Part 3
*****
"It was Spike." Buffy’s words were quiet, but they cut Xander to the bone. He felt his knees give, and Andrew helped him to sit on the ground. It was Spike, and Spike was dead, deader, dusted, gone. It was Spike.
It was Spike who had held him in the predawn hours and shared laughter and sweet words and touches. It was Spike who had woken him up yesterday afternoon to spread Willow’s healing liniment onto his abused back with cool, strong hands. It was Spike who had sprawled under him as the two men made love for hours. It was Spike who sent him off to the Summers’ house to gather the others and look for Buffy.
It was Spike who had been on Xander’s mind when Buffy returned with an injured Faith and the other girls. It was Spike who Xander had overheard talking to Buffy in the kitchen.
It was Spike who had joked, "Honey, you're home." Buffy’s reply was a subdued, "Yeah." Spike looked at the weapon she carried. "And you did it. Fulfilled your mission, found the holy grail, or the holy hand grenade, or whatever the hell that is." She held it out to him. "Right now we're going with scythe. You like?" He shook his head a little. "Pointy and wooden is not exactly the look I want to know better, but it does have flair." Buffy had stopped, and rested one hand on her hip. "Got your note," she said, her tone holding just a little hurt. "I'm sorry about that," Spike said. "But it doesn't matter. You're back in the bosom, all's forgiven, and last night was just a glitch. A little cold comfort from the cellar dweller, let's don't make a thing out of it."
Xander listened while they had a stilted conversation about discovering the origin of the weapon until finally Buffy had left. From the stairs he’d called out a quiet, "Hey." Spike turned, and a brilliant smile lit his face. "Hey, yourself," he said, and walked over to the stairs, lounging against the rail. "Look," Xander began, "I don’t know how you’re feeling about last night…" "Terrified," the vampire said, looking away. "Of what?" Xander asked. Blue eyes met Xander’s worried brown one. "Last night was... God, I'm such a jerk. I can't do this."
"Spike..." Xander whispered, suddenly afraid of what he might hear. "It was the best night of my life," the vampire said. Xander’s eye widened, not understanding. His eyes welling, Spike ran a hand through the human’s hair and cupped his cheek. "All of it, Xan, all of it. You asking me to help you and me actually being able to come through for you. And then after – when we were together. I've lived for sodding ever, pet, I've done everything -- I've done things with you I can't spell, but I've never... been close. To anyone, until last night. After all was said and done, all I did was hold you, and watch you sleep, and it was the best night of my life. So I'm, yeah. Terrified."
Xander laid his hand over the cool one on his face. "You don't have to be," he assured his lover. "Maybe, when this is all over…" Spike laid a gentle kiss on top of Xander’s head. "No. Let's just leave it. We'll go be heroes – it’s what we do. We’ll worry about after… after, OK?" Xander nodded and allowed the vampire to pull him to his feet. They shared a sweet kiss in the dimness of the kitchen. "Well," Xander said. "Hero time – let’s follow her and make sure she gets what she needs." Spike nodded and they swept out of the house.
It was Spike - or rather, Spike’s nose – that had led them to the temple, where they witnessed Caleb’s death and Buffy and Angel’s reunion - where they had first seen the amulet. It was Spike who had walked Xander home, telling him that he would return soon. It was Spike who had returned two hours later, with the amulet in his pocket, after having left Buffy sleeping alone on his cot in the basement. It was Spike who had carefully explained to Xander that he would be their champion, as unlikely as that sounded.
It was Spike who had stared into Xander’s face calmly, knowing that there would be no happy ending, no riding off into the sunset – and also knowing that Xander knew it, too.
It was Spike who had held him close through the predawn hours. It was Spike who had told Xander stories of his youth, stories of his early days as a vampire, stories he’d undoubtedly made up on the spot while the human’s warm fingers traced his ribs and hot tears painted his chest.
And it was Spike who had cried silently against Xander’s back as they made slow, sweet love one last time, unable to look at each other without shattering from the emotion on their faces.
It was Spike who had made Xander pack a duffle bag with the few possessions he thought the human would want to keep, and it was Spike who surreptitiously slipped his old Zippo lighter and the digital camera into the bag as it sat on the table.
It was Spike who had held Xander’s hand as they walked through the deserted streets in the false dawn on the way to the Summers’ house and kissed him softly in front of the door before they entered the house.
It was Spike who had smiled at him and winked, eyes filled with sorrow as he herded the potentials into the school basement.
It was Spike on Xander’s mind as he spent a last Scooby moment with Buffy, Willow and Giles; as he fought next to Dawn; as he looked for Anya’s body in the wreckage; as he boarded the bus; as the world ended and as he crumpled to the ground, bereft.
It was Spike.
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End of Part Three