Eight
Away, away you broken heart you
Leave my chest like a hollow cave
Stand me somewhere near the ocean
I will wait there wave after wave
Away, away you broken heart you
Who can heal you when you're like this
There's no angel born in heaven
There's no lover's healing kiss
Away, away you broken heart you
Lose yourself in the darkest night
If the stars can take your sorrow
Let them take it and that's alright
Away, away you broken heart you
Leave my breast like a hollow cave
Stand me somewhere near the ocean
I will wait there wave after wave.
London, present day
Will stared down at the over-sized envelope in his hands, debating whether to even open it. Whatever news was between the folds could keep.
Forever.
Only two good things had come out of Sunnydale . . . and both of them were upstairs, still sleeping.
He didn’t want to see anything his uncle had to send in a bigger than normal package. Didn’t want to bring it into the house.
Didn’t want to disturb their fragile peace.
Why the hell couldn’t this have gotten lost?
There was no way he was going to open that inside the door. No way. Ripping the top off, he stared down into the manila folds, reluctance gnawing at his belly. Fuck.
Dumping the contents out seemed easier than sticking his hand in and Will gaped as newspaper clippings fluttered to the ground at his feet.
What the bloody hell is all this?
He bent down, retrieving the dark papers. A headline caught his eye and Will blanched and froze, not wanting to touch anything else.
Pedophile Teacher Killed in Prison
The words burned into his brain, indelibly imprinted. His fingers brushed over the paper, almost tracing the words. He couldn’t focus on anything but the headline.
It was true then, what Rupert had told him a couple of days ago.
He was dead. Gone.
Will knew he should feel something.
Some emotion beyond the twisting of his stomach.
Relief – something.
The monster that had destroyed him utterly was gone. The demon that still haunted his nights . . . The thief that left shadows in Buffy’s eyes . . . was gone.
Killed by someone else’s hands.
Will wondered if his killer knew what Liam Angelus had done, how many lives he’d destroyed.
If the killer knew Liam Angelus had taken everything from him. . . and gifted him with something infinitely more important.
If not for Liam Angelus, he’d be alone, unloved. . . and fearing he was unlovable.
Sunnydale, twelve years in the past
Will refused to look at his mother. Couldn’t hide the pain and the hurt he knew was pooling in his eyes. Didn’t dare show her the shame.
He couldn’t speak. Said only one thing to her on his way to his room, then slammed the door behind him, locking her out.
Locking everyone out.
There was no way he was going back to that school. No way he’d wait for that . . demon to come after him again.
He hated it here.
Hated everything about this place.
Never felt comfortable, even when he’d made the team, because while it had been his dream to be part of a team, here, it had become his worst nightmare.
This place wasn’t home. Wasn’t safe.
Suddenly, he longed for the house he’d grown up in, the smell of London and the noise of Camden Road all around him.
Will stared at the posters on his wall and made a decision.
He was going home.
Now. Tonight, if he could.
Grabbing everything he couldn’t live without, Will stuffed it all into his backpack, and then into the oversized bag holding his football gear.
Moving with a frenzy, he ravaged his room, ruthlessly setting everything in disarray.
Passport, credit card, money . . . everything he needed was stowed in the front of his backpack. Now all he had to do was wait.
Wait until his mother was asleep. Wait until his uncle was snoring steadily, his glasses barely hooked on the end of his nose. . .
He’d sneak out then.
Leave.
Be in London before they knew he’d gone.
Will sat on the floor, his back leaning against the bed, his mind empty save for one thought.
Home.
The incessant phone ringing pestered him, wrecking his sleeping and waking moments. He knew who it was. After two weeks, and no doubt a trace of his credit card, his mother managed to find him.
Didn’t matter.
He wasn’t returning to the States. Ever.
And if she came to London?
He’d go. Head right back to Eton, a place he never should have left.
William stared at his reflection in the mirror.
His mousy brown curls flopped over his forehead and he brushed his hair back, away from his face. Self-hatred surged within, cresting as he punched the silvered glass in front of him.
Never.
Ever.
No fucking way was he ever going to let anyone take advantage of him again.
The glass shattered, exploding in little slivers all over the sink and his shirt.
Whirling on his heel, he fled the bathroom, and then the house.
He wasn’t ever going to let anyone touch him like that again.
London, ten years in the past
The room spun on its axis, the walls and windows pitching and rolling with every breath.
He was drunk. And stoned.
Will squinted into the sunlight, shielding his eyes and reeling back from the bright light.
“William? What on earth is wrong with you?”
He shied away, heading back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Go ‘way.”
The strident, worried tones of his mother followed him further into the house. He rocked into a doorway, bouncing off the jambs. “Leave me alone. ‘M tired.”
“Drunk is more like it.” Her voice was right behind him and he flinched, whirling around too fast for his inebriated state.
“So? What of it?”
“William. . . “ She tried to touch him, reaching out a hand to steady him, to scold him. . . and he moved away again, pushing her back.
“Jus’ leave me the hell alone, Mum. Don’t need this. . . jus’ leave me alone.”
“Why won’t you let me help you, William? I’m worried about you.”
He snorted his disbelief, almost choking on the concern she so lately decided to show. “Right. Sure you are.”
Will dropped down onto his bed, resting his arm over his eyes, hiding from her censure.
Her stare could put Medusa to shame. The heat of it roasted him from the doorway and he squinted at her. “Why’re you here anyway?”
“I’ve got to see some doctors.”
Part of him wanted to care, wanted to know what she wasn’t saying . . . but he didn’t bother to ask, his own anger drawn tight against his chest. “Right. I’ll shove off then.”
Will rolled to his side, preparing to get up. Her next words forestalled his movement. “Don’t. I’m going into hospital in the morning.”
When more silence greeted her announcement, Anne sighed and contemplated her only child. “I do love you, William. And I just thought you should know.”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t regret not repeating her sentiments until she was gone, and by then, it was far too late.
London, present day
“You don’t have to come with me. You an’ the boy could stay home.”
Spike paced down the narrow hallway on the ground floor, his voice wafting up the stairs to Buffy.
“I’m almost ready.” She appeared at the top of the stairs, shoes in hand. “Gimme five more minutes.”
“Fine.”
At the other end of the hallway, Connor stood staring at him. “Da? Where Fee?”
“Gettin’ her shoes, mate. Gonna be a while.”
Every time he looked at the child, gratitude for the strength of Summers genes flooded him. Connor looked nothing like his father, instead carrying the elfin features of his maternal side, even down to his bright blue eyes.
Will brushed past the toddler, heading for the sitting room off the kitchen, where the big screen television was.
Little feet pitter-patted after him, right on his heels. “Da?”
“What, little man?”
The boy headed straight for the selection of child-friendly movies. “Cules.”
Not knowing how long Buffy was going to take, Spike simply grabbed the disk and popped it into the player. Connor was sitting on the couch, his favorite blanket wrapped around his head and his feet splayed out.
The singing and dancing on the screen drowned out the weight of tears in his heart.
Sunnydale, two years in the past
“Tell me the best thing that ever happened to you.”
He’d thought she was asleep. Quiet for so long, breathing deep and even, every movement stilled; her question startled him. “Wha?”
A half grin broke over her features and her eyes sparkled with mirth. “No more sad talk. Tell me something happy.”
“Happy? Don’t rightly know if I’ve had many of those.” Spike shrugged, feigning indifference.
She was a tenacious thing, his Buffy, and she didn’t let him hide from her questions. He should have known; the girl didn’t let him hide from the pain, she wasn’t about to let the good stuff stay hidden either.
“Best thing.”
He pondered the thought for a moment, discarding all the tainted memories of Sunnydale. His childhood had been marred by his father’s battle with cancer, his teenaged years with abuse. He’d spent at least two years drowning his sorrows in drink. . . . only stopping when his mother died.
Spike didn’t dare voice the thought aloud, the revelation that had sprung full blown in his thoughts, but he felt it. Gods above how he felt it. . . Finding you. . .
“C’mon, there has to be something that makes you smile.” Punctuating her question with a little poke at his chest, her smile got brighter. “Tell me.”
Despite the ache in his heart, he couldn’t help responding. “Bloody hell, woman. No poking.”
Buffy sat up straighter, honing in on the little squirmy thing he did to avoid her finger. “Are you ticklish?” She poked him again, this time further down his side.
Though he tried, Spike couldn’t master his reflexive jerk. “You are!”
“Kitten. . . “ The warning was real, his voice dropping to a deep rumble in his chest.
If anything her eyes grew wider, listening to that growl. Artlessly, she dropped her head onto his chest. “That’s my new favorite sound.”
A deep sigh rattled her and she settled against him. “You make me smile.”
His hand clasped hers, bringing it to his lips. Spike unfurled her fist, let his lips rest there; then curled her fingers again.
He didn’t bother to answer her.
He didn’t think she needed it anymore.
She knew.