Chicken Soup for the Soul
I wrote this right after season 6 ended, and I later found it in the wrong folder. It's fluffier than I would write now, I think.
But, waste not, want not.
He had played it out a thousand times in his mind. He’d come back to town, hide out somewhere, wait until Buffy found out he was back. Maybe send her a letter. Maybe pass the news on through Clem. Wait until he knew she wanted to see him.
In the end, he decided to suck up his courage and brave the lion in her den. So, at twilight, he found himself knocking on the door of the Revello Drive house.
Dawn opened it. Saw him standing on the doorstep. Shrieked with delight. “Spike! You’re back!” Threw her arms around him, then stiffened. Stopped smiling. Stepped back into the house. She knew.
“Bit, I...I’m sorry I was gone so long. Sorry I didn’t write. I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.” He stood there, his head hanging down, contrite. He knew this was a mistake. “It’s just, I have some things to say. To tell Buffy, and you. Then I’ll be off again, if that’s what you want.”
“You’ll go again? No, that’s not what I want. How could you think that’s what I want?”
He put his hand out towards the entrance way. Couldn’t believe it when there was no resistance. He was sure he’d be blocked out again. Still, he waited for her to ask.
“Come in, Spike. What are you waiting for? An invitation?” She took his hand and drew him inside. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“But you know. I can tell you know. What I did.” He studied her face for a sign he was wrong. That he’d said too much.
“I know. I know what happened,” she gestured with her thumb, “upstairs. Xander told me.”
That git. That self-righteous bastard. To burden the kid with something like that. “Harris? Buffy told him?”
“He found her. Knew you’d been here. I guess it was kind of obvious what happened.”
He should have checked on her before he’d gone. She’d seemed all right, physically. But what had she said about being hurt? “How is she? I didn’t...?”
“She’s fine. More than fine. Back to her old self. Well, except...” How could she explain all that had happened since he’d gone? Better to let her sister do it. “Buffy’s sick.”
“Sick?” A thousand horrible thoughts flittered through his mind. All ending with that granite headstone. He felt a cold hand squeeze his chest.
“No, oh, Spike, I’m sorry.” He had gone deadly pale, paler than usual. She had to learn to stop blurting things out. “She has the flu. Just a virus. And you know her, Slayer strength, she’ll snap out of it in a few days. Just right now, she’s feeling pretty icky.”
He let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I hate her to feel poorly. I’ll come back in a few days. When she’s better.”
“No, Spike. Go upstairs. She’d love to see you.”
“No, Bit, I’m sure I’m the last person she wants to see.” He turned to leave.
“She misses you.” That stopped him. “She explained what happened. All of it. She doesn’t blame you, not really. At least, no more than she blames herself.”
Impossible. “It wasn’t her fault. None of it.”
“Not the way she tells it.” She pulled his arm. “Come with me.” She led him into the kitchen. “I was just going to take this soup up to her. Why don’t you do it?”
Thus he found himself on the staircase, a bowl of chicken soup and a glass of ginger ale balanced on the tray in his hands. Dawn looked up from the lower floor, smiling. Oh, to have her confidence.
When he walked though Buffy’s bedroom door, he gasped. She was lying on her bed, her face flushed against the pale pink pillowcase. He golden hair was splayed out over the fabric, grown longer again over the summer. She looked to him like a fairytale princess, waiting to be wakened with a kiss. He wished he felt more like a prince.
He put the tray on her dresser and started to leave. Looked down at her one last time. So beautiful. He couldn’t resist brushing his lips against her forehead.
“Spike?” She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “Wow. I like this dream.”
“Hi Buffy,” he said gently. “I came back.”
“I see.” She smiled. A little wan, considering her illness, but it looked glorious to him. “Not a dream.”
“Not a dream.” He took the hand she held out to him. “I have a soul now.”
“That’s nice.” She tugged a bit on his hand, and he sat down beside her. “I have the flu.”
“I know. I brought you some soup.” It had been so long since he’d felt like smiling. Maybe he was the one dreaming.
“Don’t go.”
He sat quietly beside her as she drifted back to sleep. “Never again.”