But writing this, I just couldn't help it...
For Bogwitch as she asked me to write anything innocent about that pic of JM on the bike. (see icon) Blame her for it.
Title: Too late
She'd first met him as a kid.
He'd been that hot vampire with the cool coat and the cool white hair that was so totally in love with her sister that it wasn't even worth trying to have a crush on him. Not like he'd ever notice her.
He'd told her stories, horror stories, and she'd taken them in like hot smudge.
Buffy had been scared for her, she shouldn't have been though. Not of him, not of Spike. But she still was.
She'd loved him as a brother, then Buffy had come back from the grave and everything had changed. He didn't come by no more, he stopped talking to her and she no longer visited his crypt. It wasn't their place anymore. It was hers. Buffy's. Like everything else surrounding Buffy was.
She'd hated him, after… that summer, that year after… The year before he died.
She'd wanted to hate him for what he'd done, hurting her, hurting Buffy, for leaving before she could tear his guts out over hurting Buffy, before she could hit him and tell him and yell at him… For not being there when Willow went crazy, for not being there, for not protecting her.
She couldn't forgive him, not that year, not the year afterwards, and not the year after that…
Even after he'd died, especially then, cause he'd left her again. For Buffy.
He'd left her before she could ever apologize.
And now here he was.
Same white blond hair.
Same smile… only not.
Just a simple white wife beater under a dark leather jacket with blue jeans. It suited him as he sat there on his bike, dressed like a newfangled James Dean. Rebel without a clue…
She pulled her little girl closer to her heart; holding on to her as if their very lives depended on it.
A woman slightly older than Buffy came out of the shop, heading straight to him, in the warm light of the sun. The sun that wasn't burning him.
Dawn daren't speak up and ask if it was really him. The woman went past her and jumped on the bike behind him, grabbing her helmet, laughing as he made her put it on.
No it wasn't the same smile. It wasn’t even close. There was a longing in them, sure, but not the kind that went unresponded. He was happy.
She wished she'd apologized. She wished she still could.
But it was too late.