Dear Spike;

I guess nothing I could say would really help right now. Not to try to weasel out, though, you didn't try very hard to explain before. But I guess I get that too. Tired of having to justify yourself.

For what it's worth, I know I was unfair to you. But we've been through all that already, haven't we?

The box with this note is a small token on my part (don't worry, it's not from Andrew). Just call them the Chocolate Chunk Macadamia Nut Cookies of Infinite Regret.

I let Willow help with the baking.

Let me take another whack at the big test question:

What's different? Less than I thought, more than you know.

The big difference in you is that this time, even though it hurt remembering, you took the trouble to make me see the truth. Before, you sulked off and licked your wounds. This time, you understood that I'm not perfect and sometimes I need to have things spelled out. Before, you assumed that sooner or later I'd come around.

So, I think what's different about you isn't the beating heart or steady job. It's that you're seeing me and my faults more clearly.

That you can still care enough to have anything to do with me is a testament to your character. But steadfast loyalty has always been a part of what you are. That isn't new.

For my part, I know you're a person, not a thing, now. And it's not because you have a heartbeat. This change is on my side, not yours.

After they brought me back, I never treated you as if you were real. That wasn't because of you, it was because nothing was real to me -- nothing and nobody.

I died and was dragged back to Sunnydale kicking and screaming -- I was doing my best to resist. I think you died last summer (I've talked to Giles a bit. He didn't tell me much, but it was enough) -- but you came back of your own free will.

I am the chosen one -- I didn't have a choice in that. But you've done the choosing of your destiny. Maybe the chip gave you a push in the direction you're going now, but ultimately, you are what you are because you made a decision.

I envy you that.

So, did I pass the makeup exam?

Chastened,
B.

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Dear Buffy;

A death-blow is a life-blow to some
Who, till they died, did not alive become;
Who, had they lived, had died, but when
They died, vitality begun.

Yours,
S.

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Dear Spike;

Did you write that? You've started writing poems again?

That's really neat!

Impressed,
B.

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Dear Buffy;

What on earth do they teach in these American schools?

No, I didn't write that. It was Emily Dickinson.

I went and had a talk with Andrew today. I really don't think it did a bit of good. It was a very surreal experience, though. Several times, I found your words coming out of my mouth.

I think I understand something now that completely escaped me before. My persistence where you were concerned was not a good thing. I believed that you loved me and were denying it. But that was because that's what I wanted. I wasn't paying any attention to what you wanted. Even if you were denying your true feelings, you had a right to say no -- for whatever reason was important to you. My refusal to take no for an answer denied you the right to control your own life.

Live and learn.

Regards,
S.

PS: Brilliant cookies. Shared them at work. Everybody wants your recipe.

--------------

Dear Spike;

I had another talk with Andrew today. I think I may have got through to him in some small way. The first time, Jonathan and I were all doom -- better watch out, Spike could tear your head off stuff.

Now you've given him the "sorry but I'm not interested" routine.

So this time, I sat down with him and explained how it felt when you wouldn't leave me alone. I asked him if he wanted to make someone he cared about feel that way.

It probably won't do the trick. He's pretty much out of synch with reality. But I thought it was worth a try.

I feel sort of sorry for him. He's really lost now. He was never very good at being evil, and he hasn't a clue about how to be good. Jonathan seems to have a lot more sense of who he is than Andrew ever had. Andrew really needs someone to show him the way. (I'm not suggesting it should be you. He'll never give up if you give him the slightest opening.)

Anyway, I suggested he try volunteering at the Gay and Lesbian Coalition. He could meet like-oriented people, get some sense of where he fits in the scheme of things.

By the way, having spent my lunch hour explaining to Andrew what it feels like to be stalked, I just thought I'd mention that I don't feel that way anymore.

Sincerely,
B.

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Dear Buffy;

I would hope not.

I'm beginning to believe that we've covered nearly all the ground where apologies are concerned. Except for the last one. The one that I still can't find the words to frame. There aren't any words that could possibly express my remorse for my attack on you.

It still stands between us. I wish it were different. I can't look at you without remembering what I did. I have more than a century of mayhem to atone for, but that one act is the one that weighs upon me more than any other.

I don't know how to lift that weight. And I don't see how you and I can go forward otherwise.

Yours in remorse,
S.

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Dear Spike;

We haven't covered all the apologies yet -- not by a long shot. I haven't told you how sorry I am for the beating I gave you outside the police station. That sounds so shallow and inconsequential. I don't even have a good way to describe what I did to you. "Beating" isn't a strong enough term.

I know you never held that against me. But I've held it against myself. So much so that even now it's difficult for me to acknowledge that I did it and that I owe you more than an apology.

But it strikes me that we have something in common here. We've both done something that we regret so deeply that forgiveness seems beyond possibility.

This next bit is really hard for me to write, so forgive me if it's disjointed.

When I beat you, I totally lost control. I have this tremendous physical strength, and with it comes the responsibility to use it without anger. I must always use it to protect the innocent and the helpless. I must never use it for personal gain or to vent my frustration. Yet, that night, I used my slayer strength to pummel someone who cared about me to the ground. It was worse than that even, I beat you senseless and probably close to death. When I remember myself doing that -- losing all sense of right and wrong, of how much is enough, who I am and what I'm supposed to be -- I feel a shame that goes deeper than I can bear. I betrayed everything it is to be a slayer. Worse than that, I betrayed my own humanity.

Remembering that night makes me wonder whether I'm worthy of this power. If I could do that to you, who in the world is safe from me?

Is that anything like what you feel when you remember attacking me in my bathroom?

Let me put a different spin on that awful moment.

I woke up that day in the bathroom. I'd been sleepwalking for so long. But that day I saw you -- really saw you and what was happening to you -- for the first time since I came back from the grave. I saw how I had hurt you, and how little there was left of what you had been. Seeing that forced me to stop and take stock of how little I'd been seeing, how much I had closed my eyes to. And I had to accept responsibility for my part in our little mess. It's not my fault that you attacked me. But it is my fault that so much of your self-worth was destroyed that you were no longer in control of yourself.

That was the moment that changed things for me. Everything went straight to hell right after that, so I was pretty distracted and didn't get everything sorted out right then. But I hate to think what the outcome would have been if I'd gone into that last battle in my previous state of numb detachment.

So, in an odd way, I think you may have saved me. Funny how these things work out.

I don't think there is anything that positive that could be said about my attack on you.

Sharing your remorse;
B.

PS: Will you join us on Thanksgiving? I know Dawn would love you have you here, and I would too. Xander will be here, but I get the sense that he's made his peace and won't be a problem. I know what was up now -- his mother has filed for divorce. And she's moved in with someone she met at the wedding that wasn't. Krelvin -- who would have thought? She was hanging on, she actually told Xander she wouldn't do it unless he gave his blessing -- poor woman didn't want to lose her husband and son in a single stroke. Xander had to do a lot of thinking before he came to the conclusion that sometimes just being human isn't the only thing that matters.

PPS: Willow has invented a new kind of cookie! Maple Pumpkin Walnut. They're absolutely sinful. She's getting better. I can leave her alone in the kitchen now without anything ending up all flamey and charred. And she's throwing herself into the "developmental side" of baking with the single-minded determination she used to reserve for computer hacking. The one drawback to living with someone who feels compelled to bake the cookies of remorse: I think I'm gaining weight.

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Dear Buffy;

I would be delighted to join you on Thanksgiving -- if you promise not to tie me to a chair and let Indians -- sorry, Native Americans -- shoot arrows through me.

As for Xander, that's what he had on his mind when we talked (We? No, he talked -- and talked.) He wanted to know whether I thought there was any possibility of a demon and a human finding love together.

When he let me get a word in edgewise, I asked how many human-human relationships he'd seen work out. I said it seemed to me that the relationships that work are the ones where both people are committed to making it work -- the ones where when things go wrong you ask yourself why and try to make changes. Human-human, demon-demon, human-demon, hardly makes a difference. The only thing that really matters is whether both people are willing to make changes to make it work.

Love;
S.

PS: Even if you do arrange for Indians, it won't seem the same without Anya and Giles. Do you suppose Xander could pretend to have syphilis for the afternoon?

PPS: I'm thinking about your last letter. More later.

------------

Dear Buffy;

Quiet night here at the morgue. So I'll try to address your last letter.

It helps a little to know that you don't hold my failure against me. But not that much. I still have to accept that I lost control of myself. I am resolved that it will never happen again. But I was resolved that it would never happen in the first place.

But I do see what you mean about having something in common.

That I forgave you for the beating goes without saying. And apparently, you have forgiven me.

But that's the easy part. What I can't forgive is myself. How do I do that?

I'm at a loss to know where we go from here.

Your obedient servant,
S.

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Dear Spike;

I know what you mean. Forgiving you is easy. Forgiving myself is hard.

I've been thinking about it a lot. (Can you see the cartoon smoke coming from my ears?)

All I can suggest is this: I love you. I know that you love me. Can you forgive yourself for my sake? If you can do that, then surely I can forgive myself for yours.

And in case you were struck with hysterical blindness in the previous paragraph, I'll say it again: I love you. I cannot imagine my life without you in it.

You're not convenient. You never were. There is nothing reasonable about the Slayer loving a vampire -- even an not-quite-vampire-anymore whatever you are now. It's damn inconvenient.

Slayers never get happy endings. Every slayer comes with a sell-by date. Each slayer is on a journey that ends with a defeat -- alone, vanquished, in the dark.

But if we can tear down the last of this wall we've built between us, then you will be my happy ending. Can I be yours?

Love,
B.

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Dear Buffy;

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no further reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

Yours eternally,
S.

PS: Before you ask, no I didn't write that. It's Shakespeare.

------------

Dear Spike;

Can I take that as a yes? (Sorry, don't speak Bard.)

Love,
B.

------------

Dear Buffy;

You're an ignorant bint. But I love you with all my heart and soul. You thought I would say no? I who lived for you, died for you and lived again?

So, I suppose we shall abandon these thoughts in ink and paper now. Time to move into the realm of flesh and blood.

But one final thought:

There once was a vamp loved a slayer,
She peeled him layer by layer,
The heart she decried,
Was all that survived,
But love heals all with its favour.

And I did write that one.

Forever;
S.

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The End