Buffy tried her best to smile, though the expression didn't reach her bleary eyes. "Yeah, I did."
Noticing the less-than-excited mood of her friend, Willow frowned. "What's wrong, Buffy?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm just tired," Buffy said, hoping the lie was convincing enough. "It's been a busy few weeks."
"I bet it was!" Willow replied, seeming to accept Buffy's explanation. "Inspiring to someone to write so much in such a short period of time would wear any of us out! But it's an amazing accomplishment, Buffy." Willow lowered her voice. "I've heard the bosses are quite impressed that you were able to pull this off. You're definitely getting out of the file room, and rumor has it, you'll be back on assignment within the next couple of days."
Buffy fought to keep smiling over the sickening feeling in her stomach. Never before had she thought the prospect of leaving the file room would seem so bleak. But now… How could she work with another poet who wasn't Spike? Any words she inspired in someone else would feel cheap to her now.
"That's great," she said, though her words held little conviction. "I'm going to go sleep for a while. I really need to rest."
"Okay," Willow replied. She leaned forward and gave her fellow muse a hug. "Congratulations, Buffy. I'm so proud of you!"
Buffy responded with only a nod as Willow pulled away, then walked down the hallway, to her rooms.
Her plush suite was just as it had always been, luxurious and inviting. It had been her home for, well, ever, yet suddenly, it didn't seem like home at all. She longed for Spike's small, dark flat.
It hadn't been anywhere near as posh, yet it had been…cozy.
Buffy had been telling the truth when she'd told Willow she needed rest, so with shoulders slumped, she walked into her bedroom. As she lay down on her bed, it was just as plush as it had always been, with its plethora of blankets and pillows, yet try as she might, she couldn't get comfortable.
Her body longed for the feel of Spike against her, his hard, lean form more comfortable to rest on than the thickest down pillow. Even as she tried to spoon herself against one of her larger pillows, she couldn't seem to recreate the feeling, the lack of both warmth from his body and the sound of his heartbeat painfully noticeable.
The loneliness and loss were even more than she imagined, and Buffy curled up on her bed and cried.
Waking up the next morning was like losing her all over again. For those first few blissful moments before he reached full wakefulness, Spike didn't remember Buffy was gone.
Then, he opened his eyes, realized he was alone, and the full brunt of the pain hit him all over again.
He hadn't known loss this devastating since the death of his mother, his break-up with Drusilla seeming pale in comparison. He felt almost foolish in light of his time with Buffy for ever thinking what he and Dru had shared was anything truly spectacular.
Spike didn't want to face the day. He wanted to stay in the bed, wallowing in his misery. He wanted to find the closest bottle of liquor and drown himself in it until he couldn't feel anymore.
He didn't.
After all, he'd made a promise to his girl.
His poems were written, yet he still needed to get them polished and typed so he could present them to his publisher. With only a week remaining until his deadline, he needed to do that as soon as possible, not put it off. It was important to Buffy that he keep going even after he'd finished what she was sent there to help him with, and he wouldn't let her down.
Spike pulled himself up out of bed and put on his jeans, then made his way to the kitchen to dig around for something to eat before he got to work on putting the finishing touches on his manuscript. He opened the refrigerator, pulling out a take-away carton, then wrinkling his nose as he opened it and deduced it was well passed its prime. He turned and lifted the lid of the waste bin and froze as he saw it was completely full of empty Ben and Jerry's Phish Food containers.
At the sight of it, Spike broke down.
It was already well into the evening before Spike finally got to his manuscript. A lump formed in his throat as he read over what he'd written, every word bringing back a vivid memory of Buffy.
He didn't know how he would keep going.
A knock at his door pulled Spike away from the poems, and he grabbed a t-shirt that was draped over the side of the couch, putting it on as he went to see who was there.
"Hey, Rupes," Spike said as he opened the door to his friend. "I didn't expect to see you paying a visit. Come on in."
Giles nodded as he walked into the flat. "I'll be blunt, Will," he said as he turned his gaze on the younger man. "I came here to check up on you, make sure you were doing okay."
Spike didn't bother to try to fake his mood. "I'll be honest, Rupert, I've been better. Buffy left last night."
"I know."
Spike blinked. "What?"
"Do you mind if we sit down?" Giles asked, gesturing to the couch.
"It's probably a good idea. Have a seat."
Giles nodded and sat down, Spike joining him soon after. "Buffy came to visit me last night. Or possibly very early this morning…"
"What? Why? What did she say?" Spike asked, surprised by this bit of news.
"She told me she was leaving and that she wanted me to look after you, make sure you take care of yourself." Giles took off his glasses as he met Spike's eyes. "She also wanted me to tell you that she loves you very much, and she always will."
Spike swallowed, using everything he had not to cry in front of the other man. "I love her, too. God, I love her so bloody much."
"She really was what you said she was, wasn't she, William?"
"Yeah," Spike replied, nodding. "And she awakened parts of me I didn't even know were there before I met her. Simply holding her could be the most wonderful thing in the world."
Giles felt his heart go out to his former student. He knew the sort of pain Will must be feeling now, had experienced it himself a few years prior when he'd lost his beloved Jenny. While Buffy had not died as Jenny had, she was still gone to William forever, some place far beyond his reach.
The emptiness one felt from such a thing was not easy to bear.
His gaze moved to the coffee table, noting the stack of papers on top of it. "Is that your manuscript?"
Spike nodded his head in an affirmative as he reached over and picked up the papers, handing them over to Giles. "Here. Take a look. They still need some revision, I'm sure, but they're a start."
For several minutes, the two men sat in silence, Giles reading over the first few poems in the stack. When he finally looked up, his expression was one akin to awe. "Will, these are… Well, they're nothing short of amazing. The emotions are so beautifully raw, I've never…" Giles stopped short as full realization dawned on him. "They're about her."
Pain flashed across Spike's face again as he answered softly, "Every syllable."
Giles had always known his young friend put little if no armor around his heart. Despite the intensity with which he experienced everything, Spike made no attempt to shield himself from potential pain. His anger was explosive, but the passion of his love knew no bounds.
If Buffy had gotten as deeply into his heart and soul as these poems suggested…
Quite frankly, Giles was surprised Spike was holding himself together at all.
"Are you going to be all right?" Giles asked, his tone and expression both full of worry.
"I have to be." Spike swallowed, fighting a fresh wave of tears. "I promised Buffy I'd keep going. I can't…I can't let her down."
The determination mixing with the pain in his voice now seemed to make Spike's situation all the more heartbreaking to Giles. "Is there anything I can do, Will? Anything at all that would be of help to you?"
"Would you be willing to read over my poems, give them an edit? I just don't think I have it in me right now to be properly discerning right now. It's all too…"
"Fresh?" Giles supplied when Spike seemed to be searching for a word.
"Yeah, fresh," Spike replied with a nod. "I need to get the manuscript typed up and sent out within the next couple of days, and I could really use the look-over."
"I'd be more than happy to do it for you," Giles told him. "If you'd like, I can read over them tonight and have them back to you tomorrow. I know you're under a crunch with your deadline."
Spike nodded. "Thank you, Rupes. I really do appreciate it."
"It's no trouble, Will. I'm always happy to help you out."
"Still, thank you."
Giles started to tell Spike good bye so he could go home and get started on reading over the manuscript for him when he took another look at the blond man's eyes. He looked so lost, so alone, and Giles could not in good conscience leave him.
"William?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you like me to stay here while I read over them? So I could discuss any comments I have with you, of course."
Spike knew what Giles was doing. He was giving him an excuse to have company without having to admit out loud that he was too upset to be alone. He gave a small, grateful smile. "Sure. Probably be easier for both of us that way."
"Yes, quite," Giles replied, returning the smile.
"Do you need anything, old man?" Spike asked, trying his best to seem less broken than he felt—even if he knew Giles would see right through the façade.
"No, I'm quite all right," Giles replied, getting situated against the cushions of the couch.
Spike leaned back then, though his hands tapped nervously against his thigh as he waited anxiously for Giles to begin commenting on the first poem.
By the time he reached the last word Spike had, Giles realized he'd had very few comments to make that were anything but positive. He knew it was technically a rough draft, written in but a few short weeks, and yet it was already better polished than many volumes he'd picked up in bookstores.
Giles had been able to make a few suggestions here and there on how to make a line or passage tighter, but his more frequent reaction had been one of admiration for the beauty of Spike's work. His first book had been wonderful, but this…
It was truly inspired.
He'd wanted to read it all again, to start from the beginning and get lost in the raw emotion that sang from every word. Longing, desire, passion, need, lust, and love had all been poured into the work, the poems enthralling Giles with the pictures they painted.
One thing, however, kept persisting in his mind.
If this was what Spike had experienced with Buffy, then how would the young man ever move on without her?
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