Fic Title: See You Yesterday by all_choseny

[all_choseny]

Title: See You Yesterday
Author: all_choseny (all choseny)
Era: Post-Chosen/BtVS Season 7
Rating: R
Beta: marinaeulalia
Banner artist: all_choseny
Warnings: some sexual content, descriptions of clinical depression, violence
Summary: Six months after the closing of the Hellmouth, Buffy Summers is living in London, running the new army of Slayers she and Willow created. With the Hellmouth shutdown for good, Buffy finds herself longing for a certain blonde vampire who perished saving the world. No matter how hard she tries, she can't kick the feeling of unfinished business and loads of regret. On one fateful night, a near fatal accident somehow transports the Slayer a year in the past. Will she have the opportunity to make things right?
A/N: 1/3 This story is complete in 6 installments. I will post the first installment today. I have two other entries of visual arts that I will also share later on today. (Let's say I went a little crazy on what may potentially be the last round of SS).

London, 2003

Six months after closing the Hellmouth 

Buffy had good days and bad days.

Today was a bad day. 

She had dreamed of Spike again. It wasn't a new dream. At this point, it was starting to become one of those recurring numbers. The kind that ran on a loop repeatedly, the way people dreamed about flying or falling. Buffy would rather have a flying dream any day over the nightmarish reality that no matter how many times she saved Spike while sleeping, she hadn't saved him when it truly mattered. 

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst part was waking up, her pillow soaked with tears and the realization that all her efforts had been in vain. Each time Buffy awakened, she was still alone—still without Spike—the sheets cool where he should have been sleeping. Well, cooler since he had the whole lack of body heat thing going for him, which had been pleasant the few times she’d cuddled with him. God, she missed that. Why hadn't she allowed him to hold her more? 

Because I'm an idiot, Buffy thought bitterly. 

She recalled every missed opportunity with Spike, each moment playing over and over in her mind like a broken record until the memories threatened to break her. Each should have, could have, and would have taunted her with the image of his smile, the tender way he touched her cheek, the adoration illuminating his blue eyes, and the soft whispers of love in her ears. 

She should have told him sooner. 

She could have loved him sooner. 

If she hadn't been so stubborn, she would have loved him sooner. 

I love you. 

No, you don't, but thanks for saying it. 

No, you don't.

No, you don't.

No, you don't.

Buffy curled her hands into two fists, her nails digging into the fleshy part of her palm, biting into her skin until she winced with discomfort. She dug her nails in deeper, welcoming the pain. At least that was something more than the dull feeling of grief that plagued her night and day, robbing the world of its color and painting it in a constant state of sadness. 

A sharp ache pierced her heart, and she brought her knees to her chest, folding herself into a fetal position. 

She did love him; she loved him so much, it hurt. But she had waited until it was too late to tell him. 

That's all he’d wanted, right? Someone to love him. But she had been too hung up on his lack of a soul, too blind to recognize the pure, uninhibited devotion he had offered her from the moment he’d declared his feelings. Then he got that damn soul, and it still wasn't enough for her to put her fears aside and let herself love him in return. He had changed for her. He had defied all the rules she had used to build a wall around her heart, breaking it down brick by brick with the power of his love. Even before he fought for his soul, he had transformed himself, becoming the kind of man she needed. Loyal. Brave. Devoted. He would do anything for her—be anything for her. All she had to do was ask. 

This chip, they did to me; I couldn't help it. But the soul, I got on my own… for you. Because God help me, everything is still all about you, Buffy.

His words echoed in her mind, haunting her, twisting deep into her soul. He was right. And hindsight was a bitch that slap-boxed her every morning when she woke up without him. Buffy touched the empty space beside her, clutching the pillowcase in her fists. With an anguished whimper, she squeezed her eyes shut, conjuring the image of Spike lying next to her. She imagined the two of them in bed together in a dingy motel just miles away from the Sunnydale crater, their bodies entwined after a night of passionate lovemaking. 

In that fantasy, she had saved him. She had forced him out of that cave, dragging him by the hand as they ran through the crumbling school building. Together, they had run through the collapsing streets of Sunnydale until they leaped onto the school bus together, bodies spent but alive. 

She liked that scenario the best. Each time she had that dream, it felt incredibly real—as if when opening her eyes, she'd find Spike beside her, feel his body next to hers, his breath on her skin. But reality would eventually come crashing down again—he had died. The crushing weight of his absence would paralyze her for hours, leaving her to languish in her empty bed until she could muster the strength to get up. To keep moving.

Spike wouldn't want to see her this way. She could almost hear his voice mocking her in that way of his:

Come on, Slayer. Never knew you to be a quitter. Get out that sodding bed, you dozy bint, and get your arse up.

And so she did get up, only because she couldn't stand the thought of him seeing her at her lowest, wallowing in self-pity and guilt. With tears pricking her eyes, Buffy forced herself from beneath her comforter, showered, and dressed for the day. 

♠️*♠️*♠️*♠️

Buffy's flat was a short walk to the old school building they used as Slayer Central. She was grateful the HQ was so close to her home. She still hadn't gotten the hang of the public transportation system in London. And forget about driving on the left side of the road—she had barely mastered driving on the right before moving to the land of scones and crumpets. 

It was chilly that morning; Buffy flipped the hood of her bubble jacket over her head, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets as she crossed the street. God, why was it so freaking cold here? she thought. I really should have pushed for Fiji or the French Riviera. Someplace warm with a beach and hot guys with foreign accents serving fruity cocktails named after an island in the Caribbean. The kind of drink that tasted more like punch than alcohol and came with those cute plastic umbrellas. Anything was better than temperatures hovering in the forties. Her California sensibilities were not used to cold and rainy.

She dashed across the street like she did every morning, carefully looking both ways before running through the morning traffic. 

She had a long day ahead of her: new Slayer orientation, training, and her weekly debrief with Giles, Willow, Xander, Faith, and Andrew. Dawn was currently in New York studying at NYU, and Buffy made a mental note to call her later. If she didn't, that would start the worry train, and she did not want anyone worrying about her. There would be questions and attempts to cheer her up with strained jokes and a snack food of some sort. Her friends meant well, but she really didn't want to deal with the three Fs—Forced Family Fun. 

Just let me be depressed in peace. 

"Hey, Buffy."

"Hi, Buffy."

"Morning, uh, Ms. Summers." 

Slayers greeted her as she entered the old school building where Slayer Central was housed. Built in the sixties, the structure had seen better days. Leaky pipes had left brown water stains on the ceiling, and the mint green paint was peeling in most places, revealing an even uglier pale yellow beneath it. But it got the job done.

"Morning," Buffy mumbled, pushing the hood of her jacket down. She made a beeline for her office, shutting herself inside before anyone roped her into a conversation she wasn't prepared to have. 

She booted up her old computer, hung her jacket on the door hook, and started the small coffee pot on top of a file cabinet near her desk. As soon as she opened her email, she was bombarded with messages: status updates from Slayers in distant lands, urgent training requests needing her approval, demands from parents accusing her of kidnapping their children, and even a few emails expressing gratitude for the help they received from a Slayer or two. 

She scanned the lines of unopened emails, earmarking them as "urgent," "not so urgent," and "ignore."

The hum of her computer filled the silence of her office as she read a message from a Slayer stationed in Greece. There was a rumor about another possible Hellmouth in the Mediterranean country, but it was a false lead. She quickly typed a reply and hit send just as the coffee maker finished brewing.

She poured herself a cup before adding too much sugar and cream, stirring the mixture while she stared out the window, taking in the gloomy London atmosphere. It fit her mood that morning. She took a sip, holding her mug in both hands, her thumb absently rubbing the burn scar on the back of the opposite hand. 

Naturally, her mind drifted back to Spike, and she bit her lip, wondering if she'd ever get to a point when she could think about him without the pain. Closing her eyes, she tried focusing on his smile—the mischievous one he often used when he was trying to get a rise out of her. It only made her long for his voice. She'd kill for the chance to hear it again—not that she had tried or anything. Well, not seriously tried. She definitely hadn't spent hours poring over ancient spell books for a low-stakes, amateur-hour spell that could bring him back without, you know, accidentally blowing up the planet or something.

Besides, that kind of magic required actual magical knowledge, and the best she could do was sometimes guess which card someone picked out of a deck. And, of course, resurrection spells were far too dangerous to fool around with. They were definitely on the no-no list of magical whatnots. 

Sighing heavily, Buffy turned from the window and stared at the creamy mixture in her mug. Resurrection spells were out of the question, but that didn't mean she had let Spike's death go. She had spent months wondering if she could have done something differently. Aside from talking Angel into staying and wearing the damn amulet himself, could they have found another way to close the Hellmouth and spare the lives of both vampires? Yet another topic, she had pored over with minimal results in the answer department. Perhaps it was for the best. It wasn't like she could go back and change the past anyway.

♠️*♠️*♠️*♠️

Later that afternoon, Buffy made her way to Giles's office on the opposite side of the massive building for their debrief, arriving just in time for their appointment. 

"Oh, good, you made it," he greeted her. 

Buffy sat in one of the oversized leather chairs and raised a brow. "Were you expecting a 'no-call, no–show'?" 

Giles shook his head emphatically. "No, not. Not at all. But I know that you hate these meetings." 

Buffy shrugged. "I wouldn't call it hate. It's more like allergic—like I'm allergic to endless talking. Kind of makes me miss when I was all Thunderdom Buffy. Ya know, two men enter, and one man leaves. Except with demons and stuff. And also me being a woman." 

"Yes, well," Giles said, removing his glasses and polishing the lenses with a handkerchief. "Your particular set of skills is needed here now, Buffy. With the influx of Slayers, you don't have to be in the field as often. You can, as they say, relax." 

Buffy chuckled sardonically. "If this is your idea of 'relaxing,' Giles, I'd hate to see your version of 'busy.' I mean, managing all these new Slayers is like herding hyperactive, supernatural cats."

"It can be quite taxing, but marginally less dangerous." 

"Right. Us pencil pushers gotta get all avoidy with the death and danger." 

Giles sighed and sat down behind his desk. "Is something the matter, Buffy? Something you'd like to discuss with me?" 

Buffy burrowed deeper into her chair. Even if she wanted to talk to someone about what was happening with her, it wouldn't be Giles. He wasn't exactly Team Spike, and she wasn't exactly feeling all warm and fuzzy toward him these days anyway. For Buffy, the last few weeks on the Hellmouth were still an open wound, which had begun to fester despite her best efforts to move on. Giles's betrayal had run deep, and she still wasn't sure if they could ever get past it. 

"Nope. So what's the stitch? Any new threats I should be worrying about? 

Giles stared at her momentarily as if he wanted to say more. Instead, he dialed the “Scooby party line” and gathered the report sitting on his desk while the others joined the call. Once everyone was accounted for, he read the latest intel from around the globe while Buffy half listened. 

♠️*♠️*♠️*♠️

It was late by the time Buffy left the Slayer HQ. A light drizzle began to fall as she hurried down the slick streets toward her flat. Inevitably, her mind drifted back to Spike, as it usually did when she was alone. Buffy liked to imagine that he was waiting for her back at home. Or maybe he had hung back to speak with Giles. They'd meet up later and spend the rest of the evening together. That fantasy was much better than going home to a cold, dark apartment and leftover takeaway. 

Buffy winced as a blast of cold air hit her face; ducking her head, she stepped off the curb and started across the street. Seconds later, a loud screeching noise filled the air. Buffy looked up just in time to see two bright yellow headlights approaching her before everything went dark. 

Moments later, Buffy's ears rang as her vision wavered in and out of focus. Shadows and light danced around her as muffled voices crescendoed into clarity and then faded away. "Get back, give her some air!" someone shouted, their voice slicing through the haze. "Don't move her; just give her space!" The urgency in the bystander's tone was palpable, mingling with the distant wail of an approaching ambulance.

As the siren grew louder, merging into the cacophony of city sounds, her consciousness dipped again, only to be pulled back by a nurse's sharp, clinical commands. "Prepare the OR, now!" the nurse called out, her voice echoing down the sterile hospital corridors that Buffy could only faintly see in her mind's eye. “I’m not getting a pulse!” The same nurse shouted. 

Her world contracted once more to the rhythm of her ragged breathing, only to be shattered by a piercing, electrical snap and a stern voice commanding, "Clear!" The word reverberated in her ears, pulling Buffy away from the darkness as her body jolted slightly, tethering her to the light. 

 

Comments

[veronyxk84]

OMG! That's a hell of a cliffhanger.
Buffy’s pain is so real, I want to hug her... and that banner! 😍 I'm in love, it's breathtakingly beautiful, with all my favorite colors.

I will keep an eye out for the art entries and for the next chapters!

[all_choseny]

Hahaha I love cliffies :D.

I don't really write a lot of angsty post Chosen, but this idea came to me, and I decided to give it a go.
I'm glad you like the banner. I was surprised how well it came out. Thank you! My second entry is up now!

[slaymesoftly]

Oh wow. So much pain! And now a cliff-hanger! Thanks for participating this round!

[all_choseny]

Thank you for reading and hosting this event!