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Late summer 6/7 Buffy reflects on the almost rape in "Seeing Red" Buffy POV Rated PG
Can I Miss Him? I miss him. It’s been over three months.
Can I say it now? When I walk to work (stinking, mind-numbing, wretched work)
sometimes I find my Slayer senses straining, searching for him. After our…
encounter in the bathroom, he vanished. He ran off. For a while I was braced for
revenge. I was sure he would finish the job. I was ready to kill him this time.
Then the more subtle parts of the encounter started playing back in my mind.
Mostly, his expression. Shock and horror. Not at me for what I said, but at
himself for what he almost did. What he could have done. I was out of strength.
If he had come at me again, he would have had me. I remember what he said about Drusilla,
last time she left him. He was going to tie her up and torture her until she
loved him again. It’s how he knows to deal with women. With the one crazy
vampire woman he spent over a hundred years dating. That’s a long time to
establish behavior patterns. I learned that much from Maggie Walsh. People are
creatures of habit. Spike is a creature with habits. It’s so quiet around here. I go to work
(food supplier of the damned) I slay (alone) I come home (empty house that needs
repairs) I sleep (when I’m not dreaming). Willow is in England with Giles. Anya is off doing whatever she does these days. Xander has a life kind of like mine. He’s working hard, earning good money and saving for his future. Dawn has her teen-age friends. Tara is dead. Mom is dead. And Spike is… gone. I don’t for a minute imagine having sex with him again. Except, of course in my dreams and in my fantasies when I try to bring my tired body some kind of sweet release. Isn’t that what he called it when he sang to me? Damn it. He imbedded himself so deep in my
life. I didn’t realize how much he was here until he wasn’t. Things keep
reminding me of him. First off, he left his coat here. When I came home after
all the excitement to find it tossed on the railing where he left it, I stuffed it
in the back of the hall closet. A month ago I hung it up neatly. Some weeks
later I went through it’s pockets. Smokes, his silver lighter, a wad of cash,
a pack of cards, a couple of IOU’s. Not a lot to show for a century of
travels. I put it all back where I found it. Now the coat hangs on the far side
of my closet. I have to push aside my prom dress in it’s plastic bag to get to
it. Last night I found myself smelling it,
running my hands over it. How old is it? How has he kept it so nice when he
fights so hard? I wonder if it’s somehow enchanted to heal. I study the
shoulder where I know I ripped it once. We were fighting (foreplay) and I
grabbed the sleeve to fling him across the room. I felt the seam give. Looking
closely, I find tiny, neat stitches. That the thread is a slightly different
color is the only reason I can see the mend. Each stitch is in the original
holes. I imagine Spike sitting cross legged in his crypt, carefully patching his
beloved coat with needle and thread. It makes me smile. Patrolling takes me everywhere. I see
places around town and in cemeteries where we had sex. I find myself behind the
Magic Box in the shade where we talked. I lean against the tree outside my house
and look for fresh cigarette butts. I’d go to his crypt, but Clem lives there
now. Care taking, he says. I asked him once about Spike, about where he went.
Clem has no clue, bless his lonely heart. When I sit on the back porch I
remember him comforting me on several occasions. Xander prodded me for a while to have Willow un-invite him. I just can’t do it. Xander's dropped it now. Damn him. Why did he leave me now? I needed
him. I'm lonely. No one else understands me like he does. Why should I be
surprised? Everyone leaves me. I won’t indulge in a litany of the lost. I had
let myself me lulled into the idea he would be around. I worry that the next
time the world is about to end I’ll have to face it completely on my own. I
don’t worry that he’s been dusted, or gone away forever. I know he’ll come
back. I just don’t know when. It’s the dreams that tell me. Not the sexy ones. The ones with Spike and
his hands and his bare chest and his… Not those. I’ve had prophetic dreams
of Spike. For years. I have told no one about them, not even Giles. The first one was the summer after Angel left. It was no more than a slow-mo clip of Spike by my side fighting demons in some big cold room. He was fighting hard and we fought well together. That was after he’d blown in and out of town, staying only long enough to hurt several of my friends. Puzzled the hell out of me at the time. In the next dream I saw Spike standing up
to a shapely blonde to save my sister. At the time I had no sister. And Spike,
being heroic? And a shapely blonde evil? God, my life is complex. The one I had last year I have held closest to myself. I had seen the reality of the last two dreams come true. As Spike lay torn and bleeding from Glory’s torture in his crypt, I forced myself to rest, and I dreamed. I saw Spike striding across African sands. I could smell the heat. I saw flashes, images. Fire, demons, wooden weapons, bugs. Spike in the center of it all, fighting. Then a flash of light engulfs him. Know this: I am used to visions of the past. My Slayer heritage provides me with History Channel quality clips some times. I saw Spike as he was when human, but this wasn't the past. It's William, now. His clothes are Victorian, his hair long and pulled back in a tail. He smiles sweetly at me (an expression I have never seen on him) and holds something out. “For you,” he says. But the dreams ends before I can see what it is. Upon reflection it strikes me. The dreams have been a year ahead. Why is it I get maybe a week’s warning when the world is going to end, yet I know when Spike is going to be… good, or at least useful. Maybe he’s gone to Africa. I do not know the truth of this one. Now I have dreamed again. Last night. It troubles me. It excites me. Spike stands clothed in robes made of golden sunlight. He looks like and has the attitude of angels I have seen in paintings. In one hand he holds the earth. It is cradled gently to his chest. The other hand is held up to me, warning me off, shielding me out. He is calm amidst chaos. I know what this dream means. I have to make sure he gets to that shining, effulgent moment. And it won’t be easy.
Behind-The-Scenes: I made the college at the top of the page of post-series thoughts, but it inspired the idea that Buffy must have missed Spike before. How could she not have? |
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