By Cynthia Liskow

Part 4/4

Disclaimers, etc. in Part 1

Spike couldn't remember needing a cigarette this badly. The quaking 

in his hands made shaking the fag from the box easy enough, but 

lighting it was another issue altogether. Finally, after bracing his 

wrists against his knees, Spike managed to get the blasted thing 

alight and sucked in greedily, waiting for the bones in his hands to 

stop rattling.

The cigarette's calming attributes, whether physiological or 

psychological, kicked in as he lit the fourth from the ember of the 

third. He was trembling less, true enough, but her blood was still 

singing through his veins, ringing in his ears, making his skin 

tingle around him. He remembered the rush of Slayer in the system, 

but this time 'round, the ecstasy of it, the soaring energy, the 

strength and power of it, the pre-orgasmic high, was unbearable. 

To survive it, Spike had curled himself tightly around his Slayer's 

body and keened his way through the rampaging fever in his body, and 

once the very worst (best?) had passed, he put the fierce energy to 

work. She'd given him chores, Buffy had, and Spike meant to complete 

them.

Keeping in mind that Buffy insisted that her Key-spawning blood not 

go to waste, Spike had lapped every drop from her body. Aftershocks 

caught him off guard, and he fought them down, fought to keep from 

vomiting up her precious being. 

Once the red smears were gone, Spike had washed Buffy thoroughly and 

with the same deference he'd shown Dawn. He'd brushed her hair, then 

taken some time to arrange it in an elegant, shining coil about her 

crown, a skill he'd picked up in a century and a quarter with 

Drusilla.

Buffy's nudity had seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances. 

He'd rustled briefly through her discarded clothing, but they were 

crusted with gore and dirt; they would hardly do for such an 

occasion. Harm's leftovers were all wrong, too, as Dawn had gotten 

the only garment not specifically made for a hooker.

In the end, he'd opted for another sheet. Creatively folded, wrapped, 

and draped, the red satin made a surprisingly elegant sarong that 

showed off her flawless, creamy shoulders and neatly sliced throat. 

Her arms were bare as well, mismatched wrists displayed under open, 

supplicating palms.

She was stunning. They both were. Christ, but that family had good 

genes.

I have those genes now, Spike thought as he lit his fifth fag. Almost 

out, he realized. Should probably pace myself.

Sunset was approaching; he could see the shadows shifting quickly 

along the east wall, the color of the light changing. Surely the gang 

would be checking in soon, popping by to see he'd made it back with 

the little one on their way out to hunt for their friend. 

He'd have to hurry.

Suddenly filled with purpose, Spike leapt to his feet and fairly flew 

down the ladder. His various aches and pains were mending much more 

quickly than usual. Slayer blood was quite the elixir. 

He bathed quickly and donned his Sunday best--sharply cut black wool 

trousers, soft cotton undershirt, and a tight black cashmere 

turtleneck Harmony'd stolen for him in a fit of freakish good taste. 

He combed his hair and slicked some gel through it, and then Spike 

sat down to work out the details.

As usual, the Scoobies were bollixing up a perfectly good plan. He'd 

promised to pass on Buffy's message, and he couldn't well leave 

without doing it. He mulled over the best manner of delivery, taking 

time to properly savor his second-to-last cigarette. When he'd worked 

it out, Spike set about the preparations. 

He rooted around the crypt's various cubbies until he found a good, 

sturdy stake, point not yet dulled by thick muscle and bones. Humming 

his satisfaction, he brought it over to Dawn's sarcophagus, where 

he'd laid Buffy at her sister's side.

Her limbs were beginning to lose their elasticity, the stiffening 

process no doubt hastened by the lack of fluids. Carefully, he 

pursuaded her elbows to bend and rotate, then curled her fingers 

around the base of the stake so that she held it straight out from 

her sternum. Spike squeezed her hands and wrists and held them for 

several seconds so they'd settle, then went to find some rope. The 

pillowcase that matched her dress worked well enough. He used her 

knife to slice it, peeling it like an apple, in one long ribbon. 

Spike tied her hands around the stake and stepped back to admire his 

work. She looked perfect. Ready to fight, acknowledging her power and 

her destiny, protectress of the ethereal waif who shared her tomb.

He felt a tremor run through him, a flutter in the region of his 

heart, but he steeled himself against it. 

"Well, ladies," he said snappily, and the sound of his voice bounced 

off the cooling stone walls, the first words he'd uttered in an 

age. "You look smashing, if I do say so myself. Lucky bloke, I am. 

Couldn't catch two finer birds if I had a mind to." 

He moved close again, hovering over Dawn for a moment before leaning 

down and kissing her cold lips, then her gracefully curving brow.

"Ta, Bit," he said simply, then moved around to her sister's side. 

There wasn't much to say, really. Or anything at all. So he kissed 

her, too, and allowed himself the luxury of pressing his cheek firmly 

against the smooth silk of hers for the space of three heartbeats, 

had there been a living heart to keep track.

Spike was just reaching for the knife when he spotted his duster 

lying in a heap near the armchair. He swooped down and swiped it up, 

giving it a good shake as it hissed off the floor, then scanned the 

crypt for an appropriate place to hang it. At a loss, he folded it 

into a neat rectangle and set it at the Summers' feet.

Satisfied, he turned and surveyed his canvas. Then, with a strong and 

purposeful movement, he sliced through the base of his left fingers.

***********************************

The graveyard was creepy this time of day. Xander rarely came there 

when it wasn't pitch black, and he wasn't used to the strong, dark 

shadows and amorphous sillouettes that the barely-set sun threw. 

Funny that full night could feel safer, just by way of familiarity.

Okay, not funny. Nothing was funny today. But interesting. 

He could see the jumping orange light of a torch or two in the window 

of Spike's crypt and turned his head enough to aim his voice at Giles 

but still keep an eye on the terrain in front of him. 

"Looks like he's home," Xander called in his military-guy yelling-

without-making-a-lot-of-noise voice.

Giles answered in his double-oh-librarian version of the same. "Good. 

We'll send Spike to check out the Initiative caves, then. We can 

cover more ground if we split up."

Xander harrumphed a general agreement to the strategy and raised his 

stake out of habit as he stepped up and into the marble entryway, 

pushing the outer door open with his free hand. 

"Spike?" He waited for Giles to catch up, exchanging a raising of 

eyebrows with him before shouldering open the inner door. He waited 

for the hinges to stop screeching before repeating the hail.

"Perhaps he's gone out to look for her already," Giles suggested, 

hearing the same lack of response Xander did. 

Xander stepped in and took a quick survey, squinting in the weirdly 

shifting light, and saw people-shaped shapes lying on one of the 

tombs. One of them was Buffy-shaped, and he reached behind him and 

grabbed Giles's arm. 

"Hey," he whispered, and pointed with a tip of his head. "She's 

here." 

Giles nodded and lifted a hand to his mouth, signaling for quiet. 

Xander nodded. They shouldn't wake her. Not yet. Let her sleep for 

now, next to the shape he assumed was Dawn's body but couldn't bear 

to examine more closely, for fear of losing the control he'd amazed 

himself by exerting throughout the day.

The Watcher raised his arms and shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, 

frowning for emphasis, and mouthed "Where's Spike?"

Another quick look around gave Xander an idea. He pointed to the open 

trap door, ladder poking out, gave a shrug of his own, and widened 

his eyes in the universal symbol for "I dunno."

A toss of Giles's head urged Xander further into the crypt, and he 

meandered to the left, drawn toward the TV like any good American 

boy. 

"You smell something?" he asked quietly as they moved away from 

napping Buffy.

Giles scrunched his nose as he sniffed and frowned, deepening the 

weary lines that his time on the Hellmouth had etched into his face. 

He shook his head, but Xander could tell from the way Giles's 

eyebrows twisted that it was more of a question than a negative 

answer.

With a sigh, Xander slumped into the armchair and allowed himself a 

moment of rest, closing his eyes and propping his head against the 

palms of his hands, supported in turn by a careful balance of knee 

and elbow. 

Crap, but he'd had a bad day. Xander felt a bubble of hysteria 

threaten to break through the surface on the back of a senseless 

giggle. Understatement of the eon. He managed to smother the crazy 

laugh he'd felt fighting through, held his breath until it died 

inside him, then took a deep breath through both mouth and nose and 

blew it back out. 

Keep it together, man, he thought, and took a second breath.

The smell hit him more strongly, and as Xander was trying to identify 

it, he felt cold dampness on the backs of his legs. He turned his 

head and dropped a hand to the seat of the chair, wiping it curiously 

and feeling something sticky come away onto his skin. Frowning, 

Xander twisted to catch some of the dim and irregular light across 

his hand.

"Giles?" he said uncertainly as he closed and reopened his hand, then 

lifted it to smell. He stood up hastily, calling out this 

time, "Giles."

Xander whipped around to find Giles staring at the wall, which was 

dirtier than he remembered.

"Giles," he said forcefully, and the Watcher finally turned to him, 

face frozen in a perplexed frown. "Blood. On the chair," he stated, 

and then specified, "Lots of it."

"I... yes, it's just that..." Hearing Xander's chuff of impatience, 

Giles cleared his throat and pointed. "There..."

The dirty streaks on the wall weren't dirt, Xander saw, and was very 

afraid he knew what they were.

"The days will rally, wreathing" Xander read, stumbling over the 

unfamiliar words. "Their crazy tar... tarantelle; And you must go on 

breathing, But I'll be safe in hell."

"It's Parker, I believe," Giles said. "Or perhaps another of that 

circle, I can't quite place it. Certainly this past century, and 

American."

"And written in blood, Giles," Xander snapped, exasperated with 

Giles's inability to get the point. "Blood. All over the wall. All 

over the chair. And," he added, looking around more carefully, "all 

over the floor."

"Oh dear lord," Giles breathed, and Xander knew it was bad.

In six long steps he was at the tomb. As he'd suspected, Dawn's body 

was the shape next to Buffy, who clutched a stake to her chest.

"Buffy!" She was too pale, dressed in an odd toga thing. 

Giles was right behind him, and as Xander leaned to gently shake his 

friend awake he felt the Watcher's shaking but firm hand on his 

shoulder, pulling him back.

"Xander, don't," he said in a voice too calm to be real.

Ignoring the command, Xander put his own hands on Buffy's shoulders, 

somehow sharper, bonier than he remembered.

"Buffy, come on now. Wake up. Come on."

Her head lolled only slightly as he shook her, less than it should 

have.

It was then that Xander understood that the red stripe on the side of 

her neck was not attached to the improvised dress she wore, that it 

was part of her. 

"Oh no," he sobbed, and shook her harder. "Buffy, no, you can't. Wake 

up, Buff, please. Please wake up."

Xander felt Giles's hands tighten on his shoulders, pulling, and his 

gentle voice cutting through the noise in his head.

"Xander, let go," the voice said. "Let her go."

The control and courage Xander had been clinging to was ripped from 

his grasp like a footbridge in a flash flood. The torrential wave of 

emotion overtook him, and he grabbed at Giles to keep from being 

swept away entirely.

Giles caught him as he fell, arms clasping him about the shoulders, 

and Xander felt a strong hand cradling the back of his head in a way 

that Xander imagined a father's would. 

"We have to let her go," Giles said, the strain and hitch in his 

voice revealing his own tears.

"He killed her, Giles," he sobbed. "She trusted him, and look what he 

did." Xander violently pulled away from the Watcher and turned back 

to look at Buffy. "He says he loves her? Look what he did!"

Buffy's hands were tied to a stake, he saw, and Xander was further 

incensed at Spike's mockery of the woman he'd tried so hard to 

convince everyone he loved. Sick bastard. 

He was nearly blinded with rage and tears as he tore ineffectually at 

the fabric that bound Buffy's hands. 

"Gonna boil that bastard in holy water--drip it all over him with an 

eyedropper," Xander ranted, voice rising and cracking. "Burn bitty 

crosses into his skin, every inch of him."

He couldn't get the ties off, couldn't get Buffy freed, and he cried 

again at the frustration of it, then, with a mindless howl, Xander 

threw himself blindly away from his friends' bodies and smashed the 

first thing he could close his hands around, then the next, and the 

next.

"Stake's too good for you! You hear me, Spike?? Freaking axe to the 

neck's too quick. You're gonna pay for this! You killed her!"

Xander hit something solid and pain shot up his forearm, stunning him 

momentarily, and in the second it took him to suck in musty air, he 

heard Giles speak softly. 

"What? What did you say?" he asked as he turned to rail on the 

Watcher.

But Giles was sitting quietly at Buffy's side, folds of red ribbon 

shimmering in his hands as he worked at the knots.

"I said," Giles intoned, "I don't believe he did."

"What?" he repeated, incredulous at the betrayal of taking Spike's 

side at this moment. "How can you say that? He bit her, Giles. For 

all we know, she's gonna rise up tonight and kill us all."

Giles's ministrations paid off, and the stake slipped from between 

the Slayer's stiffened hands, rattling to the floor with a noise that 

matched the hollow racket in Xander's chest.

"Giles?"

The librarian looked ancient as he pulled his glasses from his face 

and tucked them away in his pocket, then wiped a shaking hand across 

his face. When he looked up at the younger man, his eyes revealed the 

emotion that was absent in his stiff-upper-lip voice.

"I believe that Buffy... she seems to have killed herself, Xander."

It was a ridiculously long time before Xander could use his voice 

again. 

"No."

"Xander..."

"No. She would not do that."

Giles' composure cracked with his voice, and he snapped at Xander.

"Look for yourself!" 

Xander moved closer, still shaking his head.

After a deep breath, Giles's voice was gentle again. 

"No bite marks, Xander. Her neck is cut, as is one of her wrists. Her 

left wrist, and the left side of her neck, which suggests that she 

cut it herself."

"Spike could have done it."

Giles looked down at the knife he'd picked up from between the two 

sisters. "The chip, Xander. You're forgetting about the chip."

"So? He's hit me with the chip in. So he has a headache for a 

while..."

"The cut on her neck is made from the top down; an attacker would 

have come at her from behind, cutting back toward himself. Spike is 

left handed. The cut would have been to the right side."

Xander continued to shake his head, searching for explanations. Spike 

could have come at her from the front. That would put the knife in 

the right place, right?

Giles stood up and replaced the knife, then moved toward Xander, 

speaking soothingly, as one would to an injured animal.

"Xander. None of wants to believe that Buffy would commit suicide, 

but we have to look at the evidence." He placed a hand on Xander's 

forearm. "She hinted at this to me last night. I should have 

understood then, but I didn't. I couldn't."

"It was Spike," Xander repeated with little conviction.

"Look at the girls, Xander. They're covered in dust. Spike's dead. 

Killed himself on the stake he tied into Buffy's hands." He turned 

the boy toward the writing on the wall. "He even left a suicide note."

The neat, bloody letters stood out like neon now, and he saw the torn 

clothing tossed in a careless circle around the armchair: two pair of 

pants, various shirts and underthings, Buffy's white sweater, 

splotched an angry red.

"Oh, God, Giles."

Xander's knees gave out, and he found himself thumping bonelessly to 

the floor next to the sarcophagus. He felt sick, faint, and let 

gravity pull him the rest of the way down to keep from passing out. 

Stretched on the cold stone, Xander rolled his aching head to the 

side, away from Giles, away from the unthinkable act the ripped 

panties suggested, away from that poem on the wall, written in 

Spike's blood. Or was it Buffy's? 

But there was more writing, more blood, on the side of the marble 

death box, and Xander was startled to hear his own voice responding 

nonsensically to it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

For, in neat, straight rows of fingertip-sized letters that appeared 

to continue around the corners like a cheerleader's spiral entry in a 

three-dimensional yearbook, was another message.

"She loves you."

***********************************

End

***********************************

Authors Notes: 

The title of this story comes from a song by The Who called "Imagine 

a Man," which some say would have been Pete Townsend's suicide note 

to the world, had he--you know--killed himself. The verse I pulled 

the title from goes "Imagine a girl/You long for and have/And the 

body of chalky perfection and truth," which just sort of felt Spikey 

to me. Giles was correct: Spike's suicide poem is, in fact, by 

Dorothy Parker. It's called "Braggart," and I'm not going to quote it 

here, because I may well use it in another story, and I don't want to 

give too much away :-) It also proves that I'm incapable of excluding 

Dotty from anything I write, much as I try.

Thanks again, Rachel and Laura. Y'all're the best.