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.