Willow helped Anya adjust her wedding veil.  "Have you heard from him yet?"

Buffy shook her carefully coifed head.  "No," she said softly.  "I think he’s left town.  I’ve checked his crypt.  All his stuff is gone.  And he doesn’t answer his cell phone."  Self-consciously, she touched the place where his fangs punctured her skin.  All that remained was a small white scar.  "He doesn’t want to be found, Will."

"I tried to send an invitation to him, Buffy."  Anya considered her friend sympathetically.  "Do you know how hard it is to find a valid address for his crypt?  So I just ended up hand-delivering it."

"You saw him?"  Buffy looked up hopefully.

"No.  I just left it there.  But maybe he’ll come."  Anya smiled cheerfully. 

Buffy’s lip trembled.

"Oh, honey." Willow patted her hand.  "Did you try writing a note to Spike?  Even if he never read it, it might make you feel better."

"When I couldn’t find him, I left him a letter at the crypt.  That was two months ago, right after the mess with Doc.  I told him--I told him that I knew he was telling the truth about the homeless guy.  And I let him know that--um . . ."  Buffy sniffled and tried to smile.  "OK, Will.  We have to stop talking about this.  ‘Cause I’m gonna cry and then I’ll have raccoon eyes, and a bridesmaid with raccoon eyes would not make for a happy bride."

Anya patted Buffy’s shoulder.  She looked at her bridesmaids and sighed.  "Martha Stewart would be proud."

The women heard a small knock on the door.  "Anya, Willow, Buffy, they’re ready for you." 

"Thanks, Giles."  Buffy smiled wanly.  At least Giles was here.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The wedding went off without a hitch.  Anya beamed.  Xander grinned goofily.  The small gathering of friends and family watched as Anya Jacobs became Anya Jacobs Harris.

"I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may kiss the bride."

Eagerly, Xander lifted her veil and kissed his wife.

Buffy smiled tightly and wiped away a tear.  This was something she’d never have.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Spike carefully took the well-worn letter from his jacket pocket.  He needed to read it again.

Dear Spike,

This is probably the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write.  I’m not good at sharing my feelings.  But there were so many things I wanted to tell you, and you never gave me the chance.

First, I know you didn’t kill the man.  He died of cirrhosis.  The blood-letting probably didn’t help things, but still, you didn’t kill him.  You might wonder how I’d feel if you had killed him.  Could I have accepted that?  You deserve an honest answer:  no.

Second, I don’t want you blaming yourself for anything.  I asked you to drink from me.  I know you enjoyed it; how could you not?  You’re a vampire.  It’s in your nature.  Does it bother me that every day you’ll have to wake up and decide to be good?  That you’ll always be tempted?  Again, you deserve an honest answer:  it does.

But I want to let you in on a secret: when you drank from me . . . I enjoyed it, too.  I felt peace for the first time since I died. 

Since you left, I’ve thought a lot about why I enjoyed it, why I wasn’t scared.  At first I just chalked it up to your amazing abilities of seduction.  OK, I promised myself I wouldn’t be flippant in this letter, and look what’s happened!  Scratch that thought.  Let’s try again.

At first, I just chalked it up to your natural vampiric abilities.  After all, that’s one of the things you guys do, right?  Seduce victims?  Make them feel good before they die?

Then I thought maybe I had a death wish or something.  Feeling nostalgic for the afterlife.  But that wasn’t it either.

The reason I felt peace was because I trusted you.  I trusted you with my life.  I knew it would be a difficult choice for you.  I knew that you would be tempted.  But deep down inside I knew you would stop. 

I knew you loved me.

You asked me once if I loved you.  I said maybe.  That wasn’t fair to you.  I knew the answer even then.  I was just too afraid to say it.

I do.  Love you, I mean.

Now I’ve laid my cards on the table.  I’m not a poet like you, so this letter isn’t flowery or full of interesting turns of phrase.  But I hope the meaning behind it is true and clear.

You are not beneath me.

I do see you.

I love you.

Buffy.


Spike folded the letter up and placed it in his pocket.  He sighed deeply.  "Right, Spike.  No time like the present."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Buffy sipped champagne from an elegant glass and watched Xander and Anya dance.  Willow sat at her side, the dark smudges around her eyes apparent.  She still wasn’t sleeping.  Not that Buffy had been sleeping well herself.  Memories of Lena Petrovitch, burning.  Memories of Spike.  Buffy took Willow’s hand.  "So, Will.  How are you doing?  You’re all concerned about me. But how about you?  Have you heard from Tara?"

Willow shook her head.  "No, Buffy. That’s over.  And it’s really what I deserve--after what I did."

Buffy stroked Willow’s hair.  "Oh, honey.  What you did--well--that wasn’t good.  But you were scared and when people are scared they do stupid, irrational things.  Maybe if you tried to apologize to Tara again, maybe . . ."  Buffy’s words trailed off as she saw a familiar blonde appear at the door of the reception hall.  "Spike?"

"Huh?"  Willow followed Buffy’s eyes.  "Oh Buffy!  He’s here.  He did come!"

But Buffy didn’t hear her.  She’d already started to walk towards the vampire.

Spike placed a small package wrapped in brown paper on the gift table.  His copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.  That was one William who knew how to write about love. 

"Spike?"

"Buffy."

The silence stretched awkwardly.  Spike panicked.  Obviously, she didn’t want to see him.  "I--I--just--well, I wanted to give Anya and the boy a little something.  It’s--it’s nothing much.  I’ll be off now . . ."

"Why did you leave?"

Spike smirked, but his eyes registered his pain.  "I figured that after what I did, you might not want me around."  He shrugged.  "Decided it was time to get out of SunnyD.  Find myself a new base of operations."

"Spike?  Didn’t you get my letter?  I know you didn’t kill that man.  And what you did to me--for me . . ."

"I got it.  But--I’m still a monster, Buffy."

"I love you, Spike."

Spike shook his head.  "Slayer, I can’t . . ."

Buffy extended a hand to him.  "Spike, I want to dance."

Gently, like it was a precious object, Spike took her hand.  He stroked her palm, savouring the strength that lay just underneath its deceptively fragile surface.  "If I profane with my unworthiest hand . . ."

Buffy smiled.  "Spike, we’re not star-crossed lovers."

Spike studied her eyes, looking for the answer he needed.  Did she want this?  Really? 

For the first time, he saw something he’d always wanted, but never had.  Complete acceptance. 

Smiling broadly, Spike pulled Buffy to him.  "OK, pet.  Let’s dance."