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It’s strange, coming home. As Buffy walks up the driveway, the house looks different. Uncanny, like when you get back from a long vacation, or after running away for the summer, or after being pulled out of heaven.
It’s so familiar, but it’s not the same. Nothing ever will be again.
Buffy’s actually grateful they made it home at all, given how slow Xander was driving. She’s pretty sure he didn’t break twenty the whole way.
As she steps over the threshold, she’s greeted by a crowd of nervous, eager faces. A wrinkled banner draped over the stairs reads, in fat blue letters, It’s A Boy. Everyone’s grinning and mouthing “welcome home”, but nobody’s saying it out loud, because Xander’s got a finger to his lips, making frantic shushing sounds.
“It’s okay, guys,” Buffy tells them, gently placing the car seat down. “We can talk. He’s gonna wake up anyway.”
And he does. Right on cue.
*
It’s nice, though. Being home. Buffy won’t miss the itchy hospital gown, or the way there was always a woman or a baby crying somewhere, or how things seemed to happen too fast and too slow at the same time. Home is definitely an improvement. But it’s sort of… adjust-y.
It makes him feel more real, because he’s in her house now. He felt real from the first moment, but in the same way heaven did. It’s like—you remember there was something else before, but the memory’s fading fast. It’s almost spooky at first, because you’re not sure which is the dream and which isn’t.
Around her, the world wavers like heat shimmering in the desert, and it leaves her a little dizzy. But she doesn’t want to wake up.
Dawn’s banging around in the kitchen, trying to act extra grown up but making fifty per cent more noise than real grown ups do. Buffy’s sitting on the sofa. She automatically goes to curl her legs up underneath her, but pretty much everything below her neck is sore, so she slumps onto her side instead. Slayer healing apparently has its limits.
Spike’s kneeling on the carpet by the coffee table, leaning over the Moses basket, watching intently. The baby twitches, jerking one arm and then the other, like he’s dreaming.
“See that?" Spike says. "Tryin’ to fight me already.”
He looks up at Buffy, his grin lopsided. He's giant by comparison, but he looks strangely young. Buffy’s noticed that; how babies have that effect on people. Their eyes crinkle and their smiles stretch extra wide, like the baby reminds them what it’s like to see something for the first time.
Spike stands up, slipping his hands into his pockets and bowing his head again, like he can’t tear his eyes away.
Buffy gets that.
“How are you?” he asks, finally raising his eyes to hers.
Buffy shrugs, but her mouth does that upside-down smile she’s been doing a lot these last few days. It makes her cheeks hurt a little.
“Good,” she says. “Sleepy, because, well… no sleep. But… good.”
Spike gives her the same smile back.
Buffy can’t get comfy, so she pushes off the sofa and comes to stand by the basket. He’s still again, but breathing soft, fuzzy breaths.
“I feel like he’s the tiniest person ever,” Buffy muses. “But he’s also kind of huge?” She squints at Spike. “D’ya know what I mean?”
“Dunno,” Spike says, but he surveys the baby anyway, like he’s considering it. “Looks small to me.”
Dawn walks in carrying a wobbly tray of tea and boxed cake from the store. Buffy appreciates that she’s trying so hard, even if she’s too drained to actually be hungry, and tea is probably one of the million things she’s not allowed have.
Spike crouches down and starts pouring it into two mugs. Buffy’s never seen him drink anything except blood or beer or whiskey, so probably he’s just trying to be nice. Everyone is.
“Thanks,” she tells Dawn, dragging her over to plant a kiss on her temple. Dawn shyly ducks out again, returning to the kitchen like a diligent housewife.
Spike shoots Buffy an amused look.
When the baby starts fussing, Buffy hunkers down to scoop him up. His face screws together and gets redder, and he lets out a sharp cry, but when she rocks him gently, he settles down again. She rearranges her arms, because his neck’s stretched out and his head is really droopy. She’s always half-worried it’s going to fall off.
It’s kind of scary. She’s pretending she knows what to do, because everyone else is tiptoeing around her and acting all freaked out, but she doesn’t really. She can’t even remember half the stuff the nurses told her.
She sighs as she looks down at him: a small, wrinkled lump. She kisses his waxy head, and smiles when the wisps of hair tickle her nose.
* * *
On the one hand, it’s sweet. The way everyone rallies around, trying to help. On the other, Buffy feels sort of ungrateful, because sometimes she just wants them all to go away and stop talking to her so she can sleep or stare into space or stare at the baby while he sleeps.
He’s awake in the basket now, kicking his bare feet in the air. A sea of heads stares down at him, all marvelling at his rumpled face and fat, squishy legs.
Buffy watches them watch him from the sofa.
Willow’s making excited, high-pitched sounds and saying things like, “Who’s the cutest?!”
“Aww! He looked at me,” Dawn announces proudly.
Anya’s sitting in the armchair and talking about something that isn’t the baby. Buffy’s not listening. Probably it’d be nice to, because all she’s talked about the last few days is diapers and burping and is this discharge normal, so in theory she’d like to talk about something else. But she doesn’t have the energy.
When Xander steps in from the hallway, setting down several grocery bags, he clicks his tongue. “Hey. Evil bloodsucker. You better watch it.”
Spike looks up from where he’s perched over the basket.
“I’m warning you, buddy. You better be very careful,” Xander threatens.
Spike’s eyes darken. “What?”
“I’m saying he’s no vamp snack. Comprende?”
“Xander,” Willow chides.
“Well, what?” Xander shrugs with both hands. “For all we know, babies could set off some sort of… primal, bloodlust-y instinct that make vampires want to—”
“Like I’d lay a finger on him!”
“—or—or, do other… equally sick, depraved, vamp things! And I mean, he’s just so—so small, and fragile, and—”
“Xander. Stop it,” Willow hisses fiercely.
Xander suddenly shuts up, and heads swivel tentatively towards Buffy. She’s staring into nowhere, unsure what people can read on her face.
Spike whips back around to Xander. “You idiot, look what you did,” he snarls. “You’ve only gone and upset her! You and your big gob. Christ, you can’t say things like that, you can’t—” Spike glances back at Buffy, sees her expression, then zips it too.
The room is suddenly quiet.
“It’s fine,” Buffy says flatly, but something sickly twists behind her navel. “Dawn, just—give him to me, please.” Her eyes are welling up, which she knows is stupid, but suddenly she needs to hold him. She doesn’t want everyone to see her getting teary over nothing, but it’s too late, because everyone’s just watching her and saying nothing. Xander and Spike both stare at her like kicked puppies.
“It’s fine,” Buffy snaps again.
* * *
She finishes changing him for what must be the twentieth time today.
Not that she’s keeping track of days anymore. Nope. She’s way past the ol’ day-night system. Time is now just one big sleep-deprived blur, punctuated by feeds and diaper changes.
He’s half dozing on her lap, nestled in the groove between her legs. He smells clean and fresh, though probably that’s the cotton from his new babygrow.
Tara gave her this one. It’s royal blue with sleepy moons and suns on it.
“Feels like I’ll never get bored of it,” Buffy murmurs. “Just—looking at him.”
She trails a finger gently down his chest; he unclenches his small fist in response.
“I know I will, because, like—you don’t see moms sitting around staring at their twelve-year-olds all day. But right now, I just want to—watch him. You know?”
“Yeah,” Spike says softly. “I do.”
“Sorry,” Buffy says, glancing over at him with a wry smile. “This is probably like, super boring for you.” She looks back down and adds with a little laugh, “Not exactly the crazy nights I’m used to.”
She gently encloses both her hands around the baby’s. They’re so small, but each finger is perfectly formed. She brushes her thumb over a tiny fingernail.
“I’ll—keep an eye on things, yeah?” Spike offers. “Patrolling and that. So—don’t be worrying.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “That’s… helpful. Thank you.”
Obviously she has thought about it, sometimes. The slaying and stuff. It’s second nature to think about it.
And it’s nice, of course, that Spike wants to help. Somebody’s gotta do it.
“I mean. I—don’t have time, for any of that stuff,” she goes on. “Duh. I mean. I’m… supposed to sleep when he sleeps. And even then, I’m… tired. Like, really tired.”
She chews her lip, and feels her eyes heat up, and that’s been happening a lot, because she’s sort of confused and overwhelmed sometimes, and she’s not sure in some moments if she’s happy or sad or angry or something else.
“Love?” she hears Spike prompt, but distantly, because her ears are filled with air.
She shakes her head and wipes a tear, keeping one palm splayed over the baby’s chest.
“Oh. Sorry. Just—it’s nothing,” she says with a sniff. “It’s like, hormones and stuff. They said it’s normal.” She swallows to clear her throat. “No, that’s—it’s… really a big help. Thank you.”
She cups the baby’s head, and his skin feels like velvet. When she looks really close, she can see it’s flaky in some parts, with tiny little rough patches, like when sweaters pill in the wash.
“You don’t—have to stick around, you know,” she goes on, voice more watery than she’d wanted it to be. “You’re right. Somebody needs to patrol. And—it’s not exactly fun here, what with having to be quiet the whole time and changing diapers twenty four-seven.” She forces a laugh.
Spike shuffles in place.
“I’d like to stay a bit longer,” he says quietly. “If that’s alright.”
Buffy nods without looking up. She exhales long and hard, pretending to study the baby’s face. Her eyes trace the round curves of his nose, then drift down to his small pink mouth, but for once she’s not thinking about him.
After a long moment, she looks over and asks Spike, “Do you want to hold him?”
He shrugs to the side, but then says, “Yeah. Alright.”
Buffy picks up the baby and starts to hand him over. “Just—mind his head, and—uh huh, yeah, like that—” She makes a little hmph sound, because it’s cute, the way Spike’s holding him like he’s terrified, his shoulders hunched together. He glances up nervously, like he’s looking for reassurance.
Buffy just laughs.
“Haven’t you ever held a baby before?” she asks, but as she’s saying it, it hits her.
Spike shakes his head.
* * *
They’re supposed to give him a bath.
The water shouldn’t be too hot or too cold, but they don’t have a thermometer, so Buffy dips her hand in and asks “Does it feel too hot to you?” She frowns thoughtfully. “It’s too hot, right? Or—wait. Actually—”
She reaches out and wraps her fingers around Spike’s wrist. His eyes flick up, confused.
“If you’re room temperature,” she reasons, “It should feel pretty much the same as you, right?”
Spike’s face stretches into a crooked smile. He leans over to brush his fingertips through the water. The lemon yellow basin is old and faded, with white stains on it like stretch marks. Buffy’s pretty sure they used this one to bathe Dawn when she was little.
“Feels fine to me,” he says.
Buffy nods. “Okay. Well—let’s do it, then.”
The baby’s laid out on a fresh white towel, wriggling and gurgling softly. He’s got no idea what’s about to happen to him.
There’s so much he doesn’t know.
“Can you, um, hold him?” Buffy asks, and suddenly she feels adrift in a way that’s becoming more and more familiar. “Or—or. I’ll hold him. You can do the water.”
She lifts him up, hands braced under his neck and back, and positions him over the basin. He just stares up innocently, flubbing his lips.
Spike triple-checks the water, then starts pouring it over his tummy. The weird stumpy thing fell off recently, and now his belly button looks too big compared to the rest of him. People don’t notice your belly button much when you grow up, because it stops being important, but everyone has one. Even Spike, presumably, which is funny to think about. Guess everyone’s gotta start somewhere.
As the water rolls over him, the baby creases his forehead, like he’s not sure about the whole thing.
Spike waits a beat, then goes on, sliding a palm under his head and splashing water over the sparse dark hairs there.
Again, his features contort. This time he squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a long, piercing wail.
“Uh oh,” Buffy mutters.
He starts to cry more urgently, loud and fast like a racing heartbeat, face scrunching up as he writhes in Buffy’s arms. She shushes him gently, then automatically pulls him close to her chest.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
She keeps making soothing sounds, jiggling him in her arms, her blouse getting damp from him dripping all over it.
“Maybe it was—me,” Spike says beside her. “My hand. Maybe it was—cold.”
When Buffy looks over, he’s frowning, frozen over the basin with the jug in one hand and the other still outstretched, as if it hurts. His expression is strange. Almost scared.
“Or maybe—” he starts to say, but then he cuts off quickly, shaking his head.
Buffy continues to rub the baby’s back, and eventually his cries grow quieter and less frequent. She notices, as Spike fumbles with the jug, that his fingernails are painted black, as always, with little chips in the polish. She wonders, suddenly, why he does that.
“Let’s just try again,” she says, easing the baby off of her and laying him back down in the basin. “He’s gotta get used to it sometime.”
Again, Spike moves with great caution, angling so slowly his hand almost seems to tremble. Maybe that’s how Buffy looks too, when she’s holding him. They’re both so used to hurting things.
It’s easier, to take stuff apart. It’s a lot harder to do it right.
Spike scoops up more water, then lets it trickle gently over the baby’s forehead. His tiny face tenses nervously, but he doesn’t cry this time.
Spike tries again, and Buffy has this feeling that he’s holding his breath, or that he would be, if he had any.
The baby mostly stays quiet after that. Sometimes he mewls, like he’s not sure if it feels good or bad, but mostly he just flails his arms and legs contentedly. Buffy watches, transfixed by the rivulets of water streaming off him and into the basin, calmed by the gentle whoosh of the jug filling with water before spilling out again.
“Supposed to have a name at this point,” Spike says, carefully peeling the baby’s arm away from his body to wash underneath.
Buffy smiles sleepily. She suddenly remembers how exhausted she is.
“Soon,” she says.
* * *
Buffy’s lying on her side, half on top of the bedcovers, drifting in and out of not-sleep and half-sleep.
The night is pretty and purple. Feels like her bedroom’s speckled with starlight, but it’s just the street lamps through the blinds, and maybe a hint of moon.
It’s still nice. Everything’s quiet, except for the creaky breaths and soft rustles from the cot. She’s pretty sure he’s gonna wake up for real soon. He hasn’t cried for hours, and she knows she should take advantage of that, but she’s too tired to sleep.
It’s okay, though. Tonight’s is a sweet delirium. The sheets are soft as air under her fingertips.
She feels her shoulders tense suddenly, and she wonders if it’s because she senses he’s about to wake up, but then she sees a shadow moving by the window. Muscles tighten the way they do, eyes snapping open. She rises half off the bed, and her heart leaps when she spots a pair of eyes through the blinds.
But she knows those eyes. She knows them, and she’s pretty sure they’re smiling.
She goes to gently lift the window open.
“Sorry,” she tells Spike. “Kinda off duty right now. If you’re looking to be slain, you’d better hit up someone else.”
He snorts softly. “Yeah. Like I’d give anyone else the honour.”
“It’s super creepy, you know,” Buffy complains, crossing her arms. “Staring in through people’s windows? I could be doing, like… you know. Anything. Personal stuff, or whatever.” He raises an eyebrow, and her nose wrinkles with disapproval. “Point is, creepy. Ever heard of doors?”
“Not gonna risk waking him, am I?” Spike mutters. He cranes his neck, curiously peering behind her into the darkened room. “Where’s he?”
“Still down. Not for long, though.”
Spike grins. “Calm before the storm, hey?”
“Uh huh,” she says, and when she meets his eyes she notices he’s looking at her—like really looking—and she’s always scared, now, that when people do that it’s because they’re thinking about how wasted she looks, what with the shadows under her eyes and her roots showing and her body stretched in weird ways.
But she gets the feeling he’s not thinking that.
God. He’s such a creep.
“Got something for you,” he says. He rustles around in his pocket, then fishes out something small and shiny.
It’s a bracelet. A fine golden chain that sits delicately in his palm. Buffy blinks down at it.
“Found it,” he explains. “Over at the cemetery. Thought you might like it.”
Buffy touches it, then picks it up almost absently. It’s pretty, and probably expensive. It’s also clean, like it’s never been worn.
Spike straightens up, rolling his shoulders back and looking out over the garden. “Probably not very practical, right now. Jewellery. Probably it’d just—get in the way.” He sniffs and shrugs. “But just thought—better than chucking it out. Can always pawn it, if you need the cash.”
Buffy nods. She keeps her gaze down and plays with it a little, the cool metal slipping against her fingers.
“I like it,” she murmurs.
She lets Spike tighten the clasp around her wrist, and he’s right; probably it’s going to be super annoying to have it dangling there the whole time while she’s trying to change diapers and clean up puke, but she kind of wants to keep it on anyway.
The baby starts crying not long after, and when he’s fed and changed they sit by the window while Spike lounges on the roof, watching the starry sky. In a low voice, Spike recounts tonight’s graveyard shift, and Buffy’s pretty sure he’s making most of it up, or at least seriously exaggerating, because even in her hey-day she rarely had a night with so much action. But she doesn’t mind, because it’s fun to laugh at him, and the hum of crickets is soft just like the baby’s breaths in her arms, and for a moment everything is calm.
* * *
Giles comes to visit. He brings a basket with lots of stuff in it, like slippers for Buffy and a woven blanket for the baby, and fat little picture books about animals dressed in cute clothes.
Buffy absently thumbs through one. The goose is wearing a bonnet.
Giles is leaning over the basket, hands above his knees. He smiles warmly and says, “He’s beautiful, Buffy.”
He straightens up, fixes his glasses, then takes a seat beside her on the sofa.
“How are things going?” he asks gently, and Buffy knows everyone’s just trying to be nice, but she’s getting sick of people talking to her in that voice. She hopes it’s not because they feel sorry for her, or because they think she’s weak and helpless.
Even if she does feel like it sometimes.
“Um. Fine,” she offers, and makes an attempt at a smile. “Exhausting. But I hear that’s pretty standard.”
She doesn’t mention how often she’s taken off-guard by it. By the strange forms the exhaustion takes, and by all the thoughts she never expected to have.
“And… everything else?” Giles asks. “How are things with the, uh, slaying?”
“Well. I haven’t been doing a whole lot of it.”
“One would assume.”
“But, um. The others are picking up the slack,” Buffy explains. “Like, Willow makes stuff go splat sometimes. And Spike patrols most nights.”
“I see.”
In the background, Buffy can hear muffled voices getting louder. She realises it’s Dawn and Spike coming upstairs from the basement, on their way back from laundry duty.
On the one hand, it makes sense that they’re down there so often—Buffy still doesn’t get how someone so small can generate so much laundry, and the pile seems never-ending. But she also gets the feeling Spike and Dawn linger sometimes, to escape from the upstairs world for a moment. Like men hiding out in the smoking room, except instead of puffing cigars, they’re hanging up bibs and onesies.
Buffy’s not jealous or anything, because that’d be dumb. It’s not even that fun being around them sometimes, because their jokes are weird and immature when they’re together and she doesn’t always get it, and anyway, she’s just glad they’re doing the laundry at all, because they don’t have to.
Not like they’re trying to get away from her, or anything.
Dawn exclaims, “Giles!” and throws her arms around him in greeting. He looks disarmed but also sort of moved, and awkwardly pats her arm.
He regards Spike more uncertainly; civil but with an undercurrent of hostility. Spike nods back in acknowledgement, then goes to dump a stack of laundry on the chair in the living room, which is unofficially where the baby clothes live.
Dawn’s a little giddy, presumably after all the subterranean fun, and starts detailing her and Spike’s current argument—apparently Spike made some comment about her being a baby herself only five minutes ago, but she’s insisting that he’s closer to being a baby than her, because she never actually was one, except in people’s minds.
“Dawn,” Buffy interjects quietly, but Dawn’s not listening as she triumphantly declares that, “Energy is like, timeless. Or super old, at least. Way older than some 200-year-old vampire.”
“Hey! I’m only 129,” Spike complains, returning to the sofa area. Without hesitation, he swoops down and plucks the baby up from his basket, moving with the same ease and confidence he’s always killed stuff with.
He’s learnt quick. Guess they all have.
Dawn makes faces at the baby while Spike shucks him higher in his arms. “What do you think he’s gonna turn out to be?” she muses, pinching playfully at his covered feet.
“Hopefully something that’ll make us lotsa money,” Buffy jokes dryly, nestling deeper into the couch. “That also makes him happy or whatever.”
The baby sneezes; Spike imitates in a soft, girlish voice. Dawn laughs delightedly and tickles the baby’s belly.
“No,” she says. “I meant, the way everyone around here is, ya know, a slayer, or a vampire, or a witch, or an ex-vengeance demon, or used to be a magical ball of energy, or—”
Buffy shifts in place. Something uncomfortable twinges in her stomach.
“Uh, excuse me,” Giles cuts in. “But not all of us have a supernatural, or formerly supernatural, constitution.”
“Ooh! Maybe he’ll be a wizard,” Dawn decides. She squeezes an eye shut and, pointing with her hand like it’s a hook and she’s a pirate, says, “You’re a wizard, baby!”
“He’s not going to be anything, Dawn,” Buffy says, more sharply than she intended. “He’s just going to be a… boy. A… normal, regular boy.”
Dawn’s apparently too distracted by whatever face the baby’s making to notice the tone. “Sure. Let’s see how that works out,” she murmurs.
“Hear that, Chomps?” Spike’s saying, bouncing the baby gently in his arms. “Be just like Pinocchio.” He looks up at Buffy and tells her, “He’s hungry.”
There’s no telltale fussing or whimpering yet, but Spike has this spooky sixth sense for when he’s about to start. Except it’s not really a sixth sense and just his freaky vampire nose, which can pick up on stuff people noses can’t.
Buffy tries not to wonder if he smells like food. Tries not to think about that thing Xander said.
Both Dawn and Spike jump at the chance to get a bottle ready and zoom off to the kitchen. Maybe they’re trying to show off in front of Giles, or maybe they just really want to do it.
It doesn’t escape Giles either, because he comments, “They’re eager.”
Buffy nods, but senses the undertone in his voice. “Sure are,” she says, picking a little at her fingernails. They’re a mess. She’s gotta file them.
“Buffy,” Giles says, and Buffy knows already what’s coming. “I don’t mean to interfere. But it would be rather remiss of me if I didn’t—well—” He clears his throat, gazing diagonally towards the baby, who is starting to squirm in his basket. “Are you sure it’s wise to, well—trust him with—”
The microwave goes ding.
“I understand you must be—overwhelmed,” Giles continues quickly. “But I am sure the others would gladly, uh, pitch in, if you—”
Buffy is distracted by Dawn snort-laughing from the kitchen. “What are you doing?!”
Spike gets all defensive. “What? S’posed to test it on your wrist.”
“Yeah, but you don’t need to lick it.”
“Relax, would you? S’only out of a can, anyway, not from—”
Buffy swivels back around to Giles. He is staring at her with that same concerned look he’s given her a lot over the years.
She’s annoyed, of course, but she almost wishes she wasn’t, so that she could just enjoy it. Because she doesn’t have a mom anymore, and with every passing day, she feels farther away from ever having had one at all.
But she doesn’t want to hear this. She doesn’t need him questioning and judging her choices, because she’s already got that way taken care of, all by herself.
“Thanks for your concern,” she says quietly, but it’s not snarky or anything. She simply has nothing else to say.
* * *
Buffy wakes with a start, gasping for breath. Her heart leaps like a high striker to the top of her chest, and she searches around frantically.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay, love.”
Buffy blinks hard; Spike’s face slowly comes into focus. They’re on the sofa and there’s a crick in her neck, the shadowed room lit only by the TV. It feels late.
“Where’s—where’s—”
“He’s fine.” Spike’s voice is gentle. “He’s upstairs, yeah?”
Relieved, Buffy straightens up and massages her temples. “God,” she mumbles. “I dreamt…”
“What?”
“Oh. Nothing. It’s—silly.” She moan-laughs into her hands, dragging them down her face. Reality’s flooding back now, and her brain’s catching up with the fact it was just a dream, and everything is okay. The world is still a bit floaty, and her head hurts, but that’s normal.
Everything’s fine.
“What happened?” Spike prompts again.
“Oh. I just—” Buffy glances away, embarrassed. She rubs at her arm. “I just dreamt he was… well. A vampire.”
There’s a tense beat of silence as she swallows to clear her throat. Dramatic action music blares quietly from the TV, with the low thud of galloping hooves.
“And I… left him out. In the sun,” she goes on, and she tries to laugh again, but it catches in her throat. She brings a hand to her mouth, and she knows it’s dumb, but—it did feel real, for a second. The thing lodged in her chest still does.
Not like it’s totally crazy. People turn to dust, at her hand, all the time.
Spike just chuckles, and reaches out to brush some hair behind her ear.
“Sun’s good for him,” he tells her quietly, knuckles sweeping down to rest on her cheek. “Needs it.”
Buffy gives a crooked smile. “Like a plant?”
“Yeah.” He runs his fingers through her hair, more slowly this time, and watches her. The TV flashes white-yellow over the angles of his face, illuminating his eyes—lightning blue, and narrowed, like when he’s looking at the baby. His rings bump gently against her skull.
Some stubbled cowboy on TV barks a mean laugh, then whips out a gun.
Bang. Bang. Bang bang.
Buffy falls back against the sofa, and ugh—that twinge in her neck’s gonna be bugging her for days.
“It’s just—hard to sleep, sometimes,” she mutters. “Properly, I mean. I keep… half waking up, all freaked out.”
Spike leans back beside her. “Yeah. I know.”
She tips her head onto his shoulder and sighs. She’d only left him for a second. She’d put the car seat down on the porch step and gone to grab the bag with his stuff, then heard this sudden, agonised wail. She can still hear it ringing in her ears—eerily close to the way he really cries, but the pitch strangled with terror. The clouds must’ve cleared suddenly, because when she’d rushed back, all that was left were the final particles of dust, flittering away into the breeze.
She suddenly realises she’s squeezing Spike’s hand—hard. Her nails are digging into the skin of his wrist.
She loosens her grip reflexively and mumbles, “Uh, sorry,” but apparently he likes it, because he puts his other hand over hers to stop her taking it away.
Crowds are roaring on the TV in the background, but the volume’s low, so she can still hear the sofa creak as Spike shuffles a little closer.
“I wasn’t that worried about him… being a vampire,” she says, still half-dazed and saying words without really thinking. “In a way, it was like—a relief. Because they couldn’t hurt him.”
Spike strokes his thumb over her hand. “But he’d never grow up.”
Buffy hadn’t thought about that. Because dreams are stupid and don’t make sense, and you don’t think about obvious things, like: don’t leave your vampire baby out in the sun, or about how it’s bad that they’re a vampire in the first place, or about how they’ll never grow up and become what they’re supposed to.
“Nothing changes, without the sun,” Spike says distantly, staring down at their hands. Buffy looks down at them too; she lets him slot his fingers between hers. His hand is bigger, but not much bigger. Doesn’t look like a monster eating hers up, the way it does when she curls the baby’s fingers gently inside her fist.
She frowns and asks suddenly, “D’ya think Peter Pan was a vampire?”
Spike laughs, then kisses the side of her head. He stays there with his nose half-pressed against her temple, and Buffy starts to smile, thinking about the baby again—remembering how his eyes lit up earlier, when she came to get him. Like she was exactly who he’d been waiting for.
A rush of warmth fills her chest.
“But I guess he’s actually like… the anti-vampire,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips. “Because—he’s growing so fast. And changing so fast. I mean, if anything, it’s like he got… extra sun.” Her cheeks heat up and she fidgets with Spike’s fingers, then adds quickly, “Though, um, he’s not actually supposed to be out in the sun much, obviously. Since his skin’s all new and sensitive.”
Spike huffs happily under his breath and rearranges himself again, like he’s excited. “Mad how fast he’s changing,” he says. “I reckon he’s advanced—you know, like gifted or something? He was laughing at me earlier.”
Buffy snorts. “He was not.”
“He was!” Spike splutters, and he seems genuinely offended. “Not the same as how we laugh, mind, but I could tell he—wanted to. You know?”
Buffy hums teasingly. “Ya know what? I believe you.” She sticks out her tongue and drags her fingers down his chest. “Who wouldn’t laugh at you?”
As soon as she says it, she feels a pang of regret. She wonders if she’s hurt him, and scans his eyes for signs.
It makes her realise she didn’t mean to. That she doesn’t want to.
But if he’s bothered by it, he doesn’t show it. He just says, “Hey,” but it’s playful. His eyes dance in the TV light, then flick down to her mouth.
Buffy looks at his too, and wonders again why he’s here. She’s been wondering that a lot lately.
It’s you he’s trying to get to, Buffy. That’s what Giles had said. And everyone else, too, in their own way.
But her brain’s not working right, with the exhaustion, because sometimes she forgets why that’s a bad thing.
* * *
It’s one of those days.
The baby won’t stay down. It doesn’t matter what Buffy does. He hasn’t stopped crying for more than ten minutes, and the wails are starting to feel endless, like a black hole getting bigger and slowly engulfing her inside it.
Then there’s Dawn, who’s also driving her crazy.
She wants to go out tonight, but when Buffy asks her normal stuff, like where, or with who, or for how long, she won’t give straight answers. Because Buffy apparently has oodles of time on her hands to decipher cryptic teenage codes. And now, Dawn’s acting like she’s the one being unreasonable, when it’s her who started this whole thing by acting like… like a brat.
Okay. So there is that one voice in Buffy’s head. The one that’s saying: she’s just a kid, and she’s been doing everything right, and probably she didn’t mean to slam the door that loud, and why shouldn’t she go out with her friends and have some fun? She deserves it.
But the demon caged in her chest shouts louder. It’s tired, and it’s hungry, and it doesn’t care. It wants to scream at the baby to shut up, just for five minutes, and it wants to scream at Dawn too—stuff Buffy knows is unfair and that she’ll regret later, but that’s kind of why she wants to do it in the first place.
She’s standing over the kitchen sink, clutching both sides of the basin, the slammed door still rattling in her ears. She tries, with difficulty, to ignore the mountain of dirty dishes below her.
Her head is throbbing, of course. When’s the last time it wasn’t?
And then—
She thinks she’s imagining it, at first—hopes, desperately, that she is—but by the second or third time, she knows she isn’t.
It’s the baby. He’s crying again.
Her heart sinks, at the same time as hot fury rises up from her gut.
She digs her fingers harder into the metal rim of the basin and watches the blood rush to the tips, fingernails turning white.
She can’t let herself touch him right now. She’s too strong.
She shakes at the sink where it’s attached to the kitchen counter, and, to her dismay, feels it shift a little. A soft crack, probably where it’s come away from the wall.
The basement door clicks open.
When Buffy looks over, it’s Spike. Not Dawn, who stormed down there in a huff twenty minutes ago.
Buffy forgot Spike was even here—or maybe she didn’t notice him come in.
He nods at her. “I’ll get him, alright?”
Buffy stares blankly at him. “Thank you,” she manages.
She hears the stairs creak underneath Spike’s weight, then looks out the window, focusing her gaze on the street outside.
It’s still bright out, but there’s the telltale dappling of shadow and sunlight through the leaves that means it won’t be for much longer. In front of the house, a kid is scooting up and down the road. He’s maybe seven or eight, and wearing a bright red helmet.
He should head inside soon. Before it gets dark.
Buffy takes several long, deep breaths. She lets go every time the boy stops kicking off the ground and moves into a glide.
He zooms up the street, then back, over and over.
By the time he hops off and starts crookedly dragging the scooter up the driveway of his house, Buffy feels a little better. In the distance through the window, she can hear the faint sound of him slamming the front door.
The crying’s stopped, too.
On the way upstairs, Buffy presses her ear at the door of the basement. There’s the low hum of music coming from down below. A new CD player showed up there at some point; probably Spike found it, like he’s been mysteriously finding a lot of useful things. They put it down in the basement, since it’s the only place they can really play music most of the time.
Buffy leaves Dawn alone for now, then heads upstairs.
In the bedroom, the blinds are shut and slanting downwards, the last slivers of gold seeping in through the slats, casting a bridge of light on the carpet.
Spike stands in the shadow of her dresser. The baby is quiet in his arms, eyes half-closed, like he’s really settled down this time.
Buffy flashes Spike a tight smile.
“Thanks,” she whispers. She runs her fingers through her hair, which feels oily and knotted. “Kind of a rough day.”
Spike says, “Yeah. Got that impression.” He paces a little, keeping the baby in constant, easy motion.
Buffy hesitates, then steps closer. She reaches out to touch Spike’s back, rubbing very gently between his shoulder blades. He drops his head towards her and smiles.
She thinks stupid thoughts, sometimes. With him being here all the time.
It’s not like she actually wants to kiss him, or anybody, right now. She just… gets this impulse, occasionally, to bury her face in his neck and stay there.
“Did you talk to Dawn?” she asks quietly.
Spike hums. “Yeah. She’s alright. Emotions running high, is all.”
He sets the baby down in the crib, making low hushing sounds. The baby coos unhappily, like he doesn’t want to be let go, but his complaints drop off as Spike starts wrapping a blanket around him. It’s his favourite, for some reason. Mint green and loosely knit.
“What did she say?” Buffy asks, and then, not wanting to seem like she’s prying—even though she definitely is— adds, “I mean—uh, is something wrong?”
Spike continues carefully swaddling the baby. “No,” he says, clearly not sure if he’s supposed to spill. “Reckon she’s just feeling a bit… well. You know. With all the changes, and everything.” His eyes jump guiltily towards Buffy, then back down to the baby.
Buffy shuffles a little closer, tense fingers curling around the rim of the crib. “A bit—what?”
She’s putting him in a weird position, probably, if Dawn confided in him. But she chooses not to think about it. Today’s frustration simmers too close to the surface, and with it, the cruel awareness that she can make Spike do pretty much anything she wants. Even break her little sister’s confidence.
The baby lets out a single, nondescript syllable. Spike rubs soothingly at his shoulder, murmurs “Shh.”
“She knows how hard it is on you,” he tells the baby instead of Buffy. “Doesn’t want to burden you with it. She’s just—”
“What?” Buffy presses, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. She’s not big with the patience today.
The thing is, she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer. Not the details, but—even though Dawn hasn’t said anything, she gets the picture. For some reason, she wants to hear somebody say it.
Spike straightens up, bringing his hand to the base of his neck. “Just… scared, isn’t she. Scared you won’t—love her as much, anymore. Not as much as him.”
Buffy follows Spike’s gaze back into the crib. She nods resignedly.
Not like she hasn’t thought about this a million times. And—she promised herself she wouldn’t let Dawn feel that way, but—
When he got here, it was harder. She’s so tired.
“Yeah. I—I know,” she croaks. “I get it.”
She sighs, then finds herself edging a little closer to Spike until their shoulders touch.
It’s just… one of those days.
Spike leans back towards her, then wraps an arm around her middle. Which is what she also wanted, but she tries to let these things seem like they’re his idea.
She already carries so much on her own shoulders. The universe can let her have this one.
“She gets it, too,” Spike tells her. “Just—got the better of her today, I expect.” He squeezes at her hip, keeping his eyes fixed intently on hers, the way he always does when he wants her to hear something important. When he’s trying to make her feel better.
Buffy smiles weakly. “What did you tell her?”
“Well. Told her to buck up, didn’t I? Too old for that sort of thing.”
Buffy rolls her eyes and nudges him with her elbow, but not hard enough to push him off her. “What did you really say?”
Spike shrugs. “Told her it didn’t work like that,” he says, looking back down to where the baby’s sleeping peacefully. “She knew already, ‘course. Just… needed a shoulder.”
Buffy nods again, then leans over to rest her cheek against his chest. There’s no heartbeat, just like when she tries to hear the baby’s. The doctor assured her he has one—it’s just small, and his chest is small too, so you can’t hear it thump as loud. But it’s definitely in there, and it’s beating fast.
Spike’s arm tightens around her and drags her in close, and he must know, somehow, that she likes it better that way.
They stay there for a long moment, then he starts to speak hesitantly.
“Though—I did tell her,” he says, clearing his throat. “That—well. It’s not… something to think about.”
His chest dips, which makes Buffy suspect he’s been holding onto the thought. She lifts her eyes tentatively. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, and keeps watching the baby.
“Gets to a point, doesn’t it, where it’s not about us anymore. Some things are bigger,” he says. “Not just about the love you get.”
Buffy huffs wryly. “Spike, she’s sixteen.”
“I know,” he says, a little defensive. “Just—not that young, is it. You of all people would know.”
Buffy draws away from him. “I don’t want that for her,” she says, something fierce reigniting in her chest. “I don’t want that—for them.”
“Yeah, no, I know, but—”
“No. No buts,” she hisses. She sees Spike’s eyes flash, and wonders, briefly, if he realises what he’s unleashed. “They deserve… better than that.”
She gapes at him in disbelief, shaking her head. She turns on her heel and stomps out of the room, then all the way downstairs.
In the living room, she starts picking things up pointlessly, stuffing them into pockets of the baby’s bag while yanking other stuff out, mostly diapers and reams of plastic bags, throwing neatly folded laundry from one place to another. The rage builds like flames, spreading and consuming everything else.
She hears Spike cautiously following her downstairs, then feels him leaning in the doorway, watching her. She ignores him and continues pretending to do stuff.
She knows she’s being childish, but whatever. She’s earned it. She’s earned it, for once.
“Buffy,” he tries.
She doesn’t even care what he has to say. Maybe Giles was right about him. That she shouldn’t—trust him, with them. If he’s gonna say stuff like that, and put ideas in Dawn’s head.
She wants to scream. She wants to—wants to rip his head off. Or she could rip the head off the stupid stuffed hippo she’s holding. The house is teeming with stupid stuffed animals now, and this one isn’t even cute. His mouth’s sewn all crooked, and he’s got these big innocent doe eyes which is just like, a big fat lie. Hippos literally eat people.
“All I meant was—” Spike says, faltering. “It’s not such a bad thing, is it? To realise—when something isn’t just about you anymore. S’what makes the world go round, in the end, it’s—”
Buffy laughs mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah, you’d know all about that. That’s your big contribution, huh? Nothing but—but love, and kindness, and helping everything go round in one big, happy circle.”
Spike’s eyes darken to prove the point.
“Why don’t you just take him?” she snaps. “If you enjoy it so much. And—you can keep patrolling, too. Since it’s so much fun for you. And hey, Dawn can go live with you in your crypt, and you can listen to music extra loud, and I’m sure you’ll all be very happy.”
Spike sighs deeply.
Buffy stuffs the hippo into a too-small pocket of the baby bag, almost catching his foot in the zipper. She forces it shut, his squashed body bulging through the fabric.
“You’re just—you’re just trying to make yourself feel better,” she accuses. “Just because you don’t get to have it. So you—you’ve deluded yourself into thinking… that this is enough.” She scoffs, then wheels round to face him. “Well sorry to break it to you, but this? It sucks. It sucks having to live like this. Always for someone else, and never for—”
“You don’t have to,” he tries. “Don’t have to be alone.” He steps towards her and reaches for her arm, but she arches away sharply.
“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t make out like—it’s my choice. Like I get off on being a martyr, or something. If I had another option—”
“You do,” he insists pleadingly.
“You’re lying to yourself,” she goes on, ignoring him, hoping her voice is bitter enough to hide the shake in it. “You know this isn’t good enough.” She holds his gaze and feels her heart stop for a moment. “But—but just so you know, it’s all you’re ever gonna get. So... you might as well just go, Spike.”
His jaw stiffens, but he doesn’t move.
Buffy searches frantically for it, behind his eyes. She knows it’s gotta be in there. The real Spike. She just needs to coax it out.
But he just holds tight to the doorframe and says, sounding defeated, “Not really fair, is it, love.”
“No,” Buffy agrees through clenched teeth. “Nothing is.”
She hugs her arms tightly round her middle, then stares down at the ground.
“Maybe you like it,” she says quietly. “Letting yourself be… used, chewed up and spat out again.” She shakes her head, the carpet fibres starting to blur with tears. “But I don’t. And they… they will never have to settle for that. I’ll make sure of it.”
The silence in the room is heavy. Then Spike leaves.
It makes Buffy’s stomach ache. She hates that he leaves. Hates even more that he can. Worst of all, he doesn’t shout back, and just shuts the door quietly behind him.
* * *
Buffy doesn’t see Spike for a long time after that.
At least, it feels like a long time. Time passes sort of weirdly these days. But he stops coming over, and it takes her a while to work up the nerve to go see him.
It’s a sunny day in Sunnydale; everything is yellow, bordering on burn-y. Buffy tugs the lid of the stroller down further to cover the baby’s head, then pushes on through the main street.
The world seems bigger and busier and louder, after being inside so much. And compared to him. Since he’s so small, and uncomplicated. He’s super needy, obviously, but at least he only ever wants the same three things, so it’s not that hard to make him happy. As they walk through the centre of town, there’s all this stuff Buffy hasn’t thought about in a long time, like coffees that come in crazy flavours and dresses she can’t afford. All the names over the theatre are strange and unfamiliar, because apparently the movies keep coming out, even when she’s not watching them.
It’s even weirder when they get to the cemetery. She can’t remember the last time she was here, especially in the daytime. It feels wrong to be pushing him through it, even though it’s too bright for them to run into any vamps.
Except the one they’re going to see, obviously.
At the entrance to Spike’s crypt, she hesitates. She steps around the stroller and pushes the door open, then calls, “Spike?”
It’s stone-cold dead in here, but she remembers it was always like that, before sunset.
She holds the door open with one hand and wheels the stroller over the threshold with the other. The cooler temperature is a relief.
“Spike?” she calls again, starting to wonder if coming here was a mistake. Suddenly her gut does this twisty churning thing. For all she knows, Spike is just like the movies. Or he’s the theatre, and she’s the movie, one that’s already come and gone. She tells herself probably not, because it’s Spike, but you never know. Stuff can happen fast when you’re not looking.
Panicked, Buffy glances back at the door. She can’t even make a run for it, because it’s a lot harder to make a stealthy getaway with a baby and a janky old stroller. Ugh.
When she looks down at him, he’s staring up at her with wide eyes, hands clasped together with his knuckles in his mouth. He’s got no idea what’s happening, but he seems cool with it, which is reassuring for half a second.
Then she hears footsteps. Nerves spring to her chest, but actually, it’s the other kind of nerves. The ones she’s super used to and can deal with by clutching her weapon tighter. And she’s got a stake in her pocket, so she’s all good on that front.
But it’s just Spike.
His eyes widen when he sees her, then lock onto the stroller. He can’t see the baby from where he’s standing, but he stares for a long beat anyway, then looks back at Buffy.
“Buffy,” he says.
“Hi,” she says. She hesitates. “Can we, um. Come in?” she asks. She kicks the door closed behind her, shutting out the sunlight. “Um, I mean. Can we—stay in?”
Spike huffs a little laugh, but it’s hard to tell how friendly it is.
“Yeah. Make yourself at home.” He gestures to the lone armchair. There is a wooden crate beside it, which probably he mostly uses as a table, but maybe also as a chair, sometimes, if he’s got guests.
If he ever does.
Probably he could have guests, if he wanted. Lots, in fact. Because he’s friendly and likes to talk and it’s not like he has super high standards.
He could probably even have women over, if he wanted. Probably they like him, because of the hair and stuff. He can’t bite them, but he could sleep with them or talk to them or whatever.
He’s kind of mean when you first meet him, though. But he might not be that way with everyone. Or maybe… not anymore. And anyway, some people probably like that. Probably lots of people, actually. It’s a whole thing.
She kind of hopes he has guests, so he’s not too lonely. But a mean part of her also hopes he doesn’t have too many. Or at least that he doesn’t look at them the way he looked at her when she came in.
Buffy wheels the baby over to the seating area—if you can call it that—but doesn’t sit down. Spike also hovers.
“So. How’ve you been?” he asks, scrunching his shoulders and pressing his fingertips into his jeans pockets.
Buffy’s hands also find her pockets. “Um. Not bad.”
Spike nods slowly.
“Um, and you?” she asks.
He shrugs. He rocks back and forth on his heels, eyes falling on the stroller again. He still can’t see the baby, who’s lying flat with the giant canopy blocking him, but he cranes his neck a little anyway, like he’s trying to.
“Is he, uh, asleep?” he ventures.
“Oh. Uh, no,” Buffy says, glancing over at the baby, who’s just lying there with his eyes flicking around his fabric ceiling. “No. He’s just… doing the quiet thing. Uh, sorry—do you want—”
Spike starts nodding fervently before she even finishes, drifting closer. Buffy bends over to pick the baby up and before she even gets a hold of him, Spike is right there—practically biting her hand off, or like he’s a drowning man and the baby is straw or something, the desperation gentle but palpable.
When he gets him in his arms, he lets out this happy little whuff.
“Christ. He’s huge,” he says, voice hoarse. “Look. Nearly holding his head up and all.”
Buffy smiles. “Yep. He’ll be leaving for college soon.”
Spike slowly sits down on the armchair with him held out at an angle in front of him. “And his hair,” he murmurs. “Got lighter, I reckon.” He gently brushes his hand over the baby’s head, slicking the strands back, mirroring his own.
The baby flails his arms out of sync and says, “Ggghh.”
“Uh huh,” Buffy says. She drums her fingers on the stroller handle. “Probably the sun helped. We’ve been… walking in the park a lot.”
Spike nods faintly. His nostrils flare; he looks straight at the baby, and the baby stares back.
“Long time no see, hey, Chomper?” he says quietly.
Buffy’s eyes dart away on reflex—something about the moment feels private. She hugs her waist, eyes fixing on the kitchen, or on the thing that passes for one. There’s a mug sitting on the countertop. Probably it’s got blood inside.
She thinks, fleetingly, about that thing Xander said. What he’d say if he saw Spike now. Because he does have that look in his eyes, and it’s sort of like a hunger, in a way.
It’s what vampires do, after all. Feed off the living.
Buffy paces for a moment, trying to find things to distract herself with, until Spike breaks the silence.
“And you?” he asks, looking over at her. “Been doing alright?” He asked already, but he seems more relaxed now—less itchy with the baby sitting on his lap. The baby waves his arms and smacks his lips, then tries to clumsily tumble forward, but Spike’s hand is firm on his chest.
“Everything’s fine,” Buffy says honestly. “Nothing… world-ending. For once.”
Spike snorts softly.
There’s another one of those weighted silences. Buffy flexes her fingers, then fidgets with the golden chain around her wrist.
“But… um. We missed you,” she says.
Spike tilts his head like he’s surprised.
Buffy steps closer to him, fingers finding the edge of the armchair where he’s sitting. There’s a little flare of dread in her chest, because she’s scared to say this part, but she knows she’s got no choice but to spit it out now. She swallows hard.
“I mean, Dawn definitely did,” she says. “She hardly ever does laundry anymore.”
Spike chuckles. The baby thrashes his legs and says, “Ehhhha.” Spike props him up a little, supporting his head with the crook of his elbow.
“And I know he’s not like, a big talker or anything,” Buffy goes on, kneading the fabric of the chair as her eyes fall on the baby. “But—I’m pretty sure he missed you, too. I could… sort of tell.”
Spike chews his lip, gaze drifting to the side.
“Maternal instinct, or whatever,” Buffy says quietly. She swallows, then crouches down beside him, gripping the chair for support.
“And… um. Me too,” she admits. “I think… I think I missed you the most.”
Spike turns her way, but doesn’t look right at her. His brows are softly furrowed, but his expression stays guarded.
She presses on anyway.
“I wanted you to come back,” she says wetly. “I—thought you’d come back.”
She did. She knows how dumb it sounds, and it’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s true.
It wasn’t even that much about him, in the end. She was just… so tired, and everything was too much, and god, she just wanted to shout at somebody. She thought he’d let her.
That night, after he left, she curled up in her bed, still fully dressed, and cried till her eyes dried up. When Dawn came home from wherever she was, she peeked into Buffy’s room and found her like that, still sobbing quietly.
Dawn had crawled into bed beside her and said she was sorry, for being grumpy and slamming the door, and she’d had to tell Buffy it was gonna be okay, over and over, and hold her and stroke her hair till she fell asleep. Buffy had felt ashamed about it, at the time—because it was her fault that she’d sent Spike away and now, her baby sister had to see her that way and take care of her.
But Dawn did a pretty good job, in the end.
After that, things were sort of okay. They managed.
Part of Buffy was always waiting, though. For him to come back.
She’s staring straight into the distance, over Spike’s legs and at the dusty floor behind, and only snaps out of the reverie when Spike starts to bounce his knee.
“I wanted to,” he tells her, so quiet she can hardly hear. “Wanted to, right away.”
Buffy looks up at him. His eyes are red-rimmed and he’s got the baby tucked in tight under his chin, like he’s shielding him from something.
“Was trying to find excuses, the whole time,” he says. “Justify it to myself. Coming back.”
He rearranges the baby slightly, sniffing.
“But I kept thinking about it. What you said,” he says. He takes the baby’s hand in one of his, absently brushing his thumb over it. “Know we can’t control everything. What they’ll end up doing, thinking. They can muck it up, with or without us.” He huffs, like he’s thinking about something, or someone, in particular. “But we can—try, at least. Can try show ‘em something better.”
Buffy nods. She reaches out and squeezes the baby’s toes, idly straightening out the scalloped rim on his sock.
She sometimes thought mean stuff when Spike was gone. Like that everyone else was probably right, and that if he cared so much, he would’ve come back, even if it wasn’t her he was coming back for.
It gave her a pang of self-satisfaction, when she was sad or angry, but it never lasted.
“You were wrong, though,” Spike says. “About some things.”
“I know,” Buffy cuts in quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Maybe it was… bang out of order, what I said to Dawn,” he says. “And of course I want more. You know it. More than anything. But—”
He shifts in place, hoisting the baby up a little, watching where Buffy’s still holding his socked feet.
“I need this, too,” he says, and his throat sounds all lumpy. “Might not seem it, but… it’s the truth. I’ve always needed it. To have… something. Someone, to look after.”
“And he’s the only one who doesn’t know,” he says. “Only one who doesn’t care what I am. Doesn’t care either way, ‘bout any of it.”
He exhales through his nostrils, gazing at the back of the baby’s head. Buffy studies his eyes, and there’s a distant sort of sadness in them, one that’s impossible to read, and it reminds her that there’s so many things she’ll never understand.
Probably people feel that way when they look at her sometimes. But she’s getting used to it. Accepting that—there’s some things she’ll always be alone with.
Must be the same for him.
“Still sorry, though,” he murmurs. “For—leaving. I—I didn’t—”
“No. You… you were right,” Buffy says. “I shouldn’t have, well—” She trails off.
“Mean, knew you could handle it,” Spike says, still all croaky. “Know it’s been rough, but knew you could. With or without me.”
She laughs throatily, then wipes her eye with a fist. “I can. I can always… handle it.”
She presses her palms to her face, sniffling into them, and feels Spike’s hand come to rest on her head.
“But I hate it, sometimes,” she whispers. “Sometimes I hate it.”
* * *
* * *
Buffy isn’t sure what time she gets home, but she suspects it’s not that late.
She clicks the door shut behind her, then spots Spike lounging on the sofa, watching TV. The lamp in the corner emits a soft golden glow.
“Hey,” she says.
Spike throws his head back to see her. “Hey. How was it?”
Buffy’s lips curl a little as she hangs up her jacket. “Pretty fun.”
“Kill many nasties?”
“Sure did.”
“Bet you gave ‘em hell.”
“Hey. Don’t patronise me,” Buffy complains as she comes to drop down on the sofa arm.
Spike snorts. “Like I could. You go somewhere after?”
“Uh huh,” Buffy says, swishing her hair to one side. “We went old-school, at the Bronze. Had like, two whole margaritas.”
Spike raises a brow. “Meet anyone nice?”
“Yep. Lots.”
Spike bites his lip, meeting her eyes daringly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. One guy already called my cell,” she says. “He was all like, where’d ya put the spare formula?”
Spike smirks. “Sounds like a catch.”
“Mmm,” Buffy says noncommittally. “He’s okay.”
Spike’s hand prowls up her leg. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says. She looks down and plays with her bracelet a bit, and when she looks back at Spike he’s watching her carefully, eyes dark with excitement. “I was… actually thinking of asking him to stay over.”
Spike’s eyebrows go a bit funny, but he tries to act casual, like it’s no big deal.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “Can’t imagine any bloke saying no to that.”
“Oh, I dunno. I’m sort of… baggage-y.”
Spike shrugs. “Doubt the right fella would be put off. Mean, everyone’s got a history, don’t they?”
Buffy snorts a laugh, because, well… yeah. She slides down from her perch on the sofa arm to sit on top of him, looping her arms around his neck.
“Guess so. It’s just—my job’s super demanding. And I have all these kids that just keep, like, popping out of nowhere.”
Spike hums knowingly. “Immaculate conception, was it?”
“Uh huh,” she says. “People don’t even believe me. They’re all like, nobody gets chosen twice. Get over yourself.”
“Does seem unlikely.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“‘Course I do,” he says. He sighs and tightens his arms round her waist. “Look, I’m sure the universe’s lottery system just got stuck or something. Keeps spitting out your number.”
Buffy slumps against his head. “Ugh. I don’t wanna win the stupid chosen-one lottery anymore.”
“But you’re so good at it, love,” Spike murmurs into her hair, and it’s all nice and vibrate-y against her ear. “Probably why they wanted you back.”
Buffy blows her lips in annoyance.
“You want me to give him a talking to?” Spike offers. “The big man?”
Buffy grimaces apologetically. “Not sure you’ve got much sway with him,” she says. “But… thanks anyway.”
Spike brushes some hair behind her ears, eyes flicking around her face, expression shifting into something more earnest.
“Were you serious?” he asks quietly. “‘Bout… staying over.”
Buffy draws back so she can see him properly, and it’s hard not to laugh. He looks almost shy. Moments like these, you’d nearly forget this guy literally gets off on killing stuff.
“Well, someone’s gotta take the graveyard shift,” she says. “You know he wakes up every two hours, right?”
Spike’s eyes go all glittery, and she’s pretty sure nobody in the history of ever has looked so excited about late-night bottle feedings. Maybe he thinks she’s joking and it’s a metaphor or something, but honestly, who even knows. The guy’s twisted.
She reaches out to tidy a few locks of mussed hair over his ear. There’s a sweet muzzy haze over his face and everything else, pockets of warmth blooming in her chest like baby fireworks. Probably from the cocktails.
She looks over at the coffee table and spots a cardboard cup with a fork sticking out of it. “Ooh,” she says excitedly, lurching for it. “Ramen.” She wrinkles her nose when she looks down and sees it’s all dark and red with little clots in it. “Ew. Blood ramen.”
“Oi. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Buffy sets it back down with disgust. “Gross. You’re gross.”
“Oh, I’m gross, am I?”
“Yes. Super gross.”
Spike curls his tongue and licks the rim of his teeth, like gross means hot in vampire language or something.
“I’m literally insulting you,” Buffy tells him.
She nestles into his side with her back curled up against the sofa, sort of squashed but in a cosy way, while Spike flicks through channels and fusses over her. She knows she won’t be able to sleep properly yet, because Dawn’s still out and the baby usually wakes up aroundabout now, but she lets herself close her eyes, not really paying attention to what’s on TV. Spike makes snarky comments about what’s happening on it sometimes, but it’s mostly to himself, and the low rumble of his voice through his chest feels nice against her cheek.
An undisclosed amount of time later, Dawn gets home. As always, Buffy feels a frizzle of relief when she sees her walk through the door unscathed.
“You’re home late,” Buffy joke-accuses. “And by that I mean, later than me. Which is sort of embarrassing.”
Dawn shucks off her jacket. “It’s not that late. And anyway, it’s Saturday night.”
Buffy sighs. “Yeah. Guess we’re kind of sad.”
“I’m not sad,” says Spike.
“You’re watching a wildlife documentary,” Dawn points out.
“And insulting the jellyfish,” Buffy says.
“Was not,” Spike argues. “Was Attenborough I was havin’ a go at.”
Thing is, Dawn’s a total poser, because when she squints at the TV, her eyes light up and she says, “Ooh. I’ve seen this one!” Then she starts nerding out about jellyfish, saying how they’re super freaky and cool because they’re some of the oldest creatures ever, and they don’t have hearts and can even reprogram themselves to live forever instead of dying, so they’re sort of immortal, in a way.
“Huh. Sounds like you,” Buffy tells Spike.
“Yeah,” Dawn agrees. “They don’t have brains, either.”
Spike ignores them because he’s gone still and is listening carefully, perking his ears up like a dog.
“You hear that?” he whispers, like their lives are in mortal peril.
Everyone else goes quiet.
In the distance, there’s a muffled whine.
“Uh-oh,” Buffy says. “There he goes.” She frowns thoughtfully. “On the bright side, boy. You really save money on baby monitors when you’ve got a vampire in the house.”
Spike pushes to his feet and says, “I’ll get him.”
“Spike, look,” Dawn says, flashing a handful of CDs as Spike passes her on the way upstairs. “Borrowed these from Janice. I’m going to the basement to check ‘em out.” She glances Buffy’s way guiltily and adds, “Super quietly, obviously.”
“Uh, isn’t it Saturday night?” Buffy asks.
Dawn blinks at her.
Buffy shrugs. “I mean… he’s already awake.”
Dawn grins.
Spike goes to get the baby while Buffy follows Dawn down to the basement. She hardly ever comes down here, and when she does, she doesn’t pay much attention. There are stacks of CDs scattered everywhere and the odd schoolbook, plus a few empty plates still harbouring crumbs.
Buffy chews her lip, watching as Dawn eagerly flips open a CD case and twirls the disc around her finger.
“I’m sorry, Dawnie,” Buffy says quietly. “Sorry that you can’t… play music as loud as you want.”
Dawn scoffs without turning around. “Jeez. It’s no big deal.” She clicks a button on the CD player, and the little green screen flashes to life.
Buffy steps closer, taking her by the shoulders and turning her around. “You know nothing’s changed, don’t you?” she says, meeting Dawn’s eyes. “You know nothing could ever make me love you less, right?”
“I know.”
“Promise?”
“Yes,” Dawn insists, rolling her eyes playfully. She bites her lower lip and looks conflicted for a moment, then puts her hands over Buffy’s on her own shoulders.
“But… I think Spike was right, too,” she says. “In some ways.”
“Dawn. No. He—”
“No, it’s—it’s okay. Really.” Dawn’s eyes drift to the side wistfully, and the corner of her mouth lifts. “Stuff does change, and it’s not… bad. It’s good.” She lowers her voice. “It’s just… different, you know? Because I never knew what it was like before. Not really. To… love someone so much. Like, so much it almost hurts and you just know—you’d do anything for them.”
Buffy’s chest aches. She studies Dawn’s face, and she has to look up a little, because yeah, her baby sister is taller than her. She has been for a while.
She pulls Dawn into a hug, tears stinging her eyes.
She wants to say sorry. Sorry for… dooming her to this. Because Dawn’s still so young and god, Buffy knows how it goes. You’re never free again.
But she doesn’t say that. She doesn’t want Dawn to think she’s not worth it. Because she is. She’s worth all of it.
Instead, Buffy says, “Then I don’t have to tell you that it never goes away.” She squeezes Dawn harder and repeats, “Never.”
Dawn pulls back. She smiles briefly and kisses Buffy on the cheek.
Then she hurries back to finish setting up the CD player. Because also: she’s sixteen, it’s Saturday night, and she wants to listen to her cool new music instead of having weepy DMCs with her big sister.
The music starts up, and when the beat kicks in, it’s all new age-y, like a computer.
“Ooh. Groovy,” Buffy comments, which earns her a deeply judgemental look.
“Groovy? Oh my god,” Dawn complains. “You’re not actually a grandma yet, you know.”
Buffy shrugs. “What can I say? The stress of single motherhood and several apocalypses has aged me.”
Dawn smirks. “I’m sure Spike’ll help you relax.”
Buffy gags. “Oh my god. I know you think you’ve moved up on the food chain, but comments like that? Never okay.”
“Prude.”
“Hey. Be nice to your grandmother.”
The door whooshes open, and Spike comes swinging down the rickety stairs with the baby in his arms. He’s all flushed and drowsy from sleep, feathery blonde hair tousled, but seems unfazed by the music.
“What’s going on down here?” Spike asks. “Chomper’s first disco?”
Dawn interjects teasingly, “He’s got a name, ya know!”
“And mine,” Buffy calls back over the music. “I didn’t know other people were allowed down here.”
Dawn snorts, wheeling around. “What?”
Buffy shrugs, slightly embarrassed. “Seemed sort of like, ya know. An exclusive club.”
Dawn rolls her eyes. “Like we’d wanna be anywhere without you.”
They both flock over to say hi to the baby, who breaks into a big gummy smile when Dawn tickles under his chin. He scrunches his neck coyly.
“They said you were gonna sleep through the night by now, little man,” Buffy chides, playfully pinching under his arm.
“Just being considerate, I reckon,” Spike says. “Adapting to our schedule.”
“Guess so.”
“Ooh! This is the best one!” Dawn declares excitedly as the song changes. She skips away, dancing with gusto to the beat. Which, again, sounds a lot like a robot. A fun robot.
Buffy stays stroking her hand slowly over the baby’s head. When Dawn makes a funny face at him from across the room, he giggles.
“Someone’s happy tonight,” Spike observes.
“Yeah, well. He’s a sadist,” Buffy says. “Likes keeping people awake.”
Dawn’s song picks up.
One more time.
“Got your smile, you know,” Spike says.
Buffy looks up hopefully. “Really? You think?”
So far, she’s never been able to see anything of herself in him. Nobody ever said anything about it. She’s tried, more than once, to find a resemblance, in the shape of his eyes or mouth or forehead. But she just couldn’t see it.
“Spitting image,” Spike says. He grins wide as he watches her. “Yeah. Just like that.”
Buffy keeps smiling, feeling strangely warm in her chest. She kisses the baby’s temple.
One more time, we’re gonna celebrate.
It freaks her out, how fast he’s growing. But the first time he laughed, she and Dawn spent the whole night trying to make him do it again until he passed out, probably from overstimulation.
He laughs all the time now.
Oh yeah, all right. Don’t stop the dancing.
Buffy watches as he arches forward and flails his hands against Spike’s chin. Spike snaps his jaw and makes a loud chomping sound.
“Ayyyyaw,” says the baby. He hits Spike in the mouth, then rebounds back, straightening up a little with Spike’s help.
When Buffy looks over, Spike’s gazing at him, and again, there’s something she can’t name or understand in his eyes. Written all over his face, really.
He shakes his head slowly, still staring.
“Every day, he’s just…” he says, but then trails off.
Buffy touches his cheek. Spike’s.
Music’s got me feeling so free. We’re gonna celebrate.
She’s been meaning to suggest they take the baby out, one of these nights. Maybe walk through town. They could get dinner, or stop at the Espresso Pump. She’s been nervous to take him out after dark, but… he’s getting older, and she thinks he’s ready. She’s ready. And Spike would love it. He never said anything, but she knows he would. Getting to push the stroller down the street, and hold him in front of everyone. Old people always smile at him and stuff, and Spike’s gonna love that, all the attention.
She’ll suggest it tomorrow. For now—
Celebrate and dance so free.
One more time.
Buffy meets Spike’s eyes, then tugs him by the elbow and steps backwards. “C’mon. Let’s dance.”
And they do.