Dreaming of a White Christmas

Author: enigmaticblue

Rating: PG

Archive: If you've already got my permission, otherwise just ask.

Disclaimer: You know the drill. All these characters belong to Joss and ME and other people who are actually making money off them. I'm not.

Summary: My annual Christmas fic, written for calturner who said she wanted Spuffy, S7, and snow. I hope this suits.

Part II

Buffy sat on her couch, in her lovely Roman apartment, listening to the sounds of Dawn getting ready in the bathroom. Her sister had been invited to a Christmas party. Buffy had decided to stay home.

She had no desire to go out and celebrate, not when the holiday felt so empty, and she had even less desire to prove a wet blanket for her sister's fun.

Or was that rain on Dawn's parade? Buffy knew she had a tendency to mix her metaphors.

It would have been easier to ignore the holiday season. Nothing was the same. When the Hellmouth had closed, Buffy had been glad. She had still been feeling the buzz from winning a battle she should have lost.

That's how it had been for the first few weeks. There had been the constant activity that setting up the new Council had required, as well as figuring out what they were going to do with all the new Slayers. Buffy had been too busy to think, too busy to feel.

Too busy to grieve.

By the end of the summer, however, she had settled in Rome, mostly for Dawn's sake. They had both enjoyed Rome, and there was a good school that had been willing to accept Dawn, even with the lack of permanent records. Her sister needed a stable home, and Buffy wanted to provide one. She thought she might be ready to provide one.

There had been no more running after that, however. Up until that point, Buffy could almost imagine that Spike would show up again. He would come walking out of the crowd, or sneak up behind her while she was out on patrol, or—something. The moment they settled into their apartment, Buffy had felt his absence.

Spike had sacrificed himself. The abstract concept became concrete in that moment.

The worst part was that she couldn't talk to anyone about how she was feeling. Dawn had never really repaired her relationship with the vampire, and Buffy didn't feel comfortable talking about how much she missed someone she was sure Dawn didn't like. Xander was in Africa, although she wouldn't have gone to him, not about Spike, even though he might understand her grief better than anyone else.

Willow was happy with Kennedy in South America, and Giles had tried to have Spike killed. Buffy still hadn't quite forgiven him for that. Besides, he was in England, busy with the new Council and Slayers.

Buffy had moped quietly for a couple of weeks, and then when Dawn's questions about what was wrong grew more insistent, she'd put on her happy face.

Spike had given her this opportunity to start over—to have a new life. He, of all people, wouldn't want her to mourn forever. She told herself that she was living for him.

On Christmas, though, Buffy couldn't take the strain. Dawn would leave and have a good time with her friends. Buffy would allow herself the opportunity to wallow, to sift through her memories of what-had-been.

It wasn't just Spike's absence. Dawn was the only one around for the holidays this year, and Buffy was missing everyone who was absent with a vicious ache that wouldn't be assuaged. She missed her best friends and the closeness they'd once had. She missed her mom. She missed Giles.

She missed Spike.

Perhaps it was Spike she missed the most, because he was the only one she would have felt comfortable telling any of this to. Spike would have understood, and he wouldn't have been surprised at her weakness.

Maybe that's what she had loved most about him. That he had allowed her the freedom to be weak—and to be strong.

Sometimes, Buffy allowed herself the fiction that Spike really had known that she loved him at the end, that he'd said what he had to get her to leave. Or that he'd known, but he hadn't allowed himself to believe because he wouldn't have been able to finish the job.

Deep in her heart, however, Buffy feared that Spike really hadn't known, and he really hadn't believed her. She had spoken the words too late, and he had died never knowing that he was loved.

She believed that Spike had found a certain peace at the end, though. That, at least, had been in his eyes. Buffy could be grateful that his sacrifice had brought him that much.

She understood that giving up your own life was the most amazing feeling.

That knowledge didn't help.

Buffy stood, walking over to the window that looked out over the street. They were forecasting rain, but no snow. She'd hoped to get a white Christmas this year, now that she was out of southern California, where snow was a miracle.

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the glass, and wished for snow.

And for something else her heart couldn't even put a name to.

~~~~~

Spike figured he must look pretty pathetic, smoking and drinking in a dive like this on Christmas. If he wasn't feeling so maudlin, he'd probably have gone to a demon bar where no one recognized the fact that it was a holiday.

Of course, that's why he'd come to this particular bar, because he was feeling maudlin, and because he had no better place to be.

Spike was, after all, essentially homeless.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray in front of him and lit another.

It was all well and good for Angel and his gang. They all had each other, if they wanted company. That lot all treated him like a nuisance—much like the Scoobies had treated him after he'd gotten the chip. Not worth killing, but not worth doing anything else with either.

Their attitude galled him. He'd sacrificed his unlife to save the bloody world, and what did he get? Spike got brought back to live as a ghost for months, treated like some unwanted poltergeist. As if he hadn't craved the silence of the grave. As if he'd asked to come back.

Spike hadn't thought much about what might come after death. He supposed he'd known that hell was a possibility, given what he was and what he had done, but there had been the hope of heaven. He'd died to save the world; didn't that help?

It had been a trick question, though. There had been nothing in between death and resurrection for him. One minute he'd been burning up in the Hellmouth, and the next he'd been standing in Angel's office.

Pavayne's antics seemed to indicate that hell was the more likely destination in his case, but Spike wasn't so sure. After all, Pavayne had been feeding other souls to the pit in his place. So maybe it was only that Pavayne was going to hell, and the poor bastards he'd managed to snag got stuck with his bill.

Either that, or Pavayne had only managed to snag those already headed there in the first place.

Spike didn't know, but knowing wouldn't change anything. He didn't do the right thing because it was going to get him somewhere or because he wanted to atone for his sins. There wasn't anything that would make up for what he'd done.

Losing Buffy had taught Spike that much. There wasn't anything in the world that could make up for losing someone you loved, and he'd visited that torment on thousands. Nothing could balance that, no matter how badly he'd like to.

Angel didn't seem to understand that these days, although he might have once. He kept talking about how his soul was better, somehow nobler, because he'd suffered more. Because he'd had it thrust on him.

Spike snorted, tossing back another drink. Angel didn't know what he was talking about. In Spike's estimation, the other vampire had lost sight of the goal, sitting behind that big desk, forgetting about the job that a Champion was bound to do.

He wondered if he shouldn't have packed it in, gone to Rome to take a chance with Buffy. Maybe she had meant what she'd said, and Spike was an idiot for doubting her. He wouldn't know until he asked.

If he hadn't been tethered to L.A. at first, Spike would have gone. He would have found some way to get to her. The more time went by, though, the more he wondered, and the stronger his doubt grew. Had she meant it? And what would he do when he found her?

Buffy had chosen him as her Champion, but what did Spike really have to offer her?

Spike got the sense that things at Wolfram & Hart were going to come to a head. It was the same feeling he'd had last year in Sunnydale, knowing that something big was coming. He thought maybe he was needed here, whether or not anyone else would admit it.

So Spike figured he would stay and do whatever it was a Champion was supposed to do.

He stared into his whiskey, purchased with money he'd stolen from Angel. Spike wondered why he was missing Buffy so much, and why it was so much worse today, on Christmas. Vampires weren't supposed to celebrate Christmas; it wasn't a recognized holiday among the members of the undead. Missing Buffy was a nearly physical ache, but it wasn't like he'd ever had her.

Not really, not in any way that counted.

Last Christmas, he'd been in the clutches of the First, and the holiday had come and gone by the time the Slayer had come to his rescue. He could still remember that night, Buffy telling him she needed him. Spike remembered her Christmas wish for snow, and he wondered if she'd get her wish this year.

Spike closed his eyes—blocking out the sights of the other scattered patrons, the woman dancing on the stage—and allowed himself to get lost in his memories. Even if he couldn't quite allow himself to believe that Buffy had loved him, he knew that she had needed him. She had trusted him. At the end, perhaps, she had forgiven him.

For a moment, Spike could let himself believe that it was enough.