they made eye contact, offering him back his ring .

His eyes flickered down to it, then back to her face.

“You should have this,” she said quietly.

Spike scoffed. “Didn’t give it to you for loan, luv. It’s yours.”

Buffy shook her head. “It’s yours. It was a gift, and I don’t want to take that from you.”

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, with a careful movement, he took the ring from her palm, turning it over between his fingers.

Buffy shifted, feeling suddenly awkward. “You… you don’t have to leave. You live here. I get that now, and I don’t mind.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “That right?”

She nodded. “Yeah. And I meant it when I said thank you. For Dawn. For everything…”

A beat passed. His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

“Alright then,” he murmured, slipping the ring back onto his finger. “Guess I’ll stick around.”

Buffy let out a small breath, some of the weight lifting from her chest.

Spike smirked. “Don’t go gettin’ used to thanking me, though. Might give me ideas.”

Buffy rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. “Yeah, okay.”

He held her gaze for a long moment before nodding once. “You’re really back?”

“Looks like it…” She hesitated, shifting her weight slightly. “I told them all about being in heaven. They were pretty shocked. Xander seemed pissed at Willow.”

“Reckon he would be. ‘M not exactly thrilled with her myself.”

“It wasn’t all on her,” Buffy admitted, tucking her arms around herself. “I mean, yeah, she set things in motion, but I’m here because I said yes…”

Spike’s expression darkened slightly. “Any strings with this deal? You comin’ back and all?”

Buffy’s stomach twisted. The truth threatened to spill out, the weight of it pressing down on her. A part of her wanted to tell him— out of everyone —knowing instinctively that he would understand. That he wouldn’t tell anyone she had  seven days  to decide whether to stay or not. But it wasn’t fair to put that burden on him, waiting to see if she would stay or not, even if he wouldn’t remember after… which, yeah, still felt shitty.

“Turns out I’m immortal,” Buffy said quietly, meeting his eyes.

Spike furrowed his brow, tilting his head in that assessing way of his.

“An immortal Slayer,” he mused. “Well, that’s… Can’t bloody lie and say it doesn’t tickle me pink to know you won’t go dyin’ on us again.”

Buffy looked down, scuffing the toe of her boot against the floor. “Not sure I  can’t  be killed, but it’s not exactly a prize, living forever…”

Spike let out a slow breath before reaching out, hesitating for just a second before laying a hand on her shoulder. The coolness of his touch startled her, and she automatically tensed. He must’ve felt it because he pulled away just as quickly.

He paused for a second before stuffing his hands in his pockets and attempting to comfort her. 

“As a bloke that’s lived for soddin’ ever, I can tell you that forever seems like a long time until you have to live it,” he said, voice softer now. “A century can pass you by, and you hardly feel it. Gotta have a purpose to make the years not weigh on ya.”

Buffy swallowed hard, keeping her eyes trained on her shoes. “Not looking forward to watching everyone I love die on me.”

“Can’t sugarcoat that part, love.” Spike’s tone was gentle, knowing. “But they’re  alive  now, and if you’re lucky enough, they’ll last you a long time. Then, you’ll get to love the little ones they leave behind. And if nothing else…” He smirked slightly. “You’ll at least have my ugly mug to keep you company.”

Buffy exhaled a quiet laugh, glancing up at him. “Your mug’s not so bad. Some might even say it’s…  pleasing. ”

The words left her mouth before she fully realized what she was saying, and the moment she caught it, heat rushed to her face. She looked away quickly, pretending she hadn’t just complimented Spike of all not-people.

“Gotta be careful with that kind of praise,” he teased, nudging her boot with his. “Might go to my head.”

Buffy huffed a small chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A small sound broke the moment, and Buffy looked up just in time to see Lucky trotting down the stairs and then over to her side, his tail wagging. The little beagle sniffed at her boots before promptly hopping onto the bed beside her and flopping down like he owned the place.

Buffy blinked. “So, he just… does that?”

Spike huffed out a chuckle. “He’s got no shame. Welcome to your new reality.”

Buffy reached out, scratching behind Lucky’s ears, feeling the warmth of his little body against her. “Well, I guess I can get used to it.”

Spike gave her a soft smile. “Yeah, reckon you can.”

She eventually pushed off the bed, moving toward the stairs. Before she left, she turned back, something in her chest squeezing unexpectedly. “Thanks again. For everything you did for Dawn. I’m glad you were here for her… for all of them when I couldn’t be.”

A flicker of something— gratitude, maybe? —shimmered in his blue eyes before he quickly shook it off, nodding once but saying nothing.

Buffy took that as her cue to leave, quietly heading up the stairs and closing the basement door. She went up to her room, and as she stepped into the hallway, she spotted Willow and Tara rolling the Buffybot into their room. They paused when they saw her, Willow biting her lip nervously.

“Uh, we figured you wouldn’t want her around,” Willow offered hesitantly.

Buffy gave the bot one last glance before nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

With that, she slipped into her own room, shutting the door behind her. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her bed, exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. Her mind buzzed, everything from the night—from the past few hours—swirling in an endless loop.

She was back,  for now at least,  and in the next seven days, she had a choice to make. Tomorrow, she’d start figuring out where she fit in this life that had gone on without her…

Chapter Text

Buffy woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and something else that smelled downright delicious. Food hadn’t exactly been a priority for her since she’d been back—aside from the few bites of cake she’d eaten last night to humor Anya.

But as soon as the scent hit her, her stomach reminded her she was human. Or at least,  human enough . The morbid thought crept in:  Could I even starve to death?

She shook it off and peeled herself out from under the covers. Last night, in her exhaustion, she’d simply shrugged off her jeans and top, leaving only her underwear. The Powers had dressed her in a stylish outfit when they sent her back—a pair of dark-wash jeans and a flowy black top. She hung them up before selecting something softer that she laid out on her bed—a lilac skirt, an ivory silk top, a soft cardigan, and a pair of wedges.

Putting together an outfit felt so  normal , so  human , that she let out a quiet chuckle. Things that had once been important—dressing, grooming, looking put together—hadn’t even crossed her mind when she was… wherever she was.

Heaven  was the name she gave it, but was that really what it was? Maybe it had been Valhalla or the Elysian Fields. Could humans even conceive of where she had been? Her mind tried to shape it through a human lens, but  was  her mind even human anymore?

She  looked  human, staring back at herself in the mirror. But Whistler had told her she wasn’t,  that she was something else now—a heavenly being.

What a load of crap,  she thought.

Buffy sighed, deciding to table the existential crisis for another time. Or maybe never. She brushed her hair and made her way to the bathroom for a shower and to handle all the other regular human maintenance things that, apparently, she still needed to do. The Powers could’ve at least made her vampire-like in  that  respect.

Once she was fully dressed and ready for the day, she descended the stairs toward the kitchen, where an unfamiliar yet oddly synchronized scene awaited her. Everyone was already up and downstairs, moving around with plastered-on  cheery  faces—well, except for Spike, who simply half-smirked at her before returning to flipping bacon on the stove.

Dawn spotted her first and immediately rushed over to give her a hug. Buffy returned it warmly, holding on tight before sitting down beside her at the counter, and giving her friends smiles as they moved around the kitchen, which they returned. 

“Would you like a coffee, pet?” Spike asked as he turned the bacon over.

“Um… yeah, actually. That sounds nice.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, please.”

Spike looked completely ridiculous in a  Kiss the Cook  apron. But the rest of his outfit—black slacks, a nice button-up, dressier type shoes—was surprisingly polished. He was clearly trying to avoid getting it dirty.

Dawn, meanwhile, was chewing on the end of her pencil, glaring at the paper in front of her. “I don’t understand why I can’t just stay home today. It’s not every day your sister comes back from the dead.”

“We already talked about this, Niblet,” Spike said without turning around. “You can’t start slackin’ off in school now. Your sister will be here when you get back. Besides, you’ve got a test in Algebra today.”

“Oh,  come on . Just call me out, say I’m sick or something.”

“And when they ask for a doctor’s note?”

“Willow can forge one for me, don’t even pretend she couldn’t.”

“Willow is  totally  not getting in the middle of this,” Willow interjected, raising her hands in surrender.

Dawn turned to Tara for backup, but the blonde just shook her head. “Don’t look at me, Dawnie. I’m not playing  good cop  this time.” She grabbed her bag and nudged Willow. “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”

Spike handed them both breakfast sandwiches wrapped in foil. Tara gave him a quick peck on the cheek in thanks, while Willow bumped his fist. Then, after quick side hugs for Buffy and Dawn, they rushed toward the door. Tara called over her shoulder, “Dawn, don’t forget to feed Lucky and walk him before school!”

“Okay!” Dawn shouted back.

Buffy blinked.  What the hell did I just witness?

Tara kissing Spike on the cheek. Willow fist-bumping him like they were buds. The easy way they all moved around each other, like…. like a family .

It was almost like Tara, Willow, and Spike were in some weird poly-lavender marriage with Dawn as their adopted daughter.

Buffy had to admit, it was kind of sweet. If not, also  incredibly  weird at the same time. Then again, what was her life, if not incredibly weird and bizzaro?

She shook it off just as Spike set a plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs, bacon, wheat toast, and fresh-cut fruit. Her coffee followed a second later.

“Hope you like scrambled, Slayer,” Spike said, leaning against the counter as he took a sip from his own mug.

Buffy eyed it warily. “Is that—”

“Blood, yeah,” he answered. “But don’t worry, got my own mugs.”

She noticed the little printed bats on his cup and felt oddly relieved that someone had thought that through.

“No, um, I love scrambled,” Buffy said, taking a bite. “I’ll take sunny-side up sometimes too. Just… not poached or deviled.”

Spike huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Noted.”

“So, um, do you cook a lot?”

“Just on my days.” Spike pointed to a monthly calendar on the fridge. 

Buffy followed his gaze and spotted a whiteboard calendar, color-coded and filled with names. Each person had designated  cooking days —Dawn on Sunday evenings, Tara on Mondays and Thursdays, Willow on Tuesdays and Fridays, and Spike on Wednesdays, Saturday evenings, and Sunday mornings. She also noted that Tara and Willow cooked a big breakfast together on Saturday mornings.

There was also a chore chart, with household tasks evenly divided between them all. Buffy’s mind short-circuited at the sheer organization of it all. Not just that they had a system—but that Spike was following it willingly.

Spike,  Mr. William the Bloody,  was doing chores. Imagining him scrubbing a toilet or vacuuming nearly broke her brain.

They were right,  she realized.  He really has changed.

As Buffy considered everything, she couldn’t help but wonder why they even needed her when they’d clearly been doing more than fine without her. The thought left her feeling out of place, but before she could dwell on it, the insistent pang of hunger forced her to focus on eating.

And of course, the food was  really  good and hit the spot. Because not only was Spike a two-time Slayer killer, but apparently, he was also a halfway decent cook (or at least meal preparer).

She heard Lucky whining at Dawn’s feet as her sister scarfed down the rest of her breakfast. Spike, leaning against the counter, gave Dawn an amused look before nodding toward the clock.

“We got ten minutes, then we’re leavin’, so make it quick, pet.”

Dawn rolled her eyes before grabbing Lucky’s leash. “Fine! C’mon, Lucky.”

She bent down to fill his bowl with kibble, which he promptly devoured at  record-breaking  speed. Buffy raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Does he always inhale his food like that?”

“Like he’s been half-starved every time,” Spike muttered, rinsing out his mug.

Buffy watched as Dawn led Lucky outside into the backyard to do his business before another question popped into her mind. “Where does Lucky stay during the day?”

“With me, at the gallery usually, unless the witches are home. Customers love ‘im. Bit of a mascot now.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to imagine Spike schmoozing with art lovers. “I can see him winning over the patrons. It’s just… pretty wild that you’re running my mom’s gallery now. How did you even manage that?”

Spike shrugged, nonchalant as ever. “Bit of luck. Some sweet-talkin’ with a few artists in L.A. Wasn’t that hard.”

“You say it like anyone could do it.”

“Anyone with access to an established gallery and mouths to feed,” he corrected, shooting her a pointed look.

Buffy didn’t have a response for that—the implication of what he had taken on in her stead was too much to process for her just then—so she busied herself with tidying up, though it wasn’t much as Spike had already taken care of most of it while he cooked. In fact,  the whole house  looked cleaner and more well-kept than it had even when Mom was alive. The realization hit her like a sudden gust of wind, resurfacing a grief she hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.

She should be here,  Buffy thought, gripping the edge of the counter.

She forced herself to focus, taking a deep breath.

“So, um, I guess you’ll all have to redo the calendar and the chart now.”

Spike glanced at her, clearly sensing something beneath her casual tone but letting it slide. “No one’s expectin’ you to do anythin’ just yet, love. You just got back. Take some time to bloody  acclimate  before worryin’ about scrubbin’ floors.”

“I guess…”

There was a beat of silence before Spike cleared his throat. “Was thinkin’ of takin’ a half day today. Closin’ the gallery early so you’re not alone ‘til Dawn gets home—”

“No,” Buffy cut in quickly. “I mean, you don’t have to do that. Actually… maybe you can take me with you.”

Spike’s brows lifted slightly in surprise.

“I’d kinda like to see it for myself,” she admitted. “If you don’t mind.”

A slow smirk spread across his face. “‘Course I’ll take you.”

***

Dawn dominated the majority of the conversation the entire drive to her school, chatting about a cute guy at school named Kyle that she was “kind of” dating—which meant flirting at school and stealing a chaste kiss or two since they still hadn’t met up after school yet. Spike grumbled that she hadn’t let him meet the guy, and Dawn parried back that she wasn’t trying to scare him off. 

That funny feeling from before crept back into her gut—the one that reminded her, uncomfortably, that maybe they  didn’t  need her anymore. Dawn had been taken care of by a trio of supernatural beings who clearly adored her. The house was running as smoothly as ever. Xander and Anya were thriving in their relationship (as apparently had Willow and Tara), and even the town had remained relatively safe.

Sure, she could admit that the bot wasn’t exactly a long-term solution, even if it had worked surprisingly well so far.

Buffy loved her people more than anything. But the peace she had found after death—that weightlessness, that  freedom —was something she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that she was  longing  for death, not exactly, but coming back to a life where everyone seemed to be moving forward and thriving without her…

What exactly was the point of her being back?

“Buffy, are you even listening?” Dawn asked impatiently from the front seat, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“Um, yeah,” Buffy said quickly. “Kyle wants to take you out Friday night.”

“Yes! And I want to go, but  this guy —” she jabbed a thumb toward Spike, “—insists on meeting him first and has openly threatened to polish an axe in front of him.”

“What if he’s a demon, pet?” Spike repeated with a huff. “Gotta let him know not to mess with my Niblet.”

Dawn turned around to look at Buffy, “Do you see my problem? I’ve been swerving his every attempt to take me out because of Spike.  Help me .”

“I mean, he’s not exactly wrong…this town is full of human-looking demons. Anya was one.”

“He’s not a demon!” Dawn huffed and turned back around in her seat. 

Buffy exchanged a look with Spike in the rearview mirror, assuming he was looking since she couldn’t see his reflection, and shrugged.  Teenagers . 

When they pulled into the drop-off lane at her school, Dawn grabbed her bag and made to exit the car—until Spike caught her arm and handed her her lunchbox.

“Listen,” he sighed. “I’ll put away the axe, alright? But I  do  want to meet him before you go off gallivantin’ about. Bring him by the house first.”

Dawn’s face lit up, and she nodded. “Okay.”

Spike pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, and she actually accepted it before turning to give Lucky a final pat. Then she squeezed Buffy’s knee lightly.

“You’ll be here when I get home, right?”

Buffy swallowed, forcing a reassuring smile. “Promise.”

Dawn smiled back, then hopped out of the car, lunchbox in tow. Spike watched her go, not immediately pulling away.

“You gonna stay back there with Lucky or come sit up here with me, love?”

“Oh, right.” 

Buffy opened the door and got into the passenger seat. Feeling a little awkward at first beside him. 

They drove in silence for a few minutes before Buffy finally broke it. “So, this look you’ve got going on—is it for work?”

She flicked her gaze over him, taking in the neatly buttoned-up shirt and slacks. Spike smirked. “Tryin’ to be professional, is all. Got a lot of sales just from my charm alone.”

Buffy snorted. “Your  charm ?”

“Believe it or don’t.” He shrugged. “The earnings speak for themselves.”

She raised a brow. “And how much does the gallery bring in exactly?”

“Enough to not worry about money,” he answered vaguely.

Buffy pursed her lips, making a mental note to have Willow or Anya show her the bank accounts later. For now, she let it slide.

“Do you work there alone?” she asked instead.

“Most days. When Tara and Wills aren’t swamped with school, they come help out—wrappin’ up orders, assistin’ customers, that sort of thing. I pick Dawn up sometimes and bring her by, too. She likes hangin’ around, keeps me company. ‘M trying to groom her into goin’ to college, but she’s been mentionin’ lately just takin’ over the gallery one day.”

“You don’t think she could do it?”

“No, of course she could. But I want her to get a degree and get out of this bloody town. She doesn’t need to live on a Hellmouth the rest of her life. Tryin’ to help her broaden her horizons a bit.”

Buffy considered that for a moment, watching him out of the corner of her eye. This was still so surreal—Spike talking about  grooming Dawn for college  like some kind of responsible, forward-thinking adult. Not to mention the fact that he was running the gallery, actually earned money, and was apparently looking out for Dawn’s future in a way that sounded a whole lot like… parenting.

It was throwing her for a loop.

“She told me she’s been thinking about going into neurology last nignt,” Buffy said, testing the waters.

Spike nodded, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. “Yeah. Wants to help people like your mum. Give other families a shot at keepin’ their loved ones around longer.”

Buffy’s breath hitched.  Mom.

She looked down at her hands, folding them in her lap. “That’s… really amazing of her.”

“She’s a good kid,” Spike said, his voice softer now. “Smarter than she gives herself credit for. You should see her test scores—she’s bloody brilliant. Just doesn’t always believe it. I try to push her, make sure she knows she’s got options.”

Buffy swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Dawn had been okay without her—more than okay. She had flourished, and Spike was the one who had helped her do that, who pushed her. Thinking back on dismissing him last night made her feel even guiltier. 

“The guys told me you started a college fund for her,” Buffy said after a beat.

Spike huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Should’ve known they’d spill that bit.”

“Why wouldn’t you want me to know?”

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Wasn’t about gettin’ credit. Just wanted to make sure she had what she needed.”

Buffy let that sit between them for a moment before deciding to change the subject before it got too heavy. “So, tell me more about this  professional  Spike. What’s your actual title? Curator? Manager? Owner?”

“ Overlord ,” he quipped, smirking.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

He chuckled, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Technically, I run the joint. Handle the sales, inventory, build relationships with the artists. Set up the displays, handle shipments, all that boring rot.”

“Wow. Sounds  thrilling ,” Buffy teased.

Spike shot her a look. “Not every day’s an apocalypse, Slayer. Gotta make an honest livin’ somehow.”

Buffy blinked. “Did you just say  honest living ?”

“Don’t start.”

“No, seriously, I think the universe just imploded a little bit.”

Spike groaned, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression.

Buffy shook her head, still marveling at the whole thing. “So, let me get this straight.  You , the Big Bad, the former scourge of Europe, are now a law-abiding business owner who wears button-ups and sells art for a living.”

Spike smirked. “Reckon I had to grow up sometime.”

Buffy fell silent, unsure how to respond. Had he really grown up? She didn’t know what to make of it—whether she should be impressed or unnerved.

And what about her? Had  she  grown up? Because the more she thought about it, the more she doubted she would have handled things as successfully as they had. If she hadn’t died, would she have managed to keep it all together? Would she have taken over the gallery? That alone sounded like an impossible feat because, as easy as Spike made it sound, she knew being an art director required a lot more skill and effort than he was letting on. 

No, she knew the truth— she wouldn’t have.

Buffy could picture it now: working some greasy fast-food job, barely scraping by, struggling to put food on the table, because how the hell was she supposed to work full-time, slay full-time,  and  take care of Dawn? When was she supposed to sleep? When was she supposed to just  be ?

The weight of it settled over her, the realization of just how much harder things would have been if  she  had been the one trying to steer the ship alone. And for the first time, she truly understood how much Spike had done for them.

She glanced over at him, still focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel.

Buffy may not have been ready to say it out loud, but in that moment, she was more grateful to him than she had ever been before. What’s further, is that for the first time, she saw him as more than just what he was—a vampire–because clearly, he was a  friend .

***

They pulled into the small lot behind the gallery, and Spike killed the engine. He turned to look at her then, his expression soft. “You ready to see it?”

Buffy took a breath, pushing aside all the thoughts still swirling in her head. “Yeah. Show me.”

Spike nodded once and climbed out of the car. Buffy followed suit, glancing around as she adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder, with Lucky trotting behind them. The back entrance of the gallery was unassuming—just a plain door with a small brass plaque reading  Summers Gallery  mounted beside it.

She swallowed hard at the sight of her family’s name.

Spike unlocked the door and gestured for her to step inside first. Buffy hesitated, then crossed the threshold, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the softly lit space.