I will not make the same mistakes that you did
I will not let myself
Cause my heart so much misery
I will not break the way you did,
You fell so hard
I've learned the hard way
To never let it get that far
Because of you
I never stray too far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt
Because of you
I find it hard to trust not only me, but everyone around me
Because of you
I am afraid
I lose my way
And it's not too long before you point it out
I cannot cry
Because I know that's weakness in your eyes
I'm forced to fake
A smile, a laugh everyday of my life
My heart can't possibly break
When it wasn't even whole to start with
Because of you
I never stray too far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt
Because of you
I find it hard to trust not only me, but everyone around me
Because of you
I am afraid
I watched you die
I heard you cry every night in your sleep
I was so young
You should have known better than to lean on me
You never thought of anyone else
You just saw your pain
And now I cry in the middle of the night
For the same damn thing
Because of you
I never stray too far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learned to play on the safe side so I don't get hurt
Because of you
I try my hardest just to forget everything
Because of you
I don't know how to let anyone else in
Because of you
I'm ashamed of my life because it's empty
Because of you
I am afraid
Because of you
Because of you
Eleven
Sunnydale, two years in the past
He stepped into hell.
Oh, fuck, no. No. No.
Buffy was on the floor, blood staining a path from the living room to where her body lay, half beneath the kitchen table.
Spike dropped to his knees, searching for a pulse. “Kitten? Oh, fucking hell! Buffy?”
Breathing.
She’s breathing.
He couldn’t leave her here – they’d take her away and he –
“I killed them.”
Sobbing laughter punctuated the statement.
“They’re dead.”
William looked up, over his shoulder. Liam stood framed in the doorway, blood spatter covering him from head to foot.
More laughter filled the house.
“Dead.”
William had no chance to speak, to move before he was gone.
Cautiously stepping around the blood, Will followed him, stopping in the doorway.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
The demon he’d once feared sat quietly sobbing on the floor, his wife’s body cradled in his arms.
Sweet bleedin’ Jesus.
A thready breath broke through, pulling his attention away.
Buffy hadn’t moved.
But the infant in her arms had.
Everything she wanted was stuffed into a pillowcase.
Everything she’d risked her life to retrieve.
Will stared at the bedroom walls, his brain racing, his heart numb.
He didn’t remember carrying her from the house.
Didn’t remember driving away.
All he could see – imprinted in his mind – was Angelus covered in blood.
Will wasn’t sure why he’d come here. Why he’d driven straight to his uncle’s.
Nothing made sense.
He’d laid her down on the bed, the infant cradled in her embrace.
Afraid to check on her, Will slumped to the floor.
Don’t die on me, kitten. Please god, don’t let her die.
Hours, minutes – he never knew how long he’d sat there – Buffy’s voice startled him back to sanity.
“Will?”
I’m dreaming.
“Will?”
Can’t wake up. If I wake up, she won’t be here, an’ . . . An’ I won’t know what to do.
I’m dreamin’.
The bed springs groaned and protested softly. “Will? Where are we?”
He mumbled something, jumping when she appeared in front of him. “Where are we?”
He stared up at her, unable to believe she was there. “M’uncle’s place.”
“Why?”
“Huh? ‘M not rightly sure. Got no place else to go.” He shrugged, feeling the wall solid against his back. It finally dawned on him that she wasn’t a dream, that she really was here with him. “Shouldn’t be up, kitten. You’re hurt pretty bad.”
“No, I’m not. Just a bloody lip and some more bruises.”
“You were bleedin’, kitten, saw it.”
He got to his feet, intent on seeing to her. “Back on the bed.”
“I’m fine.” Buffy tugged at the edges of the shirt he’d slipped over her head.
“Connor’s bleeding.”
“Saw all the blood, kitten – that’s the mite?” He gestured to the baby.
“Yeah. He’s got a nasty cut on his thigh.”
He couldn’t think, couldn’t make sense of what was going on around him. William stared at her, wild-eyed and haunted. He’d almost lost her.
The strength seemed to go from him. His knees wobbled and giving in to the urge, he dropped down to them, laying his head in her lap.
“Bloody hell, sweets, thought you’d – I thought he’d . . . “
A ragged sob rent the air.
London, present day
Buffy sat on the bench, letting William have a moment at his mother’s grave. Sunlight played hide and seek, dappling the spot where he stood, head bowed.
It was an ornate memorial, all marble and granite. Columns and angels covering the spot, giving it a very regal air.
She didn’t know what he was doing. Or why.
He’d muttered something about forgiveness – making peace with his past – so that the future was brighter.
It was sweet. It was – Buffy wasn’t entirely sure what it was, other than a whole lot of emotions.
He’d even called his uncle.
Unlike Will, there was no one she wanted to forgive.
Liam was dead.
Darla was dead.
She’d never forgive Liam.
Darla. . . Her sister was a different matter. Buffy remembered everything from that morning. Every last detail.
The pain.
The screams.
The sounds of his fists hitting her already broken ribs. The sound of his hands ripping the blouse from her, the twist of her bra around her neck.
She’d never forget.
The sound of her sister fighting back.
Fighting to protect her. Giving up her life to save her.
Buffy wouldn’t ever forget.
And she’d never forgive.
Sunnydale, two years in the past
The feeble, hoarse cries disturbed them. Whimpering made all the more heartbreaking because the small infant knew loud cries brought only pain.
Buffy leaned over, fumbling to raise the baby into her arms, struggling to hold him close. To offer comfort. He mewled, shying away when her battered hands clumsily brushed over his own wounds.
“Will? Help?”
He’d stirred at the first sounds, his brain sluggishly remembering. Cautiously tripping through the minefield of memories. One look at the boy had him cringing. Poor mite.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t hold him. He needs to be held.”
Gingerly, he lifted the boy from her awkward hold. “Shhhhh, little man. I’ve got you. Shh.”
He learned in an instant how trusting an infant could be. Stranger that he was, the baby didn’t hesitate. To him, the voice was new. The hands were new. The feel, the scent, everything about this person was new.
And he didn’t hesitate.
The baby – Connor – laid his head down, splutter cried once, then exhaled on a whispered sigh. His head rested at the junction of Spike’s neck and shoulder, breath softly caressing his skin.
And for the first time that day, Spike cried.
The tears didn’t stop, even after Buffy curled next to him.
Time.
It pressed in upon him.
They didn’t have time to sit and regroup.
To see what would happen.
He had to get them away.
He hadn’t planned on the baby. Hadn’t planned on any of this.
His brain scrambled for a plan, for some way to keep them both. To keep them both safe.
Angelus was still alive, still breathing.
The monster was still on the loose.
Spike couldn’t waste anymore time.
He had to get them to safety.
Safety.
The only safe place he knew.
Home.
No change in plan, then.
Spike looked down at the two forms sleeping in his arms. He wasn’t going to screw this up.
They were depending on him.
We’re goin’ home.
He rarely, if ever, traded on his position.
Didn’t name drop or flash his status.
He never felt the need. Or wanted to.
Hated attention. Of any kind.
Didn’t want people – press or otherwise – knowing his business.
But just now, he didn’t give a damn.
Had only one thought. To get them home, to London, where he could keep them safe.
To do that, he needed to use his name.
Spike looked down at the baby in his arms and made another promise.
I’ll keep you safe, little man.
I’ll keep you both safe.
The cuts weren’t deep. Only one might need stitches.
Buffy pulled off the soiled diaper and traced the crisscrossed cuts over the thin legs of the baby.
The smeared blood washed away easily.
His scars would fade, with time.
He’d never remember the awful first few months of his life, with any kind of luck.
And for as long as she could, she’d keep the truth from him.
That his father was a monster.
One person who should have protected him, shielded him, taken care of him – had instead been the worst kind of monster.
The kind of monster that haunts.
The kind of monster that deserves to be tortured.
Buffy fumbled with the tags on the clean diapers, her fingers swollen and unwieldy. Connor didn’t move, just stared up at her with big, teary eyes. His clothes weren’t any easier – all they had was one stretchy sleeper, decorated with happy muppets.
“It’s time, pet. You ready?”
“I can’t get him snapped up.” Buffy glanced back over her shoulder, noting the grim look in Spike’s eyes. “I don’t think I can carry him, either.”
“Won’t have to go far, sweets. Just out to the car.” His words were clipped, even as he reached to fix the baby’s clothes. “We need to go.”
“Okay.” She didn’t question him, didn’t even think to ask.
Not even when they pulled through the gate to the airport.
London, present day
Connor stirred on the blanket, his little body stretching as he woke from his nap.
He’d changed so much since they’d come here.
The wary, scared, too-thin baby was long gone.
In his place was a laughing, chubby, happy little boy. One who idolized the man he knew as “Da”.
He copied everything Spike did.
If Spike slouched in his chair, Connor did.
If Spike walked around with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Connor had a pacifier in the same position.
If Spike was out of his sight for too long, Connor panicked.
Buffy wondered if he’d grow out of that. She wondered if she’d grow out of needing Spike around all the time.
A soft smile played about her mouth. Nope. Can’t ever imagine that.
I’ll always need him.
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