[A/N: The genesis for this story was actually twofold. Quite a while back, I saw a challenge/request posted on Darker Spike (livejournal community) for a Spangel fic wherein Angel was Spike’s basketball coach and he was a HS student (basically student/teacher kink). Well, I got to thinking about it and basically I decided first of all, Spike/William wouldn’t ever play basketball, and so I had to alter that aspect. Which got me altering far more of it. I couldn’t wrap my head around writing Spangel with hearts and flowers, or anything resembling love, so instead I focused on the non-con aspects of a student/teacher relationship. Thus was borne the initial idea. However, all that being said, this story is not Spangel in it’s focus. It is however, very dark and not all so happy. So if you can’t handle angst or dark subjects, click the button and leave this story now. Believe me, I won’t be insulted. If you choose to stay, be warned, this is not going to be pretty. This story contains non-consensual sex, sexual abuse of minors, talk of suicide, murder and just about all the other dark stuff you can think of and maybe don’t want to read. Again, I won’t be insulted if you can’t deal with it; however, if you think you can and then decide to flame me for the emotions and/or other visions this story invokes, be advised, I warned you, and therefore on your head be it. My thanks to Spikeslovebite for her stellar beta skills and to Addie Logan for the handholding and support while I wrote this. And, for telling me to go ahead and post it. Titles and quotes are as attributed. And the title, which also generated some of the plot ideas, comes from the Honestly OK, by Dido. Disclaimers in full force and effect, much like all other fanfiction. I own nothing but the plot. And the pain.]



Safe in my own skin



First



I just want to feel safe in my own skin,

I just want to be happy again

I just want to feel deep in my own world

But I'm so lonely

I don't even want to be with myself anymore

On a different day,

if I was safe in my own skin,

then I wouldn't feel lost and

so frightened

But this is today and I'm lost in my own skin

And I'm so lonely

I don't even want to be with myself anymore

I just want to feel safe in my own skin,

I just want to be happy again.


London, present day


It was quiet.



That’s what woke her. No shuffle or rustle of sheets beside her, no limbs entwining with her own, no arms curling around her, anchoring them together. No heartbeat thumping steadily under her ear.



The quiet drove her from their bed.



Her feet padded softly on the rug, the rough wool scratching at equally rough callouses and bare skin.



Down the darkened hallway, down the stairs, skipping over the creaky ones out of habit, hoping to keep her wakened presence a secret for just a little while longer. The dark frightened her, made her feel small and insignificant, bringing back unwanted memories of before.



Before he’d come.



Before he’d saved her from hell.



She could feel his restless presence in the house, calling to her. She couldn’t sleep without him . . . hadn’t ever been able to.



Didn’t want to.



But he couldn’t sleep at all.



Haunted by his own demons; by all that he’d been through, what she’d suffered, and what he’d been unable to prevent. Haunted by his inability to save another. . .



Some nights he paced the floors, driven to movement by his perceived failures. Other nights he wrote, pouring out his pain, frustration, and anger onto blank, empty pages.



There were the nights he took her with tender savagery, touched her with such reverence and awe that they both wept. Then others when he used and abused her, bruising her flesh with the force of his own need and desperation.



Tonight wasn’t any of those nights, though. Tonight was one of the rarest nights of all. Something must have triggered the memories; something set him off, made the wounds bleed again.



He was sitting in shadow, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlight shining in the big picture window. Smoke curled around his head, rising up to dissipate against the pale ceiling. A dark button down shirt was resting on his shoulders, hanging loosely at his sides. The cigarette caught between his fingers glowed in the dark, dying when he crushed it out.



She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the door, her eyes drinking him in. Tears welled in her eyes, though she forcibly blinked them away. He was in so much pain. . . . More pain than she could ease, because it wasn’t physical. The emotional scars ran too deep, much like her own. They were a pair, broken, battered and barely able to hold themselves together.



And yet, they did.



Held each other when the internal demons raged, too much to control; when the pain and memories swamped them, drowning them in despair.



Flame flared in the darkness, bringing his face into sharp relief, catching on his white blond hair, revealing his scarred eyebrow. She loved his face, loved watching the play of emotions in his oh-so-expressive eyes, whether darkened with lust or brimming with love, every emotion was there to witness. Truth was she loved him. Loved him for being so vulnerable, for being so filled with pain, so willing to shoulder her burden in addition to his own.



Loved him, because he’d saved her. Every night since the first she’d laid eyes on him, he’d saved her. Yet he refused to believe it. And she loved him all the more for it.



He’d saved her.



Now it was time for her to save him.



“Spike?” Her voice quavered, breaking on the last syllable of his name, coming out in a breathless whisper. “Spike,” she tried again, hoping for a stronger sound this time. “Come back to bed.”



He’d swivelled his head to stare at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in this light. For long moments she thought she’d imagined her words, until he finally acknowledged her standing there. “Kitten. . . “



“Please, Spike, come back to bed.” He shook his head, taking another drag on the cigarette. On silent feet she crossed the distance between them, her hand reaching for the cigarette before he could move it from his lips. She put it out, brushing her hand over his cheek. “C’mon, Spike. I need you to hold me.”



Easier to couch it in terms of her need for him, not his need for her. They both needed each other. No one else understood. . . No one else knew the depths of what each had lived through. They had only each other.



He slowly got to his feet, concern for her in his every movement. “You okay, pet?”



“I can’t sleep without you.”



With her admission, she knew where his thoughts led him. I can’t sleep without you because I’m afraid. . . . afraid of my own nightmares. . . . Afraid, despite knowing the monster that haunted them both was safely locked away.



She tugged on his hand, pulling him out of the room, down the darkened hallway. Spike pulled her to a stop, his other hand reaching out to hold her against his chest. “Kitten? You okay?”



Her ear over his thumping heart, her arms circled round his waist while his held her safe, she kissed his bare chest. Lifting dark haunted green eyes to his, she whispered, “I am now.”



“All right, sweets, it’s all right.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against her forehead, then lower, to kiss away the teardrops pooling in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve got you, Buffy. I’m here.”



“Don’t leave me, please.”



“Never will, kitten, never.”



They held each other in the dark, two broken, battered souls, and somehow, they found peace.



Peace that wasn’t shattered when he lifted her in his arms, carrying her slight form up the stairs, and to the bed they shared. The peace deepened when he rolled into the bed beside her, his arms easing around her, his breath wafting over her disheveled hair.



“I love you.”



“I love you, too, kitten.”



Though she didn’t want to ask, she knew she had to, because they couldn’t stay at peace unless the last of the demons were slain. “What happened?”



He sighed, rolling onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. “Nothing.”



She knew better than to push, knew he would start talking on his own.



“Rupert rang earlier.” She waited him out, content just to listen to his voice. “Got word from a contact in the States. Seems the bastard got shanked.”



Buffy flinched, not expecting that bit of news at all. Despite her earlier vow to wait, she couldn’t help blurting out, “What happened?”



“Not sure. Guess someone found out what he was in for, what he’d done.” He rolled away from her, facing the door. Buffy followed his movements, slipping her arm under his and laying soft kisses on his back. “Don’t much care, either.”



“Neither do I.” He laced their fingers together, squeezing her smaller fingers in sympathy.

“Thing is, pet, any mention of him . . . “ His voice died away, and Buffy nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.



“Yeah. I know.” She snuggled closer, worming her other arm around him. “Thank you.”



“For what?” She felt his head shift, angling up and over his shoulder to look down at her.

“Everything. For not telling me right away. For . . this. For saving me.” Buffy kissed his shoulder again, laying her head there against his strong muscles.



“Didn’t save you, pet. He still got you.”



“Yeah, you did.” He rolled back again, tucking her under his arm, their faces close. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her hand brushing across his face. “You do, all the time. You got me out, you cared when no one else did. If you hadn’t come. . . . I’d be . . . I wouldn’t be here right now.”



Images of that night, the screams, the blood, the fear pulsed through her and Buffy shivered in his arms. “God, Spike, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t saved me.”



He sat up in a rush, holding her tighter against his wildly thumping heart. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. You would have made it. You’re stronger than that.”



“No, Spike. He would have killed me.” She clutched at him, fingers flexing convulsively around his arms. “He would have. . . and I would have died just like she did.”



They both shuddered, remembered what they’d both suffered at the hands of the same man. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, holding her close. “Don’t leave me, baby.”



“I won’t, Spike.”



Silence flooded their bedroom, memories held at bay springing to life.




&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Sunnydale, two years prior


He hated this town.



Hated it with his entire being, every last fiber of himself.



Hadn’t always been that way, though. At first he’d thought it was a decent enough place. After all, it was where his uncle had settled, where his mother had brought them to live after his own father died. It was supposed to have been a haven for them, someplace that didn’t carry the memories of London and all the death that had surrounded them there.



That safe haven never truly materialized.



He’d come to this town, shy, quiet, and unassuming. He’d fled two years later, battered, broken, bruised and determined to never set foot in this place again.



So why was he back?



It was a question he’d asked himself numerous times over the last few days. He didn’t really know why. Oh, the excuse he used was because he needed closure. To put part that of his past behind him so he could move on, so he could heal the broken parts of himself. His therapist recommended it.



A deep sigh ripped from his lungs, and he inhaled the clean air of the place he thought of as his own personal hell and fought every instinct he had to turn and leave this god-forsaken town.



Instead he halted his big DeSoto beside the “Welcome to Sunnydale” sign and stared down the street. Best get this over with. . . . lay these demons to rest.



He put the car into gear and headed straight for the school, the site of his rude awakening into adulthood.



Spike drove up to the front, letting the car idle at the curb.



He hadn’t realized school might be in session, hadn’t given it a second thought. Hundreds of teenagers, all California tanned and pretty, milled about the grounds. He wondered if any of them knew about the viper in their midst. . .



A trio of teens crossed in front of the DeSoto, two girls and a boy, their appearance oddly out of place for southern California. One of the girls, a tiny little blond, sported a huge oversized sweater, reaching down past her fingers, and had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked around, eyes darting here and there, and suddenly his radar went haywire. There’s something not right there. . .



His suspicion was immediately confirmed when the object of nearly every restless night – every waking nightmare – crossed his line of sight, following the girl. Saliva pooled in his mouth as the hulking demon grabbed at her arm, pulling her away from the others.



He squinted into the bright sunlight, trying to make out what was happening, but the light flared, blocking his vision. The moment it cleared they were gone, disappearing into thin air.



He’d almost convinced his brain that he imagined the whole scene when the girl’s companions turned around to head back into the school, fear and worry etched on their young faces.



Spike could feel the sweat leaching from his pores, his chest heaving in quick pants and forced himself to take huge, calming breaths. He’s still fucking here. . . Goddamned bastard is still here.



Scrubbing at suddenly teary eyes, Spike put the DeSoto into gear and peeled away from the curb, unknowingly drawing stares from the teenagers. But he knew it was impossible to run from his memories. They were with him, hiding behind every action, every thought, waiting for the right moment to swamp him, drown him in despair.



He didn’t want to be here in this hellhole.



Wanted to be anywhere but here.



Hadn’t thought about confronting . . .



Him.



The man who’d molested him.





&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&





Instead of staying with his uncle Rupert, Spike opted to stay in the local hotel. Less chance of having to deal with unwanted questions, or forced to be emotionally strong when he felt open and exposed.



Easier to ignore family and emotional ties. That way left only pain and more unanswered questions.



He wanted to do this quickly, cleanly.



Wanted to be able to leave when the pain and ache became too much. When it was easier to run than stay.



He stared at the walls of the hotel room, forcing his mind to be blank, desperately forcing away the memories clamoring to break free. Frantically his mind fought the images, shoving them out with almost physical force. And yet. . .



And yet. . .



Seeing the bastard brought it all to the surface, raw and aching. His skin felt tight, like he might burst from it with the next heartbeat, while his insides shriveled and shrank. His heart was thumping wildly, his breathing coming too fast. Panic was setting in, and he knew the longer he sat there, fighting the memories, the worse off he’d be.



The door slammed shut behind him, his boots thudding quietly on the carpeted floor. Need to get out, need to move. . . need to do something.



His feet led him once more past the location of his downfall, the site of his deflowering and . . . Spike stared at the empty field, for once not fighting the memories of the first months in Sunnydale. Life was good, almost too good. He should have known hell was going to be unleashed. School was easy, easier than he’d expected, the kids open and willing to welcome the young, shy British boy. His mother had suggested he try out for the football team, figuring he’d shine for once in the athletic arena. She hadn’t been wrong. He was built for it, having played endlessly in London, easily making the varsity team on the first try.



He’d been fourteen.



Impossibly shy and stuttering around girls, his brain freezing and tongue-tying on him, unable to communicate intelligently.



The field was just a field, green grass unevenly cut, goal posts lonely sentinels against the backdrop of the setting sun. Not blood drenched reminders of being left lonely and bleeding, too sore and sick to move, too hurt to admit what had happened.



Just a field. Just goal posts.



He was William then, when he’d first walked onto this field. Shy, lonely William.



Somewhere still inside of him, William still whimpered and cried in the dark, while Spike stood guard, ever vigilant, ever watchful.



Dropping his spent cigarette to the ground, Spike stomped on it, turning away from the field.




&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&




Hands, grasping, holding, shaping. . . possessing. Tightening on his cock, squeezing, then releasing. Whispered threats, ‘this is mine, boyo. . . no one touches you but me’ circled round in his head as he whirled around seeking escape. Hot hands, hurting, holding him down, blood dripping down his leg, pain . . . pain.



Doubling over, vomiting everything he’d eaten in the last few hours, Spike’s belly clenched against the memories that had woken him from a restless sleep. Head hanging over the toilet bowl, he panted for air. Long, long moments he hung his head, letting the tears drip down his cheeks, plopping almost noiselessly into the remains of his meal.



Spike straightened slowly, feeling far older than his twenty six years, his body cramped and shaking with fear and fatigue. Savagely wiping away the tears, he stepped into the cold shower, seeking some form of ease. The cold stung, piercing shards of sanity pelting his skin.



Tremors wracked his frame, making him unsteady on his own feet and he slumped down, huddling against the shower wall, curled in on himself. Hiding from his own pain. Hiding from himself. The tears came, harsh and unforgiving, and he rode them out, knowing eventually his body would give way, give up and collapse from the strain.



Sleep stole over him, exhausted, mindless sleep and he moved slowly, collapsing on the bed, soaking the sheets with the frozen tears his entire body wept.



He slept. . . . and did not dream.





&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&









California sunshine was different than sunshine anywhere else in the world. Had a different feel, different quality to it. Brassy, bright and intrusive.



He hated it.



He sat in the shadows of the ridiculously named Espresso Pump, a once gas station that had now been converted – for the greater good – into a coffee shop. Red-rimmed and bloodshot blue eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and though his pose was indolent, Spike felt anything but. His every nerve was on edge, eyes tracking the populace as they traveled to and fro, scurrying about their day.



The coffee he’d ordered sat slowly cooling, the overspill leaving a ring around the bottom, and he deliberately tipped the cup to trace more of it on the glass. He sat in the far corner, much like he always did out in public, quietly paranoid about having someone at his back, and so he saw her the second she stepped into view.



She was just as fragile looking, just as tiny as he’d thought. There was a doe-like quality, a wild thing barely able to stand the company of humans in her bearing, a vulnerability about her that spoke to him. His eyes tracked her as she darted swiftly to a chair two tables away from him, where the other girl sat, obviously waiting for her.



Though he wanted to leave, felt the presence of every single patron in the barely empty shop closing in on him, he couldn’t. Didn’t dare move. She was breathlessly spilling out details of something, leaning in closely to the redhead, when she abruptly stopped, ducking her head. A hush fell over the two girls and he swore he could smell the scent of her tears.



A fist clenched around his heart, and his lungs caught, holding the breath suspended, and as a soft sob broke from her, his lungs collapsed, exploding in a whoosh of sound.



Spike sat there, tears welling in his own eyes as the chair scraped back, her narrow shoulders hunching. Her breathing hitched and broke and she fled the place, tearing away pieces of his already wounded flesh.



Stunned and confused, half of him wanting to chase after her and somehow ease the pain he knew she carried; the other half of him wondering why her, of all people. . . . Spike sat there, unable to move.



She was just a girl. . . a tiny, slip of a thing. . . and yet something deep surged within him just seeing her.



Just a girl. . . .



Spike surged to his feet, needing to escape the confines of the small coffee shop.




&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

London, present day


“What are you thinking?” Her hand swept over his cheek, her thumb ghosting over his lips.

“Spike?”



“Jus’ m’ries.” He stared up at the ceiling, his hand making idle patterns on her bare back. “Thinkin’ bout what brought us here.”



Buffy rolled onto her side, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, her leg thrown over his narrow hips. “Not all of the memories were bad.” She tapped his lips when he stated to speak, begging him not to for a moment. “Most of them were bad, I know. But there were some. . . Willow and Xander.”



He held her closer, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. She hugged him tighter, holding on, anchoring them together. “Sometimes I miss them, you know?”



He fought the urge to speak, to remind her they couldn’t go back, didn’t dare return, when she spoke again. “Maybe they could come here, someday.”



“Kitten. . . “ He didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to remind her they shouldn’t let anyone know where they were. There was still the matter of her being underage when he’d spirited her out of the country, both her and the baby.



A deep sigh from her shook both their bodies, and he could feel the tears pooling in her eyes. “I don’t wanna talk about that . . . about him anymore. Please, help me forget.”



He flipped them over, so she was tucked beneath him, his hips settling naturally in the cradle created by hers. His calloused hands brushed the hair off her face, his fathomless eyes staring into hers, telling her without words how much he needed her. Buffy caught his face in her hands, tracing lines and shadows.



“Love you, kitten, so fuckin’ much.”



“I know.” Her throat ached with unshed tears, the fist around her heart easing only minimally. “I love you. . . so much.”



She smiled at him, without it reaching her haunted hazel eyes. The same haunted look stared back at her, swimming in deep sapphire and she kissed his face, tasting the saltiness of his own tears. “Oh, Spike, you break my heart.”



His whisper of, “Why’s that, baby?” melted into her skin.



“Because I don’t think you get how much I really do love you. You saved me. . . from the monster.” More feather soft kisses caressed his face and Spike curled his hand over her fragile body, cupping her tender breast. “And I love you. . . God, how I love you.”



Her legs curved over his, arching her hips up against his hard, heavy cock. Despite all the bruises, all the pain, all the darkness surrounding this act for both of them, they always sought connection, always touched. Spike settling himself inside her, thrusting slowly, almost cautiously. This was for them. . . no reminders of . . . him.



Spike rolled to his side, hooking his arm under her hip, keeping them locked together. His arm pillowed her, fingers tangling in her long hair. Other fingers splayed low, at the small of her back, soothing away faint scars. He didn’t speak, couldn’t for the lump and rawness in his throat, and he made no move to hide his tears from her.



Buffy leaned into him, her nipples brushing his, her fingers tracing lines and ridges, smoothing away the pain etched deeply. “I love you.”



He did smile then, leaning down to capture her lips with his. “I love you too. ‘D be lost without you.”



This time her smile reached her eyes and the band around his heart eased. “Nah. I’m the one who’d be lost.”



Internal muscles flexed around his erection and Spike ground hard into her. “Gonna stay like this all night, yeah?”



“Mmmmmhhhmmm. Can we?”



“Anythin’ you want, baby. Anythin’ at all.”



“Good.”



Steadily, slowly, they surged together, holding on, holding in. . . holding the tender, fragile hearts they both owned.



And for once, in the dark, it was enough.



It was enough.





to be continued

[A/N: I’m going to repeat this until I’m blue in the face and then repeat it again. This is not an easy story. Not an easy one to write and I’m sure not an easy one to read. That being said, if you can’t handle it, I won’t be insulted if you go. Just remember, flames will not be tolerated. And yes, there will be male/male sex, though it is non-consensual. There’s also hetero-sex. Some of that will be non-consensual and some will be consensual. Title and quotes are as attributed, well actually, the quote is mine. A poem I wrote a long time ago, the title of which is Desecrated Angel. I suppose it fits. Disclaimers in full force and effect.]


Second

Crystal tears
battered innocent flesh
ache of heaven
rage of hell
unwanted angel
unspeakable violation
bruised bleeding ripped and torn
lambent eyes clouded with rage
silver shards of ice filled pain
snarling sneering
gasping shame
desecrated angel
bleeding life away
Niamh O’Connor, 1997


Sunnydale, two years prior



He woke, sweating heavily, his breath gusting in heaving pants, every inch of him shaking with repressed fears. Shakily he slumped, his heart thumping wildly, nearly visible against the barrier of his skin. Running a hand through his hair, he cursed his therapist.

Don’t want to be here.

Wasn’t ready for this.

Hadn’t been prepared for the sight and sound of this place.

This pit of hell that would haunt him until he died.

He wondered, not for the first time, if that little girl felt the same way. And somehow, knew that she did.

It was her eyes, those haunted, doe-big eyes that told her secrets.

Her eyes had followed him into sleep. . .

Spike got up, moving on wobbly legs to stare out onto the dark streets.

He couldn’t go back to sleep, knew oblivion waited elsewhere tonight.

It was early. . .

Sleep wasn’t coming.

Neither was peace, not for him. Not this night.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


He loved this time of night.

No one about, no prying eyes. No need to be other than himself.

The soft thump of his boots on pavement soothed him, eased away the fear he’d been carrying.

He could still be William in this time, still the shy, unassuming boy he sheltered with the punk persona. It was good to know that part of him still existed, some good and clean part of him. . . though it had been William who’d borne the pain.

Spike had been formed from the pain.

William had fled, shedding tears and skin, refusing to answer why he wanted away, and from the ashes of the burning pain, Spike had emerged.

And saved William.

Something moved in the darkness ahead of him and he stilled, blending into the shadows. He crept closer, every sense heightened.

A sob broke in the early morning darkness, the cry of a wounded, broken animal.

Waning moonlight illuminated spun gold hair and a tiny, huddled form.

Spike stood still, frozen by her tears.

Dropping down to his haunches, he spoke softly, his words and tone meant to soothe, to ease her somewhat.

“Are you all right?”

Her turn now to freeze, those wounded eyes filled with tears, piercing him to the core.

She didn’t speak, fear closing her throat, pain swamping her senses.

He tried again, holding his hands out for her to take. “M’name’s Will.”

Minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell how long she stared at him, her eyes searching for some sign. . . something he recognized all too well.

Knew that look. Had seen it staring back at him in the mirror, too many times to count.

Knew enough, too, not to promise anything. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Spike waited her out, knowing, sooner or later, the pain would win out and she’d collapse. Every line of muscle screamed pain, her wounded eyes speaking far more eloquently than words.

So he waited, in silence, until she spoke.

“I can’t move.”

Laced with pain and unshed tears, she let go, reaching for him in the only way she could, hoping this complete stranger would be there to catch her. Spike crawled over to her, his hands gentle.

“Okay, kitten. I’m gonna help you now.”

And the tears fell, dropping helplessly from her eyes, coursing down bruised skin.

She nodded once, warily watching him move closer.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


Pain laced her breathing, gasping, hitching in her throat as she fought to get air through shattered and torn bones. Pain lanced her movements, forcing her to creep slowly away, crab-walking like someone aged and ancient.

Heart pain.

Beyond tears, beyond any feeling at all, she crawled when she could no longer walk, pulling herself forward on already abused skin.

Wounded flesh that would eventually heal.

Squishy, suspicious noises emerged with every exhalation, moisture pooling in her mouth. Could just choke on it. . . . could just close my eyes and lay down here.

Wet grass smell covered the other scents, ones she’d give her freedom to forget. Blood, vomit. . . . Spunk. She hated it. Hated. . . him.

Hated her, too.

Hated everyone. Even herself.

She wiggled her jaw, feeling for loose teeth and licking her swollen, split lips. Tight skin pulled and stretched, opening up almost closed lacerations, fresh blood spilling to the surface.

Her legs gave out, crumpling beneath her, fresh pain arcing, sending dancing silver lights to cloud her blurred vision.

Not far enough. . . Never far enough.

Her head dropped to the dirt, tears and blood mixing with earth. Why? Why me?

Why can’t she stop him?

Does she hate me too?

Not my fault. . . not mine. He’s wrong. Him. He’s the sick fuck. . .

Faint noises reached her ears, and she scrabbled away, desperate for the safety of the low rose bushes just inches away. . . The sounds came closer, and her heart pounded, thumping madly for escape. Don’t. . . please don’t. . . .

Flinching away from the noises, she whimpered her terror into the earth, not believing any miracle she prayed for would happen.

“Are you all right?”

She nearly laughed at the voice in her head, knowing it wasn’t real. No one would be out, no one would care. . . And no one would ask that of her. No one ever had.

Barely able to roll to her side, Buffy lifted her head, eyes fixing on the hunched form. His face was hidden in darkness, features blurred by her pain. Whimpers died in her throat, driven away by the sweeping fear.

He inched closer, dropping one knee down and shifting until he was bathed in moonlight.
Her eyes caught his, and she didn’t breathe, didn’t dare move. His hand reached out to her, stopping short of touching.

That’s all he did.

Waited for her to move, to acknowledge him, the only other words uttered were his name. She wanted to trust this moment was real, wanted to believe he was no more than he seemed, but. . .

How could she trust a complete stranger when her own sister left her to the wolf?

How. . . Trust wasn’t something she understood. There was no trust. None.

Trust betrayed and beat, trust wounded and seared.

And yet he waited. . . . pale hand outstretched like a silent statute, asking for nothing.

The fingertips of her good hand dug into the earth, dislodging small tuffets of grass, fisting the dirt between shaky fingers. She wanted to reach for him. Wanted so badly to try. . . to hope. . . but her body was frozen, pain and fear making movement impossible.

His head tilted, releasing the shadows from his eyes, revealing his true self.

Daring a deep breath, Buffy surrendered.

“I can’t move.”

His hands caught her as she fell, crumpling raggedly onto the grass.

The warmth of his hands unlocked the tears she’d fought against shedding.

For this moment, she was safe.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


He was used to the stares, the whispers. The pointed looks, which were worse than the stares. Spike slouched down in the molded plastic chair, wondering why he was still hanging around. It wasn’t like they’d tell him about her anyway.

He didn’t even know her name.

She had fainted in his arms, halfway to the hospital.

Her body shook and shuddered, pain and terror taking their toll. Her skin was soft. . . Almost baby soft, and her blood had leached into his, filling him with her essence. He could still smell her. . . blood and something sweet, filling his nostrils. Closing his eyes, he held onto the scent, trapping it in his memory.

“You the guy who brought the girl in?”

The voice was firm, deep and Spike reluctantly opened his blurry eyes to see a tall, bald, black man staring down at him.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Oh, he knew this. . . This drill. Hard not to recognize a cop, even in plainclothes, when you’ve stepped one too many times over the line. . . . Spike nodded, not giving anything away.

Not budging, not moving, the cop waited. . . And waited, just watching Spike.

“Found her. Crying and beaten. Picked her up and carried her here.”

Silence filled the noisy waiting room, the wail of an arriving ambulance sounded far off, remote, as remote as the stillness inside him. His breath moved in and out of his chest, head buzzing from sleeplessness.

Still they waited. . . For more or nothing else, Spike wasn’t sure. Expecting, any moment the cool snap of circular metal tightening around his wrists, the rush of memorized repetitive words advising to stay silent. . . always silent.

His eyes drifted closed again, fatigue creeping in through the gaps of worry, robbing him of care about his companion.

Hours or minutes passed, he never knew which, and the wait stretched between them, unspoken like the accusations waiting to be hurled.

“Detective?”

A new voice shattered the quiet, the worried tones leaching through his fatigue. Spike struggled to sit up, struggled to open his eyes and focus.

Whispers hushed out of averted faces, eyes sneaking peaks at the lone black spot . . . .

Hard not to understand the concern, to ache for a moment . . . for her, when he couldn’t for himself.

She’d run. . . Looking for a way out, trying to outrun a monster.

“Come with me.”


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


More hard plastic chairs, more harsh, blinding lights. Only this time, no one stared, no one even looked. The open office was empty, devoid of presence save for the two of them. Spike looked around, idly noting the haphazard filing systems, the grainy greyish-green walls, anything to avoid looking at the man looking at him.

“Where did you find her?”

“Just inside the park. By the roses.”

An almost non-existent eyebrow raised up, and Spike fought the snicker of amusement when the action rippled across the bald head.

“She say anything?”

He shook his head in answer, then told him what he could remember. They’d barely exchanged ten words, most of them coming from him. She’d been too scared, too wounded. “Is she gonna be okay?”

The answer was a long time in coming, while the detective studied him. Spike stared back, unblinking in the face of official disapproval. A sigh reluctantly emerged from his companion and he was the first one to look away. “Yeah. She’s got a couple of broken ribs and her left arm is broken.”

There were other injuries, but he wasn’t going to mention those – if he was guilty, he’d already know. If he wasn’t then it hardly mattered. Girl had enough to worry about without a complete stranger knowing her business.

Spike’s eyes drifted closed, gratitude and prayers to long forgotten gods circling in his head. “Good.”

They were quiet again, both men lost in thought. “You don’t remember me.”

“Huh? Wha?”

“Charles Gunn,” he thumped his hand against his chest, and kept speaking when Spike didn’t acknowledge him, “We were in three classes together in junior year. You just up and disappeared though.”

“Had my reasons.” None I’m going to tell you, mate. . . “Who is she?”

“No ID on her and she’s still unconscious.” Gunn pushed over a picture of her battered face. “You got any ideas?”

“No.” He didn’t elaborate further, years of secret-keeping sealing his lips.

Another, deeper sigh. “All right, man. You’re free to go. But leave me a number, just in case.”

Didn’t need to be told why. DNA was a bitch for criminals, but there was nothing about this he needed to hide. His cell number rattled out and Spike surged to his feet.

He was gone before the other man could finish writing.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



Some gnawing emotion ate away, churning his gut. Unclear thoughts swirled in his head, none clear, none coherent.

She . . . his mind kept looping back to thoughts of her, the feel of her slight weight in his arms. Her blood still covered his skin, her scent woven into his. He couldn’t move without sensing her, hovering on the edge of his awareness. Just out of his reach.

Sleep wasn’t going to come any time before dawn.

He wouldn’t even bother trying.

Instead, he retraced his steps, moving toward places he’d rather not ever see again.

Rose petals drifted down, washing away the coppery scent. Spike closed his fist on them, crushing their pale pink blooms in his blood-stained hands.

This was where he’d found her, amid crushed roses washed pale under silvery moonlight.
Dew fixed the petals around his fingers, curling like baby kisses over his calloused skin.
He gathered them in his palms, lifting them up like an offering.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


Something tickled her nose. Some soft, barely felt touch teased at her skin, hesitant, wary. Beeps and whirs of soft machinery pinged, disturbing her troubled sleep.

Pain, radiating outward from disparate parts of her, converged in her belly, contracting her heart. She whimpered, unbroken hand clutching for something.

Spike watched her, still and silent in the deeper shadows of her room.

She stirred, eyes fluttering and he retreated further.

A groan stole from her lips and he was gone, leaving her to imagine he’d been there.

Buffy slowly opened her eyes, cowering against the bed.

Roses, wild and untamed, lay on the tray.

Petals covered the bed.

Memories of a deep voice, pale hands and black leather repeated in her mind.

He’d saved her.

She didn’t know how, or why. . . or who he was. But he’d saved her.

Despite the pain and fear, she was glad someone had cared. . .


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


London, present day


Hoarse, desperate and high-pitched, piercing cries broke the deep silence, shaking both of them from their slumber. Wails of abject heartbreak, cries that had too long gone unanswered. Spike woke, shaking, his own heart racing.

Slipping silently from the bed, he slid into discarded jeans and made his way toward the cries.

There, thrashing, wailing, face scrunched in absolute terror, was the other reason he wanted them to stay hidden.

Poor little mite. . .

Barely two years and he’d seen far too much.

Things no infant should ever see or have to live through.

Red-faced, eyes closed, mouth gaping wide in horrible screams.

“Shhhh, it’s all right, little man.”

The lie tripped easily from his lips, though he paid it no mind. Little Connor didn’t even know he was lying – nor did he care. He wanted one thing – the one thing he’d never, ever be able to have again.

“Moooooommmmmmmmmyyyyyyyy!”

The cry hurt his ears – but his heart wept to hear it. Nothing he, nor Buffy could do.

Except hold him, love him and protect him.

Spike swept the boy up in his arms, cradling him against his bare chest. Snot, tears and blood mixed together on his bare skin, tiny pounding fists beating the mess.

“Want my mommy! Mommy!”

The words were garbled, interwoven with hiccuped screeching cries, and still the boy did not wake.

His voice was low, even-toned, designed to soothe and wake the boy gently. Tears of his own mixed with the baby’s and Spike paced the floor, rocking side to side.

Her hand came round his shoulder, cupping the baby’s head, her other arm slung around his waist. “Sing to him. Sometimes it helps.”

It did.

Within minutes, Connor’s cries died off, his head thumping heavily against Spike’s collarbone. Buffy’s hand joined his, rubbing over the small spine, both of them whispering soft nonsense.

The quiet, when it came stole in on a sigh expelled from the baby’s mouth. His thumb crept it’s way to his lips, his other fragile hand wrapped around Spike’s ear, stroking it gently, like a prized blanket.

Larks, heralding daybreak, sent their harsh cries out into the wavering darkness, while inside the dark, nearly empty house, three broken souls held each other tightly.

Spike dropped kisses on their heads, holding them both into the safety of his arms.

Daylight broke in through the window and he hugged them tighter.

The night demons they all battled hadn’t won this round.

He hoped, despite having little for himself, that this was the harbinger of something new.

Surcease.

[A/N: This chapter may contain mention of murder, child-abuse, sexual assault and other assorted not so nice things. If you can’t read it, or deal with it, I’ll understand, just don’t you dare blast me for not mentioning it – or even for writing it. This is not easy for me – for a variety of reasons, so don’t think for one instant that I’m okay with any of this. Many a page, a paragraph, sentence or even a word, has made me break down and have to stop, so keep the criticisms about how this isn’t possible or whatever to yourself. This is a highly personal subject for me. And yeah, these notes are harsh – but so is the subject matter. Quote is from Anne Sexton, “Locked Doors”. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing – except for the story.]


Third

For the angels who inhabit this town,
although their shape constantly changes,
each night we leave some cold potatoes
and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.
Usually they inhabit heaven where,
by the way, no tears are allowed.
They push the moon around
like a boiled yam.
The Milky Way is their hen
with her many children.
When it is night the cows lie down
but the moon, that big bull,
stands up.

However, there is a locked room up there
with an iron door that can't be opened.
It has all your bad dreams in it.
It is hell.
Some say the devil locks the door
from the inside.
Some say the angels lock it from the outside.
The people inside have no water
and are never allowed to touch.
They crack like macadam.
They are mute.
They do not cry help
except inside where their hearts are covered with grubs.

I would like to unlock that door,
turn the rusty key
and hold each fallen one in my arms
but I cannot, I cannot.
I can only sit here on earth
at my place at the table.


Sunnydale, two years prior





She didn’t know how long she’d been there, staring at pale greenish walls, listening to the monitors beep and whir around her. Someone had brought her food earlier, after cleaning up her flowers, though she’d clutched a handful of broken petals in her good fist. Buffy clung to them, unsure whether she’d imagined the bright blue eyes intently staring into her own.

Her arm throbbed.

Her brain though, was numb.

The split lip and bruises dotting her torso ached, every time she expelled a breath.

“Miss?”

A tall bald man stepped into her line of sight and Buffy shrank back.

“I’m sorry. Is this better?”

He stepped away, moving the chair to the end of her bed. Far enough away to let her feel safe, close enough to hear her whispered answers.

“I’m Detective Gunn.”

His wait for her to give him her name extended, growing like an awkward weed.

“Can you. . . “ he started, then stopped, shaking his head. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Tears welled up despite her reluctance to speak. He had a kind face, warm and dark, eyes that looked concerned.

Fear kept her silent.

“Do you remember?”

Too much! Her mind screamed, soundless words careening about in her head. I remember everything.

I don’t want to remember.

Buffy looked away, her eyes landing on the bunch of wild roses someone had put in a plastic water jug.

Not a dream, then.

Somehow she knew that he’d brought them. No one else would.

His eyes followed hers, hoping to find an answer in the lost expression in her eyes.

“Do you know the man who brought you here?”

Her eyes shifted, then dark lashes closed over the brilliant green. “No.”

“His name is William Giles.” There was a very long pause before he spoke again. “Is he the one that did this to you?”

Lashes lifted, stark despair flooding the wounded jade of her eyes. “No.”

“Will you tell me who you are?”

“Buffy.”

Gunn closed his eyes, slowly rising to his feet. “Get some rest, Buffy. I’ll be back later.”

Instead of resting, she focused on the flowers, wondering why he’d brought them.

And wondering why she couldn’t forget his face.



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




His sleep had been, for once, almost dreamless.

Instead of visions of his past haunting his slumber, he’d been surrounded by luminous green eyes and soft, almost elfin features.

She’d appeared so small, huddled on the sterile sheets, tubes and wires attached to her baby-soft skin.

Skin that had borne the marks of someone’s less than gentle hands.

Yet when he’d dreamed of her, she’d been whole, unmarked.

Safe.

Spike looked down at his hands. He knew, without knowing her name, who’s hands had been the ones hurting her.

Part of him wanted to go – find him – and retaliate.

To face his own demon to protect her.

The ringing of his cell phone distracted him, moving his thoughts in a different direction.
He thought about ignoring the summons, but when the ringing persisted, he finally answered with a gruff, “What?”

“Charles Gunn here.”

Spike was decidedly unimpressed. “Yeah?”

“The girl you found is awake. Says her name is Buffy. That ring a bell with you?”

His free hand wound through his hair, trying to calm the thumping of his heart. Her name was as fragile as she was. . . . Fragile and surprisingly silly. Images of a younger girl, golden hair swirling in the sunlight as she played on the swings crossed his mind and Spike hoped, for her sake, she’d had that.

The silence stretched too long and Gunn repeated his question.

“No, never met her,” was the only answer Spike was willing to give. He’d seen her, though. But he wasn’t about to tell Gunn where – or his suspicions about the beating.

“Just doing my job.” More silence greeted his blunt statement and Spike held back the retort forming. “Would you mind writing out a statement and giving me a DNA sample?”

Fuck. He’d hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

“Yeah. I’ll meet you . . . where?”

“My office is fine.”

“Right.” Without another word, Spike clicked off the phone and stared blankly at the dull walls of his room. He rubbed the spot on his chest where the curve of her cheek had rested.

The urge to confront the beast grew .

Not for himself. For her.

To give her what she deserved.



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



Wasn’t hard to track her down.

Her unusual first name was a dead give-away.

One look at the sister, though, had him rethinking the intelligence of notifying her next of kin.

Dark circles under tired blue eyes, dull blond hair and too-quiet infant on her hip. Baby was wide-eyed, staring warily at his surroundings. Too late now to worry about it. Girl was being released.

Into what, Gunn wasn’t so sure of.

The two blondes stared at each other, neither one inclined to speak.

He wasn’t going to get any answers from either of them.

The connection to Giles wasn’t clear either, if there even was one.

Gunn watched the silent trio leave, making mental notes to investigate with Child Protection Services and the girl’s school, and very certain he’d just made a mistake.



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



It took all the strength she had not to collapse with every step.

I so don’t want to go home. Why do I have to go? It’s not home, not anymore. Not with him there.

Staring out the car window, the thought of just opening the door and letting herself fall crossed her mind, then stayed there.

It would be so easy. Just let go.

Open the door. . .

and fall.

The car cruised to a slow stop and the sound of her sister’s tired voice finally broke into her dark musings. Darla was mouthing something about how she was worried about her, when the look on Buffy’s face must have warned her not to continue.

No false assurances rang from her lips then, no words of encouragement or affection, only dark, blank stares until Darla was the one to look away first.

Fucking bitch knows. . . And won’t protect me.

I can’t go back. I can’t. . . Oh, fuck, I can’t go back there. He’s there.

“He’s not home. He won’t be home until Sunday. County championship is tomorrow.”

She wasn’t aware of the sigh that shook her thin chest, but Darla felt it. Refusing to look into the mirror, avoiding her own gaze, the older blonde reached out a hand, then let it drop to the seat between them.

Silence filled the car, even the baby sensing the impending doom hanging over them.

Two more days. Just two days. I gotta do something. I can’t stay . . . can’t keep letting him touch me.

Gorge rose in her throat and she choked it back, holding the hysteria at bay.

Can’t. . . just can’t.


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



Dusk slid silent shadows over the streets, and he found himself walking without purpose. He'd done much of that in the last few days, his feet echoing his soul's need to avoid stillness. Thoughts stole in whenever he was still, thoughts he'd rather not face.

His feet kept him moving, motion giving a semblance of peace.

Her face haunted him; the pain in her eyes caught and held his soul.

Buffy. . . .

That was all Gunn had told him, her first name.

He rounded a corner, tempted for a moment to return to the place he'd found her -- even knowing she wouldn't still be there. He needed to see her, needed to know she was okay, even if it were far from the truth.

Maybe he'd imagined her features, the sparkle -- despite the pain -- in her remarkable eyes. Maybe she wouldn't be the same vulnerable, ethereal creature his memory kept conjuring.

Maybe . . .

Somewhere out there, in the twilight of surburbia, she was hiding from a monster he should have uncovered years ago. Guilt washed through him, riding on his conscience like a festering wound. Had he the courage ten years past, she might have been saved from this . . . might not have had to bear the weight of his shame.

He should have. . . knew he should have. But shame and fear and disgust and self-hatred had kept his tongue silent. And now, she paid the price of his fear. . .

As if conjured from his thoughts, her face appeared in the periphery of his sight, teasing at his awareness. Spike turned to face her, believing his mind was playing tricks on him. But she was real, as real as the dark bruise mottling her cheek, as real as the cast covering her arm, and as real as the shock on her own face.

She moved forward, compelled by her own thoughts to stand closer. Her mouth gaped open, and her panting breaths were the only sound in the growing darkness. "Are you real?"

"I am."

His wry smile answered her own.

"For a little while I thought I was dreaming. But I don't have good dreams."

He acknowledged the truth, without giving much of his own away. Confronted with her reality, he reverted to the shy, tongue-tied boy he'd once been and found himself unable to do more than just gawk at her.

"Thank you."

Spike looked away, his jaw clenching. "For?"

"You saved me. I don't think I would've made it."
Her turn to look away, her turn to avoid his eyes. Spike stared at her profile, tracing the soft curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulders and the soft swell of her breasts. Easier to remember what wasn't marred by the hands of a brute, to catalogue her sweetness than to dwell upon his own part in her pain.

He choked on her gratitude, couldn't form words past the lump in his throat, stealing his ability to speak. A mere nod was all he could give her.

"Who are you?"

Oh, she's a bold one. . . no fear 't all. . .

His answer came swiftly, surprising him more than her. "M'name's Will. Ah, well, most call me Spike, though."

Her smile reached her eyes this time. "I'm Buffy."

Spike's heart contracted when she stepped closer. She was so tiny, fragile and yet. . . . she didn't back down. Didn't shy away from him. By rights she should be scared to death of him. . . should be cowering away. But no, she faced him, came close to him, dared to speak to him. Maybe there's hope for her. . . . unlike how William had felt.

"I'm supposed to be meeting my friend. . . but . . . " Her voice trailed off and she looked away, unwilling to face him.



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



"I'm going out."

Only an assessing look had greeted her statement, only a mostly blank stare. Both knew rules no longer applied, no longer mattered. Darla had no escape, but recognized the plans whirling behind her baby sister's eyes. . . . plans to get away, to run from the monster tormenting them both.

Buffy slipped from the house, the door banging against the frame as she fled.

No clear destination in mind, she told herself she was going to see Willow. . or Xander or . . . But no, she didn't want to explain the latest set of bruises, or the broken arm. . . or how she'd escaped.

She just needed out. Needed time away from her own personal hell, since nowhere inside those walls was safe, even with him gone. His presence was all over the house and she couldn't bear it, not at this moment.

Her body was still sore, her muscles protesting every step, every movement away. For each aching, throbbing, jarring step, her spirit lightened. She was away -- she could pretend -- for a very little while, that she would finally be safe.

Buffy knew she couldn't go far, her body wouldn't allow it. At least not right now. Not at this moment. Not with bruised ribs and a broken arm. Two days . . . two days she had to come up with an escape, a way to get free of him. . .

Footsteps thumped on the pavement and she slowed her steps, fearful of who she might come across. Buffy slipped behind the Anderson's big old oak tree, blanking her mind and hoping she was small enough to avoid detection, hoping she was invisible enough to disappear from whoever was approaching.

The curiosity that was her downfall drove her from behind the tree.

The figure stepped beneath a streetlight and Buffy's breath froze in her chest.

She remembered very little of what had occurred before she woke in the hospital -- only fleeting images of blond hair, blue eyes and a deep, soothing voice had penetrated her pain. It had to have been a dream, because no one ever took care of her, no one cared enough about her. . .

Except she hadn't been dreaming.

That white blond hair couldn't have been imagined, because it belonged to the man crossing the street, coming toward her. Is he real?

Fear rode her, but the need to understand goaded her, riding in her gut along with the shards of pain she bore without complaint.

Before she could stop them, words were tumbling from her mouth. "Are you real?"

He'd stopped, his footsteps grinding to a halt to gape at her.

"I am." His words caused a brief shiver.

She smiled, more happy than sad and he smiled a little bit back at her.

"For a little while I thought I was dreaming. But I don't have good dreams."

Buffy closed her eyes, afraid she'd given too much away, but he stayed silent, looking away from her. Feeling as if he were as unused to thanks as she was to giving them, Buffy took the gift of his silence and dared more.

"Thank you."

"For?" He looked uncomfortable with that and she briefly wondered why. . . it felt, he acted as if he were the one to hurt her.

"You saved me. I don't think I would've made it." Oh, God. I can’t believe I just. . . . Maybe he doesn’t get it, maybe. . .

One look at the side of his jaw told her she’d been transparent, had given too much of herself away. . . and though the fear started rising, something about the clenched jaw and the tilt of his head gave her pause. Or maybe, he understands. . . .

She looked away, hiding the truth from his too brilliant eyes. When he didn’t question her, didn’t do anything more than nod his acceptance, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who are you?" No, no, no. . . don’t ask. . Asking makes him real. Asking him . . .

"M'name's Will. Ah, well, most call me Spike, though."

"I'm Buffy."

Too late now. . Why am I not afraid of him? How come he makes me feel okay? He looks dangerous, scary. . . and yet, he’s the one that saved me.

"I'm supposed to be meeting my friend. . . but . . . "

Buffy knew only one thing – she didn’t want to leave without getting to be around him. Edging closer to his solid form, she dared a glance up at his profile. Why aren’t I afraid of him?

Why?

Why instead do I feel safe?

[A/N: I owe everyone an apology of sorts. My author’s notes for this story have been kind of harsh – and I’m sorry if I come off sound mean and evil. I don’t intend for that tone. That being said, someone recently asked me if I’m writing this from experience. And I have to say I am; not that every occurrence in the stories mirrors mine, nor is this story autobiographical (though I did have my own “Spike” rescue me - of sorts). Anyway, this chapter is rougher than the others, so bear that in mind. Unlike my other stories, I don’t have this mapped out quite as much. I sort of just write what I’m feeling, which isn’t always pretty. Fair warning, this chapter contains explicit mention of m/m sex, and child abuse. Quote is song lyrics from Alice in Chains (lyrics by Layne Staley and music by Jerry Cantrell, quite possibly one of the best non mainstream bands to have ever recorded. Don’t believe me? Go listen, they’re more than worth the time you take. Disclaimers in full force and effect.]

Four

Bury me softly in this womb
I give this part of me for you
Sand rains down and here I sit
Holding rare flowers in a tomb... in bloom

Down in a hole and I don't know if I can be saved
See my heart I decorate it like a grave
You don't understand who they thought
I was supposed to be
Look at me now a man who won't let himself be

Down in a hole, feeling so small
Down in a hole, losin' my soul
I'd like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied

Down in a hole and they've put all the stones in their place
I've eaten the sun so my tongue has been burned of the taste
I have been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth
I will speak no more of my feelings beneath

Down in a hole, feeling so small
Down in a hole, losin' my soul
I'd like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied

Bury me softly in this womb
(Oh I want to be inside of you)
I give this part of me for you
(Oh I want to be inside of you)
Sand rains down and here I sit
(Oh I want to be inside of you)
Holding rare flowers in a tomb... in bloom
(Oh I want to be inside)

Down in a hole, feelin' so small
Down in a hole, losin' my soul
Down in a hole, feelin' so small
Down in a hole, out of control
I'd like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied





London, present day



“D’you remember that night?”

Her fingers trailed lightly over his bare chest, a hesitant, featherweight whisper of skin on skin.

Spike shifted, moving his head to glance down at her. “Which night, kitten?”

A half smile crept over her features and she blew out a breath, watching his skin react.

“That night in the park.”

He rolled to his side, hooking her thigh up over his waist. “Mmm. Don’t think I’ll ever forget that one.”

“Really? Why?”

His turn now, to trail tender fingers over her flesh, the curve of her breast calling to him. “Never met someone like you before, so . . . like a fragile . . .” He smiled, dropping a quick kiss on her nose. “Like those roses, yeah? Fragile an’ wild; stronger than they look.”

Hazel eyes caught his, understanding dawning. “That’s why you only bring me wild flowers.”

That crooked smile she loved so much crossed his lips and the twinkle in his eyes was only for her. Her thumb crossed his lips, stalling his next words. “The only reason I’m strong is because of you.”

“Not true, baby.” His deep voice rumbled between them, filling her insides until she nearly burst. “You’re stronger than you think. You were strong before I met you, an’ you would’ve survived.”

Closing the narrow distance between them, she wrapped her hands around his arm, tethering them together. “Maybe.”

She was in no mood to argue with him. She wanted what she had, his arms curled around her, his hands warm on her skin. Her body leaning into his, safe, secure in his arms. “Wanna know what I remember?”

“Always.”

“I remember thinking you were dangerous, that you had this temper that was just waiting to explode. . . but that you wouldn’t hurt me. That you would somehow take care of me.”

Fingertip patterns wove through the curls at the nape of his neck and he stretched like a big cat, his whole body moving under her touch.

“Sounds crazy, right?”

“Not really, sweetheart. I wouldn’t ever hurt you. An’ I wasn’t angry with you, kitten, was angry for you.”

“I got that.” She leaned closer, her breasts flattening against his chest. “I still feel safe with you.”

His hand slipped down around her ass, dipping his fingers into her core. She undulated, writhing around him. Buffy leaned closer, her mouth hovering just over his skin, her breath finding a home in his pores. “And I thought you were gorgeous.”

A low chuckle greeted her admission and he rolled to his back, guiding over him. “You were breathtaking. Fierce, fragile. . . ethereal. Wanted to protect you from everythin’. Wanted to keep you safe.”

She took him in, clenching around his hard length as his words washed over her. Her hands grasped his shoulders, steadying herself as he arched up, thrusting deep.

“You do, Spike.”

He stilled his movements, his hand reaching out to cup the side of her face. “I love you.”

Teardrops welled in her eyes, her heart constricting. She trembled, holding back the sobs threatening. Her voice was thready, heavily laden with all that she tried to show him. “I love you, too. So much.”

He flipped them, cradling her small form in his arms. “Think I’ve loved you since that night.”




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



Sunnydale, two years prior


Somehow, they ended up back where it all started for them, near the roses. Buffy trailed her hand through the petals and leaves, her head down.

Spike watched her, his eyes following the marks her hand made. She was so small next to him, yet he sensed the strength she banked, hid from the world.

“How come you’re here?”

Damn good question, kitten. ‘M not really sure myself. “Went to highschool here, for a bit.”

“Really? When?”

“More ‘an ten years gone, pet.”

She turned to look at him, an assessing look in her eyes. “You don’t look that old.”

He lifted his shoulder in dismissal. “Didn’t finish. Left before I was seventeen.”

“How come?”

Because, kitten, I’d been used, abused, raped and sodomized by someone I should’ve been able to trust. . The words hung there, in his head and Spike fought them back. Instead, he gave her the same answer he gave everyone. “Had my reasons.”

“Must have been good ones.” She angled away from him, unwilling to let him see her own emotions. “I wanna leave here.”

“Why’s that?”

Unlike most people, who let his answer stand, she threw it back at him. “I have my reasons.”

For once, Spike didn’t hold back. “Like what happened the other night?”

Buffy froze, fear clenching in her muscles. She couldn’t think, couldn’t . . . wouldn’t turn around to face him. Finally, whisper soft and heartbroken, she spoke one word, “Yeah.”

He didn’t speak, didn’t push her for more. So because of that, Buffy felt compelled to fill the silence.

“It wasn’t an accident.”

Spike waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he murmured softly, “I never thought it was.”

“I hate him. Hate her, too. I wish. . . “ Her voice drifted off, the wish unspoken, unbirthed in her throat. A barking sob broke from her and she crumpled, caving in on herself.

She didn’t flinch when his arms caught and held her, instead curling into his hold. “I’ve got you, kitten.”

Tears soaked his shirt, tears she’d fought so hard not to shed in front of anyone else. Darla never saw her tears. He never saw them. She wouldn’t . . . refused to give either of them more of herself.

He lifted her up, cradling her gently in his arms. “Shhh, let it out, sweetheart. Jus’ let it out.”

Long minutes she wept, her head tucked beneath his chin. Her body shook with the force of her angry grief, hiccuping for lack of air.

Buffy mumbled an apology into his chest, her fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt, rubbing softly. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” His voice was deep, rusty with some emotion she’d never dreamed to hear from anyone else. “You needed it.”

Salty snot pooled in her nostrils and she sniffled. “I guess. I don’t cry a lot.”

Her broken arm lay heavily across their bodies, a reminder of why she was crying. Spike stared at the fiberglass, wondering if he dared speak of anything further. Before he could form words, she was speaking again.

“I don’t know why you’re here, helping me. I guess it doesn’t matter, right?” Not waiting for his answer, she kept on, her voice soft and aching. “I have to get away. I can’t let this happen anymore. I just don’t have anywhere to go. . . I tried once before. He found me.”

Her head dropped onto his shoulder, resting just above the steady thump of his heart. “Is there anyone you trust?”

The laugh that emerged was bitter and ironic. “You.”

That surprised him. He’d expected someone else. . . a teacher, but then, no. . . if whom he suspected was the culprit, a teacher wouldn’t be of any help. “Why me?”

“Coz you aren’t from around here. You don’t . . . you saved me.”

“Oh, kitten.”

“My mom died when I was eleven. My sister was already married, you know? So I came to live with her. They should’ve just let me go into a foster home. I might have been safer.”

Buffy wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t. It was easier to get this out without watching his reaction, without seeing the moment she disgusted him and he wanted to get away.

“I know it’s not me. He’s the sick fuck. But. . . “ She hung her head, unable to continue.

Spike shifted, his arm tightening around her. “Not your fault at all, sweetheart. Not your fault.”

“I kicked him once. That was. . . that was the first time he beat me. He . . I broke my wrist and got a black eye.”

Oh, God. . . I’m gonna kill that fucker, so help me. I’m gonna. I can’t. . . He tried forming words, something to help her, but nothing made sense, nothing would help her. Spike held on, his hand running up and down her back, the touch soft and soothing.

“Can I just stay here, like this?”

That he could answer. “As long as you need to, kitten.”



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




Sunnydale, twelve years prior


He was late.

Late was bad. Very bad.

No one was left the in the showers. Everyone else from the team had long since departed. Will grabbed his sneakers, toeing off his cleats without untying them. Panic slowed his movements, fear threading through his muscles. Gotta leave, gotta get out ‘f here.

The slam of a door behind him had him jumping, but when no further noise sounded, he relaxed.

“Running late, William?”

Oh, shit. . . no. Not now. Please, just leave me alone and lemme go. . . please. . .
“My mum’s waitin’ on me.”

“Didn’t see her car.”

Will refused to look up, refused to acknowledge the monster’s presence. “She’ll be here any moment.”

The quaver in his voice gave him away, and like the predator he was, Liam Angelus was on him.

“Shouldn’t lie, William. It’s not a good thing to be doing.”

Trying his best to ignore the hulking figure at his back, Will continued stuffing his books into his backpack. He could feel warm breath on his neck, the big body crowding him, shifting closer and closer.

It was almost a relief when that big hand reached out to touch him. William stilled, only his pounding, terrified heart moving. No . . no. . . no. Please.

“Turn around, Will.”

He froze, unable to move. Unable to obey. Unable to flee.

Part of him longed to strike back, to be strong enough to fight, to avoid what he knew was . . . .

“Turn around, Will, or I’ll make it harder on you.” A low, evil chuckle broke the sudden, suffocating silence. “I’m gonna make it hard for ya, any way, lad, so just turn around. I’d like to see your face when I’m holding you.”

That voice meant blood.

Meant pain.

Disengaging his brain, Will turned.

Angelus was ready for him; hard, pulsing cock in hand. “Clothes off, boyo.”

Eyes closed, Will followed the orders. Experience had taught him not to disobey, not to fight what too often ended up making him bleed. Better to just. . . . a small, tiny part of him died inside, every time.

Shriveled, broke, shattered.

Wailed against the wrongness of it all.

Ached to turn the tables and make him suffer. To make him be the one to bleed.

With a deceptively gentle hand, Angelus removed Will’s glasses, putting them aside.

That same hand reached down. . . . Captured his fear-shrunken penis and worked it into arousal.

“Much better.”

Warm spunk covered Will’s erection, Angelus rubbing it into his skin. “You’re mine, boyo, always will be. No one else will want you, knowing what I’ve done to you. Knowing I’ve had my prick up your pretty little arse, made you cum for me.”

Something in him broke, for the last time. A litany rolled through his head as Angelus worked his body. Never again, I’m leavin’ . . . not one more time. . . never, never, never. . . . not gonna let ‘im touch me. . . .

He retched, vomiting against the side of the building, leaving his cleats and uniform in the mess.

Nothing mattered, he wasn’t returning.

William was done with this place.


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



London, present day


“I’ve loved you since that night, too.”

She held onto him, knowing he’d gone someplace still. Somewhere inside himself that was still that frightened, scared teenager.

“Spike?”

He didn’t answer her for long minutes, his eyes blank and hooded, staring off into nothing. Tears pooled in her eyes, not for her own pain, but for his.

He rarely spoke of what happened, rarely let it affect him. Rarely let himself remember, preferring to leave it locked away.

“Will?”

This time her voice caught his attention, his eyes closing briefly before focusing on hers. “Oh, Will.”

Buffy’s fingers covered his cheek, wiping away the light sheen of invisible tears. “I do love you. So, so much.”

He smiled, sad, wistful. “Love you with all m’heart, kitten.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.” He nuzzled her cheek, his breath snuffling out, wafting over her ear. “The world, if you want it.”

“I just want you.”

He smiled against her skin. “You’ve got me.”

Buffy wriggled in his arms, aligning their bodies. Her hips rose up, thighs curling around his waist. “We’ve got each other.”

Spike leaned on his elbow, his eyes drinking in her expression. “What?”

She was smiling, her eyes twinkling in the dark, a secret lying in their depths. Her arms wrapped around him, anchoring him to her. “Don’t wig on me.”

“Kitten. . . . “

“We’re gonna have a baby.”

“What?” Spike froze. “Buffy?”

“Don’t. . . Spike, look at me.” Her hand held onto his cheek, pulling his face down to hers. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Baby. . . a baby. . . Our baby.

“Sweetheart?”

“It’s okay. I want you. . Spike, I love you so much. This is just. . . “ Her smile wavered a bit in the face of his shock, but she plowed on, willing him to understand. “It’s a little me and you. It’s hope. Our baby is hope.”

Raw and vulnerable, his whiskey soft voice threaded through her, melting her insides. “Ours. . . “

Spike knelt up, his hand and eyes falling on her belly. Fingers splayed over the still flat surface as he peeked up at her. He tried to speak, tried to say something. . . anything, but for once, words failed him.

His hand trembled, breath caught in his throat and a harsh, aching sob gurgled up. Crystal tears fell onto her skin, pooling there.

“Hope?”








to be continued/i>