ONE NORMAL LIFE / TWO EXTRAORDINARY LIVES
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
210
Views:
10,601
Reviews:
182
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
210
Views:
10,601
Reviews:
182
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
FOOTWEAR & POETRY
CHAPTER 7 - FOOTWEAR & POETRY
Before Clem left, Buffy asked him about the box that Spike had told her he'd had Clem bring up here.
"Oh my goodness, girl, I'd forgotten all about that," he said, "come on."
They walked over to the DeSoto, which he'd parked on the side of the house. He took the key from the ignition and opened up the trunk, "Here, let me take this to the house for you," Clem said, lifting out the rather large carton.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
Buffy pointed to the floor in front of the fireplace and Clem put it down there.
"Thanks, Clem," Buffy said.
"No problem, you need anything, I'm only a cell phone away," he said, as he walked to the door.
Buffy closed the door. It was getting dark again, so Buffy put some wood on in the fireplace and started a fire going. The generator was now working, so she turned on a lamp in the living room.
She pulled the box over toward the couch and looked at it.
It had her name on the top, written in Spike' s handwriting.
She pulled the tape up and opened the box.
The first thing she saw was a note laying on top of the light blue blanket that she'd wrapped around his shoulders, after she'd brought him to her house, after discovering that The First had been using him to kill.
5/18/03
Dear Buffy,
Just some things that I thought you might like to have...things I thought you might want protected and out of Sunnydale. I hope I picked what you would have.
Now, open the blanket up, first...
Buffy laid the letter down and opened up the blanket. There inside, were her drawings she'd thought had been lost. The ones Spike had drawn for her when they'd been here in Julian last winter. Tears came to her eyes as she went through them.
Underneath those were also some of her own personal pictures, pictures she'd thought had been lost to the rubble that was now Sunnydale. Pictures of her as a baby, of Joyce, of Dawn, of her, Willow, & Xander. Her old Sunnydale Yearbook, and a ton of other pictures that had been in photo albums.
How had he done that? She knew he'd had to have gotten the pictures from a variety of places in the house.
Next, were some newer drawings he had done of her, Dawn, and Joyce. He'd drawn them at the beach, out on a hike, in the kitchen, things that they'd actually done, but had never had a picture taken of. Things she'd told him about, and some that she hadn't. Maybe her mom had? Or Dawn? There were at least 25 different drawings of them as a family. Another 10 of her and the Scoobies, including Giles, Anya, and even Tara.
She'd have to give some of these to Xander, to Willow, to Dawn. At least have copies made to give them. They would be grateful to have pictures of their loved ones, too.
There were also many pictures of her that he had drawn, of her and him. In poses and in scenes they'd never been in, but that he'd wished they would have, that she wished they could have. Sitting side by side in the cemetery on top a headstone (ok, that one really did happen, lots!). Scenes from Julian, scenes of him watching her sleep (okay, that probably happened lots, too!) scenes of them looking at each other with love and awe, scenes of them being on a bridge with the Tower of London behind them (she knew that didn't happen), at Stonehenge, (great! more mystic stuff!) or the Eiffel Tower, the pyramids, the Great Wall of China, and other locations. Spike had drawn them together in all the places he'd never had a chance to take her. All the places, that given a different life, he would have loved her in, given her the world.
But the one picture that had been most moving for her, had been the one of her and him underneath an outdoor canopy. Their friends are in the foreground, while in the background, you can see the ocean. The sun is shining, and the canopy is decorated in flowers. Buffy is wearing a white dress; Spike is wearing a tuxedo. He is lifting her veil with one hand, as their fingers of their other hands are entwined. She is wearing the necklace.
Buffy stared at the picture. He'd drawn a picture of them getting married? In the sunlight, no less!
"Oh, Spike! What are you doing to me?" she asks, as her stomach was now firmly lodged in her throat.
In all their time together, good and bad, he'd never; they'd never, ever brought up anything remotely related to marriage. Unless you counted that time he talked about not still dreaming of a little tomb with a white picket fence...
"Really hitting below the belt now, Spike," she whispered staring at her wedding/not a wedding drawing.
"What no kiddies, Spike? No fat grandchildren? Torture me much?" she asked into the night.
She'd finally gone through all the pictures and went back to his letter.
Don't be mad at me (the next part read) for my little flights of fancy. If I could have, I would have taken you all these places, showed you the world, married you, even. But since that isn't possible, just having you to myself for a couple of precious hours these last few days has been all I have ever wanted, all I ever needed. Just to be near you, just to be able to love you. Just wish I could have done more for you, pet. So that's what these pictures are about - just my way of giving you the world...
"You did, Spike, you already did!" Buffy said, wiping her eyes.
The rest of the box contained some clothes of hers; clothes that she figured meant something to Spike. They were all clothes that she remembered having brought here, or if she thought back, something she wore when they'd been close, somehow. They all had memories related to him, which is why she knew he'ckedcked them out.
Then there had been a few things of his. Three black t-shirts, black pair of jeans, pair of socks, a black jean jacket, (consistent much, Spike?) and a couple of books. One was an anthology of poetry, one a history book of the Roman Empire. She fingered his things lovingly. Brought one of his t-shirts up to her nose and inhaled, hoping they weren't recently washed. She smiled, smelling him, his smoke, his scent.
She buried her head in his T-shirt and cried for a while against it.
After a while, she put it on her lap, and went back to the box.
On the bottom, there was at least 10 pair of her shoes and boots. She laughed, no wonder he'd dreamed he was 'drowning in footwear,' that night.
She looked back to the letter:
That’s about it, luv. Just hope I choose what you would have chosen to bring.
Love, William
P.S. Hope you’ll forgive my totally inadequate poetic expressions. Don’t believe that 100+ years have made much of an improvement in what I’d been called, pet.
She looked questioningly at the last statement, then shrugged, figuring he was talking about this letter in general.
She was just about to put the clothes back over the shoes, when something sticking out of one of her boots, caught her attention.
It was paper; taped together, rolled up like a scroll. She took it out, unrolled it, and started to read:
SLUMBER
I look down and see you slumber
Hair golden on my shoulder
Splayed, silken strands touch my face
and neck
My fingers hesitate to touch your tresses,
Waken you unnecessarily
From your needed rest
Wanted to kill you
Wanted to hurt you
Wanted to help you
Wanted to feel you
Wanted to love you
Wanted to possess you
Wanted to fuck you
Now all I want is for you to rest
Give you what you deserve
SELFISH
"You do," I'd insisted
"Love me," I'd said.
"No, I don't," you'd relied,
"I could never love you," you'd insisted
And selfishly, I tried to make it so,
Tried to make you feel it,
Hurt the girl, hurt you,
Hurt Buffy
"Should've killed me," I insisted
"I could never," you'd replied.
Instead, took me home,
Gave me your faith,
And your belief.
"You can be a better man," you'd said,
"You are," you insisted.
And your words became my truth,
Kept me alive in the darkest dark
Pushed away the evil inside me
Brought in the light and hope
I was selfish,
You never bged ged
In the dark,
With me.
BLOODY AWFUL POET
I've been called a bloody awful poet
In my youth
With good reasons
That I know
I am a bloody awful poet
But because of you
I am (I think) once again
A good man
ALL THAT I HAVE
Can't give you Paris,
London, or Rome
Don't have much
In this mortal coil
Give you all that I have
My loyalty,
My truth,
My faith,
My belief,
My passion,
My love.
It's all I have
Is it enough?
It's all I have
It's all yours.
BUFFY
The word that defies,
The girl who proclaims,
To the world, she is just
a girl
To me she is everything
"Don't want to be The One,"
She says,
Just want to be a girl
Just want to be normal
But normal she
Could never be.
Never ordinary,
Never plain,
Never unimportant,
Never normal
She is everything
Reason for the sun to come out
Reason for the tide to come in
Reason men fight and die
Reason there's goodness
Reason there's beauty
Reason there is me.
Extraordinary
Lovely
Buffy
TOUCHED
"Just hold me," you said,
And set my heart free
To be close to you
Watch you sleep
Hold you...
Have you any idea,
How precious your words are?
How much they meant to me?
To be trusted by you?
Let yourself be held by me, again?
"Just hold me," you said.
There was nothing 'just' about it.
It was everything to me.
As you are,
Always have been,
Always will be.
Everything.
Everything good and pure.
Love.
Light.
Everything.
NOT ENOUGH
If I could love you forever
It wouldn't be enough
If I could hold you forever
It would never be enough
If a thousand, thousand, thousand
Years from now, the world were
To end
And by some miracle
You were still in my arms
It woudn't have been enough
You see,
I love you forever,
And still forever,
Is never enough.
SELFISH II
And now,
Spike and William
Want you to know,
You've got to go on.
On with the show.
On with your life,
Our days were done.
Done with the night,
As they’d been
With the sun.
But you are here,
So live for us.
We were selfish once,
But now, that's done.
Live for us,
Heck, live twice.
Live for us,
Try it, it'll be...
Living.
Buffy smiled as she rolled up the make-shift scroll, “You’ll never be ‘bloody awful,’ to me, Spike,” she said, shaking her head in wonder, “never.”
Before Clem left, Buffy asked him about the box that Spike had told her he'd had Clem bring up here.
"Oh my goodness, girl, I'd forgotten all about that," he said, "come on."
They walked over to the DeSoto, which he'd parked on the side of the house. He took the key from the ignition and opened up the trunk, "Here, let me take this to the house for you," Clem said, lifting out the rather large carton.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
Buffy pointed to the floor in front of the fireplace and Clem put it down there.
"Thanks, Clem," Buffy said.
"No problem, you need anything, I'm only a cell phone away," he said, as he walked to the door.
Buffy closed the door. It was getting dark again, so Buffy put some wood on in the fireplace and started a fire going. The generator was now working, so she turned on a lamp in the living room.
She pulled the box over toward the couch and looked at it.
It had her name on the top, written in Spike' s handwriting.
She pulled the tape up and opened the box.
The first thing she saw was a note laying on top of the light blue blanket that she'd wrapped around his shoulders, after she'd brought him to her house, after discovering that The First had been using him to kill.
5/18/03
Dear Buffy,
Just some things that I thought you might like to have...things I thought you might want protected and out of Sunnydale. I hope I picked what you would have.
Now, open the blanket up, first...
Buffy laid the letter down and opened up the blanket. There inside, were her drawings she'd thought had been lost. The ones Spike had drawn for her when they'd been here in Julian last winter. Tears came to her eyes as she went through them.
Underneath those were also some of her own personal pictures, pictures she'd thought had been lost to the rubble that was now Sunnydale. Pictures of her as a baby, of Joyce, of Dawn, of her, Willow, & Xander. Her old Sunnydale Yearbook, and a ton of other pictures that had been in photo albums.
How had he done that? She knew he'd had to have gotten the pictures from a variety of places in the house.
Next, were some newer drawings he had done of her, Dawn, and Joyce. He'd drawn them at the beach, out on a hike, in the kitchen, things that they'd actually done, but had never had a picture taken of. Things she'd told him about, and some that she hadn't. Maybe her mom had? Or Dawn? There were at least 25 different drawings of them as a family. Another 10 of her and the Scoobies, including Giles, Anya, and even Tara.
She'd have to give some of these to Xander, to Willow, to Dawn. At least have copies made to give them. They would be grateful to have pictures of their loved ones, too.
There were also many pictures of her that he had drawn, of her and him. In poses and in scenes they'd never been in, but that he'd wished they would have, that she wished they could have. Sitting side by side in the cemetery on top a headstone (ok, that one really did happen, lots!). Scenes from Julian, scenes of him watching her sleep (okay, that probably happened lots, too!) scenes of them looking at each other with love and awe, scenes of them being on a bridge with the Tower of London behind them (she knew that didn't happen), at Stonehenge, (great! more mystic stuff!) or the Eiffel Tower, the pyramids, the Great Wall of China, and other locations. Spike had drawn them together in all the places he'd never had a chance to take her. All the places, that given a different life, he would have loved her in, given her the world.
But the one picture that had been most moving for her, had been the one of her and him underneath an outdoor canopy. Their friends are in the foreground, while in the background, you can see the ocean. The sun is shining, and the canopy is decorated in flowers. Buffy is wearing a white dress; Spike is wearing a tuxedo. He is lifting her veil with one hand, as their fingers of their other hands are entwined. She is wearing the necklace.
Buffy stared at the picture. He'd drawn a picture of them getting married? In the sunlight, no less!
"Oh, Spike! What are you doing to me?" she asks, as her stomach was now firmly lodged in her throat.
In all their time together, good and bad, he'd never; they'd never, ever brought up anything remotely related to marriage. Unless you counted that time he talked about not still dreaming of a little tomb with a white picket fence...
"Really hitting below the belt now, Spike," she whispered staring at her wedding/not a wedding drawing.
"What no kiddies, Spike? No fat grandchildren? Torture me much?" she asked into the night.
She'd finally gone through all the pictures and went back to his letter.
Don't be mad at me (the next part read) for my little flights of fancy. If I could have, I would have taken you all these places, showed you the world, married you, even. But since that isn't possible, just having you to myself for a couple of precious hours these last few days has been all I have ever wanted, all I ever needed. Just to be near you, just to be able to love you. Just wish I could have done more for you, pet. So that's what these pictures are about - just my way of giving you the world...
"You did, Spike, you already did!" Buffy said, wiping her eyes.
The rest of the box contained some clothes of hers; clothes that she figured meant something to Spike. They were all clothes that she remembered having brought here, or if she thought back, something she wore when they'd been close, somehow. They all had memories related to him, which is why she knew he'ckedcked them out.
Then there had been a few things of his. Three black t-shirts, black pair of jeans, pair of socks, a black jean jacket, (consistent much, Spike?) and a couple of books. One was an anthology of poetry, one a history book of the Roman Empire. She fingered his things lovingly. Brought one of his t-shirts up to her nose and inhaled, hoping they weren't recently washed. She smiled, smelling him, his smoke, his scent.
She buried her head in his T-shirt and cried for a while against it.
After a while, she put it on her lap, and went back to the box.
On the bottom, there was at least 10 pair of her shoes and boots. She laughed, no wonder he'd dreamed he was 'drowning in footwear,' that night.
She looked back to the letter:
That’s about it, luv. Just hope I choose what you would have chosen to bring.
Love, William
P.S. Hope you’ll forgive my totally inadequate poetic expressions. Don’t believe that 100+ years have made much of an improvement in what I’d been called, pet.
She looked questioningly at the last statement, then shrugged, figuring he was talking about this letter in general.
She was just about to put the clothes back over the shoes, when something sticking out of one of her boots, caught her attention.
It was paper; taped together, rolled up like a scroll. She took it out, unrolled it, and started to read:
SLUMBER
I look down and see you slumber
Hair golden on my shoulder
Splayed, silken strands touch my face
and neck
My fingers hesitate to touch your tresses,
Waken you unnecessarily
From your needed rest
Wanted to kill you
Wanted to hurt you
Wanted to help you
Wanted to feel you
Wanted to love you
Wanted to possess you
Wanted to fuck you
Now all I want is for you to rest
Give you what you deserve
SELFISH
"You do," I'd insisted
"Love me," I'd said.
"No, I don't," you'd relied,
"I could never love you," you'd insisted
And selfishly, I tried to make it so,
Tried to make you feel it,
Hurt the girl, hurt you,
Hurt Buffy
"Should've killed me," I insisted
"I could never," you'd replied.
Instead, took me home,
Gave me your faith,
And your belief.
"You can be a better man," you'd said,
"You are," you insisted.
And your words became my truth,
Kept me alive in the darkest dark
Pushed away the evil inside me
Brought in the light and hope
I was selfish,
You never bged ged
In the dark,
With me.
BLOODY AWFUL POET
I've been called a bloody awful poet
In my youth
With good reasons
That I know
I am a bloody awful poet
But because of you
I am (I think) once again
A good man
ALL THAT I HAVE
Can't give you Paris,
London, or Rome
Don't have much
In this mortal coil
Give you all that I have
My loyalty,
My truth,
My faith,
My belief,
My passion,
My love.
It's all I have
Is it enough?
It's all I have
It's all yours.
BUFFY
The word that defies,
The girl who proclaims,
To the world, she is just
a girl
To me she is everything
"Don't want to be The One,"
She says,
Just want to be a girl
Just want to be normal
But normal she
Could never be.
Never ordinary,
Never plain,
Never unimportant,
Never normal
She is everything
Reason for the sun to come out
Reason for the tide to come in
Reason men fight and die
Reason there's goodness
Reason there's beauty
Reason there is me.
Extraordinary
Lovely
Buffy
TOUCHED
"Just hold me," you said,
And set my heart free
To be close to you
Watch you sleep
Hold you...
Have you any idea,
How precious your words are?
How much they meant to me?
To be trusted by you?
Let yourself be held by me, again?
"Just hold me," you said.
There was nothing 'just' about it.
It was everything to me.
As you are,
Always have been,
Always will be.
Everything.
Everything good and pure.
Love.
Light.
Everything.
NOT ENOUGH
If I could love you forever
It wouldn't be enough
If I could hold you forever
It would never be enough
If a thousand, thousand, thousand
Years from now, the world were
To end
And by some miracle
You were still in my arms
It woudn't have been enough
You see,
I love you forever,
And still forever,
Is never enough.
SELFISH II
And now,
Spike and William
Want you to know,
You've got to go on.
On with the show.
On with your life,
Our days were done.
Done with the night,
As they’d been
With the sun.
But you are here,
So live for us.
We were selfish once,
But now, that's done.
Live for us,
Heck, live twice.
Live for us,
Try it, it'll be...
Living.
Buffy smiled as she rolled up the make-shift scroll, “You’ll never be ‘bloody awful,’ to me, Spike,” she said, shaking her head in wonder, “never.”