Chapter Two
In the harsh light of the very humid and already hot April day, Buffy feels silly as she stands on the corner of Royal St. and Pere Antoine Alley in the French Quarter with her roller bag and a small bag of groceries she picked up at the corner market where tourists and locals alike seemed to shop.
What is she doing in New Orleans? Why is she chasing after something that happened so long ago? Why is her grief about Spike so powerful and poignant when she’s so effectively tucked it away behind Slayer duties and the passage of time?
Pulling out the key to the condo she rented, Buffy passes the Rodrigue studio with the painting of the blue dog in the window and unlocks the large green door. She finds herself in a short dark hallway that opens up into a tiny courtyard with green plants, a waterless fountain, a pile of bicycles for borrowing, and a rusty table and chairs. When she glances up, she can see the clear azure sky above and small second and third floor balconies resplendent with lush potted plants. Her questions momentarily forgotten, she can’t help but smile.
Studying her key, Buffy is reminded that she is in condo B, so she climbs the enclosed staircase to her right and finds her way to the front door of the condo. She lets herself into the tiny space and is pleased to see a kitchen, small bedroom, and full bathroom. A fireplace lines one wall and musical instruments hang over the mantel. Large windows line the wall the includes the outside door, and indirect golden sunlight provides gentle light. The room is much smaller than the hotel room she and Dawn shared in Houston. Despite the size and the musty smell of the old building, there is something beautiful and cozy about the condo that makes Buffy feel at home.
Buffy rolls her suitcase beside the queen-sized bed, leans on the mattress, and reluctantly pulls out and turns on her phone. Squinting at the screen with a feeling of dread, the phone plays a brief melody and vibrates.
Huh. Not bad.
She only has five texts and a voicemail.
Buffy decides to look at the texts first.
Giles sent three. The first reads, “Buffy! Dear lord. What do you mean I should contact the Houston Slayers? You must call me right away.” Buffy smiles. She can almost hear his proper British accent even in his texts, and she can almost picture him cleaning his glasses in frustration.
The second says, “Buffy, I’ve spoken with Dawn. She filled me in on the details of what’s going on and where she thinks you are. Please don’t worry. I’ve contacted Jennifer and Elizabeth. They’re going to help Dawn with the prophecy.”
And finally, “Do be careful, Buffy. We really don’t know what we’re dealing with. This William Abbott might not be Spike. I will be researching things on my end and will let you know what I find.”
The other two texts are from Dawn. “What? Why did you leave without me? You think I want to be stuck in this room researching prophecies with Liz and Jenn? You could have at least taken me with you!”
And then, “Buffy, I called Giles. He’s going to help us out. Be careful. I love you.”
The voicemail is, of course, from Angel.
She holds the phone with both hands as she listens to him say, “Buffy. What did you discover? Call me. I’ll be around.”
Before she can think too much, Buffy hits the return call button.
Angel picks up on the second ring. His voice indicates that he’s happy to hear from her, which is the way it usually sounds, “Hey, Buffy. Got your message. I may or may not have answers to your questions.”
She can’t help being direct, “Is Spike alive?”
Angel is silent for a moment before he responds, “What do you mean? Spike died in L.A. almost five years ago.”
Buffy hears the pain in his words, and she knows he lost more than one friend in that particular fight. Although she hates hurting him, this knowledge doesn’t stop her, “But he’s not dead. . . well, not undead dead. Have you ever heard of a writer by the name of William Abbott?”
“No.” His denial is too quick.
“Well, he wrote a book. It came out on Tuesday. I read it. Angel, it’s about what happened in Sunnydale. . . the last year we were all there with the First Evil and Caleb and the Turok-Han.”
Angel can’t lie to her. “Buffy, how do you know about William?”
“Dawn read his book as part of her Watcher-in-training gig. Long story. Suffice it say, she read the book. We kind of live together, so of course, she told me about it, and of course, then, I read it. It’s categorized as a fiction horror novel, but it reads like. . . it reads like reality. So, we looked him up. He looks just like Spike only without the bleach and the pale skin. Dawn and I considered that he might be a shape shifting demon taking Spike’s form, so I came down to New Orleans for his book signing to figure that out ‘cause well, it can’t be good that he wrote all that true stuff for public consumption.”
When she finally takes a breath, Angel steps in, “Buffy. Hold on.”
She never understood the expression pins and needles more than right at this moment.
“A lot of stuff went down in L.A. Spike did a lot of good. . . he did so much good, in fact, that the Powers that Be gave him a reward.”
She’s listening intently now. “What kind of reward?”
Angel continues, sounding a lot more tired than when he answered the phone, “He was made human. I signed away the Shanshu prophecy before the fight as a sign of good faith with the Black Thorn members. . . before we betrayed them. So, when push came to shove, the Powers granted the reward to the only other vampire with a soul.”
“Spike.” Buffy feels sick and sad and lonely at the same time.
“But the prize came with a caveat or two. He had no choice. He had to accept the offer, and all of his memories of being a vampire, of the supernatural world. . . they were erased or repressed.”
“Ohhh,” Buffy breathes. After a moment, she asks, “Did he even want it?”
Angel’s next words are gentle, “I honestly don’t know, Buffy. All I know is that he was given a chance at a normal life with a good career, financial stability, and a human girlfriend.”
Buffy’s stomach churns. “Oh.”
“So, you should probably not upset the apple cart. Let him be. He earned it.”
She closes her eyes, and then, her temper flares, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
Angel flashes back, “It wasn’t mine to tell! There was a hell of a lot going on at that time, and I’m sorry if I didn’t take the time to call you and tell you about your ex-boyfriend’s transformation.”
Just as quickly as the anger stirred within her, she calms. She can’t stay mad at Angel anymore. He’s right, he doesn’t owe her anything; she certainly doesn’t keep him in the loop on all things in her life. Plus, she understands what it’s like to go through something big and not be able to talk about it with anyone. “I get that. I do.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.” He’s always been truthful with her when it matters.
“You were right not to. I would have. . . well, I don’t know what I would have done.” She opens her eyes again and stares at the trumpet with the missing mouthpiece above the mantel.
“Leave him be. Let him be happy. At least one of us gets a chance to be human.”
Buffy can’t help but ask, “Is that what you would want?”
“Honestly, Buffy, I don’t think so. I don’t know. But it is what it is. It happened, and there’s no use brooding over it.”
She allows the irony to creep into her tone, “Well, that’s a first.”
She hears his grin on the other end of the line. “Well, yeah. Been working on it for a while now.”
Buffy can’t help herself, she keeps going, “What about the book?”
“What about it?”
“It’s the truth. . . the whole truth. Aren’t we supposed to do something about that?” Is reality creeping back into his life? Does he need help? She still doesn’t know why he wrote the book.
He’s silent, so Buffy knows that he’s thinking before he says his next words, “Maybe the Powers allowed him to write the book, so he could process the events without actually knowing that they were real. You can only repress memories for so long before they come up again.”
Buffy nods even though Angel can’t see her. She gets it. Maybe what he’s saying is true, but maybe Spike’s in trouble. She realizes she can’t tell Angel this.
When Buffy remains quiet, Angel says, “Look, Buffy, I need to go. Got something to take care of on my end.”
“Demon-y stuff this early in the day. . . er, late afternoon?”
He chuckles. “That’s the one.”
“Okay. Well, thank you.” She really wishes she could hug him.
“For what?”
“Telling me the truth.”
“You’re always welcome.”
As soon as she is off the phone with Angel, she sends Dawn and Giles a simple text reading, “William Abbott is Spike. More later.”
* * *
Just because Angel said Buffy shouldn’t meddle in Spike’s life doesn’t mean she can’t go to the book signing for an autograph. She can view him from a distance, make sure he’s okay, and then leave him to his life.
This sounds like a solid plan in Buffy’s head anyway.
Buffy holds the novel against her chest and stares up at Crescent City Books. A large sign with a photo of Spike’s book is posted in the window of the bookstore, and a line is already starting to form even though it’s 7 PM. The book signing is slated to start at 8:30 PM. Thank goodness he’s not going to read an excerpt because she doesn’t know if her heart can take it.
Buffy takes her place in line behind a young couple touching and whispering to one another. For some reason, their PDA makes her feel uncomfortable, so she buries her head in the depths of the internet, searching for anything that will help her distract from what’s about to happen. . . anything that will make the time go by faster.
Luck is on her side, and she’s rescued by a shoe sale at one of her favorite online stores, so she happily peruses the shoes and imagines what would happen if she bought all the pairs on her wish list. Dawn would kill her. There isn’t enough space in the closet they share now anyway, and they already have way too much footwear.
Soon the line stretches far behind her, and she hears a brief commotion as someone arrives in a cab. She’s pretty sure that the person who arrived is Spike, but she is too afraid to look and feels relieved that she is shorter than the couple in front of her.
Buffy finds it ironic that she used to kick down the door to Spike’s crypt when she wanted to talk with or pummel him, and now she’s too nervous to even see him. But it’s been five years, and although his writing brought up everything she felt for him and then some, a lot can change. . . a lot has happened in those five years. Plus, there’s the pesky little problem of his not knowing who he used to be.
She was so gung ho not that many hours ago, and now she’s hesitating.
The line starts moving forward, and there’s no way out now unless she ducks out of the row of fans and flees back to the condo to hide.
Somehow, her feet move her forward.
When Buffy finally steps into the bookstore and inhales the distinctive scent of new books, she immediately hears his voice. . . his familiar British accent still present and his laughter. . . oh, his laughter! The sound fills her ears. She doesn’t ever remember Spike laughing without some sarcastic edge, and now he sounds genuinely happy. Her heart almost breaks, and her eyes brim.
She can’t do this to him no matter how angry she is, and she can’t do this because it will hurt. . . hell, it already hurts more than she ever thought it could.
Brushing away a tear from her cheek, she pivots on her heel, but she’s blocked in by the throng of people waiting in line and overcrowding the narrow doorway. That’s it. She has no choice now.
Summoning her Slayer strength, Buffy holds up her head, straightens her shoulders, and blinks back the tears.
The line is slow moving, but as she gets closer, she realizes that is because Spike is taking the time to have a conversation with each person. Her mind races, trying to think of what to say, and then, she’s front and center.
He’s glancing behind him and saying something to a tall redhead when the couple steps aside, so Buffy takes advantage of the opportunity to stare.
He looks just like his photo online, but he’s more vibrant and real. His lean form is covered in a plain black T-shirt and black jeans. . . same as before, and his hair is gelled so that his brown curls curve over his forehead. His skin is not tan but is darker than she’s ever seen it, and his arms are still good arms.
In the next moment, Spike turns back around and smiles at her, and she can tell that he has no idea who she is and that he’s definitely human.
The striking young woman with whom he was conversing comes forward and bends to kiss him on the cheek. “So you want a hot chocol. . .”
“Coffee,” he corrects her and winks a clear blue eye at Buffy. “Black.”
The redhead rolls her eyes. “Coffee. Whatever. Your fans don’t care if you drink hot chocolate.” She doesn’t even so much as acknowledge Buffy’s presence but speaks to her anyway, “You don’t care if William drinks hot chocolate, do you?”
Buffy doesn’t say anything because she might throw up if she opens her mouth. She almost forgot about the girlfriend. Hadn’t Angel said something about a girlfriend?
“Go to the Community Coffee shop. . . please. They have the good stuff.” He brandishes his pen and holds his hand out for Buffy’s book.
The redhead squeezes around the end of the table which is piled high with copies of the William Abbott novel. She pushes past Buffy, knocking her arm, but only because there’s little room in the shop. She calls back over Buffy’s head, “Only because I love you.”
Buffy closes her eyes at the young woman’s words. She must be in some bizarro-land, and if she closes her eyes, taps her heels together and says, “There’s no place like home,” maybe she’ll wake up in the hotel room in Houston with her sister. So much for Slayer confidence.
“You have to give me the book, love, so I can sign it.”
As soon as Spike speaks so gently to her, Buffy’s arms relax, and she finds herself staring into his eyes. Without saying a word, she searches them for something. . . anything that might indicate he recognizes her. Something shifts in the blue depths, but the change is so subtle, she almost misses it. Nevertheless, this pushes her to step forward and offer the book she has been clutching in her arms.
Spike takes the volume from her hand, and Buffy swears that he intentionally brushes her fingers with his own familiar ones. The touch is brief but warm, and a thousand tingles shoot from her fingertips through her arm and up to her heart. Can she really still feel this way after five years? Her body apparently says yes.
“Who should I make this out to?” He smiles at her, but Buffy can tell that something is off because he squints his eyes a little.
“Buffy Summers. Make it out to Buffy.” She’s very proud that she kept her voice from betraying all the emotion that has lodged itself in her throat.
Although he has the title page ready to sign, he doesn’t make a move to write. Instead, he studies her. . . truly surveys her face and asks, “So, Buffy, what did you think of the book?”
She tries to talk but no words come out, and Spike bows his head to start scrawling something on the paper.
Spike’s not watching her anymore, so she finds her voice, “I read it in one night. I couldn’t put it down. And you know the thing that I wondered the most about?”
Almost as if he knows she needs the distance, he doesn’t look up. “What’s that?”
“The ending is kinda sad. I mean, it made me cry and stuff. The love of his life finally returns his feelings, and he doesn’t believe her.”
Maybe the subtle shift she saw earlier was more than nothing because he suddenly makes eye contact at her words. The emotion in his bright blue eyes is palpable. . . as real and recognizable as the night he simply held her in his arms.
She continues before she can lose her courage, “How could he though after everything she did to him? How did he possibly forgive her?”
Spike’s reaction is immediate and unfiltered, “He forgave her because he loved her more than anything on this earth. She hurt him, but he also hurt her. He forgave her, and she forgave him.” He pauses and then, “And he believed her when she told him that she loved him.”
Buffy is confused. “He did? Then, why. . . ?”
Spike doesn’t take his eyes from her. “He knew she wouldn’t leave the hellmouth if she thought he believed her. She would have stayed down there with him. . . fought by his side and died. He wanted more than anything for her to live. . . for her to be happy.”
“Oh.”
Spike blinks, closes the book, and passes it back to her. Buffy takes the novel, and as she is about to turn and leave, he grabs her left hand, cradling it in his right one. He lightly and slowly runs his warm thumb over her exposed palm as if he’s trying to understand something. Buffy shivers, and this time, he notices her response.
Her voice small, she whispers, “It was nice meeting you.”
Out on the dark street again, she doesn’t even remember how she escaped the confines of the book shop.