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?