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12.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas… Twelve Drummers Drumming, by Bogwitch
23rd December 2004
“So who’s next on your list then, Bluebell?” Spike asked, relieved that they had reached the final day of the song at last.
Illyria paused, apparently giving the matter great thought. “I wish to see your Buffy. This woman who has the love of two vampires must indeed be special.”
“Yeah, she is.” Spike frowned; after his outburst, he might have known that Illyria would want to see Buffy. Their little trip so far had been bittersweet all told, but this was too personal – and too soon. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, you know. She’s moved on. It’s about time I did too.”
Illyria turned and scrutinised him. Her glare, devoid of warmth, felt like it penetrated through to his soul. “You protest that others may have feelings for this woman, yet you think she does not love you. You are a strange, contradictory creature.”
“Look, I know she doesn’t, okay?” Spike sighed. “Doesn’t mean I’m just gonna let the great ponce have her. C’mon, dontcha think it’s time to get back now? The groceries are getting warm. The blood won’t taste the same…”
“We will return to the time we left. Your nourishment will not be damaged. I wish to meet this Buffy. The Slayers were made from demonkind, yet they walk as mortals. Your Slayer is a curiosity. She died and yet lives on. I wish to see why she does not return the affections you have for her.”
The world flipped over once again and they were standing in a cemetery; an old one, judging by the state of the headstones and the way they were crammed into whatever space they could fit. Weathered, broken in places, old markers listed in the dry ground, while weeping angels grieved eternally over the tombs. The Italian names of their masters slowly disappeared into the forgetfulness of time, as the carvings that proclaimed them became weathered and lost under the lichens.
“Right,” Spike looked around at the tombs, bare but for the sombre sprays of flowers placed in memory of the dead, and doubtfully. “This is very Christmassy.”
The sound of ‘We Three Kings’ being cheerfully murdered by a polyphonic ringtone broke the silence of the dead’s eternal rest, lasting for a mercifully short time before it was answered by a familiar voice. “Hello? Hi Willow. What’s up? Was your flight okay?”
And there she was, strolling along the path. It was the first time Spike had seen Buffy properly for over a year, but the sketch he’d held in his memory had missed barely a detail. This was no brief glimpse across a crowded nightclub; he could see all too clearly how the weight of burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Her expression was bright and the dark circles of stress that had clouded under her eyes were gone. There was a spring to her step that caused the gentle wave in her hair to spring lightly as she walked and, for all the lip service he’d given in the last year to moving on, he was smitten all over again.
“Yeah, I’m just going to do a quick patrol. I’ll be back soon. I can’t wait to see you,” she told the witch on the other end of the line. “I doubt much will happen tonight,” she laughed and Spike thought he’d never heard her so carefree. “I know, I shouldn’t have said that! See you later. Bye!”
As she flipped the lid of the phone shut, she stopped and took a look about her. Seeing nothing suspicious, she frowned and continued walking.
“She is unimpressive for a great warrior,” Illyria observed.
Spike, his eyes still fixed on his elusive love, murmured in reply. “You should see her fight though. Always gave me a good run for my money.”
“She met you in combat, yet you both survive.”
Spike shrugged. “Our hearts weren’t in it.”
“She is a Vampire Slayer and you are a half breed. She let you and the dark one live.”
“Yeah, Buffy’s funny like that.”
“You are amused by the dereliction of her duty.”
“What?” Spike shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. Buffy’s a good person… Look it’s complicated and private. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Buffy had stopped again, her finely tuned senses warning her of danger. Warily, she slid the stake from its place tucked into the back of her jeans and waited, alert.
The attack came from behind. A terrible wolf-like creature, loping upright on long, bony legs, all claws and ravening teeth, it tore past Spike and Illyria, heading directly for the tasty girly treat before it.
It struck out at the Slayer with a sweep of its long wolverine arms, seeking to rend her apart with its enormous claws. She was tiny in comparison, under half its height, and she was able to nimbly jump aside, athletically dodging the blow and ducking under its next attack. Using her momentum, she countered with her own strike that landed with a hard crunch against its chest. The creature roared, enraged, and it lunged at her again, its great arms swooping in, slashing frantically in all directions. It had no skill, no discipline, just its ravenous bloodlust that sought only to devour its prey. Using its clumsiness, Buffy was able to bounce up and catch one of its arms with a kick like a wrecking ball. There was a snap as her foot hit its target, and the creature yelped in pain, but she failed to retreat in time, stumbling as she avoided the trailing, useless arm, and she caught a brush of a claw across her shoulder.
At the sight and smell of the shallow gash, Spike leapt forward without thinking, jumping onto the creature’s back, grasping it tightly around the neck. It howled angrily, its arms flailing as it tried to drag its assailant from its back. Spike clung on tight as it lurched and bucked, until he found some leverage and yanked, severing its spinal cord as the vertebrae parted with a sickening crack. Its raucous keening cut short, the creature went limp and it died where it collapsed at the shocked Slayer’s feet.
“I guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to,” she quipped, after a moment’s pause.
Spike looked up at her from his handiwork, breathing hard, but unnecessarily, with the thrill of the fight. It felt like the old times in the cemeteries of Sunnydale, times he remembered with great fondness. Him, her, the waxing moon and the bloodied corpse of something evil and deadly at their feet, he’d missed that feeling of partnership they’d shared.
Buffy was only an arm’s length away, but she couldn’t see him. Amazed, he reached for her, searching for connection, but not expecting her to feel his touch. He closed his hand and stroked her cheek; how odd she should feel so solid under his fingers when to her his touch was nothing.
Buffy flinched, gasping as she whirled around, looking for an assailant. “Who’s there?”
Stunned, Spike turned to Illyria. “She felt that!”
Illyria tilted her head. “It is curious. My power is diminished. She should not feel you.”
He turned back to Buffy. She’d relaxed after what seemed to her like a false alarm, but she was still on code red. “Buffy!” he called to her. “Buffy? Can you hear me?”
Buffy shivered in response. She’d felt something, her Slayer senses on overdrive, her blood racing with the promise of action.
“C’mon Buffy, I’m here!” Desperately he grabbed her shoulders.
“Spike?” she gasped. She started to reach for him, not knowing where he was, but knowing he was close. Her hands went right through him. “Spike? Oh my God, are you here?”
He wasn’t a ghost, not this time, but to her he was barely a voice on the wind. Luckily, he knew something about that, having learnt a bit from Pavayne about reality. If he could just focus…
To him nothing seemed to happen, but from the way Buffy’s eyes became huge in wonder and Illyria began to analyse him intently, he sensed his plan had worked. He was beginning to manifest, merging Buffy’s reality with his own until he was balanced precariously between the two, holding himself desperately on the threshold with all the strength of his will. He knew now how Illyria must feel, as her reduced powers kept them going on this caper.
Buffy remained speechless for a long moment. “Spike?” she managed to whisper, looking him over in disbelief. “You’ve come back?”
“Not exactly…”
She reached out again to touch and he tried to put his hand in hers, but reality didn’t seem quite solid. He could feel her; the warmth of her palm, the slight nervous perspiration, but she kept slipping from his grasp as she tried and failed to grip him in return.
“How? How is this possible?” she asked.
Spike looked at Illyria, but the god king remained inscrutable and invisible to Buffy. “Divine intervention, I think. Look, I don’t have long…”
“You’re not the ghost of Christmas past, are you? Because that’d be so lame.”
“I’m okay Buffy, thanks for asking. Someone brought me back…”
“I love you,” she said quickly, cutting him off.
“What?”
“I. Love. You,” she said slowly. “There. I’ve said it. I mean it. If I only have a moment then I don’t want to waste it. Not again.”
Spike brushed back a lock of her hair, not caring that to her it only felt like the breath of a faint breeze. “Buffy, it’s complicated and I don’t have time to explain. I’m not a ghost, but I’m not really here. I was in L.A. with Angel…”
“You were with Angel?” she said, incredulously. “That I wish I'd seen.”
“Someone brought me back, Buffy. We’ve done some good work, Angel and me,” Spike frowned, still bitter about Angel keeping Connor a secret. “Even if the git decided to keep me out of the loop.”
“What are you talking about? Were you at Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy looked at him in confusion, but then dismissed it all. “Why are we talking about Angel anyway?”
Spike realised she was right; they shouldn’t spend the few precious minutes he could hold himself in her dimension talking through the Connor business. “I’ll explain, just not now. Things have got a bit hectic, but I do miss you.”
Her eyes filled with the suggestion of tears, diluting them into wide pools. “I miss you too.”
He moved into to kiss her, but stopped a moment before their lips could meet. “Just a minute.” He turned from Buffy to Illyria. “Illyria, You kept that wreath right?”
“Who’s Illyria?” Buffy asked.
“She’s part of the long story, Pet. We’re on the run together.”
Buffy took a step back, her lip quivering. “You’ve found someone else?”
“No!” He frowned. “Like you didn’t get it on with the Immortal anyway.”
“How did…?” she fumed. “You were dead!”
Seeing that the conversation was spiralling out of control, Spike reassured her. “It’s not like that,” with a quick glance at the God King, he whispered conspiratorially. “She’s blue.”
“What like Smurfette? Or more in a Blue Christmas way?”
“Only if Smurfette was evil.”
He turned back to Illyria again. Willow and Tara’s small mistletoe wreath was lying in her outstretched palm. He took it carefully and Buffy smiled as she saw it appear when it touched his hand.
“Look what I have,” he smiled back, moving close to her again. Their eyes locked in an intense gaze that indicated that nothing else in the world mattered to them right at that moment.
She never took her eyes off his, but she took the wreath he offered. “Handy.”
It was little more than a symbolic suggestion; a ghost of a kiss, light as a snowflake fading on the tongue, a nuzzled lip against lip that only one of them could actually feel. It couldn’t be a passionate kiss under the circumstances, but it carried promises of something much deeper. It was a pledge from each to the other, carried on only the finest of touches.
“I’ll get back to you, I promise,” he told her sincerely as they parted, their tryst cut short as he felt a tremor in Reality.
Illyria had begun to lose her grip on Time. However much he would like to stay, Buffy would have to wait. He let his own control slip and he melted from her view.
Illyria watched him as he backed away from Buffy, distancing himself from the temptation to stay. He glanced at Illyria and he noticed that she looked shaky, drained and unsteady on her feet. The vibrancy of the blue flush to her skin had paled into a shadowy pastel.
“I can hold us here no longer,” Illyria told him quietly.
Spike nodded with regret. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
As Illyria started to concentrate on their return, Spike took one last look back at Buffy. She was standing with her arms folded around her, looking small and lost amongst the tombstones. The mistletoe wreath was closed tightly in her hand as if she was scared that she would lose the only tangible thing she had of him. He didn’t know when he’d be able to see her again, if ever, so he tried to remember as much about her as he could, refreshing the colour of his memory.
He finally turned away as Illyria sagged, the last of her strength draining away. He caught her just as everything went black for the last time and they returned to that void.
***
The bare motel room looked particularly spartan after so much Christmas, only the garish bedspread and the blue tint to Illyria’s hair brought any colour to the basic room, but Spike hardly noticed as he maneuvered Illyria to the bed. His mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions that he needed to sort out, but Illyria needed him first.
“Our journey has wearied me. It shall not happen again,” she told him as she sunk down onto the mattress. He let her go and she fell back with a sigh.
Once she was comfortable, Spike made a grab for his cigarettes and lit one. “Thank god for that. Had enough of this meet and greet with the past.”
Illyria didn’t reply, instead she slipped into an exhausted unconsciousness. He covered her up with the comforter and switched on the telly, settling in a chair to collect his thoughts now that he finally had a moment to take stock. The journey had taken a blink of an eye in real time, but he felt like he really had lived through those twelve days. There was a lot to digest.
He took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked through a few channels, past infomercials, holiday specials of dumb home videos shows and re-runs. He finally settled on a Christmas parade of the Twelve Days of Christmas for the irony, although they had already reached the Twelve Drummers Drumming, but it didn’t matter because his attention was elsewhere.
There was too much to take in from this jaunt. Anya was dead, lost in the same battle he’d been. Poor girl, she hadn’t deserved that in the end. Rupert didn’t seem to be quite the git he appeared to be. Even Angel had managed to get a bloody son out of nowhere. But none of these things occupied his mind for more than a moment, as there was something else he’d rather think about.
He barely heard the melody of the trombones as they accompanied the drummers on the television. Buffy loved him, she’d said so, and she’d meant it. He allowed himself a few minutes to bask in the euphoria, before reality to set in. It wasn’t as if he could just drop everything and run to Buffy. Wolfram and Hart weren’t going to give up the chase because he wanted to be with Buffy, and Illyria herself, was a huge commitment. He couldn’t leave her to the world, and he wasn’t sure the world was ready to have her unleashed upon it alone.
He stared longingly at the phone for a moment, tempted to pick it up and just call Buffy. But indulging himself by returning to her would be selfish, and however much he wanted to, he couldn’t do it.
The phone remained untouched.
23rd December 2004
“So who’s next on your list then, Bluebell?” Spike asked, relieved that they had reached the final day of the song at last.
Illyria paused, apparently giving the matter great thought. “I wish to see your Buffy. This woman who has the love of two vampires must indeed be special.”
“Yeah, she is.” Spike frowned; after his outburst, he might have known that Illyria would want to see Buffy. Their little trip so far had been bittersweet all told, but this was too personal – and too soon. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, you know. She’s moved on. It’s about time I did too.”
Illyria turned and scrutinised him. Her glare, devoid of warmth, felt like it penetrated through to his soul. “You protest that others may have feelings for this woman, yet you think she does not love you. You are a strange, contradictory creature.”
“Look, I know she doesn’t, okay?” Spike sighed. “Doesn’t mean I’m just gonna let the great ponce have her. C’mon, dontcha think it’s time to get back now? The groceries are getting warm. The blood won’t taste the same…”
“We will return to the time we left. Your nourishment will not be damaged. I wish to meet this Buffy. The Slayers were made from demonkind, yet they walk as mortals. Your Slayer is a curiosity. She died and yet lives on. I wish to see why she does not return the affections you have for her.”
The world flipped over once again and they were standing in a cemetery; an old one, judging by the state of the headstones and the way they were crammed into whatever space they could fit. Weathered, broken in places, old markers listed in the dry ground, while weeping angels grieved eternally over the tombs. The Italian names of their masters slowly disappeared into the forgetfulness of time, as the carvings that proclaimed them became weathered and lost under the lichens.
“Right,” Spike looked around at the tombs, bare but for the sombre sprays of flowers placed in memory of the dead, and doubtfully. “This is very Christmassy.”
The sound of ‘We Three Kings’ being cheerfully murdered by a polyphonic ringtone broke the silence of the dead’s eternal rest, lasting for a mercifully short time before it was answered by a familiar voice. “Hello? Hi Willow. What’s up? Was your flight okay?”
And there she was, strolling along the path. It was the first time Spike had seen Buffy properly for over a year, but the sketch he’d held in his memory had missed barely a detail. This was no brief glimpse across a crowded nightclub; he could see all too clearly how the weight of burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Her expression was bright and the dark circles of stress that had clouded under her eyes were gone. There was a spring to her step that caused the gentle wave in her hair to spring lightly as she walked and, for all the lip service he’d given in the last year to moving on, he was smitten all over again.
“Yeah, I’m just going to do a quick patrol. I’ll be back soon. I can’t wait to see you,” she told the witch on the other end of the line. “I doubt much will happen tonight,” she laughed and Spike thought he’d never heard her so carefree. “I know, I shouldn’t have said that! See you later. Bye!”
As she flipped the lid of the phone shut, she stopped and took a look about her. Seeing nothing suspicious, she frowned and continued walking.
“She is unimpressive for a great warrior,” Illyria observed.
Spike, his eyes still fixed on his elusive love, murmured in reply. “You should see her fight though. Always gave me a good run for my money.”
“She met you in combat, yet you both survive.”
Spike shrugged. “Our hearts weren’t in it.”
“She is a Vampire Slayer and you are a half breed. She let you and the dark one live.”
“Yeah, Buffy’s funny like that.”
“You are amused by the dereliction of her duty.”
“What?” Spike shook his head. “No. That’s not what I meant. Buffy’s a good person… Look it’s complicated and private. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Buffy had stopped again, her finely tuned senses warning her of danger. Warily, she slid the stake from its place tucked into the back of her jeans and waited, alert.
The attack came from behind. A terrible wolf-like creature, loping upright on long, bony legs, all claws and ravening teeth, it tore past Spike and Illyria, heading directly for the tasty girly treat before it.
It struck out at the Slayer with a sweep of its long wolverine arms, seeking to rend her apart with its enormous claws. She was tiny in comparison, under half its height, and she was able to nimbly jump aside, athletically dodging the blow and ducking under its next attack. Using her momentum, she countered with her own strike that landed with a hard crunch against its chest. The creature roared, enraged, and it lunged at her again, its great arms swooping in, slashing frantically in all directions. It had no skill, no discipline, just its ravenous bloodlust that sought only to devour its prey. Using its clumsiness, Buffy was able to bounce up and catch one of its arms with a kick like a wrecking ball. There was a snap as her foot hit its target, and the creature yelped in pain, but she failed to retreat in time, stumbling as she avoided the trailing, useless arm, and she caught a brush of a claw across her shoulder.
At the sight and smell of the shallow gash, Spike leapt forward without thinking, jumping onto the creature’s back, grasping it tightly around the neck. It howled angrily, its arms flailing as it tried to drag its assailant from its back. Spike clung on tight as it lurched and bucked, until he found some leverage and yanked, severing its spinal cord as the vertebrae parted with a sickening crack. Its raucous keening cut short, the creature went limp and it died where it collapsed at the shocked Slayer’s feet.
“I guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to,” she quipped, after a moment’s pause.
Spike looked up at her from his handiwork, breathing hard, but unnecessarily, with the thrill of the fight. It felt like the old times in the cemeteries of Sunnydale, times he remembered with great fondness. Him, her, the waxing moon and the bloodied corpse of something evil and deadly at their feet, he’d missed that feeling of partnership they’d shared.
Buffy was only an arm’s length away, but she couldn’t see him. Amazed, he reached for her, searching for connection, but not expecting her to feel his touch. He closed his hand and stroked her cheek; how odd she should feel so solid under his fingers when to her his touch was nothing.
Buffy flinched, gasping as she whirled around, looking for an assailant. “Who’s there?”
Stunned, Spike turned to Illyria. “She felt that!”
Illyria tilted her head. “It is curious. My power is diminished. She should not feel you.”
He turned back to Buffy. She’d relaxed after what seemed to her like a false alarm, but she was still on code red. “Buffy!” he called to her. “Buffy? Can you hear me?”
Buffy shivered in response. She’d felt something, her Slayer senses on overdrive, her blood racing with the promise of action.
“C’mon Buffy, I’m here!” Desperately he grabbed her shoulders.
“Spike?” she gasped. She started to reach for him, not knowing where he was, but knowing he was close. Her hands went right through him. “Spike? Oh my God, are you here?”
He wasn’t a ghost, not this time, but to her he was barely a voice on the wind. Luckily, he knew something about that, having learnt a bit from Pavayne about reality. If he could just focus…
To him nothing seemed to happen, but from the way Buffy’s eyes became huge in wonder and Illyria began to analyse him intently, he sensed his plan had worked. He was beginning to manifest, merging Buffy’s reality with his own until he was balanced precariously between the two, holding himself desperately on the threshold with all the strength of his will. He knew now how Illyria must feel, as her reduced powers kept them going on this caper.
Buffy remained speechless for a long moment. “Spike?” she managed to whisper, looking him over in disbelief. “You’ve come back?”
“Not exactly…”
She reached out again to touch and he tried to put his hand in hers, but reality didn’t seem quite solid. He could feel her; the warmth of her palm, the slight nervous perspiration, but she kept slipping from his grasp as she tried and failed to grip him in return.
“How? How is this possible?” she asked.
Spike looked at Illyria, but the god king remained inscrutable and invisible to Buffy. “Divine intervention, I think. Look, I don’t have long…”
“You’re not the ghost of Christmas past, are you? Because that’d be so lame.”
“I’m okay Buffy, thanks for asking. Someone brought me back…”
“I love you,” she said quickly, cutting him off.
“What?”
“I. Love. You,” she said slowly. “There. I’ve said it. I mean it. If I only have a moment then I don’t want to waste it. Not again.”
Spike brushed back a lock of her hair, not caring that to her it only felt like the breath of a faint breeze. “Buffy, it’s complicated and I don’t have time to explain. I’m not a ghost, but I’m not really here. I was in L.A. with Angel…”
“You were with Angel?” she said, incredulously. “That I wish I'd seen.”
“Someone brought me back, Buffy. We’ve done some good work, Angel and me,” Spike frowned, still bitter about Angel keeping Connor a secret. “Even if the git decided to keep me out of the loop.”
“What are you talking about? Were you at Wolfram and Hart?” Buffy looked at him in confusion, but then dismissed it all. “Why are we talking about Angel anyway?”
Spike realised she was right; they shouldn’t spend the few precious minutes he could hold himself in her dimension talking through the Connor business. “I’ll explain, just not now. Things have got a bit hectic, but I do miss you.”
Her eyes filled with the suggestion of tears, diluting them into wide pools. “I miss you too.”
He moved into to kiss her, but stopped a moment before their lips could meet. “Just a minute.” He turned from Buffy to Illyria. “Illyria, You kept that wreath right?”
“Who’s Illyria?” Buffy asked.
“She’s part of the long story, Pet. We’re on the run together.”
Buffy took a step back, her lip quivering. “You’ve found someone else?”
“No!” He frowned. “Like you didn’t get it on with the Immortal anyway.”
“How did…?” she fumed. “You were dead!”
Seeing that the conversation was spiralling out of control, Spike reassured her. “It’s not like that,” with a quick glance at the God King, he whispered conspiratorially. “She’s blue.”
“What like Smurfette? Or more in a Blue Christmas way?”
“Only if Smurfette was evil.”
He turned back to Illyria again. Willow and Tara’s small mistletoe wreath was lying in her outstretched palm. He took it carefully and Buffy smiled as she saw it appear when it touched his hand.
“Look what I have,” he smiled back, moving close to her again. Their eyes locked in an intense gaze that indicated that nothing else in the world mattered to them right at that moment.
She never took her eyes off his, but she took the wreath he offered. “Handy.”
It was little more than a symbolic suggestion; a ghost of a kiss, light as a snowflake fading on the tongue, a nuzzled lip against lip that only one of them could actually feel. It couldn’t be a passionate kiss under the circumstances, but it carried promises of something much deeper. It was a pledge from each to the other, carried on only the finest of touches.
“I’ll get back to you, I promise,” he told her sincerely as they parted, their tryst cut short as he felt a tremor in Reality.
Illyria had begun to lose her grip on Time. However much he would like to stay, Buffy would have to wait. He let his own control slip and he melted from her view.
Illyria watched him as he backed away from Buffy, distancing himself from the temptation to stay. He glanced at Illyria and he noticed that she looked shaky, drained and unsteady on her feet. The vibrancy of the blue flush to her skin had paled into a shadowy pastel.
“I can hold us here no longer,” Illyria told him quietly.
Spike nodded with regret. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
As Illyria started to concentrate on their return, Spike took one last look back at Buffy. She was standing with her arms folded around her, looking small and lost amongst the tombstones. The mistletoe wreath was closed tightly in her hand as if she was scared that she would lose the only tangible thing she had of him. He didn’t know when he’d be able to see her again, if ever, so he tried to remember as much about her as he could, refreshing the colour of his memory.
He finally turned away as Illyria sagged, the last of her strength draining away. He caught her just as everything went black for the last time and they returned to that void.
***
The bare motel room looked particularly spartan after so much Christmas, only the garish bedspread and the blue tint to Illyria’s hair brought any colour to the basic room, but Spike hardly noticed as he maneuvered Illyria to the bed. His mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions that he needed to sort out, but Illyria needed him first.
“Our journey has wearied me. It shall not happen again,” she told him as she sunk down onto the mattress. He let her go and she fell back with a sigh.
Once she was comfortable, Spike made a grab for his cigarettes and lit one. “Thank god for that. Had enough of this meet and greet with the past.”
Illyria didn’t reply, instead she slipped into an exhausted unconsciousness. He covered her up with the comforter and switched on the telly, settling in a chair to collect his thoughts now that he finally had a moment to take stock. The journey had taken a blink of an eye in real time, but he felt like he really had lived through those twelve days. There was a lot to digest.
He took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked through a few channels, past infomercials, holiday specials of dumb home videos shows and re-runs. He finally settled on a Christmas parade of the Twelve Days of Christmas for the irony, although they had already reached the Twelve Drummers Drumming, but it didn’t matter because his attention was elsewhere.
There was too much to take in from this jaunt. Anya was dead, lost in the same battle he’d been. Poor girl, she hadn’t deserved that in the end. Rupert didn’t seem to be quite the git he appeared to be. Even Angel had managed to get a bloody son out of nowhere. But none of these things occupied his mind for more than a moment, as there was something else he’d rather think about.
He barely heard the melody of the trombones as they accompanied the drummers on the television. Buffy loved him, she’d said so, and she’d meant it. He allowed himself a few minutes to bask in the euphoria, before reality to set in. It wasn’t as if he could just drop everything and run to Buffy. Wolfram and Hart weren’t going to give up the chase because he wanted to be with Buffy, and Illyria herself, was a huge commitment. He couldn’t leave her to the world, and he wasn’t sure the world was ready to have her unleashed upon it alone.
He stared longingly at the phone for a moment, tempted to pick it up and just call Buffy. But indulging himself by returning to her would be selfish, and however much he wanted to, he couldn’t do it.
The phone remained untouched.