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SPLINTERS
by Lilachigh
Chp 1. Steps
He wished she would stop crying. He could have coped with screaming, welcomed blood and broken flesh, bruising and muscles torn beyond repair. The gun lying at his side would have caused all that and more and that would have been OK....
But the silent tears trickling down her cheeks made him feel - ? Something he couldn’t quite recognise, something he hadn’t felt for a long time.... if he could just remember....
He patted her back, trying to comfort her, then his hand fell away as she shrugged him off. And still she didn’t speak.
The wooden step they were sitting on felt rough under his fingers. He ran his hands over the ridge where two pieces of wood met. Little shards were breaking off.
She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t told him the cause of all this grief. Had he caused it? No - hatred, disdain, disgust - all those he could sense and they were her right where he was concerned, and his right to accept. Slayer and Vampire. Nothing wrong with that.
But surely he hadn’t made her cry! Suddenly, he recognised what he was feeling - he was anxious! Anxiety - God - from what bloody memory hell had that crept into his mind?
His fingers gripped the decking and he stared down at the two pairs of dusty black boots, side by side - one pair large, one ridiculously small to carry such strength.
And somewhere, a faint echo in his mind came swimming to the surface. William was eight years old....it was his birthday party...rotten blue velvet suit.. Bloody hell, he shuddered, he thought there’d even been frills on the neck somewhere.... He must have looked like sodding Little Lord Fauntleroy
He’d had a cousin....Miriam, Lydia, Miranda....had that been her name?
A hot room, a fire burning, lots of children squealing and laughing. He remembered a conjuror, a piano playing...his mother, laughing as she organised silly games.
Miranda was pretty - white dress, pink sash, white satin shoes, bows in her hair - he’d liked her. She’d had a doll....no, he wou!dn’t go there!
He’d liked her. But she’d pinched him, taken the piece of birthday cake he wanted and stuck out her tongue when he complained. So he’d hit her and stamped on her pretty shoes. And she’d cried.
His mother had said, ‘That was a very nasty, naughty thing to do, William. You must promise me never to hit a girl again. If I ever catch you making a girl cry, I’ll be very angry and upset.’
He remembered gazing down at Miranda’s shoes, ruined by the dirty marks, and because upsetting his mother was unacceptable, he’d promised....
Well, he’d killed enough girls since then, made them scream in terror and pain and agony. Miranda, too, come to think of it. There had been marks on her shoes on that day, too, he remembered now - bright red, wet and shiny...
So, yes, screams a plenty, but he’d never caused anyone these soundless tears of distress.
Liam had always liked to make girls cry, but then he was a bog-trotting Mick and they had issues with women.
No, he hadn’t done this, but someone or something had. He felt the heavy, hot surge of anger and possession and for a second, his game face flashed out. She was his Slayer. His! No one else should ever hurt her but him.
In an instant he suddenly realised that during the last years, it wasn’t Liam’s love for her he hated, not even the fact that he’d slept with her, but the fact that he could and had hurt her - badly. Had made her cry.
He turned to look at Buffy again. Her hands were over her eyes and the tears were falling between them like quick silver. She didn’t even notice as he reached out, silently, and caught one on the tip of a finger.
It trembled, one gleaming drop of pure pain, as he carried it to his lips, his mouth, his tongue, his heart, and the biting splinters from the step drove deep under the nails on his other hand.
tbc