Nine
There is no turning back from this unending path of mine
Serpentine and black it stands before my eyes
To hell and back it will lead me once more
It's all I have as I stumble in and out of grace
I walk through the gardens of dying light
And cross all the rivers deep and dark as the night
Searching for a reason why time would've passed us by
With every step I take the less I know myself
And every vow I break on my way towards your heart
Countless times I've prayed for forgiveness
But God's just laughed in my face
And this path remains leading me into solitude's arms
I see through the darkness my way back home
The journey seems endless but I'll carry on
The shadows will rise and they will fall
And our night drowns in dawn
Amidst all the tears there's a smile
That all angels will greet with an envious song
One look into stranger's eyes and I know where I belong
I walk through the gardens of dying light
And cross all the rivers deep and dark as the night
Searching for a reason why time would've passed us by
Oh, I see through the darkness my way back home
The journey seems endless but I’ll carry on
The shadows will rise and they will fall
And our night drowns in dawn, yeah
The shadows they rise and they fall, yeah
And the night drowns in dawn
(And the path goes on...)
Sunnydale, two years in the past
Will knew what he was thinking was crazy. Knew it.
Yet the knowing didn’t stop the thoughts from swirling in his head, circling round and round and ending in the same spot, over and over.
“Kitten, how would you leave, if you could?”
She didn’t move at first, letting the thump-thump of his heart steady her. “I’d leave this place, go as far away as I could get.”
He didn’t say anything in response, wondering if she realized how futile running would be. She’d end up on the streets, or worse.
Will wasn’t going to let that happen; Spike wasn’t going to, either.
“Could help you, if you wanted.”
Buffy looked up at him, disbelief in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”
A strange sort of smile crossed his lips and he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin. “Lots of reasons.”
“But why?” She pulled away from him, curling in on herself. “I’m not anything to you, I’m just – so why?”
Her back was to him. She was poised to run, perched on the edge of the bed, wary, hiding herself from him.
Why. . . Silliest question in the world, pet. . .
“Because.” He started, his throat closing with emotions he’d locked up for years. Will moved to sit behind her, his arms wrapping around her slight form, shielding her. Protecting her.
“You’re not nothing. You’re. . . “ Will’s eyes drifted closed, courage deserting him for a moment. “Christ, Buffy, you’re. . . “
She leaned into him, stealing his strength, his warmth. He held her close, cradled against his heart and for the first time, he wanted to hold on to someone and never let go.
“Because I don’t want to let you go. Because I want to hold onto you. Because you don’t deserve what’s happened. . . Hundreds of reasons, kitten, an’ it all boils down to you.”
“Me?” She squeaked out the word, her eyes huge in her head.
“Yeah.”
He put every emotion he was feeling into that one word and she must have sensed it. Her eyes slanted toward him, gauging his expression.
Buffy turned in his arms, their noses practically touching. “I don’t have – I don’t have much money.”
“Money’s the one thing I don’t have to worry about, sweetheart. I’ll see us through.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her words running together in a rush. “He only gives me exactly what I need for lunch or other stuff. I’ve been skipping lunch for two months and all I’ve got is six hundred.”
Her good hand was balled into a fist, nervously running over her thigh. Spike took pity on her agitation, laying his palm over her hand. “Kitten, I’ve got enough money.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
He dumped her on the bed, impatience ruling his emotions. The need to get up and move was goading him, but he at least owed her something of an explanation. “Got more money than I know what to do with. Old family money, only ‘ve got no family but Giles.”
“Oh.”
“So let me do this, yeah?”
Tears spilled from her eyes. Her lower lip wobbled. Her head dropped, the long blond strands shielding her face from his gaze. A barely whispered ‘thank you’ echoed in his ears.
Spike crossed the distance between them, scooping her up from the bed. Buffy’s arms wrapped around him, her face buried against his shoulder.
He held her long after her tears had dried.
London, present day
“How come the nicest park we’ve ever been in is really a cemetery?” Buffy trailed behind Will, her eyes shielded behind dark sunglasses.
Will laughed, shifting Connor’s weight, then turned around to walk backwards. “Dunno, pet.”
“Really, look at all the cool places to picnic and those funny stone buildings.” Her eyes honed in on a particularly picturesque corner. “Look!”
“I see.” Will shrugged again. “Guess someone wanted it to be beautiful.”
“It totally worked.”
The mood sobered a bit, as they both reflected on the reason for this pilgrimage. They rarely came here, the past was too hard for him to face. He wasn’t even sure why they’d decided to come today.
It certainly wasn’t out of some . . . It was because he needed to verbalize, needed to be at peace with his past, and his mother’s part in what happened. He needed some closure with her. . .
And he needed to let her know that he’d finally begun healing.
Spike reached over to grasp Buffy’s hand, squeezing it gently. She glanced at him shyly, blush staining her cheeks. Two years in London, and she’s still my golden girl. . .
“Still not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her blush only deepened, and she coyly dropped her gaze. “Please. This place is gorgeous. Everything about England is . . . I love it here.”
“Really?” He’d wondered, now and again, if she missed California and the sunshine, though she never said so.
“Really. I wasn’t happy there. And well, I am here.” She tugged him closer, a smile brightening her whole face. “But I’d be happy anywhere with you.”
“Even in Alaska?”
“Ahuh. I’d be really cold, but I’d be happy.”
He laughed along with her then, because he couldn’t stop himself. “Well, don’t think we’ll be going there anytime soon, okay?”
“Fine by me.” Buffy swung their hands playfully. “So are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Happy?”
He took a moment to think, his eyes darting from her to the toddler and back again. “Don’t think I’ve ever been this happy before.”
“Oh, Will.” She waved her hand in front of her face, airily trying to brush away tears. “I’m so glad.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”
He was.
Sunnydale, two years in the past
She’d learned fear.
Learned to be frightened of sleeping, to be alone in the house without her present.
Learned to be afraid of waking to find someone in bed with her.
Learned to lock her door, her feelings.
The lessons had been to harsh – far too harsh – not to learn.
And yet, here she was, trusting.
Believing.
Disregarding all the horrible things she’d learned from him.
Buffy snuggled closer to the body next to her, swimming toward wakefulness. His warm breath on the back of her neck didn’t terrify her, didn’t bring back horrific memories.
No.
There was nothing at all scary about sleeping next to William. Not even when his arms slipped around her waist, or when his legs tangled with hers.
All she felt was safe.
Protected.
Loved?
She didn’t want to wake up, didn’t want to go back . . . didn’t want to realize this was only a break from the badness.
Being with William – a wistful smile crossed her features at the memory of his smile – gave Buffy courage.
She wasn’t going to stay.
This last beating – was the last.
He wasn’t every going to touch her again.
Not ever.
How can she look at me that way? How can she look at any man with such trust?
Spike marveled at her capacity for trust, despite the wounds. Physical scars healed, leaving only traces behind; mere hints of what happened.
It was the other wounds. . . Wounds he knew intimately. Those wounds never healed.
He couldn’t help himself. She drew him, because despite the darkness surrounding her, she remained. . . Buffy was light, not a harsh, blinding glare, but instead she . . . shone with warmth, like Christmas morning. Like the sound of children’s laughter.
Like home.
He’d come back here – to the place he’d sworn never to return – because some impulse resonated. Something had tugged and tugged until he could no longer resist.
So he’d come back.
And not twenty-four hours – hell, not even an hour – and she . . . Buffy had been the first person he’d seen. It had been her small, slight form crossing his sights upon his arrival.
She’d haunted him.
From just a mere glance.
She was still haunting him.
Will wondered, as her scent teased his nose, if it would always be so.
Perhaps her pain had called to him, her spirit seeking out the one person able to assist her. . .
She was stirring, fighting the release of slumber and Will tightened his hold on her.
He didn’t want to release her. Didn’t want to let her go.
He’d agreed to help her – promised he would.
But Will also knew they had to be careful.
She was only fifteen.
If he was smart, he’d help her leave now.
If he was smarter, he’d walk away once she was free.
“I have to go back.”
London, seven years in the past
She was dead.
How could she be dead? How?
She was fine, just yesterday – sitting up, talking.
Anne Pratt, aged fifty-five, mother of William.
Gone. In a whisper.
Between heartbeats. . . One beat, then no more.
Massive heart attack, the doctors said.
But it wasn’t her heart.
Wasn’t.
Her heart was fine. The cancer was killing her – was the killer inside.
Will stared at the doctor, blue eyes distant, unfocused.
My mother’s dead. . . How?
All the angry, hurtful – hateful – words he’d whirled at her echoed in his brain, looping endlessly, adding guilt.
Mum?
Will snapped back into his mind when the doctor stepped aside. Absurdly inappropriate laughter bubbled in his throat. The man was wearing a striped shirt and a wildly mismatched tartan tie.
An angry smirk teased his lips, masking the laughter, and Will had to turn away, lest the laughter overtake him.
It did anyway, only to end in a choked sob.
Mum’s dead, an’ ‘m laughing.
Parched dry, Will stared at the body that had given him life.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pratt, we did everything possible to revive your mother.”
He tuned out the doctor, knowing there would be no comfort. Naught but empty words.
Like his life.
His mother was . . .
Dead.
London, present day
He realized the slight craziness bringing Buffy and Connor to the cemetery to picnic with his dead mother. But Will almost didn’t care.
After Buffy’s big news, he needed to . . . wanted to contemplate his past.
Reconnect. . .
Forgive, absolve, and let go.
His mother hadn’t known – about him – he’d never told her.
Never forgiven her for not protecting him. Not knowing how bruised and scarred he was.
In the long years since her death, he’d never forgiven her.
Barely visited her grave.
It was time, though. . .
Time to forgive.
Time to try and let go. . . To stop dwelling on what happened – to both of them – and live.
For each other.
For Connor.
For the future Buffy carried. . .
For them.