An Englishman in New York

A/N: This was one of the most difficult chapters for me to write, because it's first person, and I've never done that before. The idea to cover the time they spent apart in 'diary' form was my sister's, and I thought it was cool.

Thank you, Shelly, MarzBar, Aisling, Melissa, and Spikeslilchit. I didn't mean to make anyone cry! Oops.


The Letter


Dear Buffy,

I don’t like planes. There’s something that’s just bloody unnatural about being so high above the ground, and I just don’t like it. I’ve never been so glad to see the ground as I was earlier, but this is a bitter homecoming. Dru died here in London, and now my mother was murdered here. I’m not sure what I can do to help Dad, but there’s got to be something…

It was something else being in the morgue to view the body. She looked the same as always, but her neck was lopsided and bruised; she didn’t look at all peaceful, and part of me wanted to shake her and scream at her, but I knew she wouldn’t wake up. She’ll never wake again.

I can hear Wes talking to him now, telling him how my mother was such a good woman. We know she was a sodding good woman! God, I want to hurt that man. I want to pummel him into the floor, snap his neck, and drive a railroad spike through his brain. Yeah, I like the sound of that last one.

I hate being in my old room, surrounded by reminders of my old life. I’m not William anymore; I haven’t really been William since Dru died, at least not completely. With you, I could feel bits and pieces coming back to me until everything I’ve worked for, all the anger and distance began to shatter. And now this – it’s all fucked.

I’ve gotta protect myself, y’know, and sod all else. Dru, she was the first woman I ever really loved (I know that I never loved Cecily, I do know that now), and she’s gone. Now my mother’s gone – I loved her, too. And I love you. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means. You’ll fucking die and there won’t be a bloody thing I can do to stop it.

I never lied to you when I said I would come back. I never lied because… I meant it at the time. I know now that I can never leave England, never see you again. You’ve gotta understand that I don’t want this anymore than you do, I don’t, but I won’t let you die because of me.
You don’t love me, Slayer. You’ll heal. It’ll hurt and you’ll feel betrayed, and then you’ll remember how we fought and curse me and forget, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll forgive.

I miss you. I realized the moment I picked up this pen that I would never mail this, so I can write whatever I want, can’t I? I miss the way you smile, the funny little dip in your nose, and how your eyes get so much greener when you look at me. I never recognized what that look meant until yesterday. It’s desire, isn’t it? Now that I know what that look is, I can’t get it out of my fucking mind.

I miss the way you smell, all vanilla and lilac and sunlight; I miss your jokes and your strange version of English. I miss the way you talk to me, how you really see me and not this illusory side of who and what I am. I miss your instinctive knowledge of exactly what I need to get me through each day, and I miss the way you whisper my name in your sleep. I bet you never knew you did that.

Since I’m not sending this letter, I’ll just put it away for now before I do some stupid poncy thing like get teary-eyed. There’s time for that later. For now, I’ve gotta be strong for Dad. God knows he needs someone to do it – Wes is the biggest pussy I’ve ever known.

Buffy,

I hate being wrong, but more than that, I had admitting when I’m wrong. I was wrong – Wes isn’t the biggest pussy I’ve ever known. He isn’t a pussy at all. The funeral was today, and I fucking lost it like a wanker. I was fine through the whole sodding thing until that first shovel full of dirt hit the coffin. That fucking noise… God, it’s the worst sound, hollow and soft at once. I don’t really know what I was doing, but I think… I think maybe I was going to stop it then and, fuck, I don’t know, take her home with us.

All I do know is that I took one step forward to the open mouth in the ground and Wes grabbed me. Did you know he’s strong? I didn’t, either. His arms were like a vice, and I couldn’t get free. Granted, I didn’t really try very hard. I remember babbling like some great git, but I’m not entirely sure what all I said.

My mother never liked closed in spaces. I know she hates it in that box where it’s so cold and dark and narrow, where she’s alone. She never liked being alone, either. I hate it, too. I can’t… No more. Not now.

Buffy

I’ve been here for a month now. I’m running Dad’s store and I fucking hate it. The flow of customers is almost too much for me to stand without screaming or chundering or killing them all. Some of them knew her, and they have their soft words of sympathy and congratulations – you’re doing so well, they say, your mother would be so very proud of you. Sod off!

I don’t want their pity and I don’t want their praise. I want to be back in New York with you, fucking or fighting or listening to music and talking about God-knows-what. I don’t bloody care anymore. I can’t stay here, but I have to. Dad needs to me with him, and there’s nothing for me in New York, is there? You have Captain Cardboard.

I know you were still shagging him when you were with me. I’m not an idiot, Buffy, I do know that. It makes me want to kill him, thinking about it, thinking about him being inside you where only I should be. I want to get on a Goddamn plane and make you mine again, right in front of that poofter’s face.

It’s your birthday today. I didn’t send a card or a present because that would only make things more difficult for the both of us. I did, however, see the perfect gift for you the other day. Buckingham Palace. I can’t think of a more fitting gift, pity that it’s not in my power to give. Hell, I’d give you the whole bloody universe if I could, but all I can give you is me, and that’s a curse, not a gift. I wonder what White Bread got you.

Are you happy with him? I wish you the best, you know. I’m stupid enough to actually want you to be happy without me. I’m pathetic and I know it, but hey, bonus points for being man enough to admit it. God, I even use Buffyspeak now. I caught myself telling a customer that Orwell’s work was ‘of the good,’ and he looked at me like I’d gone completely bonkers, which isn’t far from the truth. I wonder if you accidentally say ‘bloody Hell’ from time to time. I wish I knew. I wish. Fuck it all.

Buffy,

It’s hard to believe I’ve actually been back here for three months. Dad said that he heard from your mother earlier today – said she called out of the blue to shoot the breeze and check up on us. I wanted to take the phone and beg her to tell me how you’re doing. I wanted to send this letter because I want you to know how empty it is here without you.

I love you. I’ve known it since my birthday, but this is fucking ridiculous. I keep thinking I see you in the strangest places. I went to a pub to get knackered, and I thought you were one of the waitresses for a split second. I see your face everywhere and it’s killing me, but you’ll never know that.

I can’t think of anything else to say. Funny, eh, pet? You always used to say that I couldn’t shut up, and now I can’t think of anything to say. People change, don’t they? I wonder how you’ve changed, if you’ve changed. You’re different, special. Maybe you never change.
You’re immortal, you know? You’re always the same, always here. You’re in me.

Buffy,

This is it. I’m not writing anymore. After five months, it’s finally over. I love you more than ever, but I can’t come back now. If I’d left after a month or two, yeah, maybe we could have started over again, but five months? Who am I fucking kidding? For all I know, you and Captain Cardboard are engaged. That thought makes me sick.

I want you to be mine. I want to do things differently, go back to the day my mother died and let you come with me. I think you’d like it here. I want to go back and do it over again, take you to bed and make love to you instead of fucking you against a closet door – though it is ruddy wicked that we broke it down, eh? I want to be able to believe it when you say you love me.

I’m so sorry.

Buffy,

I know I said that I wasn’t going to write again, but I just can’t stop myself. I waited three months this time. Three months of carrying these feelings and these words, and I’m not big enough to hold them inside any longer. If that makes me a nancing sissy-boy, so be it.

I was at work today, and it suddenly felt as if the weight of the world had settled on my shoulders. There was so much pain and sadness and anger that I almost couldn’t breathe. I’ve no bloody idea where it all came from, but I do know that it makes me miss you even more than usual, and I never thought that possible.

My hand was tingling earlier, right over the scar – I remember making it so clearly that I can still feel the bite of the blade in my palm. I reached for the phone to call and ask if everything was all right, but even as I dialed the number, I lost my nerve. What could I possibly say to make this right?

I could tell you that I’m a coward and it would be true. I could tell you that I love you so fucking much that it overwhelms me, frightens me, and that would be equally true, but after eight months of being here and away from you, I have no doubt that you’ve moved on. Why wouldn’t you?

I don’t know why I didn’t believe you when you told me you loved me. I do now. Even if it was only that split second when you said it, you did love me. I meant to say something different, though I don’t remember what it is now, but it came out wrong. Everything I want to say always comes out wrong, at least when I say it to your face.

Here, speaking to this empty page, I can say it better. I love you.

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Reading and rereading those final words, Spike crumpled the pages and tore them from his notebook, ripping them to shreds before tossing the bits of paper into the fireplace. He listened to the soft crackle as the flames consumed his letter to Buffy, wishing in vain that his longing and heartache could so easily be destroyed.

With a heavy sigh, he drained a glass of whiskey and smashed the glass against the stone hearth, watching the play of firelight off the shards of glass. He took a moment to compose himself, swept the mess he’d made into a dustpan, and brushed past his father when he came to inquire about the noise he’d heard.

“William, what on earth –”

“Have to get to work, Dad,” he said shortly as he slipped into his duster and hurried outside.

Shaking his head sadly, Giles moved to the fireplace, understanding dawning on him when he caught sight of one of the shreds of paper. It bore only two words.

Dear Buffy.