Courtney... He smiled wryly to himself. I haven't had that much fun at mini-golf since the end-of-the-tournament soccer party.
Chapter Eleven
April 23, 2003
Dear Diary,
Mr. Oz is really cool. He's the neatest teacher. Plus, he likes "The Wizard of Oz". He was telling us something about the movie that had to do with a guy named Pink, but it was kind of confusing. Anyway, Mr. Oz knows a lot of cool new songs, and he plays the guitar really well. He's really nice to talk with, and you know what? He paints his fingernails, like a girl. But he doesn't act like a girl. He said it was a musician thing. I think it's funny. I've never met a boy who liked nail polish before.
Mr. Giles is going to watch me this afternoon. It's been a while since he came over here, instead of me playing at his house, or over at Chase's house. But something important is happening at Dad's garage, so he can't come get me from school. Oh well. I like Mr. Giles. Maybe he'll let me make peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches again. Those were good.
Love,
Megan
**********
November 1995
Buffy smiled genially, while inside, she was anything but calm and collected. She wanted to be a part of Spike's life, part of all of his life, but still, she was getting chills.
Another pleasant nod as they passed yet another security guard.
Spike was uncharacteristically well behaved. His posture was excellent, his clothing was neater than usual, and he had taken out his piercings. In his arms, he carried a notebook, a pen tucked behind his ear.
She still didn't understand exactly what they were doing, charming their way into an in-depth tour of the governor's mansion. But they'd done the same thing over at the State House, played like a pair of kids writing a big paper about the governor, and gotten permission to go wherever the hell they wanted. Well, within reason. They hadn't actually seen the governor, but Spike didn't seem to be disturbed by that. In fact, he seemed rather relieved.
Buffy had a feeling that they were casing the joint, but she still didn't get why. After all, everyone stole from the State House - there wasn't anything there but souvenir pens and uncomfortable furniture. The mansion, on the other hand, was rather lushly appointed. But still, there were nicer places right down the street.
The intern who had been told to escort them gave her an inquring look, and Buffy belatedly realized that she'd been addressed. "I'm sorry," she smiled sheepishly, "I was just a little... distracted." On cue, she blushed.
The intern, a twenty-something young man with glasses and acne, merely grinned. "It's okay. The first time I was here, I couldn't stop staring out the windows. The gardens are unbelievable," he gushed.
"Right."
Trying not to touch anything, Spike looked around the large living room area. He couldn't help but notice the little glances Buffy kept shooting him, but still, he didn't want to address them. He didn't know what to tell her. On the one hand, lying to your girlfriend was usually a bad plan. On the other hand, if he told her the whole truth, she could wind up very dead. On the other other hand - the kind you had if you were some kind of circus freak - even if she said she understood, the actual death of the governor could quite possibly upset her to the point of betraying him. And jail was not a good thing.
He sighed quietly, wishing that for once, he could lead a quiet, normal life. One that featured picket fences and Buffy as his little housewife. Spike smiled at the image. Right. Little wife, my ass. More like, queen of the roost. Catching her eye, he winked at her.
Buffy smiled back, hesitantly. He was acting so odd lately, but then, maybe it was just her perception. Or the situation. Or the thousand gallons of hormones that rush through your system at any given moment. A small grimace. She still didn't know what to do. Don't want to tell him... don't want to tell anyone. Maybe this thing will go away on its own.
Pretending to examine a bookshelf more closely, Buffy nibbled her lower lip. Maybe, she brightened Maybe I can help it along...
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike rubbed Buffy's back, and she sighed in her sleep, snuggling closer. For this moment, he could relax, and all of the week's stress could disappear. He was content just to watch her dream, watch her breathe. His hand skimmed down her side, making her cradle her stomach protectively in her sleep.
Three days since the last scouting of the governor's mansion, three days of avoiding the subject of what the hell they were doing. Curious, inquisitive Buffy had been strangely silent on the topic, seemingly content to let him take the lead. He didn't know whether or not he should be grateful or concerned by her seeming preoccupation.
His gaze softened as it skimmed over the shine of her hair, the curve of her cheek. Memorizing every nuance. I know she's having a hard time of this, what with being away from her family for the first time. I know her mum's not a bad sort, even if the lady's head is a bit mixed when it comes to her man. Wish I could do more for her. Wish I had the dosh to get her away from here. Hell, I wish I could bring her to the apartments with me. Spike shook his head, trying to clear away the beginnings of stress. Right now was happy time. The time where he didn't have to think, didn't have to plan and scheme and worry. Right now, he could just enjoy the feeling of warm Buffy in his arms.
Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over her shoulder. His eyes closed briefly, and he inhaled. No matter what was going on, she always smelled the same. Buffy-scent, mingled with the soft smell of Ivory soap. Sometimes there was a hint of some kind of fruity lotion, but he liked it best when she was just herself.
Still pressing his cheek to her shoulder, he let his eyes slide open. By chance, and the angle of his neck, he noticed something for the first time. Puzzled, he reached down to Buffy's wrist, turning her arm out.
Unbelieving, he looked at the skin of her arm. Skin that, for the past two days had been covered by long sleeves, regardless of the warmth. Skin that was only now revealed, he suspected, because he was supposed to have gone home tonight instead of deciding to crash at Faith's at the last moment.
Skin that bore track marks, obvious, and fresh.
The sound of giggling accompanied by the squeak of hinges broke his reverie. It also signalled Faith's return from wherever she'd run off to. Setting his jaw, Spike slipped out of the bed, pulled on his jeans, and stepped into the main room.
Against the doorframe, Faith was busily necking with a tall, dirty-blonde guy while unbuttoning his shirt. The guy's hands wandered all over her in a kind of frenzy.
"Faith." Spike's voice was the kind of frigid that blew straight out of Siberia on the longest night of the year.
The brunette didn't even pause, but the guy pulled back. "I thought," he gasped, "you said you didn't have a boyfriend."
"Nah, Spike's cool. S'my roommate's guy. Now c'mon, get naked!" she demanded in husky tones.
"No, I'm not cool. Faith, we have to talk. Now." Spike's demeanor did not warm by a single degree. Arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.
"Ignore him," Faith muttered, pulling her new toy firmly against her.
In response, Spike took three strides across the room. Jerking the guy away from the brunette, he punched him in the stomach. Then, he slammed his knee in the taller man's face and kicked him out the door. "She'll call you."
Jerking Faith inside, he slammed the door and re-folded his arms.
"Geez, what is your problem? God!" Faith moved towards the door, but Spike blocked her.
"You're right. I have a problem." His teeth gritted audibly. "We both have a problem."
"Well, I don't know what crawled up your ass and died, but I was perfectly fine until you beat the shit out of my ride!" Faith jabbed her finger into Spike's shoulder, then gestured towards the door.
He shrugged. "So call him later."
Faith laughed. "Don't have his number. Hell, don't know his name."
Spike rolled his eyes. "Then no harm, no foul. Look," he grabbed her, "this is beside the soddin' point. You are going to tell me exactly what the hell you think you are doing with Buffy."
"What? Man, 's not that she isn't the looker, but I don't mess with the female types. Not unless there's a cock in the middle, you know what I mean?" She smirked, giving him a look.
Spike growled deep in his throat. He was hanging on to his temper by a thread, and her attitude was not boding for a peaceful resolution. Angel'll be pissed if I kill her, a tiny voice in the back of his head whispered. All right, I'll only hurt her. A lot, his instincts countered.
In a sudden, violent movement, he grabbed Faith by the arms and slammed her into a wall. "That's not what I'm bloody well talking about, and you know it, bitch!"
"Hey!" Faith protested. "I have no fucking clue what the hell your problem is! Just knock it off, already, and tell me what I did to piss you off!" If Spike hadn't been one of her oldest friends, she would've beaten his ass by now. But she'd never seen him act like this, and it had her kind of worried. "Spike?"
Something about her reaction penetrated through the red haze shrouding the blonde's mind. Coming back to himself, he released his friend. But still, his expression was not what one would call peaceful. "Why?" he snarled at her. "Why'd you do it?"
"Why did I do what?" Faith shot back, getting exasperated. It was one thing to get bitched out, it was quite another when she had no clue what the whole thing was about.
"Is that what you two've been doing when I'm not around? That why she's been so fucking weird these past few days? Introducing her to a whole new fucking brilliant world?"
"I swear, I'm not a lesbian?" Faith still had no idea what he was talking about.
"Not lesbianism," Spike ground out. "Junk."
The brunette's eyes widened. "What? Buffy's been doing heroin?"
"You trying to tell me you didn't know?" His eyes still held a dangerous glint, but he backed off a pace or two.
"I swear! I mean, I'm not here all that much anymore, and I know how you feel about the stuff..." the girl was genuinely bewildered.
Spike looked at her, long and hard. "But where else would she get it?"
Faith blinked twice. "Wait," she said slowly. "I've been missing my last few grams and a couple of syringes. I thought you'd found 'em and thrown 'em away. Like I said, I know how you feel about it. You telling me that wasn't you?"
All of a sudden, Spike sat down heavily. "Buffy," he whispered. Rough hands scrubbed over his face. "But why?"
************************
April 20, 2003
Cheeks smeared with sticky remnants of a supremely unhealthy snack, Megan dug through yet another box in the cramped attic on Revello Drive. She didn't have very many dress-up clothes, but the boredom that had brought her upstairs was paying off. The former renters had left a ton of clothing behind. Some of it was ugly, some of it was pretty, and all of it was fun to play with. It was a testament to Giles' neatnik ways that all of the boxes were labeled with a last name. Maybe the landlord had tried to send back the belongings. In whatever case, Megan was having a ball.
She giggled as she put yet another big, floppy hat on her head. The stuff in this box looked like the photos on Giles' albums. There were long, brown skirts and big, green blouses all sewn with beads. Megan spun around in front of a dusty mirror and laughed. It was like she was someone completely different - a secret person.
Somehow, the fact that no one knew she was upstairs only made it better. She wasn't just playing dress-up, she was playing potentially forbidden dress-up. Megan giggled again, tossing the hat back in the box, and digging for a string of plastic pearls. She could see the end sticking out, but it was caught on something.
Tugging firmly, she frowned. It refused to come loose. She pulled again, then rummaged through the box to find what was keeping her from her prize. Knit tops and tie-dyed scarves flew through the air as she hunted for the elusive necklace. Finally, she found the problem - it was a pair of big, clunky roller skates. The pearls were wrapped around one the wheels. Blue eyes lighting up, she hunkered down to try to detangle the knot.
Patiently, she worked the mass, trying to get it to come undone. It took a while, but eventually, she triumphed over the mess.
"Ha!" she cried, holding the battered jewelry aloft. "Take that!" she delivered a swift kick to the box that had tried to keep her from her rightful spoils.
"Ow!" Meg had forgotted that the clunky, old skates were heavy. Hopping on one foot, she fell backwards, trying not to hurt herself any further. Losing her balance, the little blonde tumbled onto a pile of clothing, knocking over a stack of boxes as she went. "Oof!"
"Oh, man! Dad's going to be mad..." Struggling to get up, Meg propped herself up on her elbows. Then, she frowned. In front of her, revealed by her accidental rearrangement of the attic's contents, was a footlocker. Across the top, in big, bold letters, it read "DEVELIN". The girl cocked her head to the side, unconsciously imitating her father's familiar action.
"Why does Dad have a box hiding up here?" she wondered aloud, and then her eyes lit up. "Maybe it's treasure, because he's really a prince from a far-off kingdom, who is only pretending to be a normal guy so that I can have a chance to grow up like a regular person!" She nibbled her lower lip. "Does this mean I can have a pony?"
Scrambling out of the pile, she dropped the pearls to the floor. Megan the Treasure Hunter was off to find much more valuable booty. Stubborn, rusted latches tried to foil her, but the determined child would not be defeated so easily. Hinges squeaked as she lifted the heavy lid. A small gasp escaped her as she looked inside.
Smooth, black material covered whatever the box's contents were. Almost reverently, Megan stroked her hand across it. Leather. Black leather. She always liked the way that leather felt, the way it was slippery and cold and warm, all at the same time. Growing bolder, she pulled on it, trying to see what it was.
It took a little bit of effort, but she managed to get it out of the box and lay it out on the floor. It was a long coat. There were lots of pockets on it, and it was really, really long. It was longer than Megan was tall. She stared down in awe at the coat. It was so incredibly cool.
Bursting into motion, she began to look through the pockets. Once, in a jacket pocket, she had found a dollar bill and three pennies. Maybe there would be something fun in this coat. In the first one, she discovered a wad of napkins. In the next, a really neat silver box. When Megan tried to open it, she realized it was a lighter, like the one Robbie's dad used to light his cigarettes.
Now that she thought of it, the coat kind of smelled like cigarette smoke. But it also smelled like leather, and a little bit like... Dad. Wondering what it meant, Meg continued her hunt. The outside pockets didn't have much else - a book of matches, a scribbled phone number. The only weird thing was a roll of quarters inside of a sock.
Making a little sound at the oddity, she turned to the inner pockets. In one, she unearthed a crumpled pack of cigarettes and yet another book of matches. When she, out of curiosity, flipped open the book, something fluttered to the ground. Squatting down to inspect it closer, Meg picked up the dried four-leaf clover. Grinning in surprise, she tucked it back into the matchbook and slipped it in her pocket.
"Now I can be lucky, too!"
There was only one pocket left, and Meg was eager to see what secrets it held. Slipping her hand inside, she felt an edge that felt like paper. Gently removing it, she paused. It was a worn picture, one of an older girl. She was beautiful, with long, flowing dark blonde hair. She wasn't really smiling, but her eyes were full of life. Megan's forehead scrunched up, as she tried to think who this girl could be. She didn't recognize her, but obviously, she used to be important to her dad. Flipping the photo over, she saw one word inscribed across the back.
"Buffy."
The name sounded somehow familiar. Shrugging, Meg stuck the picture back in the pocket, and gathered the coat up in her arms.
Maybe Dad will tell me.
Chapter Twelve
Late November
The platinum-haired sixteen-year-old was barely paying attention to Angel's extended tirade. Time was swiftly running against the gang, and against Connor. The next night would be two weeks to the day from when Lilah Morgan had delivered her ultimatum. Of course, the dark, brooding patriarch was tearing his elaborately-gelled hair out by the roots.
Funny. I never noticed gray hair before... Hell, the poof is only, what? Thirty? Huh. Still, almost twice my age. Spike slouched further against the couch cushions, staring at the man who had been like a father to him for the past decade.
"Tomorrow morning, Wilson is holding a press conference at the mansion. It's my last chance," Angel muttered tersely. "I can get in, but how to get back out is the question... Still having problems with how to kill the bastard, and not get caught." His entire body was trembling with frustration.
"Peaches-"
A deadly glare cut off Spike's words. He changed his approach. "Angel."
"What?" The older man snapped impatiently.
"I'll take care of it," the teen replied evenly.
"You know a way out?" he seized on the offering with something akin to desperation.
"Well, yeah, for me." Spike waited for the meaning of his words to sink in.
"No," Angel responded flatly. "Out of the question."
"Look, Angel, I can do this. I can make it neat and quiet and disappear without anyone knowing what happened."
"Dru would-"
"Sod her, mate. If it was any of the others who had a plan, an in, and an out, you'd go for it." Spike shook his head. "Years now, you've told me that I'm no different from any other bloke under your command. You telling me that was a lie?"
Angel gritted his teeth, torn. On the one hand, his entire organization was based on fair play - at least, on the inside. Spike had earned his way up through the ranks, no advantages over any other street kid. But this would be his first kill. Damn Faith.
The brunette had once been the best assassin in the city, until the partying and the drug use had started to take its toll. Now, he didn't trust her with the job.
"Tell Gunn. He'll go," Angel stated. When it came down to it, he'd rather have a man at his back that would die for him. Better yet, a man that had killed for him already.
Spike shook his head. "I did the grunt work on this, and you know it." And it's my own bloody mess... I got Connor into this; I'll soddin' well get him out.
Another silence stretched between the two men.
Finally, reluctantly, Angel relented. "You sure you can do this?"
In place of his usual cocky bullshit, Spike just nodded. "Yeah."
"Tomorrow."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Buffy was watching him. Watching him slowly, meticulously examining the barrel, scope, and mechanisms of a high-performance rifle. Confidently, he cleaned and oiled the gun, ignoring her entirely. While she had known, intellectually, that he was planning to kill someone with it, when he brought it to the apartment a few days ago, it was quite another matter to see the way he was acting. Plotting - to end a man's life.
Buffy was watching him. Spike could feel her eyes on him as he snapped the last modification onto the army surplus weapon. He wondered what she was thinking, was feeling. After all, if it hadn't been for her, he wouldn't be able to do this. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. But at the same time, he knew that this had to be done. She had to realize the truth of his life: that if it wasn't Governor Wilson, it would be some punk dealer who was too far into debt. Eventually, he would have blood on his hands. Whether or not she still loved him in the morning remained to be seen.
He grimaced, and Buffy wondered what was going through his mind. Did he regret what he was going to do? Did he know, or did he care, that the governor had a son who was just about their age, and a daughter who had just gotten married? Does he care that he's about to make them orphans? She wished that she could get high. For once, it wasn't about trying to damage her body; it was about trying to escape her thoughts. She hadn't expected the relief, the release, that first time she had shot up. Buffy didn't hunger for the drug - three times does not an addict make. But she wanted, a little bit wistfully, to be able to forget. Spike used to do that for her, make her forget everything. But in this case, he was part of the problem.
She was drawing away from him. Spike knew it. When he touched her, she didn't respond. When he kissed her, the fire was missing. When he tried to make love to her, she pulled away. Maybe he shouldn't have been quite so angry with her over the heroin. God knows, it's not like I haven't got my share of vices. Since he was thinking of it, Spike paused to light a cigarette. Maybe I should have tried harder to spend time with her. But my whole world is in bloody chaos. She's got to understand that...
He was different. Somehow, he was a little bit colder than before. And it frightened her that she didn't care. Spike was still the same man she'd fallen in love with. And that was why it was killing her to stay out of reach. She didn't want to distract him. And carelessly letting him find out she was pregnant would be distracting. When he'd found out about the drugs, he'd completely wigged. On the outside, she fed him some lie about stress, and wanting to escape. When he bought it, she didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. Relieved, because her secret was still safe. Angry, because he didn't try harder, look further, and find out what was really bothering her.
There was something wrong with Buffy. Spike knew that, too. He hadn't really been satisfied with her excuses for using, but he'd let it slide. Now, she was apparently experimenting with bulimia - either that or she was sick and didn't want to tell him. God knew that she couldn't eat three bites without upchucking. If she's going bulimic, well, it's pretty soddin' ineffective. Don't think she's lost an ounce. Not that she looks fat, or anything, he hastily told himself. Really. She's still... beautiful.
For just an instant their eyes met, and a crackle of electricity seemed to flow through the air. Then Buffy's stomach began to churn, and she looked away. God, I wish I knew what to do...
See, mate? He told himself harshly. She's angry. Can't even look at you. Had she really realized before, what his organization did? Did she still see the smart-assed jerk who teased her over her clothing? Or did she see a soulless killer, a monster, a thing. A murderer with weapon in hand. Setting his jaw, Spike steeled himself. Checking to make sure the rifle was unloaded, he rose and carried it over to the dresser, laying it on top. A box of rounds was placed next to it. If that's what she sees when she looks at me... Well, she has to know. Has to learn. Because this is what I do, this is who I am. I can't, I won't change. Not for anyone. Not even for her.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The glowing red letters on the digital clock read "4:10 AM" when the door to the apartment burst open. Spike, dozing on the couch, jolted awake, his hand going for his handgun.
"Get your stuff, get your girl. Now," the shadowy figure ordered.
The sudden adrenaline coursing through Spike's body cleared the cobwebs from his sleep-fogged mind. "Angel?" he murmured.
Searching the pockets of his black coat, the older man paced into the living room. "C'mon, Spike. Go wake her up."
Baffled, the teen went into the bedroom to shake his girlfriend awake. "Buffy," he whispered. "Wake up."
"Hm?" she groaned, and peeled open one eye. "What?"
"Get up. Get dressed." Turning, he went back to see what was going on. As he moved through the doorway, something came flying at him. Reflexively, he caught the missile, and it jingled. Keys.
"I don't have much cash on me, and for that I'm sorry. Maybe you can shake down Willie - no, that would be a bad move." Angel started muttering to himself.
"Peaches, what the bloody hell is going on?" Tucking the keys in his duster pocket, Spike stood, confused.
"Faith was arrested half an hour ago. She used her phone call to tell me to get you the hell out of Dodge."
"What?" Spike gaped.
Angel's jaw clenched. "Apparently," he bit out, "she was caught leaving the vicinity of Wilson's."
"So, trespassing?" The teen was still confused.
"Would've been, except that not five minutes before, Mrs. Gayle Wilson rolled over and found her husband with his throat cut out."
"Dammit, I had it handled!" Spike exploded. "She knew that! Why did she do it?"
Angel glared. "I don't know. It's not something you really confide while you're on a police line. All she said what that you shouldn't've beaten the shit out of her fucktoy, because he remembers you."
"What?" His brain scrambled to recall the reference. And then he remembered. "Shit."
"Take the Desoto, I got new plates on it. Stay low-key, pay cash everywhere, and for God's sake, don't get pulled over. Get the fuck out of town and don't call for at least a month. I'll fill you in then." Angel handed over a fistful of bills. "It's not much, but it's short notice. You'll have to make do."
Spike nodded once, folding the money and slipping it into an inner pocket. "Could you-?" He glanced meaningfully over at the rifle.
Angel nodded back, then looked at the clock. It was almost four-thirty. "Get a move on, child."
A quick grin was flashed, then Spike ducked back into the bedroom to throw some clothing into a bag. He grabbed some of Buffy's things as well, stuffing them down. Glancing over to the bed, he saw that she'd fallen back asleep. With a snort, he slung the bag over his shoulder. A quick trip to the bathroom got him Faith's emergency cash, and he was ready to go. Yanking back the blankets, he scooped Buffy up in his arms.
"Don't know if you'd planned on a road trip, love, but we're leaving." Spike breezed out the front door, made it down the stairs, and found Angel's car. Tucking his girlfriend into the back seat, he then started the engine and headed towards the freeway.
A sign flashed past. Sacramento, 618 miles
**********
April 20, 2003
Walking in the door from work, William had to grab the counter to keep from falling over. "Megan, where did you get that?" He stared at his daughter, draped in black leather that trailed out behind her, the sleeves nearly dragging on the ground. He knew perfectly well where she had gotten it, knew the old trunk in the back of the attic, his own private altar to the past.
"It was up with all these neat dress-up clothes," she answered blithely, shaking her arm to get her hand out of a sleeve.
Will groaned quietly. Dress-up. He should've thought of that, should have hidden his things better. He could only hope that she hadn't found-
"Daddy, who's this lady? She's pretty."
Damn.
He was stuck. He was torn. He had no idea what to tell her. A little voice popped up inside of his head. Why don't you tell her the truth? She deserves to know... Will frowned. Why did the voice sound like Courtney?
"Daddy?"
"Nibblet, why don't you go sit down on the couch, and I'll be there in a second. I want to get a snack, and then I'll tell you all about her," he managed, a calm expression on his face.
"Okay!" Meg chirped, and then ran off to the den.
Will turned, rummaging through the cabinets. He sighed in relief when he came up with a small bottle of whisky. Not much, but it'll do.
Having slammed back a shot to steady his nerves, he made his way into the den. His stomach was in knots. He still wasn't sure what - and how much - to tell his daughter.
"So who is she?" Meg asked, running her finger down the photograph.
"She's your mum." He almost cursed as the words just slipped out of his mouth.
Blue eyes widened. "She is?" A loud squeal ripped through the room, followed by a flurry of questions. "What's her name? What's she like? Where is she?"
Will swallowed hard. "Well, pet. Her name's Buffy Anne Summers. Don't really know where she is." How do I explain to her what happened, when it doesn't even make sense to me?
Megan pulled the duster closer around her. "Buffy Anne. That's pretty. But wait, why isn't she Buffy Anne Develin, like us?"
His hands twitched. "She and I weren't married, love."
The little blonde looked vaguely confused. "But I thought you said that you had to be married to have babies."
Caught. Frozen like a deer in the headlights.
"Uh, do you remember when I explained all of that to you, Nibblet?" Will began, his ears starting to pink.
"Do you mean the thing about the eggs and the tadpoles and stuff?" Megan cocked her head to the side.
"Uh, right. Well, you don't have to be husband and wife to do that stuff, but it's better when they are." Hypocrite!
"Wow." Megan blinked. "You must've really wanted a baby if you did THAT when you weren't married." She smiled, delighted. "I can't wait to show everyone at school!"
Will smiled back, his heart breaking inside. "Yeah."
Chapter Thirteen
April 24, 2003
Dear Diary,
I have a mom! Well, I knew that already, but now I know what she looks like! She's the prettiest mom ever. Her name's Buffy, and she's just as old as Daddy. I still don't know very much about her, but Daddy told me that she used to sleep in the big black coat. It used to be his coat, back when he was a teenager, he said. But now it's mine, because I won't let him have it back. I like it. I asked if I could wear it to school, but he said I might trip and fall. So I can't wear it to school, but I can wear it all the rest of the time. It's like I'm almost close to her. Like a big, Mommy-hug.
I hope I find her some day. I want to show her how big I've gotten, and all the things I can do. She hasn't seen me since I was a baby. Babies are cute, but they can't do very much. I can do a lot of stuff. But do you know what I want to do? I want to blow out my birthday candles with her sitting next to me.
Love,
Megan
**********
Late January, 1996
Buffy felt like she would never be clean again. Her skin positively itched, her hair felt like something was crawling in it, and she'd been wearing the same clothing for two days. At least her mouth felt okay - one thing they always managed was to find a place to brush their teeth.
Because of this, the idea of a hot shower was positively ecstasy.
She started to bounce on her toes as she watched Spike hand over the money to the clerk. This might be one of the cheapest, run-down motels in Sacramento, but it would have a bed, clean sheets, and hot running water. Buffy couldn't wait.
Spike smiled to himself as he accepted the dull silver key from the mousy gentleman behind the desk. He'd lucked out big-time, stealing a wallet that had almost two hundred dollars in it. For the first time in weeks, he and Buffy would be sleeping with a roof over their heads, enjoying a hot shower and a good meal. He shot a glance over her, grinning to see her bounce like a little child on Christmas morning. At that thought, he sobered. She deserves so much better than this... Bloody hell, it's all I can do to get her a place to sleep, and it's in a rat-hole like this. My Buffy should be in a penthouse, eating bon-bons and ordering room service. His jaw tightened.
Buffy remained oblivious to his change in mood. Holding out her hand for the key, she twined her arm around his waist. "C'mon, c'mon! I can hear the shower calling my name..."
Summoning a smirk, he gave her a wink. "Thought I was the only one who got to call your name, pet." His tongue made a lascivious twirl.
Buffy mock-scowled at him. "Shower first. Ugh, I'm so filthy. And for that matter, so're you: dirty, filthy, gross." She started looking for room numbers.
The smirk faltered as she walked away, and Spike chewed his lower lip. She's figuring it out... I'm no good for her. 'm just a street-rat guttersnipe with no future. Pro'lly regretting she ever met me, much less ran away with me. Pretty soon she'll be asking me for bus fare, and getting herself back home...
By this time, Buffy had found the right room, had torn open the door, and was headed single-mindedly towards the tiny bathroom.
Spike watched her go, then went out to the Desoto to get their bags. They could wash their things in the tub, and it was going to be sunny for the next few days. He'd paid up for three nights, might as well take advantage.
She sighed deeply, happily, as she slid under the near-scalding water. Bliss... Finally out of her sweaty clothing. Finally rinsing scum and dirt off her body. Finally able to stop feeling self-conscious. As she unwrapped the tiny bar of complimentary soap, she let a hand glide over her belly. Four months along, and I'm still barely showing. Perhaps it was a side affect not eating very well, perhaps it was caused by her occasional attempts to abort the thing. Either way, it made hiding her condition from Spike a lot less stressful.
Ruthlessly, she scrubbed her skin, trying to rid herself of every taint, every drop of sweat, every trace of dirt, musk, and filth. If only everything else washed away so easily.
A cool draft of air startled her, and she turned to see Spike walk into the bathroom. Buffy felt her breath catch and her pulse accelerate. He was naked.
It had been so long for them... She found herself pulling the curtain open in invitation, before realizing something. When she was dressed, the roundness of her belly was practically invisible. But if they were naked, skin to skin... Buffy swallowed hard. There was no way he wouldn't figure it out. But to grab a towel and run would just arouse more suspicion.
Spike slipped silently into the cramped stall. A small, satisfied smile graced his lips. It was amazing how he could look so confident, and feel so weak at the same time. Helpless. Worthless. Useless. Like he was a weight that had dragged an angel from the heavens, and could do nothing to protect her now that she was damned to Earth.
Without a word, he reached for the soap, beginning to lather himself up. Maybe if he was clean on the outside, he wouldn't feel so dirty inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Buffy standing there. Her hands were clutched in front of her, her posture startled, cornered, afraid.
Spike felt like the biggest fool in the world. "I... 'm sorry pet, shouldn't've barged in. Just... couldn't wait, you know?" With a surprisingly steady hand, he flipped his wet, overgrown hair out of his eyes.
Suddenly, his arms were full of wet, soapy Buffy. She flung herself at him, kissing his face, his neck, his mouth with a reckless abandon he hadn't seen in her for ages. His skin tingled with her proximity, and he responded with equal passion, equal fervor.
Equal desperation.
Oh, god, how can he want me when I'm fat and pregnant?
How can she stand to touch me when I've brought her down so low?
Fast and needy, they clutched one another, joining their bodies in a graceless frenzy. Nails scratched and tore at skin, teeth clawed, hands left bruises and welts. It was almost as if they believed that by the joining of their bodies, they could regain the mental and emotional closeness they had once shared. That a passionate coupling would bridge the distance that had been growing between them.
That everything would disappear, except for the touch and smell and taste of a lover.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike sprawled naked and exhausted across the twin bed. The rough fabric of the comforter was irritating his back, but he couldn't summon the energy to move. He was physically sated - drained, even. Yet he still felt uneasy. Buffy was hiding something. Trying to reassure himself, he ran a hand over her damp hair.
She sighed, nestling her head against his chest. The reassuring beat of his heart was lulling her to sleep, so she tugged the oversized t-shirt closer around her body. It was the cleanest thing she owned at the moment.
After all of that complaining about being dirty, why did she put on that shirt? It smells... Spike's nose twitched, and his tired mind reminded him again that she was acting more bizarre than usual.
Buffy licked her lips, wishing that she could stop hiding, stop pretending. But how would he react to it, to the fact that she would get round and pudgy, and spawn a slimy, bloody mess?
Finding a sudden burst of adrenaline, Spike rolled over, pinning Buffy to the bed. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Again?" she gasped, a little smile teasing her lips as she tried to forget all of her worries and lose herself in his flesh.
"No," he murmured. Spike shook his head, and reached for the hem of her shirt. Buffy grabbed his wrist.
"Don't," she pleaded.
Gaze hardening, he ignored her request. A swift pull dragged the garment up and over her head. Leaning down, he began to closely inspect her nude form as she wiggled and tried to cover herself.
"Please, Spike, don't..."
In exasperation, he let her go. "Why? Why are you lying to me? What are you hiding? Do you hate me so much that you can't even stand to feel me against you?"
Buffy stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "Spike, no... I can't hate you, I don't..." She started to curl up into a ball. "Just... don't look at me. Please."
"Why?" he snarled, seizing her by the shoulders and forcing her to face him. "Why can't I see you?"
At this point, she began to sob, incoherent phrases tumbling from her mouth. He frowned, his entire being aching for having caused her such distress. He caught a word, here and there.
"...fat..."
"...ugly..."
"...dirty..."
"...how could you..."
"...stop looking at me..."
He couldn't take it anymore. Brutally, his mouth fastened over hers, and he kissed her with a savage passion. And his own babbling began soon after.
"...beautiful..."
"...wonderful..."
"...love you..."
"...how could you think..."
Buffy was dazed at what she was hearing. She wanted to believe, so badly. But she knew - she KNEW - that once he found out, it would be a different story. Nevertheless, her treacherous mouth opened and began to spill her secrets.
"Spike, I'm pregnant... god, I don't want it, but I don't know what to do..."
"You... what?"
************
April 28, 2003
Buffy Summers stared into her shot glass as she sat on the tall bar stool and waited for her boyfriend, Riley Finn, to show up. He was running late, as usual, but it wasn't a big deal. He probably got held up on base, some kind of glitch in routine. It was kind of funny, breaks in routine were routine. Or at least, a regular occurrence.
She looked up at the bartender and signaled for a refill. She never used to be able to handle vodka shots. Guess aging is good for something.
A flat note reached her ears, causing Buffy to grimace. Why Riley loved this karaoke bar so much, she had no idea. But at least the owner was nice, even if he was always recommending the Sea Breeze, instead of her straight shots. The woman on the corner stage was massacring "My Heart Will Go On." What was it with Celine Dione and karaoke? Seemed like everyone and their brother had either a Titanic obsession, or a yen for singing "All By Myself." Luckily, this wannabe was almost done with her set.
"Near, far, wherever you are, you know that this little lady's got it going on! Let's give it up for Kimberly!" The karaoke host had taken the microphone, making Buffy sigh in relief. Her reprieve, however, was short lived. "Now, we have Kevin, or should I say, Tim McGraw!"
Buffy groaned out loud and thunked her head against the bar top. Country. I hate country. Why doesn't anyone rock out some Goo Goo Dolls, or Train? Or at least some Black Sabbath... I have got to get Riley to go to cooler hangouts. Ignoring the vocalist, who was actually on key, she raised her head high enough to knock back her shot.
"Another, Ms. Summers?" Ramone, the bartender, asked.
"Make it whiskey sour. Double." She rubbed her forehead, waiting on her drinks, and hoping Riley would get there soon. She was just so tired of all of this. Almost against her will, she found herself paying attention to the man onstage. His voice was pretty damn good, for once. But as soon as she started listening, the lyrics he sang caught her like a sucker punch, and knocked the breath from her body.
...I was out of a job and she was in school,
Life was fast and the world was cruel,
We were young and wild, we decided not to have a child
So we did what we did and we tried to forget
And we swore up and down,
There would be no regrets in the morning light,
But on the way home that night...
On the back of that red rag top
She said please don’t stop
Loving me.
A hand brushing her shoulder made Buffy spill her drink.
"Oh, sorry sweetie. Have you been waiting long?" Captain Riley Finn of the United States Army sat down at the seat next to her. He was still wearing his uniform. After dropping a peck on her cheek, he let his eyes flicker over at Ramone.
The bartender noticed his glance, and unobtrusively signaled how many shots she'd already had.
The number was disturbing to him. I wish she would just let me in... "Buffy?" Riley was startled to see tears welling up in her eyes as she looked at him.
"Can we go home, please? I don't feel so well... I... I just want to get out of here, okay?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.
His brow furrowed. "Sure, sweetie. Just let me get the tab." He pulled out his walled and left an appropriate amount of bills on the bar, then helped his girlfriend to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you home."
**********
Will was whistling to himself as he entered the garage. He nodded a hello to Xander, and walked over to the work roster to see what needed doing. As he went, the twang of a steel guitar registered in his conscious mind. "Xander?"
"Yeah, boss-man?" The darker man looked up from the engine pieces he was reassembling.
"Are we listening to country music? In my garage?" Will looked incredulous.
Xander looked sheepish. "Yeah... sometimes, I just get this crazy urge... you don't mind, do you?"
Will made a face. "I'll try to put up with it for a while. But then we're putting the Blitz back on." Receiving a nod of assent, he turned back towards the roster and flipped idly through the pages. Xander was turning up the volume.
We took one more trip around the sun,
But it was all make believe in the end,
No I can’t say where she is today,
I can’t remember who I was back then.
Well you do what you do and you pay for your sins,
And there’s no such thing as what might have been
That’s a waste of time, drive you outta’ your mind.
I was stopped at a red light just yesterday,
Beside a young girl in a cabriolet and her eyes were green,
And I was in an old scene
I was back in that red rag top
On the day she stopped
Loving me...
It was only when the page in front of him started to blur that Will realized his eyes were filling with tears. Dropping the sheaf of papers, he turned and hurried into his office and slammed the door. Shit. I am not crying over sodding Tim McGraw.
**Note: Red Rag Top isn't my property. And I'm so, so sorry for using country song lyrics in my fic. But... they play this song ALL THE TIME at my place of business, and it makes me think of Spike and Buffy. (Well, this incarnation of them, anyway.)
Chapter Fourteen
April 30, 2003
Dear Diary,
I'm so excited I can hardly sleep. Tomorrow, I get to go and have my pictures taken like a model in magazines. Well, maybe not that good, but it's still cooler than just regular picture taking. See, every spring Chase and Michael's mom likes to go get portraits done of them. That just means fancy pictures. And she asked me if I wanted to come to, and get some of me! She said it would be an early birthday present, since my birthday isn't for another six weeks. So we're getting up early in the morning and going to the big mall downtown. That's where the big studio is. And there'll be people to dress me up, and put makeup on and everything. I can't wait. I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight.
Love,
Megan
**********
April 1996
Spike swore softly, slamming down the receiver of the payphone. His short, terse conversation with Angel had done nothing to improve his already foul mood. No, it wasn't safe in L.A. yet. No, the police hadn't finished ruling out the possibility of accomplices.
No, Faith wasn't going to get a light sentence, by any means.
A grimace crossed his face at the thought of the brunette. Nineteen was a little young to be staring down the barrel of life without parole. Another few years, mate, and that'll be you. Spike dismissed the nagging little voice with an air of annoyance. He was smarter than that. Slicker. Besides, what was he good for, other than a life of crime?
For the thousandth time, he cursed the bizarre twist of fate that had caused the brunette to have the perfect opportunity for the murder that ended her career? Who would've guessed that Governor Wilson had an eighteen-year-old son who liked to slum?
How could the dumbass son know that when he invited a sexy girl to bang him at the governor's mansion, she'd slit his father's throat while the family was sleeping?
Irritated by his train of thought, Spike's gaze turned to Buffy. She was leaning against the hood of the DeSoto, discomfort written across her very posture. Her lean frame was offset by her swollen belly and rounded face. He'd always heard that pregnant women glowed. Well, Buffy didn't. If anything, she radiated despair. She hated the betrayal of her own body, and it was evident in her every move. The girl looked positively ill. Her limbs were stick-thin, her eyes hollow and sullen. Even her hair lacked its usual shine.
I failed her again, Spike berated himself. Can't do anything for her, not even help her get rid of something that she hates.
"Any luck?" She cocked her head, a glimmer of hope lighting her otherwise lifeless gaze.
The blonde teen shook his head. "Not today. Though it should be winding up soon. Maybe another couple of weeks." He let loose a heavy sigh.
"God, what is up with these fantastically long trials? It's been like, what, six months? Honestly, you think they'd just want it to be over." Buffy scowled her indignation at the slow-turning wheels of justice as she tugged down the hem of her t-shirt. But why do I even want to go home? It's not like there's anything there for me. Not while I'm carrying this... thing.
Spike's jaw tightened at her expression of disgust. He could feel her eyes boring into him, adding substance to the paranoid phantoms in his head. A chill crept down his spine. He hated himself in moments like this. Hated himself for the things that he couldn't do. Hated himself for having destroyed someone so beautiful. Hated himself for being weak. Because if he'd had the chance to do it all over again, he knew that he couldn't have chosen differently if he'd tried. It just wasn't in him.
Buffy's mind was still turning in little obsessive circles. For the past six months, she'd thought of almost nothing but this. The litany was as worn as her nerves, at this point. A professional abortion is out the question, they'll want some health information, my name, or at least more money than we can spare. I can't go to one of those back-alley quacks with a coat hanger - it's too dangerous, and again, we don't have the money. I've tried drugs, bulimia, hitting my stomach, catching all sorts of shitty colds and flus, and all it wound up doing was making me more miserable. She fought down the rising panic and frustration she felt. I'm too young to be tied down like this... I can't be a mother. Not like this. Not now.
********
April 30, 2003
"Buffy Summers, how may I help you?" she recited, in a cool, professional tone. "Yes, Mrs. Ortega. That's correct. Could you describe the incident?" Reaching for her pen, the petite social worker began to jot down notes.
She cringed inwardly. How some of these people could look at themselves in the mirror was beyond her understanding. Every other day, calling with a new complaint, trying to return foster children as if they were sweaters that didn't quite fit.
"Alright, ma'am. I'll get right on it... you, too." The receiver settled into place with a soft click, and Buffy turned to add young Joseph Bunger's name back to the list of 'problem cases'. It made her want to drink. She hated it, hated when families didn't work out after she'd spent weeks and weeks getting them placed together. She'd really thought Joey would fit well with the Ortegas - they had a son just about his age, and a handful of older children as well.
"Guess it just wasn't meant to be," she murmured, despising herself for being so useless when a boy was about to be torn from a home yet again. Buffy had a Master's in Social Psychology, and she still couldn't keep it together.
She had a degree from a reputable university, a steady job, a nice apartment not too far from her office, a reliable, dependable boyfriend... a toned body, blonde hair, and a tan. According to the rest of the world, Buffy should've been one of the happiest, perkiest people in L.A. Instead, she was a state employee who worked sixty hour weeks, drank coffee from 6 am until 6 pm, and then downed booze until she passed out at night. No wonder she had an ulcer at twenty-three.
Wistfully, she wished she was back in bed. Back asleep, she amended to herself. If she was just in bed, then Riley... She sighed.
Not that she didn't love him, because she did. But sometimes, he just wouldn't leave her alone. Wanting to talk, wanting to cuddle, wanting to connect on some metaphysical level. Oh, Buffy knew that it was just because he was the sweetest, most caring, considerate man on the planet. But most mornings, she just wanted to sleep. When problems came up, she didn't want to talk them out - she got enough of that at work. What Buffy wanted, when something went wrong, was to ignore the problem. It would go away on its own.
Really.
********
Courtney Stevenson sat on the back porch of her cousin's house, arms crossed over her knees as she swished her beer around in its bottle. She didn't drink often, but for some reason, it seemed like a good night for a Heineken. The sky was almost black - it was, after all, nearing midnight. She was the only one awake in the house. It almost felt like she was the only one awake in the world.
She took a sip of her drink, listening to the lapping of the water in the pool. She didn't get California, not really.
I mean, these people should be the happiest on earth. Great weather, year-round beaches, fabulous landscape, all sorts of attractions, the greatest shopping on the planet... But Connecticut just feels more real. Like Sunnydale is some little dreamland fantasy that couldn't possibly exist in the normal world.
Fantasy. William.
Courtney grinned a little to herself, touching her lips softly.
The things I wouldn't do to that man. He's just... so uptight. I bet he could be a wild man, though. But he's so proper. So in control of himself.
She shrugged, tilting her head to look up at the overcast sky. A chill breeze raised goosebumps along her arms, and she shivered. Still, Courtney continued to look up, trying to catch a glimpse of a star.
It felt like hours passed, but it could have only been a few moments. A stubborn glint peeked out from between two moving clouds, shining almost defiantly. Courtney laughed aloud.
"Star light, star bright..." she trailed off, her grin fading.
We used to do that almost every night.
She sighed, starting to take another swallow. Just when the bottle reached her lips, Courtney paused. Instead of drinking, she poured the rest of the beer out onto the ground and sighed.
"How can I be thinking about William, when I still miss Frank so much?"
Chapter Fifteen
May 1, 2003
Dear Diary,
Today was so much fun! I got to try on all these clothes, and wear makeup and everything. This lady, her name was Sally, she did my hair all pretty and painted my face like a real grown up. Chase and Michael and I took soooo many pictures, but it was all fun. We did scary monster outfits, even though it wasn't Halloween, and all sorts of dress up outfits, and church clothes, and play clothes... it took forEVER. But it was so much fun, I can't wait to do it again. Although, I wish that I had more friends who were girls. I mean, Chase is cool and all, but he didn't like the makeup. Makeup is cool. Boys just don't understand that.
I bet my mom would let me wear her makeup sometimes, let me try on her lipstick and stuff. But just to play around the house, I bet. Dad says I'm too young for makeup, except for special things and dress up. I think he's probably right.
Love,
Megan
**********
Early June, 1996
Buffy grimaced again, as yet another weird cramp gripped her abdomen. She didn't know what was going on with her stomach today.
Maybe it was all that Chinese food I had last night...
True, she had rather gorged herself at the cheap, greasy restaurant. Her guts had been twisting all morning long. The thought that it might not be indigestion didn't even cross her mind.
Her hands tightened on her knees as she concentrated on the scenery rolling by the car window, and not on her discomfort. She took deep breaths. It was working.
Spike noticed her movement out of the corner of his eye, but he was too intent on driving to say anything. At this moment, he was nothing if not conflicted. Finally, they were on their way back to L.A. Finally, they would have reliable food and shelter. Finally, they could get back to where they belonged.
Where YOU belong, mate. Not her. Never her.
He scowled, trying to rid himself of the obnoxiously persistent voice that had been riding him like a demon for the past months. Now that they were only twenty minutes out from L.A., the little voice was louder than ever.
At least Angel had agreed to let them stay at the apartments. Having been gone for almost a year, Spike knew that most of his personal contacts had probably dried up. All he had left was family.
Family, and a beautiful blonde ...who hates you, the voice whispered. He could almost hear its evil little laugh.
Spike's jaw clenched.
Buffy's stomach rippled once again, accompanied by a kick from the thing inside her. She shifted, and it kicked again, turning an uncomfortable somersault.
"God, just shut up!" she burst out.
Her boyfriend, who had just been about to ask her a question, snapped his mouth shut.
Hates you, hates you, hates you... look what you've done to her. Monster.
"Stop the car. I want to lie down," Buffy demanded, becoming increasingly irritated at her body's uncooperativeness.
Ever obliging, Spike pulled over, helping his pregnant girlfriend get situated in the back seat. "You all right, luv?" he murmured, as he settled back in behind the wheel.
"Fine," she snapped tersely. Why the hell do I wind up with fucking demon spawn doing gymnastics in my guts every time I have a good dinner! God! Maybe laying still will make the little shit be still.
If anything, the pain only started getting worse.
Night was falling on the big city as Spike pulled into town. The radio played Sex Pistols, neon lights began to flicker on, and cars began to use their headlights. He was almost a mile away from Angel's headquarters when a scream made him slam on the brakes.
"SPIKE!!!!" Buffy's cry could've shattered the windshield.
Panicked, he whipped around. "Baby?"
She snarled at him, her face contorted in a rictus of pain.
In a blink, Spike took in the drenched upholstery, the ragged breathing, and the way her hands clutched convulsively at her twitching, distended stomach.
"Oh! Baby!" He gasped, then veered sharply off to a nearby alley, displacing two hoboes and a streetwalker.
"Shut the fuck up and help me, dammit! SPIKE!" Buffy shrieked.
Oh god, oh god, ew, ew, it hurts, it's so gross, I'm wet, it HURTS!!! GIVE ME FUCKING DRUGS!!!
Jerking the parking brake into place, the bleach-blonde teen scrambled out of the car and around to the back, jerking open the door. "Do you want a hospital, a doctor-"
"GET IT OUT OF ME!!!"
He looked down to where her skirt had ridden up. Christ, it's crowning... is that what you call it? Shit- "I can see the head," he finished aloud.
"OUT!!"
Swearing, Spike stripped off his duster and threw it across the door of the car.
This was not going to be pretty.
Fluids gushed, punctuating the groans and guttural moans that erupted sporadically from the mouth of the quivering creature that lay in labor. Muscles twitched, substances squelched, and with each moment another fraction of a centimeter of infant flesh crept out of its warm, moist, hiding place.
Minutes, hours passed... it felt like days. Spike kept murmuring, coaxing, cajoling. Buffy was too exhausted to sob, her body wracked with spasmodic pain, her mind still shrieking in incoherent fear at this horrible, horrible thing that was happening.
It oozed. It slid. It slurped and slimed and stuck. There was something in her, wedged in her most private areas, something she desperately wanted gone.
Spike gritted his teeth, vaguely nauseated by how messy this all was. His car would never be the same. His hands were covered in indescribable goo. He didn't want to think of what comprised it. Instead, he concentrated on getting that little head to keep inching forward. Once the head was out, the rest should follow easily, right? That's how it was in the movies...
He was almost ignoring Buffy. He couldn't do this if he thought about how much pain she was in, if he let himself realize that the snarls and bestial growls were coming from the girl he loved.
Spike was so intent on not thinking, that he almost missed it when a round skull finally emerged completely from its hiding place, followed more quickly by a tiny neck. He blanched to see that there was a thick, gray cord wrapped firmly around that neck.
"Buff, the cord-" he started.
"Is it dead?" she interrupted, her voice hoarse and crackly. "Please..." Her head lolled back, exhausted by the effort she was putting out.
He exhaled sharply in anger. Quickly, his knife came out of his pocket and flipped open in his hand. Carefully, more carefully than anything he'd ever done before, Spike used the tip of his blade to slice through the umbilical cord at the side of his child's neck. Maybe it would work.
A tiny shoulder emerged as he worked, Buffy's stomach still contracting. Nearly oblivious to anything but the pain, she continued to push, trying desperately to make the experience be over.
Dropping the knife to the floor, Spike tucked a finger under the cord and loosened it. Blood oozed slowly from the severed stump.
Another push, and the other shoulder came out as well. He abandoned his experiment in favor of getting his child delivered, and quickly. Strong hands guided and grasped, as inch by inch the infant was birthed.
He was almost surprised at how fast the rest went. Little arms, little body, little legs, all slipped out into his waiting hands. For a lack of a better blanket, he grabbed the bottom of his duster to wrap his newborn daughter in.
She still hadn't made a sound. Nor did she move at all.
"Buffy... look..." Spike moved to tilt his arms towards her.
"No!" she whimpered, screwing her eyes shut. " 's dead. Throw it away."
"No, she's not-"
"Just get rid of it! Let me sleep," she begged, clapping her hands over her ears. "Out. Away. Get rid..."
Buffy writhed almost uncomfortably, tucking her legs back towards her chest. "Hate..." she murmured in a raspy voice, then passed out in a dead faint.
Spike stared at her, eyes wide in shock. Did she really mean it?
Hates you, hates it, wants you to throw it away like garbage. Garbage. No one will know, no one has seen - just three steps to the dumpster, and whoops!
He came back sharply to reality at the sound of his daughter's newborn wail.
She didn' mean it... when she wakes up, she'll see...
Bundling his daughter closer to him, he slipped back into the front seat of the DeSoto. Somehow soothed by his unpracticed jostlings, the baby's eyelids began to droop. In no time at all, they both slept, exhausted by the ordeal.
**********
May 1, 2003
William Develin smiled as he tucked Megan's covers closer around her. She was beautiful when she slept. Hell, she was beautiful all the time. But she was his special angel when her eyes were closed and she smiled to herself like that.
He wondered what she dreamed about, to make her so happy. Leaning down, he brushed a kiss across Meg's forehead.
Can't believe she's sleeping in m'duster again. Guess it's the only security blanket she's ever known.
Chapter Sixteen
May 6, 2003
Dear Diary,
At school today we started talking about that Mother's Day is next week. We're supposed to be making cards for our moms. Last year was stupid, and we had to sing a really dumb song in front of all our parents. Robbie called me a stupid-head because I didn't have a mom there. I told her that Teacher wouldn't let me not sing. Last year was dumb. I didn't like it.
Mrs. Walter says that we're supposed to bring in pictures tomorrow so we can use them to make cards for our moms.
This year, I'll show Robbie who's the stupid one.
Bye,
Megan
**********
Early June, 1996
Buffy opened her eyes with a groan. Her brain was pulsing, her stomach ached, and she felt like she'd passed a watermelon through-
Oh, right.
Hissing at the pain in her sore muscles, she slowly sat up, looking for a water bottle. Spike was still asleep in the front seat, his duster wadded up and held loosely in his arms. As she continued to focus her bleary gaze, she noticed the tiny, pale hand sticking out of the bundle of leather. Her eyes widened.
Is that...?
Fighting down her gorge, she glanced at their surroundings. A small alley with dumpsters and trash cans lining the wall, a hobo in a cardboard box down the way. Buffy's mind connected two things.
One. Dead baby.
Two. Dumpster.
Happy to have come up with a plan, she set about making it become a reality. Tugging the makeshift blanket from her boyfriend's arms, she lurched clumsily out of the car, duster and infant in hand. She shuffled slowly to the nearest garbage can, and set down her burden. As she turned, she thought she spotted movement.
A tiny part of her mind tried to tell her that her child was alive. The rest of her, the selfish, teenaged part that had dominated her existence for the past four years, quickly squelched that thought and replaced it with one much better.
Even if it's not... ugh. It's still better this way. And no one has to know. They'll never find out.
After toddling back to the car, she lay back down to sleep, quite satisfied that her torment was over. Now she could get back to just being herself. No more fatness, no more creatures sucking away at her life. Just her, and Spike. It was all over.
Sighing in contentment for the first time in months, Buffy let sleep overtake her once more.
When she awoke, an hour or so later, Spike was gone.
**********
May 7, 2003
Megan was upstairs asleep. Considering the fact that he had to work in the morning, Will probably should have been as well. Nevertheless, it was almost three in the morning, and he was staring blankly at the door of his refrigerator. He flipped his Zippo open, lit it, and then clicked it back shut. An empty shot glass sat on the counter before him, and he slouched on the tall kitchen stool.
Click.
Light.
Snap.
He stared, alternating between a near-catatonic shock, and a blinding rage. He stared at his daughter's art project, displayed prominently on the fridge door. He had to hang it. Megan was so pleased by it. And yet... yet he felt sick to his stomach every time he looked at it. Still, he couldn't look away.
Buffy.
The one picture he had left of her, stolen in a high school hallway almost eight years and two lifetimes ago. Hair cascading in golden waves down her shoulders, looking straight ahead- almost smiling, but not quite. Long ago, he'd memorized every curve of her face - every dip and dimple, from the bridge of her nose to the swirl of her ear. And her outfit. A sleeveless maroon top and jeans. Casual. Practical, even. Just clothes.
By itself, the photo had the power to hit William like a knife to the gut. The thing that was twisting the blade was the second photo. A photo that matched the pose almost precisely. A photo placed with childish care in the same frame as the other. A photo of Megan.
Will hadn't known the pictures from the GlamourShots place had come back yet. He hadn't even seen them. Obviously, Judy had given Meg whichever ones were developed.
Click.
Light.
Snap.
The old Zippo hadn't seen so much use in nearly a decade.
Click.
Light.
Snap.
It was hard. Hard to look at his precious angel trying so hard to look like his betrayer. He'd not told Megan anything about her mother for good reason. How can you look your child in the eye, and tell her that the woman who birthed her subsequently threw her out with the trash? How do you gaze at the most precious being in your entire universe, and crush all of her hopes of a happy, complete family?
Will remembered the look of glee when she first found the picture of Buffy. The surprise, the possessive pleasure. He also saw the wistfulness. The loneliness. The desire for a mother of her very own.
Click.
Light.
Snap.
He groaned, dropping the lighter on the counter, and burying his face in his hands.
"Just get rid of it! Let me sleep..."
Will could hear her contempt and disgust even now. It made him feel like murdering the bint - strangling her with his bare hands.
"Out. Away. Get rid..."
He would have done anything for Buffy Summers back then. Anything. He would've lied, cheated, stolen, and yes, even killed, if that was what it'd taken to make her happy. But not that. He couldn't have. Even if, for a split second, he'd been tempted.
He'd been tempted to leave his daughter to die in a filthy alley between a pawn shop and a liquor store.
William didn't even realize he'd crushed the shot glass until the stinging pain roused him from his thoughts. It was almost slow motion how he rose, sweeping shards of glass to the trash before sticking his bleeding hand under the kitchen faucet.
If the bitch knew her daughter lived, would she care that she was one of the brightest in her class? That she was the youngest girl on her soccer team, and the most talented by far? Would Buffy care that her child had golden blond curls, a stubborn chin, and eyes that saw more than they ought?
Would the bitch care that Megan loved Cocker Spaniels but not Huskies, liked Sailor Moon but not Pokemon, and her favorite sandwich was peanut butter, banana, and honey?
That she liked her eggs scrambled, her orange juice pulpy, and her toast just this side of burnt? That her best subject was Reading, that her favorite color was purple, that she wanted to be either a teacher or the President when she grew up?
"Hate..."
Or would she just be mildly annoyed that the "spawn" had survived? Had thrived, even. Even though it had been touchy those first few weeks after Meg's birth. Weeks of sleepless nights, standing by the makeshift crib just to make sure her tiny lungs kept breathing. Weeks of frantic, paranoid fear every time she was still for too long. How close Megan came to dying from exposure, had it not been for a certain black leather coat wrapped around her newborn frame. How her small size and premature birth could be attributed to drug abuse and malnourishment on the part of the mother.
Hate.
Yes, Buffy Anne Summers. I hate you, too.
The Art Project
Chapters 1-9
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Many thanks to The Spuffy Archives and their idea factory, from where I got the inspiration for this fic.