No Hero

Disclaimer: Must we do this? They're not mine, they never were mine, and they will never be mine, because if they were, I wouldn't be sharing Spike. Why? Because I'm selfish!
Author's Notes: The events of NFA happened a bit differently in my world because I need Fred around. You'll see more in the next chapter. Anyway, read on...

The Forgotten

The screen door was wrenched from its hinges so violently was it flung open, and Willow glanced up fearfully only to relax an instant later. It was only Buffy, whom she had not seen in two years, only Buffy, with whom she had not spoken in nearly a month; it was only Buffy, looking enraged enough to kill her where she sat on the front porch of her New England home.

“Did you do a forgetting spell on me?” the blonde asked coldly, her once brilliant green eyes hardened with rage and an inner torment so great that Willow dared not presume the cause.

“No,” she answered truthfully, confusion written clearly on her delicate features. “Buffy, what is this about? I don’t understand… What are you forgetting?”

“Spike.” Even as she spoke the name, horror filled her eyes. She had accused Willow, her best friend, yet the witch seemed unaffected. “I’m so sorry…”

Willow never imagined that a name, one simple, little word, could be so full of pain and sadness. Climbing to her feet, the redhead embraced her friend, offering what little comfort she had. Buffy resisted at first, but then she relaxed in Willow’s arms, sobbing silently against the taller woman’s shoulder. Without speaking a word, the witch led Buffy to the padded wicker couch on the porch and urged her to sit down, and together, they sat in silence for what seemed like hours as the blonde slayer – the original slayer – calmed her emotions.

“Can you tell me what happened, Buffy?” Willow inquired gently, stroking Buffy’s golden hair in a comforting gesture as she had often seen Buffy do her sister Dawn.

“The Immortal a-asked me to m-marry him,” Buffy stammered, “a-and I kept thinking about that spell you did when Spike and I were engaged. I didn’t answer – the Immortal, I mean – I didn’t answer him, so he kissed me, but I wanted it to be Spike… I couldn’t… I can’t… remember what his lips felt like.”

“Oh, Buffy, no. I would never do a forgetting spell on you,” Willow assured her. “People forget things like that, you know? You just… in time the memories aren’t as sharp, and then some go away entirely. As long as you remember him, you’ll be okay.”

“Would you be okay if it were Tara?” Buffy asked quietly, finally lifting her head from Willow’s shoulder.

“I’m not,” the redhead admitted.

“Will, you have to do a spell to see if anyone else has done one to make me forget.”

“O-okay, sure,” the witch agreed. “Do you think it was the Immortal?”

“I don’t know,” said Buffy dejectedly. “I do know that I told him I would never marry him and he just shrugged it off. Why did he even ask me if he didn’t care?”

“Um, Buffy, you’re looking for an explanation of the motives of a man who calls himself the Immortal. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that rational thought and the Immortal are non-mixy things.”

Buffy actually laughed, revealing the finest of lines around her eyes when they crinkled. She hugged Willow fiercely, though she was mindful of her greater strength. “I missed you,” she confessed.

“Me, too,” said Willow, hugging her friend in return. Buffy had changed since last she’d seen her. Her hair was a pale shade of blonde and nearly reached her waist, and her tan was darker than ever from living in the Mediterranean, making her hair seem lighter and her eyes all the more vibrant. She had never looked so beautiful; Willow also thought that she had never looked so broken.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called in so long,” the slayer apologized as she released her friend. “I’ve just been… I’m such a bitch.”

“No, you’re not, you’ve just been stressed out. This hasn’t been easy on any of us.” Willow couldn’t bring herself to admit just how difficult it had been for her. She still missed Tara as much as she had the moment she’d held her as she died.

“It’s been almost five years,” Buffy whispered, “and there hasn’t been a day when he’s not in my heart.”

“You loved him.”

“I did. I do. I told him, you know, back in Sunnydale. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘No, you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.’ After he spent all that time insisting that I loved him, the one time I had the guts to say it, he…”

“Buffy… I don’t know if I should say this, but… Would you have stayed with him if he’d said it back?” Willow asked carefully.

“I don’t… Yeah, I would have, or I would have tried to get him out of there,” she said shakily as realization dawned on her. Betrayal flickered in her eyes, closely followed by anger, and finally misery. “Oh, my God.”

Her heart breaking at the pain her friend was feeling, Willow confirmed her suspicions. “He loved you enough to save you. You never would have made it.”

“Why… does it… have to… hurt… so much?” the blonde choked out between sobs. She buried her face in her hands, feeling as though she would heave the contents of her stomach all over her expensive Italian boots.

“Because life hurts,” Willow said sympathetically. “The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. A very brave, very wonderful woman said that once. It was you, Buffy. You have to keep living –”

“So one of us is living,” Buffy finished, remembering the time she had nearly danced herself back into her grave – or rather an urn. Spike had been there to stop her, to save her. Again.

“You can do it, and I’ll be here to help you. You’re the strongest person I know, but you don’t have to be strong now.”

“I miss Mom.”

“I know, but hey, I know the next best thing.”

“Cookies?” Buffy asked hopefully.

“Giles,” Willow corrected. Pushing up from the couch, she grabbed her mug, tucked her computer under her arm, and opened the door for Buffy. When the blonde retrieved her bag from the stair leading up to the porch and stepped inside, she followed.

“You didn’t hear the car pull up,” Buffy pointed out as she followed the redhead into the kitchen.

“I’ve kinda gotten used to not living on a Hellmouth. Must’ve let my guard down, plus I have an oogey-ness detector,” she replied with an impish grin.

“A what?”

“Remember the spell Tara and I did to let you know if Glory came around? It’s the same sort of thing, only it works with demons and other nasties,” Willow explained.

“Your own security system,” Buffy said, her tone half-teasing and half-respectful. “I’m impressed, Will.”

Blushing, Willow refilled her mug and offered a cup of coffee to Buffy. “As long as I don’t get another goddess complex, it’s all good.”

Laughing softly, Buffy took a sip of coffee and asked, “How’s Xander? I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”

“You mean Alexander Harris, famed demon hunter?” Willow responded with a laugh. “He’s doing okay. He met a girl named Annika.”

“Creepy,” said Buffy of the name similarity.

“Tell me about it, only she was never a vengeance demon, but she has strawberry blonde hair, loads of freckles, and green eyes. She’s also a black belt in karate and has an Olympic silver medal in archery.”

“Okay… She has a name similar to Anya’s, coloring similar to yours, and she could give me a run for my money in the physical department. Again, I say, ‘creepy.’”

Willow agreed, “I pointed that out to him and he was all, ‘You three are the best women anyone could ever hope to know. I have a little of each of you this way. Did that sound as freaky as I think it did?’ Of course, I told him no, but… You know.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, “I know.”

“Make yourself at home,” the witch insisted as she led Buffy into the living room. “I’ll go get my spell books and call Giles. I’ll call Xander, too. Maybe we can have a mini-reunion.”

With an affirming nod, the slayer sat down on the worn leather couch, drawing in the comforting scent of patchouli, sage, and minty shampoo. Willow. Sighing, she leaned her head against the cushion, finally acknowledging just how much she had missed her friends.

She had missed Willow, with her strangely beautiful features and haunted green-gray-hazel eyes, the way she laughed inappropriately and told strange jokes, the way she always knew when cookies, ice cream, and stupid movies were in order. She’d missed her odd fascination with animal crackers – it had something to do with monkey pants – and the way she often slept in one of Tara’s old sweaters, which was far too large for her rail-thin frame.

She had missed Xander and his goofy yet handsome face, his dark hair and eyes, and the way he laughed from deep down in his belly. She’d missed watching him work, whether the task was fighting or carpentry related, and she’d missed his warm hugs. She missed the way he spoke of Anya so reverently, so lovingly, and how he said even Spike’s name with warmth and something akin to respect.

She hadn’t seen Willow in two years, and it had been four since she’d seen Xander. She’d seen Giles once a year since the destruction of the Hellmouth, something her former watcher had insisted upon. He needed to see her at least once a year to make certain she was still alive and well, he had said.

Now she wished that she had kept up with Willow and Xander, as well, but there had been a time when it had been too raw, too new for the once tightly-knit group to remain together. The recent pain of their losses, their history, their inner demons all banded together to drive them apart, and the gap had yet to be bridged. Buffy admitted that it was mostly her fault, but the others were not blameless. She knew that now.

In times of crisis, Xander responded by emotionally withdrawing and making sarcastic remarks, while Willow turned to the black arts, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever she saw could. Buffy herself reacted by running away, sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally. She knew now that none of them were pure or innocent, that they all contained depths of darkness equal to any demon or vampire’s – perhaps greater.

Perhaps Spike, even soulless and primitive, in his own way, had been the purest of the entire group. She missed Spike, guiltily, most of all. She missed the way his hair had felt so soft in her hands in spite of its constant exposure to bleach, she missed the way his eyes changed from ice blue to a stormy shade that was almost gray, and how he’d had a habit of pursing his lips in a way that made his cheekbones more prominent. Above all else, she missed the way he saw her, all of her, the way no one else ever had.

She felt fresh tears sting her eyes, and she glanced up when she heard Willow’s footsteps, forcing a small smile for her friend’s benefit. “Hey,” she said softly, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. “Find anything?”

“Yup, and Giles is on his way here, I got Xander’s machine” the redhead answered with a cheerfulness that was only half-feigned. It was good to have Buffy back no matter what the circumstances. “About… about the spell…”

“What about it?”

“There isn’t one,” said Willow sadly. “I did-didn’t feel one when I hugged you, but I checked it out in my books just to be sure. There’s no spell, Buffy, just… just the effects of time.”

“Oh, God.” A part of her had hoped there was a spell, for it could be reversed, her memories returned, but now she had to face the reality that she would soon forget the little things. Eventually, she might forget more. “I can’t do this…”

“Her hands.” Willow sat down on the couch beside the blonde and gave a pained smile. “I can’t remember Tara’s hands anymore, and she used to make this little sound in her sleep… I can almost hear it, but I can’t remember exactly what it sounded like. Kennedy snored.”

“You broke up with her because she snored?” Buffy teased, vainly trying to lighten the mood.

“I broke up with her because she wasn’t Tara. I’m finished, Buffy.”

“So am I,” she whispered. “D-do you think I could maybe live here? I can’t go back to Italy, and I can’t go to LA and see… him.” How could she ever look at Angel again, the man she had once called her great love, when she would constantly be thinking of Spike?

“Buffy, of course! And Dawnie, too, when she gets done with school. How is she?”

“She’s good. She’s great, actually. She’s living with some guy named Dante,” Buffy replied with a dramatic eye roll. “What kind of a poncy boy name is –” Paling visibly at her slip-up, she fell silent.

“Buffy, it’s okay. I think we all do it. I said ‘bloody Hell’ the other day when I stubbed my toe, a-and I drink the same tea Tara used to, the one I never liked, and I… referred to Annika as Xander’s orgasm friend.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, the last part… not so much, but the other stuff, yeah. And I still sleep in Tara’s sweaters,” the witch admitted.

“I listen to the Ramones,” Buffy challenged.

“I listen to Aimee Mann,” Willow answered, catching onto her game.

“I drink bourbon.”

“I gave up fried food because Tara always said it was bad for my skin.”

“I tried Wheat-a-bix.”

“Mixed with blood?”

“Eww!” Buffy exclaimed, sounding for the world like Dawn. She giggled at the realization, and Willow soon joined her.

“This is nice,” said Willow after their giggle-fit died down. “You know, being able to remember and not…”

“Feel like you’re gonna die?” Buffy offered.

“Yeah.”

“We suck.”

“Agreed.”