Twelve
Sometimes we only live for the here and now
Sometimes we're lonely
Sometimes we feel we need a place to be grounded
Or fly away again
I will fly away again
Oh, I will fly away again
Why are we feeling something's familiar around us?
Are we just dreaming?
Always we search for the answers but nothing is found
We'll fly away again
I will fly away again
Oh, I will fly away again
I feel rain pouring down
I wait to run away
Live again
Here forever
The spiral never ends
Run away
Live again
Here forever
The spiral never ends
I feel rain pouring down
I wait to rot away
Live again
Here forever
The spiral never ends
Run away
Live again
Here forever
The spiral never ends
It never ends
I will fly away again
Oh, I will fly away again
Neither one of them slept well. She, plagued by nightmares, slept fitfully waking him every time she tossed and turned.
Pale pink light wove through the grey predawn when Spike finally gave up pretending to sleep. He thought removing himself from the bed would let her rest more comfortably, but the opposite seemed to be true. He wasn’t gone from the bed more than twenty minutes when she bolted upright, shrieking, “NO!”
He was back inside the room before the cries died off, scrambling through the doorway. “It’s all right, kitten. I’m right here.”
It took more than a few minutes before she calmed enough for him to reach her. Long minutes, while she sobbed in his arms, crying and whimpering.
And the whole time he talked, using his voice to soothe and calm her, although he was worried she’d react differently.
Her tears tapered off, and Buffy’s head rested on his shoulder, her arms curled around his neck. Soft hiccups countered her inhalations, interrupted every couple of heartbeats by ladylike sniffles. Spike rubbed her back gently, cradling her close.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Keep breathing.”
Throat clogged with tears, Buffy could only nod her head in acknowledgment.
She was so petite, feeling little more than a child in his arms, but sweet curves and the delicious scent of her skin sent different signals to his brain. Spike had to keep reminding himself, every time he touched her, that she was too young. Too innocent, even after all she’d been through to fully understand.
And he was too old.
Nearing mid-thirties, he was more than twice her age.
He couldn’t get more involved than he already was.
Couldn’t afford to care.
Once this was all over, she’d be gone, off to live her life.
And he’d be alone.
So he couldn’t give her any more of his heart.
But as he held her close, Spike fought the realization that it was already too late. When she left, she’d take whatever was left of his heart.
Buffy wasn’t really the cuddly type. She didn’t cling to anyone for strength, not even her mother. And she hated to appear weak; to give in to tears and helplessness.
She didn’t want anyone knowing she was vulnerable.
But right now, Buffy couldn’t hide behind a bright smile and false bravado; indifference and pretending to be impervious. Couldn’t hide the fear and despair.
Six hours with Angelus had done more damage than the months she’d spent living on the streets. Those hours drove home – in a way she’d never experienced before – just how much of a lie she’d been living. How vulnerable she really was.
For two – almost three months – she’d managed to hide herself, sleeping in homeless shelters, finding a place to spend a night, or two, staying only long enough to keep herself from being noticed. She’d scrounged every penny she could once her money had run out finally resorting, after she’d exhausted all other possibilities, to turning tricks.
The first time she’d thrown up. And cried herself to sleep. But she’d gotten sixty dollars for one night’s stripping and she hadn’t done anything else.
That hadn’t happened for another month or so – but she’d walked away with five hundred – and hadn’t done it for another two weeks.
Which was how she kept surviving, how she managed to live with herself.
She’d been existing in a weird sort of bubble, where she was someone else whenever lack of money forced her back out onto the street.
It still made her want to vomit. Still made her want to cry, but Buffy didn’t let the emotions out. Didn’t dare let them out.
No one got to see her cry.
No one.
Until Spike.
She couldn’t hide from him. Couldn’t pretend.
Something about him touched her, some quality that no one else possessed answered a part of her that she hid from everyone.
Not even her mother had been able to break through that wall.
Spike had smashed the wall, reducing it to rubble.
Pulverized it.
Reached through and caught her hiding, cowering in fear.
And instead of battering her again, he’d used his strength to shore up the holes he’d made.
Buffy gave in, surrendering completely to him. Waved a white flag and yielded.
She rested her head against his heart and gave up her own.
More and more details began to emerge as the ferocious news reporters ferreted out the story surrounding Nikki’s death. Right now the focus was on a couple of drug dealers and pimps she’d busted over the years. Luckily for him, no one made the connection between Nikki’s murder and the Reilly case.
Yet.
Will knew it was only a matter of time before Roosevelt, Nikki’s husband, spoke to the press. Or one of the girls or even their son Robin. Someone would talk and his name would come up and that proverbial cat would be well and truly out of the bag. Which could lead to Buffy.
That couldn’t happen.
So far, he’d managed, probably from sheer dumb luck, to keep the identity and whereabouts of the mystery witness unknown. How much longer that would last wasn’t clear. But Will knew, the moment one reporter – just one – had the scoop, all advantages were gone.
Buffy would be removed from his control and he’d likely only see her again at the trial, if there ever was one.
Rationally, he knew that was for the best. Was safer for her and for him. And yet he couldn’t resist the pull, couldn’t fight his own emotions.
The gulf separating them was enormous. Their ages alone precluded anything but a professional interest.
Will rolled from the bed, leaving her finally sleeping quietly. He couldn’t pretend any longer, at least not to himself, that he only cared because Buffy was a witness.
It wasn’t only that.
She was also Liam Reilly’s last victim.
Needing something to do with his hands, Will headed for the kitchen. Cooking, although he didn’t do it often, always distracted him from whatever was preying heavily on his mind and so Will set out to make breakfast.
Very quickly, he was immersed in the cooking, his mind blissfully blank, his thoughts concentrating on the meal.
It was barely eight, and though he’d fixed enough pancakes to feed five people, Will was still restless. He needed to do something, to move around. Buffy was still sleeping so he took a chance she wouldn’t wake while he was gone.
There had to be an open bakery or deli close.
He never saw Buffy standing in the shadowed bedroom doorway.
His restlessness wasn’t hard to spot. The clatter of his movements in the kitchen woke her, though Buffy didn’t get up for long minutes. Instead she lay there listening to him talking to himself and the food, commenting on the news, and singing along with the radio.
At first it annoyed her, his noisiness, but as she listened, the deep rolling accent warmed her. He wasn’t talking just to hear the sound of his own voice, no matter how wonderful it was. He talked because he couldn’t contain his thoughts. Everything was there, out in the open. His emotions, opinions, everything.
There were no deep secrets to Will, because he couldn’t contain them. Not about himself anyway.
Buffy watched him, bouncing unconsciously to the beat of the music, while he flipped pancakes. The stack at his side kept growing, though for every couple of pancakes that landed there, one ended up in his mouth. Her eyes swept over his form, taking in his lean back and the riotous curls on his head. The curls fit him somehow, though she had to admit she preferred the bleached blond look.
He wasn’t tall, though he towered over her. He was lean and well muscled. She knew that because of the hours spent cuddled in his arms.
He must not have been happy with the amount of food, because after he finished, he’d stared at the pancakes for a couple of minutes and before she could let him know she was awake, he’d grabbed his jacket and was out the door.
His disappearance took her by surprise. He’d fled without a backwards glance, almost as if he couldn’t trust himself to check on her.
Why would he do that?
Doesn’t he – stop it, Buffy. He’s just a cop, keeping you safe for now. This isn’t going to last.
He doesn’t love you, Buffy.
He doesn’t.
A choked off sob escaped from her before she could stifle it.
Just don’t let him know.
He can’t know.
Across the Hudson River, Xander Harris was preparing to meet with his ex-wife, Cordelia, and Liam Reilly’s widow Darla.
In midtown Manhattan, Charles Gunn was debriefing Faith Lehane, while six blocks away, Lindsay MacDonald was setting up his surveillance.
And in Queens, Nikki Woods’ body lay in the morgue while her family mourned.
Trust me, okay? >/i>