Swings and Roundabouts
Chapter Ten
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are.” Spike picked up his jacket and looked at his daughter. “We’re only going to the shops, love.”
“No, Dad,” Claire said. “We’re going to the mall.” She put an American inflection on the word. “And I don’t want to go.”
“We need to get you kitted out for school, sweetheart.” He knew that this was the root of the problem: not the shopping—for she had always enjoyed that—but the fact that they were going shopping for school supplies. She didn’t want to start school.
Not that he could blame her, really. Always difficult being the new kid, but to be transferring in midway through the year and to be foreign? It wasn’t going to be easy.
“We’re going,” Spike said firmly. “Go get in the car.”
She grumbled all the way out of the house and down the drive, muttering something about Mean Girls and the other students eating her alive.
Sitting behind the wheel of the car, he started the ignition and turned to her. “Chin up, pet. This is difficult for me too, you know. I don’t know anyone around here, either.” He didn’t allude to the fact that he hoped this wasn’t entirely true.
“Yeah, but you’re old,” Claire said. “It doesn’t matter that you’re not cool. But me? If I have the wrong clothes or haircut, they’re gonna kill me.”
“Shouldn’t need to change yourself to fit in,” Spike replied. He pulled out of the drive, frowning at Claire’s words and the difficulty of trying to remember the best way to get to the mall. The house he’d bought was in the same neighbourhood that he’d lived in when he and Dru were newly married all those years ago, not that you’d know it; none of the people he’d known back then were still around.
“I know. It’ll just be easier, okay?”
“All right, love.”
She sent him a small smile, and for the first time since he’d accepted the job offer, he started to feel that things were going to be all right.
***
“I can’t believe you talked me into letting you do that to yourself,” Spike said, and dropped his keys on the hall table before staring in horror at his daughter.
She had persuaded him to let her dye her hair a golden blonde, using his abuse of the Goddess Clairol as her leverage, saying she’d fit in more at school if she went for the lighter shade. New, more form-fitting clothes left him staggered that his little girl had a figure. Where had his baby gone?
“I’m not letting you out of the house looking like that.”
“Dad, come on.” Claire rolled her eyes, pausing for a moment before running into his arms and squeezing him tightly around the middle.
He returned the unexpected hug. She knew how to get around him, all right. “Go on, get the rest of your stuff put away. Cost me a bloody fortune today, you have.”
“Thanks,” Claire said. “And hey, at least you won’t have to pay for—what is it they say here? Therapy, when I’m older.”
“True.” Spike nodded thoughtfully and grinned.
“And you have your swanky new promotion to pay the bills,” Claire continued. “Think you’ll be able to get me Justin Timberlake’s autograph?”
Spike chuckled. “Think I’ll be starting a bit smaller. Local bands and the like. Now go on, get your stuff sorted, and we’ll order some dinner. How about that?”
Claire nodded and gathered her purchases together before climbing the stairs two at a time.
Spike stared after her, wondering again how he’d not noticed that she had grown up.
***
“Have you got everything, then?” Spike tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in agitation. No matter his reassurances to the contrary, he was worried about how the other kids would take to her.
He remembered all too well what it was like to be the weird English kid with poofy hair and glasses. At least Claire looked the part.
“Yes, Dad! Stop worrying, will you?” She took a deep breath, and Spike could see her pale cheeks belying her casual confidence. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yep,” Spike replied. “I’ll be here at three. Have a good day, love.”
She nodded and set her mouth in a grim line of determination. “Bye.”
Spike watched her cross the car park and ascend the steps before disappearing into the school.
That was that, then.
***
How did you start looking for someone when you only knew the barest minimum of facts?
He had the name she had given him, Anne. He knew that she was a martial arts instructor. That she liked cocktails and was—had been—a regular at Caritas. Her dead boyfriend’s name, he only half-remembered. Angel? He couldn’t recall.
Spike knew that making the conscious decision to look for her, to track her down, was more dangerous than simply leaving it to fate, but he had to know. Had to rid himself of the what-ifs and maybes that had plagued the last three-and-a-half years.
Perhaps she wouldn’t remember him. Maybe she wouldn’t want to. Until he knew for sure, though, one way or the other, he had to try.
Sighing, he opened Google and began to search for martial arts classes taught by women. It was a start, at least.
***
He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder.
Turning in his chair, he saw that it was Claire, schoolbag in hand and a bemused look on her face.
“Kickboxing?” She asked, peering at the computer screen.
“Er…” Spike hedged. “Yeah. Thought you might like to start a new hobby. New city an’ all.” He frowned, and glanced at the clock. “What are you doing home? I thought I was supposed to pick you up at three?”
“Dad, I’ve always hated sports.” She set her bag down and perched on the edge of the desk. “And the computer teacher didn’t turn up. Something about her friend’s kid being ill.” She shrugged. “So they let us go early. I’d have called you, but a girl in my English class lives just down the road. Her mum gave me a lift.”
“Yeah?” Spike closed the lid of the laptop and folded the sheet of paper he’d been making notes on into his pocket. “Made some friends then?”
Claire lifted one shoulder, half-shrugging as she replied, “I guess. Everyone was nice to me.”
“I’m glad.” Spike smiled, and she grinned back.
“So, Dad,” she said, laughing. “Kickboxing, really? Do you even know me at all?”
Spike laughed softly, all the while the notepaper with the addresses of several martial arts classes burning a hole in his pocket.
***
The sign above the shop read Harris Books in large, black letters. The windows gleamed in the sunlight, lighting up the well-crafted displays on the inside.
Spike checked the piece of paper in his hand and glanced back up at the sign. Yep, he was in the right place. Perhaps the address was out of date, because this didn’t look anything like a martial arts centre. It was only the third address he’d tried, and he’d been hoping it would be third-time lucky.
He went into the shop anyway, in hopes that perhaps the owner would be able to tell him more. A bell jingled when he pushed the door open, sounding obnoxiously loud in the silence of the shop. He had always thought that stepping into a bookshop was very much like going into a library: silence reigned—and the one who broke it was glared at—and this one was no different.
A slim blonde stepped out from behind the counter, a bright smile on her face. “Hello! My name is Anya. Welcome to Harris Books. How may I help you spend your money?”
“Er…” Spike was slightly taken aback by her effusive approach. “I was actually looking for the martial arts school. The address I had brought me here…”
“Oh, you’re in the right place.” Anya’s smile fell a little, as though she realised that he was not there to make a purchase. “I’ve told Buffy a thousand times to get a new sign sorted, but—” She broke off, and fixed a grin to her face again. “Well, anyway. This is the right place; she runs the school from the training rooms out back. Everything’s postponed for a couple of weeks, though. If you want to leave your number, Mr—?”
Spike didn’t answer, his attention caught by a series of photographs clustered next to the cash register.
There was one of Anya in a wedding dress, a dark-haired man by her side. Another of Anya holding the hands of two little boys. A third depicted a group of smiling people: a redheaded man and woman, Anya and her husband once again, a sultry brunette with a come-hither smile, and... a blonde, her face so familiar to him after he’d been picturing it in his mind almost non-stop those last few years.
He’d found her.
***
Faced with the reality of having found her, Spike discovered that he didn’t feel nearly quite so brave.
The shopkeeper had taken great delight in pointing out her friends—“That’s me and Xander, my husband. There’s Willow and Oz. That’s Faith, and on the end is Buffy. She’s the one you’re looking for.”
Oh, if only she’d known how true that was. Spike had muttered something about it being a lovely photo, accepted a business card for the martial arts school, and exited the shop, mind awhirl.
Buffy Summers.
It wasn’t what he had expected, after having called her Anne for so long in his mind.
Buffy Summers.
It was such an unusual, silly name. It would take some getting used to.
He drove to Claire’s school in a daze, pulled into the car park and came to a stop. He killed the engine and undid his seatbelt before leaning over the steering wheel and resting his head in his hands.
What did he do next? Finding her had been easier than he had ever imagined, and now—
He didn’t know.
-TBC-
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to everyone who's commented on this fic so far. I've done quite a bit of tweaking to this chapter since it was beta'ed, so any mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy!
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought in a review. :)