Nine
I been alone
All the years
So many ways to count the tears
I never change
I never will
I'm so afraid the way I feel
Days when the rain and the sun are gone
Black as night
Agony's torn at my heart too long
So afraid
Slip and fall and I die
I been alone
Always down
No one cared to stay around
I never change
I never will
I’m so afraid the way I feel
Days when the rain and the sun are gone
Black as night
Agony's torn at my heart too long
So afraid
Slip and fall and I die
Hot, irrational jealousy flared within her every single time Buffy thought about Nikki Wood. While Spike insisted whatever they had was long over, to Buffy’s eyes they clearly still cared about each other. Nikki was cool, sophisticated, chic and had legs that . . . even Buffy could see she was attractive. In contrast, Buffy knew she resembled a raggedy, lost waif. She was nothing more than just another beat-up, under-age hooker.
There was nothing about her that was appealing. At least not at the moment. She could feel the swelling in her face, and though she couldn’t see any of the bruises, Buffy knew she looked horrific. Every time she took a deep breath or tried to move at her usual pace, her body rebelled, letting her know she just wasn’t ready. And despite the fact Will was right there every time she faltered, Buffy didn’t dare hope it was because he cared.
At least not the way she wanted him to.
She wasn’t going to trust that again.
No one cared about her that way, not even her mother. After her father split when she was nine, her mother, Joyce, had lost all interest in parenting. Buffy was often left at the babysitter’s for long hours and when she outgrew that need, left to her own devices. It wasn’t long after her mother started dating that she met Ted, and everything worsened. Once he moved in, it all fell apart. Buffy’s fears increased and nothing her mother or Ted did had alleviated them. She felt like an outcast in her own home.
The loneliness, oddly enough, abated the minute she’d run away. She was alone, but she wasn’t nearly so isolated. Buffy had no expectations of caring or emotional attachment from anyone, so therefore, she didn’t feel the lack.
It was only now, after she’d woken up to find a pair of startling blue eyes that hope had flared again.
Buffy didn’t want to care about him; didn’t want to feel attached. Didn’t want any connection to him at all.
Though as she looked at him from under her lashes, she feared it was already too late.
Spike watched Nikki drive away, a grimly determined expression troubling his features. His brain was tired, far more than his body was, but he knew he needed sleep. And Buffy literally looked dead on her feet.
There were things he had to do first, though. He had to get Buffy settled and they both needed food. “C’mon, kitten, let’s get you upstairs.”
She didn’t answer, letting him guide her into the building and to the elevator. The silence between them wasn’t oppressive, neither one willing to talk, nor wanting to. Twice on the way to the elevator, she stumbled, nearly tripping over her own feet. Spike grabbed her the second time, wrapping his arm across her shoulder. “Lean into me.”
The apartment was on the ninth floor, in the north-west corner, with a fairly decent view of the park and a small terrace. It was almost devoid of furniture, sporting only a set of stools, one couch and one king sized bed. Spike barely wasted enough time to show Buffy where the bathroom was before shepherding her into the bedroom.
“I need to go out an’ get some supplies, sweetheart.”
It was a measure of how exhausted Buffy was when she didn’t even flinch. “Kay. I’m just gonna sleep.”
He suppressed the grin, because he knew she’d be out before he locked the door. “You’ll be safe. I shouldn’t be gone that long.
Buffy watched him head for the doorway. “Wake me up when you get back.”
He had no intentions of waking her, and had even fewer qualms about lying to her. ‘Sure thing, kitten.”
He loved New York City.
Even in this relatively quiet neighborhood, enough stores were still open at nine o’clock at night that he could get just about everything he needed. It wasn’t quite as wide-awake as either the Village or Midtown would be, but it was still hopping enough for his current needs.
Spike made it through the Century 21, getting new sheets, towels, and a small radio. D’Agostinos was open twenty-four hours, so he detoured back to the apartment, careful not to disturb Buffy at all. He took his time with the groceries, knowing he had to make their cash reserve last.
Nikki had brought a fair amount of cash with her and he’d promised to pay her back; it was enough to support them for a couple of days. He also had quite a bit left from his own foray to the ATM machine. So he loaded up all enough food to last them a couple of days; mostly breakfast makings, since that was the only meal he was qualified to successfully prepare.
The weird, overly loud hum of the refrigerator woke him sometime in the middle of the night, jarring him completely. Spike got up, padding through the nearly empty apartment, unnerved by the lack of furniture and other noises.
His nerves were frayed, worry for the girl clouding his judgment. Spike knew he was too close, knew he’d invested too much already. He’d crossed a line he shouldn’t have. He could have handed Buffy over to Nikki, but when she’d made the offer, he’d turned her down flat.
She was his witness. His responsibility.
He couldn’t hand her over. Wouldn’t.
After plugging in the radio and tuning it to classical music, Spike settled back on the bed. Buffy curled into him, nudging against him softly. The radio deejay segued into the news and Spike listened, hoping the notoriety surrounding Angelus’ murder had died down, but realized it was unlikely. His wife’s famous family made that a remote possibility.
At least Buffy’s involvement was still a secret to the masses. Only Liam Reilly’s real killer knew differently.
Spike closed his arms around her and tried to go back to sleep.
He hated doing it, but their continued safety actually depended on it. If it was just himself, he wouldn’t care. However, the fifteen year old girl relying on him changed his mind. She had no one else. No one who would protect her, no one who would even understand.
The longer he kept her anonymous – the proverbial unidentified witness – the longer she stayed alive. And out of the system. Child Protective Services would step in, no doubt, and demand she be returned to her parents or placed in a foster home. Or worse, juvenile detention. Despite her six months on the street – and sometimes he doubted that was the truth – a girl like Buffy wouldn’t last in a place like that.
No, this was for the best. And if he had to sacrifice his hair for the cause, well, it was only hair. It would grow back. Eventually.
As he surveyed the results in the mirror, Will had to admit the newly darkened hair gave him a bit of gravity, though now he looked every one of his thirty-three years.
Eyeing the second box of hair color on the vanity, he wondered how much coaxing his young charge was going to need. He’d opted to purchase semi-permanent dye for both of them knowing how he felt about the color change, figuring she would also.
Soft noises sounded in the hallway and he looked up, catching her still pale features in the mirror. “Hey, kitten, get enough sleep?”
Rubbing her eyes, Buffy grumbled something unintelligible. When she finally focused on him, her gasp of surprise filled the bathroom. “What did you do?”
“Changed the color a bit. It’ll help.”
“The blonde is way hotter.”
They both froze, their eyes meeting in the glass. Will was at a loss, completely unsure how to approach the sudden elephant in the room. It was Buffy, though, who took charge, quipping, “Well that thought bubble exploded, didn’t it?”
“Rather loudly, sweetheart.” Watching her visibly relax, he handed her the box. “Your turn now.”
Buffy looked down at the box, not registering the color until he’d slipped out of the bathroom. Her shriek of protest had him chuckling all the way into the kitchen.
There was a long, nasty looking cut on her forehead, still red and raw. Her lips were swollen, and small lump had formed under her right eye, accentuating the dark circles beneath both of them.
The new color gave her dull, tired eyes some life, but Buffy doubted anyone looking closely enough would be fooled. She was exhausted and the change from blond to brunette wasn’t helping much. The darker shade did have one benefit; it made her look far older than her not quite sixteen years.
But that might just be all the bruises.
Giving in when she finally couldn’t stay on her feet any longer, Buffy left the bathroom. What she found surprised her, Will was in the kitchen, sitting on one of the stools, sound asleep.
She’d expected him to be cooking, and judging from the smell, he’d done some. Buffy walked past him, bare feet nearly silent on the cool tiles, drawn to the oven. Whatever he’d fixed smelled delicious. Buffy swallowed hard, stomach rumbling loudly.
French toast, bacon and sausages were warming in the oven and Buffy didn’t wait to start picking. Munching happily on a slice of bacon, she hummed along with the radio, looking for plates.
There was a stack of paper plates and plastic utensils next to the sink. Making easy work of opening both packages, Buffy piled her plate high with a little bit of everything and sat down next to Will. Her eyes trailed over his sleeping form, a slight smile playing on her lips. He was so weird, sleeping almost sitting up, his chin dipping down toward his chest and soft snores emerging every couple of breaths. She waved a hand in front of his face, shrugging when he didn’t react. Oh well, I so can’t wait for him to wake up. Looks like he needs to sleep. With another shrug, Buffy focused on the food.
Exhaustion must’ve crept up on him, because Will didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until long after Buffy had finished her breakfast. The oven was still on, but the lights were all out. He squinted at the time on the oven, shaking his head. He hadn’t even heard her and she must have been sitting right beside him, unless she sat on the floor to eat. Will turned around, half expecting her to still be on the floor. She wasn’t. Nor was she in the living room.
She was back in bed, curled up, snoring softly. A wry grin crossed his face and Will debated on joining her. She looked so very young and innocent. He couldn’t imagine what kind of – it was so hard to picture her working the streets, fair game for any of the predators out there, alone and vulnerable. Had she sought protection with a pimp? Or had she resisted, preferring to take her chances alone and . . . Will couldn’t picture either of those scenarios. Buffy was just too innocent.
It may be that she was on the run for six months, but he had serious doubts about her being on the streets all that time. She just didn’t fit the profile. And yeah, she’d just been violated, raped and beaten, left for dead; but she didn’t shy away from him. Didn’t hesitate or flinch when he touched her.
Yet the wounded eyes told a different story. Those great, big glorious hazel-green eyes stared at him, starved for affection, for acknowledgment. For recognition.
She wanted to be seen. Wanted someone to know she was still around; wanted to matter to someone.
He was so afraid she was beginning to matter too much.
She was . . .
Will caved into his impulse and crawled onto the bed next to her.
He didn’t sleep very long; his mind was too preoccupied with puzzles. Who had killed Angelus and left Buffy for dead? Who was after her now? Who had given up his location?
Who had betrayed him?
While he’d only spoke to Gunn since liberating Buffy from the hospital, Spike knew suspecting the other man was flawed. For one thing, it was too obvious. There were others he suspected; any one of the team could be the mole. Hell, it wouldn’t even have to be knowingly. Lots of people had his cell phone number, everyone from his team to snitches and countless others in between. Even the little forensic geek Andrew Wells had it.
Cursing the lack of foresight on his part, Will searched the nearly barren apartment for something to write with. The search turned up an old, half-filled notebook and a nearly dry pen.
This wasn’t going to help him order his thoughts. He needed to head out, get more supplies anyway. Even as the though crossed his mind, Will realized he was just making excuses. He hated being cooped up, hated confinement of any kind.
Maybe, if Buffy was feeling better tomorrow they could venture out to see the Cloisters. The Christmas decorations were still up, and he doubted if she’d ever seen anything like it. It was too cold and nasty to stay outdoors, but the short walk shouldn’t pose a problem. He’d love to see her reaction to the old stones and candlelight, fresh greens and medieval chants. Maybe she’d find a small measure of peace in the place, the way he always did.
Shaking off the melancholy, Will ran a hand through his curls, cursing at the tangles. His hair was unruly; tight, wild curls covering his head. He usually tamed them with gel, straightening them as much as possible, but without the gel it was hopeless. Another minor irritation that was likely to become a major issue.
He’d already cleaned the kitchen, and now he was faced with the prospect of pacing the floors until Buffy woke up, or leaving her a note. Tapping his foot restlessly against the floor wasn’t helping.
Unable to sit still any longer, Will wrote a note and propped it against the bathroom sink.
He needed to do something.
Anything.
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