Chapter One

It was a horrible day. The sun was shining brightly, almost glowing eerily. The sky was a bright, clear blue and the rotten birds were twittering incessantly as they flitted about. The grass was unnaturally green and the buggering animals were making more rotten animals. All in all, the worst day to have a funeral; though he supposed Doyle would have been delighted. Doyle loved a good show and so far, everything was cooperating for a good send-off.

The minister had resisted the urge to drone on about death and how grateful the living should be. Spike always figured that the living were plenty aware and grateful or they would have remedied the situation in front of the next speeding vehicle. Therefore, the usual funeral speech was totally unnecessary in his opinion. The readings and tributes were thankfully brief and upbeat which considerably brightened the sombre occasion as Doyle would’ve liked. Spike’s tribute was to be the icing on the proverbial cake.

Spike and Doyle had been best mates since primary school. Spike had been the very bookish, timid, 11-year old William Pratt, punching bag extraordinaire. Doyle had been the plucky, music-loving, mischievous newcomer who fended off bullies and showed him a whole new world. It was Doyle who had helped him to create the Spike persona, his armour against his demons.  Doyle had pushed him to take the leap of faith to go to America and pursue a dream of stardom and fortune.

Doyle had also provided sanctuary when the world became too much for Spike to handle. They had played pivotal roles in each other’s lives and were seen as the ultimate ‘bro-mance’. Everyone was watching Spike keenly as he dealt with the death of his best friend; knowing that he grieved more than even Doyle’s very-much- attached, and loving mother. Spike was determined to be strong and keep his wits about him as much as he could.

“And now, a tribute from Allen’s best friend – William Pratt,” the minister announced.

Spike got up from his seat and walked over to where the minister stood, on the opposite side of the casket. He adjusted the strap of Doyle’s guitar and plucked a few notes experimentally.

“Ah, Harriet, you sound like a bloody dream. Always knew you liked me better than Doyle. Can’t blame you, I am a handsome bloke with the magic touch,” Spike caressed the guitar.

The mourners chuckled.

Spike began playing the riff for Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” a couple times. He looked over at Doyle’s picture as he played. A sharp pang knifed his heart and his fingers immediately stilled. Spike bit the inside of his jaw and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and found himself playing a melancholy chord peppered with sharp notes at intervals. Then he sang mournfully:

Hear the lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I’m so lonesome I could cry...

As the song progressed, his voice crackled with intense sorrow and occasionally a note would falter in his playing. The plaintive wail of Spike’s voice wove the world of his anger and deep pain around his fellow mourners, making the air heavy and suffocating with sorrow.

I’ve never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry

The music was a powerful conduit of his emotions, speaking more volumes than any mere ‘Doyle will be greatly missed’ platitude he could recite.

Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves begin to die
That means he’s lost the will to live
I’m so lonesome I could cry

His eyes wandered over the various faces and came to rest on Doyle’s mother. Her eyes were red and her face splotchy from crying. She gave him an encouraging though very wobbly smile and dabbed at a stray tear that snuck down her cheek. She looked at him with a grief that almost mirrored his own but also a warm fondness that wounded him more.

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry...

He played the final chords with a sharpness that was jarring as he closed his eyes and repeated:

And as I wonder where you are
I’m so lonesome I could cry...

As the song wound down, he opened his eyes and looked at his captive audience. Everyone was struck by the gut-wrenching sorrow that filled his voice and sent eerie pinpricks of sadness and maybe a little fear down their spines.

Mrs. Doyle was grateful that Spike had been a loving, supportive, continuous presence in her son’s life right to the end. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that for the past couple months he and Doyle had been separated by not only physical distance but emotions as well. He had not been the friend that Doyle needed. Spike was not the man she thought she knew. Hell, he didn’t even look like that man anymore.

His once praised smooth, alabaster skin looked more like rice paper now. His lean, chiselled physique was nearly gaunt. His bright platinum locks were now shorn, in something akin to the football hooligan look, to reveal his natural brown roots. His voice was now a shaky, almost non-existent thing. Everything about him was now muted and pitiful. He could not hold her gaze.

Spike quickly squeezed his eyes shut, straining to keep his emotions in check. Vivid memories of Doyle assaulted him. Hot tears burned the inside of his eyelids and his body shook. The refrain played in his head:

I’m so lonesome I could cry...

When he opened his eyes, the scene before him became blurry as a powerful wave of dizziness knocked him to his knees. He became awash with sweat as his body shook, overcome with chills. ‘Wha’ th’ bloody ‘ell ‘s ‘appenin t’ me?’ he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t speak. His throat felt closed up and his mouth was numb.

Spike’s nerves hummed and prickles of sensation and stiffness seized his limbs. His heart thrummed like a speedbag and sharp bolts of pain knifed him in the chest, making every breath difficult and excruciating. It was then that Spike knew what death felt like. No tunnels with bright lights at the end. No peace. No harps and fields of flowers. Just that knowledge - waiting for his heart to stop pounding, his whole body to stop... period. 

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

Spike groaned as he tried to move his limp limbs. His body felt heavy and his movements were sluggish.

“You’re awake... great! I’ll get the doctor,” came Xander’s relieved voice.

Xander’s gentle yet firm touch rested on his shoulder, willing him to stay still.

“Don’t get up so fast. Trust me, it’s best if you give your body a little adjustment time.”

Spike stilled and slumped back into the bed. He sighed in resignation and counted off the seconds while his body fought to emerge from the haze of medicine.  A couple minutes later, after a slight struggle, he managed to sit up.

“Someone’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Xander teased upon re-entering the room, doctor in tow.

“Bite me,” Spike growled hoarsely.

“Good morning, Mr. Pratt,” the doctor greeted.

“Mornin’ , Doc,” Spike replied.

 “Good to see you’re awake and looking better. How do you feel?” the doctor asked pleasantly.

“Just dandy, thank you. What happened to me? Was it a heart attack?” Spike queried anxiously.

The doctor smiled and assured him, “Nothing so serious. You had a panic attack, Mr. Pratt. Panic attacks can be brought on by overwhelming emotional trauma, such as you’ve endured recently.  You’re also a bit burnt out. I’d recommend you get some counselling and relaxation. I’ll also prescribe some medication to help you if another attack comes.”

“How soon can I leave?”

The doctor reviewed Spike’s patient chart.

“As soon as you feel up to it. “

“ I’d like to leave now.”

“I’ll inform one of the nurses to bring your release form. Once you sign it you can leave. I’ll also send the prescription and some information about panic attacks and counselling.”

“ ‘preciate it, Doc. Ta.“

“ My pleasure, Mr. Pratt,” the doctor exited the room.

Spike turned to Xander and asked, “Everybody left?”

“Just the wives and the kids. The guys are waiting outside,” Xander explained.

“When’s the flight?”

“As soon as you can go.”

                “I’ll go to the hotel tonight and we’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

                “Sounds like  a plan.”

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

“ Remember, Spike – we’re leaving at 9. Don’t be late,” Xander called out as he left Spike’s suite.

“Sod off!” Spike fired back, stripping off his clothes and entering the shower.

A tired sigh escaped Spike as he turned on the faucet and stepped beneath the spray of water. The continuous stream of hot water beat down on his body, releasing the tension of the last 24 hours. He stayed like this for a few minutes until his skin was flushed and his fingers pruned. Recognizing that he was in danger of cooking himself, he quickly finished his shower and got out. He went to his room, towelled off and got dressed in a white wife beater and a pair of black sweatpants.

Spike’s stomach growled fiercely as he left his room and went out into the living room to watch the huge flat screen TV. He ordered dinner from room service and then turned his attention to finding something decent to watch.  A few minutes later, he was absorbed in a thriller/suspense flick when his meal arrived. He bid the server enter.

“ ‘m in here,” he called out his location.

A few seconds later, his server entered the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Pratt. Where should I put it?” asked the server.

“Bring it around, thanks.” Spike motioned to a spot beside him.

The server wheeled the cart to the requested spot and began uncovering the dishes.  The delicious smell wafted over to Spike and he looked away from the movie. 

                “That smells bloody good.”

                “Let’s hope it tastes half as good,” came the gentle voice of a female, a vaguely familiar voice.

He frowned and looked up, wanting to put a face to the voice.  It was like he was beholding an apparition. There at his side was his golden goddess – bronzed skin; pert nose with the cute bump at the end and a smile that cast a glow on the room.  She wore a white sundress with black abstract floral designs and black thong sandals on her pink-tipped feet. Wait, her hair was now a rich sable, and was she wearing contacts?

“B-Buffy?” he stuttered, shock impeding his speech.

“It’s Liz,actually.”

“W-What... “What are you doing here?” Spike demanded.

“I’m –”

Her response was cut off by the sudden blast of the Addams Family theme song.  She fished around in a black purse slung over shoulder and took out the offending cell phone. Once she got a look at the screen, irritation flashed across her face and she exhaled roughly.

“Excuse me. Gotta take this,” she apologized, stepping outside of the room.

Before Spike could say a word she was gone and he was left wondering if he had really seen Buffy.

He immediately switched off the TV and went in search of her. Her voice carried from the bedroom. She was annoyed and being evasive with whomever had called her. A husband?  She quickly ended the call and left his room before he could ambush her.

“Since when are you Liz?” he demanded to know as she exited the room.

She froze in her tracks and looked at him like a frightened deer. She took a minute to recover and then answered coolly, “Since birth. I’m  Elizabeth Madeleine Pratt.  The reigning Elizabeth Pratt or make that Elizabeth Summers is my mom.”

Shock was stamped on Spike’s face as he absorbed the depth of her words.

“Cookie?”  Spike choked out.

“I go by Liz now, Dad.”

Spike reached out and touched her cheek. He could hardly remember holding her as an infant. She was the carbon copy of Buffy, only she had his eyes. Though she was her mother’s mirror image, she looked at him with no hunger and disillusionment as did Buffy. Her eyes held only trust and wonder. Spike waited not a second longer to crush her to him in a hug, the way he’d wanted to do for sixteen long years. She hugged him back, squeezing him as if her life depended on it.

“Cookie, where’s your Mum?” he asked as he released her.

Did Buffy hate him so much she wouldn’t even come to his room?

“Uh...” Liz looked guilty.

Oh, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want Cookie to be caught between her parents.

“ ‘s ok if she doesn’t want  to see me. I understand. I bollixed things up. I was a right wanker an’ I hurt ‘er.  She brought you ‘ere to see me. It’ll ‘ave to be enough.”

“Well...it isn’t exactly like that.” Liz cast her eyes down.

Spike noticed her sudden interest in the grid of tiles on the floor and he knew.

“Bugger! She doesn’ bloody know your here, does she?”

“Not at first, but I told her when she called a while ago.”

She looked sheepish.

Spike let loose a string of expletives as he paced the room.

“ ‘ve got to get you home before she ‘as the National-bloody-Guard lookin’ for m’ arse for kidnapping,” he declared vehemently.

“Dramatic much?”

“I know Buffy.  This is th’ same woman who burned down ‘er high school gym. She’ll rip m’ spine out through m’ nose an’ wear m’ ribcage as a bleedin’ hat while she tap dances on my nuts.”

 “Oh.”

“Yeah, bloody oh. I’m fuckin’ dead!”

Change of plans.

Spike left her and called Xander’s room.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

“Hello, honey bun,” Xander answered.

“Nancy boy. Listen, Whelp, there’s been a change of plans.”

“What’s up?”

“I need the jet yesterday.”

“What for?”

“I’ve – I’ve gotta return my bloody daughter,” Spike answered in an anxious rush.

“You’ve gotta whatta your whatta?”

“You heard me. Return. My. Bloody. Daughter.”

“You’ve got a kid?”

“She’s 16.”

“Holy Billie Jean!”

“More like Buffy Summers.”

Xander remained silent as he processed what Spike revealed.

“Shpadoinkle,” Xander murmured as understanding hit him.

“Yeah. I said the same thing. Can you do it?”

“Aye aye cap’n. You owe me an explanation when you get back.”

“Gee, I can’t wait,” Spike deadpanned.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~

“I really don’t see what’s the rush to meet our doom,” Liz sighed as she stood at the door of the car.

“ ‘m not giving your Mum another day to stew and get even more painfully creative with how to turn my nut sac into a coin purse.”

“You’re very concerned about nuts. Trying to fit in all the food groups?”

She gave him a cheeky smile.

He glared at her.

“And what makes you think you can make me go back?” she demanded somewhat petulantly.

“Because, unlike all the other Robin Hoods, I have an English accent,” he quipped.

“Ha ha. Funny.”

“Glad you think so. I’ll say even funnier things on the plane... move your arse.”

Spike opened the door and gently prodded her to get into the car. She rolled her eyes and made a show of flouncing onto the seat.

Bloody teenagers.

It felt weird yet perfectly natural for him to be assuming the role of a concerned parent. It was as if he hadn’t spent practically her entire life away from her and they were like any other closely-bonded father and daughter. Her arms were folded and her lips formed an angry pout. She looked so much like Buffy did whenever she didn’t get her way. A sharp pain pierced his chest at the memory. He knew it would hurt a thousand times more when he came face to face with the real Buffy.