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Spike went back down into the darkness. The boy’s chair was still on its side, and he was sleeping where he lay. He was a small scrap of a thing. Looked like he was due for a growth spurt any day; like one of those scruffy boys in the school yard, with lunch box and library books and a satchel full of pencils and drawings. Spike felt odd, looking down at him from such great height. He was hardly tall, but the boy made him feel like a giant. Like a great long shadow at the end of the day, cast up against the wall or on the closet door.

He knelt next to the boy, then reached forward on instinct to unlace his hands and knees.

The skin beneath the ropes was red, and the boy woke slowly as Spike pulled the chair away and put it upright again. The boy looked up at Spike from the floor, blinking with confused, wet eyes.

“Did…?” The boy’s question went unanswered and unasked. Spike stood back up and seemed big as a monster to the boy.

“You need to use the bathroom?” Spike asked brusquely, taking the boy’s arm and tugging him up roughly to his feet.

“Ummm.”

“Yes or no?” Spike barked.

The boy flinched, tried to pull his arm away, and failed. “Yes.” He said at last. “Please.”

Spike’s stomach tumbled, but he ignored it. Either a demon, or a boy with evil intentions, he reminded himself promptly. Not an innocent. Guilty, until proven innocent.

“Come on then.”

Spike tugged the boy up the creaking staircase and out into the light of the hallway. The boy blinked, and rubbed his eyes with the arm that Spike wasn’t holding. He squinted at the photographs of Buffy in the hallway, and Spike yanked him past without allowing him to stop.

“Here.”

The boy went into the bathroom, and he stayed in there for a long time. Spike paced outside. Eventually he rapped his knuckles against the wooden door. “Enough,” he said, and the kid came out moments later. His wide eyes were red, but Spike ignored them, and pushed the boy back towards the basement with a flat palm on his left shoulder blade.

As they passed the front door, it clicked open and all of a sudden Joyce Summers was coming into the house. She froze when she saw Spike with the boy, and she looked quickly between their two faces, her expression blank.

The boy gave a loud and almost instant sniff, and Spike looked down to see a fat tear trailing down his cheek while his bottom lip quivered and his cheeks went red. He squeezed the boy’s shoulder hard in warning, and at the same moment Joyce came back to herself.

“I’m picking up a few things,” she said, “I want to stay overnight at the hospital.”

“How is the Slayer?” Spike asked quickly, and without thinking.

Joyce’s eyes darted back to the little shooter, and she looked very strange. She looked suddenly old, too, just as Rupert had begun to. “Oh,” she said, quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s going to be fine.”

Spike nodded. He stared at her, apologetic, and then he nodded again, grasping the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said. “Back to the basement.”

In the room again, the boy sat down in the hard wooden chair without speaking and Spike knelt before him, looping the rope around his knees, and then knotting his wrists to them without looking him in the face. He tied the ropes tighter than they had been, and then he tied another knot on top.

He leaned back onto his heels, still crouching, and he said, “It’s easy to shoot somebody. It’s a cowardly thing to do.”

“It wasn’t easy.” The boy whispered.

Spike looked up sharply, and studied the haunted face before him. He wanted to grasp the small chin and force the boy to meet his eyes, but suddenly he didn’t want to touch him. He was… Inexplicable. He made Spike’s gut ache and his chest tight. He understood, already, why Rupert had come to him. This was going to be difficult, and it was going to be ugly as sin.

“I would do it again,” the boy said, looking down with his chin pressed to his chest. “If I have to, I’ll do it again.”




At midnight, Harris arrived. He looked careworn and a little more edgy than he usually did. Spike felt the hackles rise on his neck.

“Where is he?”

“Leave him be,” Spike said carefully. “I’m getting to the bottom of it now.”

“You?” Harris repeated, his lip curled up with disgust. “You probably paid him to do it. Where’s Giles?”

“Sleeping.”

“You better take me to that boy, Spike. You better not stand in my way!”

“Can it, Harris. Rupert’s sleeping, and you’re not going to see the boy tonight. Not like this.”

Xander’s face was very red, and he looked mad as he fought against the rampant desire to rip Spike to shreds. After all, it wasn’t as if the impotent vamp could stop him.

“I want to see the boy.”

“No.” Spike said. The finality of his tone sounded authoritive, and Xander couldn’t help responding to it. He deflated, putting a hand on his chest which seemed, suddenly, to hurt.

“Willow said that he’s smalll,” Harris murmured now, very quiet. He didn’t meet Spike’s eye, but seemed to be confiding something awfully private. “What are we supposed to do with a boy? We can’t keep him, but we can’t hand him over, either. What’ll happen to him?”

Spike shrugged. “I’m getting to the bottom of it,” he said again.

Harris looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his face looked ordinary again. “That boy shot Buffy. He shot her.”

Spike held his gaze, and felt a sudden tightness in his chest. These weren’t his friends, but he felt their ache. Or, at least, he knew the smudge of it.

“Go back to the hospital, Harris.” Spike said, shaking his head. “You’ll be no good, here.”




Spike took a bowl of Wheetabix down to the boy, and watched him spoon it into his mouth with his left hand. He rested his elbows on his roped knees, and tilted the bowl back to drink down the milky remains once he’d finished. Now that he was watching him eat, Spike realized that the boy looked famished. He felt a stab of something, but ignored it.

He wondered what possible motivation this scrap of a boy might have mustered up for shooting the Slayer. He didn’t seem big enough to lift a bloody gun, let alone to use it.

The boy held the bowl out to Spike, and he took it with a gentle tug. “More?” Spike asked, his voice gruff.

The boy’s head tilted anxiously, as if hoping this were not a trick. “Please?”

Spike gave a tart nod, leaving the boy’s hands untied and heading back up the basement steps. In the kitchen he refilled the bowl and was holding the milk jug when he heard the phone go. After three rings it clicked onto the answer phone- “You’ve reached the Summers’ residence, please leave a message”- and then Red’s voice came shakily over the wire.

“Buffy’s woken up,” was all that she said, as if keen to keep the message short and to get right back to the blonde’s bedside. Spike stood there a long time, holding the milk. Then he went upstairs and woke Rupert.

The Watcher dressed hurriedly, “I might be gone a while.” He said, before disappearing out into the brightening morning.

Spike went back to the fridge. He took out the milk again, filled up the bowl and went back down into the basement. The boy was as he’d left him. He looked at Spike with a timid smile. Spike thought about what he’d said. If I have to, I’ll do it again.

From the mouths of babes. Spike wished he hadn’t stumbled into this mess.





Two days later Buffy was discharged and she went back to the dorm room that she shared with Red. He hadn’t seen her since she’d woken, and he didn’t care to, either. Somehow, the anger he felt towards her was magnified, because of the boy.

Before, he was offended by the way she’d used him- by the way she’d shagged him without his permission and without adequate apology. Then he was angry at her for the unwelcome change that seemed to have occurred between them because of that shag. The sexual tension that he hadn’t asked for, and the resulting fumble against the wall of his crypt. He was angry at her, too, for going soft as cotton beneath him when he had wanted to kill a warrior. He was angry at her for besting him again, when the win should have been his. He was angry at her for unwittingly burdening him with the responsibility of a strange-eyed boy, and for being shot in the first place. He was angry at her for leaving herself vulnerable. Angry at her for the sense of obligation he felt, having heard the boys quiet words, I’ll do it again.

He didn’t want to think about her. He hadn’t seen her in the flesh, but didn’t seem able to fight the image that materialized behind his eyes, every time he closed them. She was everywhere. She was nowhere near, but she was haunting him.

So he was angry. He was livid. It was all her fault, all your fault, he thought bitterly, clenching his fists into tight, hanging moons. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted her gone. He wanted her forgotten.
She’d gone back to her dorm, and Joyce had returned to Rovello Drive. Spike stayed, to see to the boy, and they fell into a kind of routine. Joyce bought the blood and the Wheetabix, and Spike worked on finding out where the boy had come from.

“No missing person’s report,” he noticed one day, with eyes blinking fast at the revelation. “No tormented parents, looking for their little lost boy.”

“I don’t have any parents.” The boy said with a quivering lip when Spike questioned him.

“An orphan?” Spike frowned. The boy nodded, chest rising and falling quickly as if to hold back a sudden surge of overwhelming sadness. His red sweater was beginning to unravel at the cuffs, and his hair was getting longer. Not long yet, but longer than a cared-for boy would wear it. “Okay,” said Spike, believing him and storing the information away for later reference.

A week after she’d gone back to the dorms, Spike heard that she’d been beaten up pretty badly in a fight. He didn’t see her, but Rupert and Harris had been by to tell Joyce, and Spike had heard from the basement doorway. They said that she was okay, and Spike gripped the doorframe, looking back down into the darkness where he knew that the boy was sitting. He’d forgotten about the other threats. He’d become emaciated in his ardent suspicion of the boy. He was angry at the Slayer afresh, for making him feel strange.

He didn’t know why, but hearing that she’d been beaten up made him angry with her. Seemed like she was getting careless. Or like she was developing a death wish. She was supposed to be above all of that nonsense, but in the end she was just like the others. Just like any other Slayer.

He didn’t want her to be any other Slayer. She was supposed to be better than that. He couldn’t forgive her that, and so, he added it to the long list of reasons for his fury.





He saw her five days later. In total, it had been almost four weeks since he’d seen her last and it came back with a rush when he laid eyes on her again. Thought I said that you were to stay the hell away from me. In an instant the humiliation of their coupling returned, as did his subsequent inability to keep from thinking of her.

She looked radiant. Curse you, he thought bitterly. Shot and beaten, and still she looked radiant as an effigy in gold.

She stared at him, both of them frozen at opposite ends of the corridor, and she seemed like an animal in headlights. She’d come to Rovello Drive to see Joyce, perhaps. Had no one told her that he was still here? That somehow he had become responsible for finding out why a child had tried to murder her.

His lips turned down in a sour expression, and he span on his heel to leave.

“Spike,” she said, “Wait. Please.” The sound of her voice was akin to a gunshot. It was a sudden trip back in time, as if nothing at all had passed since their tender touching. As if they were back in his crypt, as she was asking him to help find her big lump of a boyfriend.

Spike came to a halt, not turning. He’d had enough of her and her idiotic friends. He’d had enough of all of this- of the bloody cosmic joke that his life had become since he’d let her shag him. He didn’t need all of this. He shouldn’t have taken the money- shouldn’t have gotten involved- shouldn’t have let the bloody Slayer screw with him again. He needed to get out of this town. He needed a clean break, and a fresh start. He couldn’t kill her anyway, so why on earth was he still-

“Spike,” she said again, her tone softer now. She was willing him to turn. It made him want to growl, and spin, and tear her throat out. But he didn’t. He stood still, shoulders hunched, and he waited. “Giles doesn’t want me to tell you… But I.” She stumbled over her sentence, and he knew that talking to his back was making her awkward and uneasy. He didn’t care, though. “I haven’t told anyone. Just Giles. I…”

Spike turned at last. Slow, so as to keep his murderous desire well in check. He fixed her with a glare.

She flinched, but went on regardless. “Last week,” she said. “When I fought with that woman. You know, the one that kicked the crap out of me and got everyone into research overdrive?” he didn’t respond. She looked awkward, but went on. “There was a man, that night. The woman had almost killed him by the time I got him out, but he said things to me. Before he died. He told me what she wants.”

Spike felt he could read her like an American road map: straight roads and perpendicular warehouses. No curves or roundabouts.

“Haven’t told your friends because you think they’ll give it to her.” Spike said, and Buffy looked up at him quick. She gave a half shrug, and noted that he didn’t ask her what it was. Either he didn’t care, or he didn’t want to care.

“She’s looking for a key.” Buffy said, slowly. Softly. “The key can open the door between dimensions. Bring about hell on earth.”

“Just the usual then.” Spike muttered. Nothing changes, he thought. World coming to an end as usual, and the Slayer’s here asking for something.

“Yes.” Buffy agreed. “But she doesn’t know where the key is, or what it looks like. And the man… The man was from this ancient monastery, sworn to protect the key. They knew that I was strong, so they gave the key human form, and they… They sent it to me.”

Spike stared at her. His eyes, uncomprehending and cold, did not waver from hers. She waited for it to sink in. Slowly he looked to the basement door, and quickly back again-

“The boy?” He said, suddenly frowning. “But, they got it wrong then, ‘cause the boy tried to kill you. Why would you protect him, when he tried to-”

Spike was gesturing with an outstretched hand, and Buffy caught it before he’d finished speaking. She looked into his eyes and shook her head,

“Not the boy, no.” She said, then she pressed his flattened palm against her stomach and looked at him again.

It was too soon for a heartbeat, but she knew that he’d feel it if he was close enough. She watched his face, studying the change in his eyes until, finally, he closed them and cut off her connection. Abruptly, he yanked his hand back.

“Why are you telling me?”

Buffy looked like someone had jerked hard on her heart. Her bottom lip quivered, but she sucked in a deep lungful of air and seemed to force herself to keep going. “The monk told me that you’d-”

“Protect it?” Spike guessed, eyes snapping open only to narrow tightly in her direction. “Where the hell do you get off, Slayer? Seems to me, you and yours haven’t stopped askin’ me for favours ever since I told you to keep away from me.”

Buffy stared at him a moment, then set her lips in a firm line. “Right.” She said, dropping a hand to her stomach. She didn’t know what it should feel like to be pregnant, but she wondered at the sudden feeling of hollowness. “Okay, Spike. I get it.”

“Good.” He said. “’Bout bloody time you did.”

He took a step back from her, and she dropped her gaze. Spike wanted to shake her- hard. What the hell was wrong with her? What was this- the millionth time she’d looked surprised that he didn’t want to help her? Christ, anyone would think they weren’t enemies. She sure as hell didn’t seem to understand that they were.

“Summers,” he said, making her look up joltily. She had stupid tears in her eyes, and he hated seeing them there. Hated her for wearing them like jewelry. “Pet,” he said, gentler than he should have done. Shaking himself, and starting again in a rougher tone. “You’ve got to remember that we’re enemies, yeah? I know we shagged, and that seems to have bollocksed everything up, but you can’t keep trackin’ me down, askin’ for favors. Christ, I liked it better when you were breaking my nose on a fortnightly basis. ’Least I understood that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking humiliated. He wondered again just what the hell was wrong with her. Where had all of her snark gone? “You’re right,” she said. “Giles was right. Just don’t… I mean,” her hand fisted in her t-shirt, “You wouldn’t… hurt it, would you?”

Spike frowned, tipping his head as he considered her. “Not my style, pet.”

“Okay,” she said, giving him a weak smile. “Good.” She said. He nodded at her frankly, and turned. “Spike,” she said quickly, her voice taut. “I…”

She just didn’t seem able to let him go. She was haunting him for real, now. She was the bloody splinter in his chest. Spike grimaced, “We’re not doin’ this again, Slayer. I’m stormin’ off now- see?”

“Right- yeah,” she said. “I just… I just want you to know, I’m going to follow your lead on this. Okay?”

Spike glared at her, irritated by the fact that she always seemed to be talking in circles. “You’re gonna ‘follow my lead’,” he repeated, derision in his gaze. “An’ what exactly is that supposed to mean, Buffy?”

He burnt her by using her real name. She looked taken aback, cheeks flushed. But she shook her head and went on, regardless. “I mean, Giles is the only one that knows. And I can tell the others… whatever you like. You know? I’ll follow your lead, Spike.”

He raised his brows. “Alright then, tell ‘em whatever you like.”

Buffy frowned, then deflated. “Okay.” She said. “I guess I’ll… think of something.”

Spike shrugged. “Good.”

“Right.” Buffy shut her eyes, rubbing them. She looked suddenly frustrated. “Look, Spike,” she said. “What I’m trying to say is that Riley- my friends and Riley, and everyone- they can all think that the baby is his. If that’s what you want; if that makes things easier on you. Giles will understand. He’d probably prefer it that way. It’s not a big deal. Just tell me that’s what you want, Spike.” She opened her eyes again, and looked at him. He was staring at her blankly.

He looked down at her flat stomach. He stared at the formation of her hands, and felt the tiny baby, even though it didn’t have a heartbeat yet. He could feel it warm inside of her, and he stared, the silence hanging between them.

Slowly, he looked back up into her eyes. There was something hot and strange prickling through his veins, and when he met her gaze again he felt the beginnings of a headache clawing at the back of his skull. “Slayer,” he said, voice low and dangerous, his finger jutting out to point at her gut. “That’s Finn’s, isn’t it?”

Buffy blinked at him, surprised. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. “No.”

Without a second’s warning, Spike grabbed her shoulders and shoved her up against the wall, ignoring her flinch of surprise and the slight, warning zap in his head. “Tell me you’re lyin’,” he growled, pressing his face right against hers. Buffy shivered, but held his gaze. Maybe she’d expected this. Maybe she’d needed it, in some sick way. To have him close again. To have his hands on her, and his lips right next to her ear. “Tell me you’re-”

“Spike, I’m not lying.” She said hotly, panicky, shaking her head back and forth as if he might think she were making it all up. “I’m not.”

“It isn’t possible,” he growled roughly. “I’m dead, Slayer. Shaggin’ won’t do it.”

“The monks did it.” She said. “They made it. They made it out of you and me and said that we could protect it. They said that we were the only ones.”

“And you’ve known all this for a week now.” Spike snarled, gnashing his jaw. His fingers tightened on her shoulders and neither flinched, though it hurt. It hurt. “That you have a baby growin’ inside of you, and that I’m the… I’m…”

“I told you, Giles didn’t think-”

“So you just do as you’re told?” He snapped harshly, and tears jumped into the Slayer’s eyes.
She shook her head and her blonde hair shivered like spun gold. “I’ve been torturing myself, Spike.” She said, achingly, biting down on her lip to keep from blubbing it all out. She gripped his arms, and he looked down at her hands, glad for the excuse to tear his gaze from the weird look in her eyes. “I’ve been trying for days to figure out what to do.” She said, her voice gaining pitch. “I’ve wanted to tell you, just to have someone to talk to. I’m scared, and confused, and hurt and I’ve never felt so-”

“Just- stop it.” He said. “Bloody… Shut up for a minute, will you?”

She blinked, looking down.

His mind cleared, like a lifting fog. “Did you know?”

“What?”

“Did you know? When you shagged me- did you know that this was going to happen?”

Buffy looked up, startled, her wide eyes wet with surprise. “No.”

“No?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t.” He breathed out, low and hard. She hadn’t known.

And then he swooped, catching her off-guard with his cold, angry lips on hers, and she melted beneath him in an instant. Like this was all that she’d wanted from him after all. Acceptance. Reassurance, though there was little that he could offer.

Her hands came up to rest either side of his neck, and he pinned her where she stood. Kissing her, not to keep her quiet or to frighten her, but because she’d told him the truth for once. He was dark and formidable, and he’d been awful to her since they’d shagged, and her Watcher had told her not to, but still. She’d told him.

He slid his hand into her hair and ran it over the back of her neck, kissing her hotly and honestly. She clung to him, and broke the kiss, but didn’t move her head. Her lips were resting on his jaw as she asked, “Are you angry?”

“I don’t know yet.” He said simply, into the round apple of her cheek.

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay. Alright. Don’t be.”





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