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Chapter Four

Spike was taking his time walking to the park to see Buffy. He was trying to build up his courage, make his nerves cast iron, keep his emotions guarded and in check. All of which probably wasn't conducive to healing their wounds, but would keep himself in check when it came to talking with her. Everytime he saw her, he wanted to hug her, hold onto her and sob out his misery at losing her, losing their baby, losing so much of their lives. He looked up at the sky, saying a silent prayer for strength when he heard her voice. She was singing. And, was she playing the guitar. A broad smile spread across his face as he moved closer to the sound of her sweet voice.


Heaven bent to take my hand
And lead me through the fire
Be the long awaited answer
To a long and painful fight

Truth be told I've tried my best
But somewhere along the way
I got caught up in all there was to offer
And the cost was so much more than I could bear

Though I've tried, I've fallen...
I have sunk so low
I have messed up
Better I should know
So don't come round here
And tell me I told you so...

We all begin with good intent
Love was raw and young
We believed that we could change ourselves
The past could be undone
But we carry on our backs the burden
Time always reveals
The lonely light of morning
The wound that would not heal
It's the bitter taste of losing everything
That I held so dear.

I've fallen...
I have sunk so low
I have messed up
Better I should know
So don't come round here
And tell me I told you so...

Heaven bent to take my hand
Nowhere left to turn I'm lost to those I thought were friends
To everyone I know
Oh they turned their heads embarrassed
Pretend that they don't see
But it's one missed step
You'll slip before you know it
And there doesn't seem a way to be redeemed

Though I've tried, I've fallen...
I have sunk so low
I have messed up
Better I should know
So don't come round here
And tell me I told you so...

His smile faded the more he listened. So, she felt she messed up? How? By loving him? By conceiving with him?

She felt lost, that much was certain, she felt guilt and remorse--but did she feel remorse for the right things? Did she really believe she deserved what happened?

He stood before her as she strummed the last of the song, her eyes closed, caught up in the torment of her song.

"Buffy," he said gently, his voice husky.
Her eyes popped open. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," she told him, putting her guitar in its case.

"You shouldn't be doing that with your eyes closed."

"I was passing the time by working on stuff."

"Am I late?"

"No, not at all. I got here early so I could do that."

"When did you write it Buffy?"

"Last night."

"Before you saw me?"

She nodded slowly and sat back, waiting for him to continue.

"Do you expect me to say ‘I told you so?'"

She tossed him a wry grin, "that would by my parents. My
mother, specifically."

"Told you so about what?"

"Getting involved with you."

That hurt. "That what she said when. . .?"

"Yeah," Buffy said quietly, looking at the ground. "I think she
convinced me."

"So you blame me for it all?" His voice was rising and he
was trying to keep it as neutral as he could. It was
impossible.

"No, I don't. I blame me. But, when that becomes too much to
carry around it's easier to blame you. It's always easier to
blame someone else than to take responsibility for your own
actions."

"What did you do that was so wrong?"

"Depends on who you ask. According to my parents it
happened because I defied them, I got caught up in the
wrong boy, I had sex before I was ready, I was a liar. . . the
list goes on and on. Make a tape of all those and play it every day and it's funny because even though you know those things aren't entirely true—that it's just one skewed version
of what happened—you start to believe them when you're told them long enough. Especially when you try to find the reasons why your dreams popped like a balloon and your baby was taken from you and the boyfriend you swore you were going to spend the rest of your life with is suddenly gone. It's amazing what your mind will make you believe when you desperately need to cling to some kind of WHY."

"My father wouldn't talk to me about it. He ignored it as if it never happened. How he managed to do that, I'll never know. It wasn't just my life that was uprooted, his was too. He was happy in Sunnydale, he was away from the doom and gloom of London until his son. . ."

"Got caught up with the wrong girl?" Buffy supplied ironically.

Spike stared her down, "I never thought you were the wrong girl, Buffy."

"What did you think then?"

"I thought that it was unfair and I, like you, tried to find the
reasons why. It wasn't like I could tell anyone about it. I was
told to keep my mouth shut when we arrived back in London. My father didn't want anyone to know why we'd failed in the States. Which was just his way of saying that I'D failed. I failed him, I failed you—"

"You didn't fail me, Spike." She shook her head, "there was nothing you could have done."

"I'm so angry that we never got to see each other, that we were kept from each other. I NEEDED you Buffy. I NEEDED you to understand what was going on and why." He fell silent for a long while. "It wasn't just your dreams that were lost."

"I hate this, I hate it!" Buffy burst out passionately, tears streaming down her face. "I hate how raw everything feels. I hate feeling it all over again."

"We need this Buffy. I cannot keep carrying it around with me any longer. I can't keep needing to talk to you and you not be there."

"I'm not here to assuage your pain Spike. I have my own."

"And I want to help you with yours."

"What is this, the 12 step program? I have a therapist thank you, I don't need you to swoop in and have a chat here and there about the good and bad old days and then one day—poof—it's all better."

"How do you know? Has anything else worked for you? Does Wesley make it better? How's therapy working for you?"

"How's therapy?" She laughed bitterly. "What do you think?"

"Is it me? Is it because of me that you're there?"

"Not all of it. In case you hadn't noticed Spike, I don't exactly have the world's greatest parents nor did I have the best childhood."

Spike grimaced, "that why you're here? Run away did you?"

"Huh. Run away is exactly what I did. Got tired of it. Tired of the whole thing. So, see? You left a part of you with me. My rebellious side finally won out and I left as soon as I was eighteen. I got in my bug with my bag in the back seat and a wad of money in my purse and I took off."

Spike smiled, "that's my girl."

"Not your girl," she told him pointedly.

Spike ignored the comment. "And the singing?"

"I wrote a lot after. . ."

"Maybe it would help if we named it instead of just alluding to it."

"I wrote a lot after I lost the baby. It was my way of coping when I was being made to feel like a failure—something else we have in common I guess—by my parents. Writing about it seemed the only outlet until I could seek a therapist on my own without my parents wondering what was possibly bothering me that I couldn't talk to them about." She rolled her eyes and Spike let out a chuckle at her sarcasm.

Buffy shook her head and let out a little chuckle of her own.

"Could it be possible that Buffy Summers just laughed?" Spike teased her.

She stuck out her tongue. "Shut up. I laugh. Just not when you're around," and she let out a squeal of laughter at that.

Spike's smile was so wide, he could feel the muscles stretching. It felt good. Foreign almost. "Not true. I seem to remember you laughing quite a lot. What about the time we went to the beach and I only put sunblock on one side of my leg? I was half red and half white. You never let me live that down."

Buffy started to laugh at the memory. "Remember the water fight we had at Xander's when his parents were away? I think the whole block was involved," her shoulders were shaking from the memory.

"I remember tossing you into the shower fully clothed," Spike laughed at the memory of Buffy soaking wet in her clothes, screeching at him in the shower. Then he remembered her wearing his T shirt that was so long on her it was like a dress. He loved getting it back after. Buffy was everywhere on him.

He looked back at her and found she was lost in some kind of memory as well. "What are you thinking about pet?"

She looked at her watch, "that I need to get home. Wesley worries."

"Does he have reason to?"

Buffy shrugged, "depends on the day. See ya ‘round, Spike."

She stood, slinging her guitar over her shoulder.

"Buffy, wait." Spike sprang up and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

She looked down at the arm stopping her and then up at him. "Yeah?"

He dropped his hand, shoving both in his pockets. "Can I see you again? I'd like to talk more. Can we?"

Buffy smiled faintly. "Sure. We're having a party Friday night at my house. Just a little get together of sorts. Why don't you come by? Do you have a phone number I can reach you at?"

"Yeah, here, let me give it to you," Spike said quickly and reached into his back pocket, taking out a small notepad and a pen. Buffy raised her eyebrows. "I'm a writer, I take notes."

She nodded and took the offered paper, tucking it in her purse that was slung over her shoulder. "Good night Spike."

"Night Buffy." He wanted to hug her and thank her for seeing him, for not shutting him out. They'd had a nice talk and it really felt as if they'd made steps. They had a long way to go, but Spike had a feeling they were finally on the right track.

TBC...





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