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I wanted to answer all the comments on the previous chapter, i really did, and i tried, but at this point i give up and i hope you'll forgive me for taking the easy way out and giving a big thank you to everyone who cared enough to write a few words - or more - and pressed that review button. Please be sure that i treasure each word you sent my way.

Last chapter fondly dedicated to the few people who have been following this and encouraging me from day 1. You know who you are. I won't forget your support. *hugs*

And now the last chapter of Heaven's Key...

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The sun was slowly reaching its zenith, and the heat was smothering. The summer had barely started but already it promised to be hotter than the previous year. Even at night, the temperatures were often unbearable, and Buffy was glad she wasn’t patrolling anymore.

She justified it to herself with the observation that, after hearing that the Slayer had defeated a goddess, demons seemed less inclined to come to the Hellmouth. She couldn’t manage to feel guilty about it. Especially since, almost every night, Giles or the gang would take that damn bot out and do her patrols for her.

Eyes closed and with her back leaning against the familiar slab of marble, Buffy didn’t really mind the heat and sun as she talked to her mother about the recent events. She hadn’t had much time to come and pay her respects while Glory was around, and she felt bad about it. There was a lot she had to say, and remembering it all at once made the pain of her mother’s passing hurt as much as it had during the first few days. Joyce certainly deserved these moments; there had been too much going on for Buffy to really allow herself to mourn before, but now she could, and did.

When the wind stirred and caressed her forehead, dried her tears, she could almost imagine it was her mother’s hand chasing away her fears and sorrow. Everything would be fine, she could almost hear Joyce murmur. Time would make everything better. Buffy wished she could still believe it.

She remained by the grave until nightfall, falling silent long before that but unwilling to leave quite yet. When the sun finally vanished behind the horizon, she rose, straightened her clothes, and went to Spike.

It was one of the most important battles of my life, and I don’t remember much of it. I remember fighting Glory, of course, bits and flashes of it. I remember beating her. I remember that feeling of… peace that it was finally over. Then, I rushed up the steps to join Dawn on the platform.

I reached the top of the tower in time to see him run and jump. I stared but didn’t move toward him; I was too far. I didn’t say anything either, didn’t call his name or my love for him.

I wish I had.

Would he have stopped, if I had? Or looked back? Smiled at me, maybe? I wish I had seen his smile one more time.

There was a surreal stillness in the air for a few seconds, and then it was clear that the door had closed. All the noise, all the flashes of light ceased. I took Dawn in my arms and carried her down to the ground, all the while repeating to myself that he would be fine, that he was a vamp and no fall, not even that bad, could kill him. I would get to play nurse to him, and that would be nice. And I’d get to thank him properly – and many times – for saving Dawn, and all of us.

He seemed asleep when I reached the foot of the tower. I made sure Dawn was OK, put her down and rushed to where he lay, sprawled across broken concrete. Asleep, or maybe unconscious. Beautiful despite the hint of blood at the corner of his mouth. I was already telling myself that I would need to be careful, because he had probably broken more than one bone from the fall. The simple fact that he was there, though, was heartwarming. Vampires who die their final death turn to dust. Their bodies don’t remain whole.

I called his name softly as I leaned over him and brushed a strand of hair off his face.

He crumbled to ashes under my touch.

I remember not believing what I saw; his clothes remained intact, but his body eroded as if in slow motion. I remember the numbness that spread through me. I remember feeling more alone than ever before, even though Dawn, Giles, my friends were all around me.

I remember also that this bond between us, our mating, so fresh still that I was in awe of it, of how close to Spike it had made me feel, slowly vanished, and left me empty and cold.

They told me I fell to my knees. They told me I yelled at him, wherever he was, cursed him for abandoning me, until they took me away. They told me I begged them hysterically not to leave him there because the sun was about to rise and it would burn him if we left him – his ashes – there. I don’t remember any of that.

I cried and slept the day away. The next morning, after sunrise, we buried him. Giles chose a small clearing in the woods, said that no one would bother him there, that he deserved an undisturbed rest at last. He had placed his ashes in a wooden box engraved with leaves and vines. It struck me as odd at the time that a Watcher would put so much care into giving a proper resting place to a vampire. I asked him, later, why he had done it. His eyes were grim as he said that he would always be thankful to him for saving Dawn and me.

They all said a few words as a goodbye. They all did, but I have no memory of what any of them said. As for myself, I couldn’t speak. Not then. Later, I did. After time had passed, when I came back alone, I was able to. I still do it, sometimes. Often. Go to his grave, lean against the marker, imagine it’s him behind me, not a cold stone, and I talk to him. I do the same thing with mom. Her in the day, and him at night.

It still feels so unreal that he’s gone for good. He was a vampire. He was immortal. He was my mate. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. Not so soon, not like this. Not ever.

I requested – and they gave me – his duster. At first I kept it on a coat hanger on the back of my door, but it was soon too painful to see it constantly, it reminded me too much that he was gone for good. I finally folded it carefully and tucked it in my slaying chest, with my weapons. Every so often, I open it and give a small stroke to the leather, and try to be thankful for what he did. It’s hard, sometimes, but I try. It helps knowing that I’m not alone, that I’m not the only one missing him.

After three days – three sorrowful, interminable, lonely days – I took a bus to LA.

As soon as I stepped into the Hyperion, Angel knew. He was smiling as he first looked up at me, but something must have shown on my face because his smile disappeared as he approached me. He said his name, quietly, questioningly. I tried to tell him what had happened, but no words came out of my throat, only dry sobs. He hugged me, whispered words of sadness, of comfort, of apology, but nothing helped, because nothing was going to bring him back. That’s when it struck me; he was really gone – and he wouldn’t be back.

I eventually calmed down enough to tell Angel what had happened. His eyes were shining as I finished, even though I never saw him shed a tear. Somehow, it was comforting not to be alone in my grief, and the ride back to Sunnydale was a little easier.

Only then did I realize that the gang was mourning him too, I had just been too blinded by my own tears to see it. I should have known, of course. They truly had accepted him, he was a part of us, and…they missed him too. Not like I do, no one can miss him like I do, but enough that I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I had to be strong, for them, and especially for Dawn who felt the weight of guilt even more acutely than I did. It took her a few more days to finally be able to give me his last words. I forced myself to smile as she did, put up a good front. Then spent the night on his grave, crying.

He died for me. Because of me. He died to save me from my death wish, and he died because I suggested that we become mates. I lost him by my own fault. And no amount of tears can erase that simple fact.

I know I cry too much. Even now, after weeks and months have passed, I still do. I just can’t help it. I miss him, his presence, his smile, our arguments, our making up, the incredible strength that he was sharing with me, with anyone who cared enough to see past the surface of who he was. I try not to let the others see me cry; but of course, they know something is going on with me, even if they say nothing, and they’re worried. They shouldn’t be. I’m not going to do anything stupid. That would be an insult to his memory if I did. He died so that I could live, so live, I will, even if every day, every minute feels like my heart is being ripped out. I thought it would get better with time, but it has been a hundred days already, the reason for me writing this, and nothing has changed.

The one word engraved under his name on the grave is still true.

Spike was loved. He is, even now. He will be, until the end of the world.

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