Lisa’s heart was beating unusually fast as she carefully walked down the
staircase. It was early, very early, and there wasn’t a sound in the
house. Not anymore. There had been steps, a few minutes before.
Her father’s steps. It wasn’t a secret that he often woke in the middle
of the night and spent a few hours in his office before crawling back into
bed come morning. It wasn’t a secret either that he used this time
to write. Lisa had always thought it was at night that he wrote his
children’s books. But, a couple of days ago, she had started wondering
if he might be writing something else.
The Summers’ family life was full of little rituals that the three children
rolled their eyes about but secretly enjoyed. Christmas, particularly,
was a time of customs. Buffy and the children would pick a tree, and
then would have fun watching Spike try to set it up straight, giving him
misleading directions until he decided that, straight or not, the tree wouldn’t
move from its current position. In the last few years, William had
been enlisted to help, and the efforts of the two men usually left the three
ladies of the family gasping for breath after having laughed too much.
Then came the decorating time. Each year, Spike and Buffy would buy
one single new ornament to add to the collection, and the family would spend
an afternoon carefully arranging glass, porcelain, and children’s crafts.
At some point, Buffy or one of the children would come across the Banned
Ornaments and try to set them up, only to meet Spike’s unyielding refusal,
and the two angels would spend yet another year in their padded box.
For all of December, packages would appear under the tree. On Christmas
Eve the Scoobies would come over for dinner, and at midnight whoever was
still awake could open one of their presents before going to bed. The
rest would be opened in the morning, with everyone drinking hot chocolate
with marshmallows, Grandma Joyce’s recipe. And every year, there was
a thin, rectangular package, with no nametag, under the tree. The wrapping
had become better over the years, but it was always clearly done by Spike,
not a store person. Buffy always smiled at her husband when she unwrapped
this particular gift, not the same smile she had for the other gifts, but
a very particular one, very soft, loving, and if anyone ever had doubts that
these two were in love, they just had to see this smile to be convinced.
This package was always a black, leather bound book. A journal, Lisa
thought. She knew her mother kept a diary, and she had supposed for
a long time that Spike gave a blank book to her every year. Until two
days ago.
Two days ago, on Christmas morning, as Buffy was unwrapping the journal,
it had briefly opened on her lap, and Lisa had been surprised to see that
no, it wasn’t blank. Quite the contrary, it seemed. She hadn’t
had enough time to actually decipher anything before her mother closed it,
but the handwriting was unmistakably Spike’s. And Lisa was dying to
know what was written in these books that only appeared at Christmas, never
to be seen again.
She had made a checklist of all the places where they could be hidden, eliminating
room by room until all she had left were her father’s office, and her parents’
bedroom. And right now, she was about to check the first.
Like Spike, though to a lesser degree, she sometimes had trouble remaining
asleep at night, and by sheer luck she had been awake when he came back upstairs
this morning. She had waited for a little while, to give him time to
fall asleep, and had silently come downstairs, pausing by the foot of the
staircase to make sure nothing was stirring in the bedrooms. And now
she was in front of the office. Hesitating.
She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had been
in her father’s office. The number of times she had actually done something
knowing that she would get in trouble for if she was discovered was even
less than that. And she would undoubtedly find trouble if she wasn’t
careful. It was Spike’s special place. He shared it with Buffy,
and only Buffy, but it was his. Entering this sanctuary felt somewhat
sacrilegious. And yet she did.
The door didn’t creak as she pushed it open, and neither did the wood floor
as she tiptoed inside and turned on the light. Just opposite the door,
there was a window, the dark blue drapes drawn to each side. As it
faced the north, no direct sunlight could get in from there, and the curtains
were purely ornamental. Just next to the window, a wooden rocking chair,
padded with a couple of soft pillows. As a child, when she had sometimes
– rarely - been sick and stayed home instead of going to school, she had
been allowed to sit in that chair, wrapped in a blanket, and read quietly,
or listen to her father read to her. She smiled fondly at the memory,
she had always loved to hear him tell stories. The wall on the left
side, as she remembered it, had been bare, but it now held a couple of large
frames, beautiful hand drawn pictures that Lisa examined curiously.
One represented the five members of the Summers family, and judging by the
children’s faces, it had been done maybe four or five years before.
The other was puzzling. There was Peaches, the same as he ever would
be. There was also her father, but with his hair curiously darkened,
a bit like William’s, and seemingly longer too, more curly. And there
was a dark haired woman, very beautiful, that for some reason Lisa felt like
she knew, though she had no idea who it was. Remembering suddenly why
she was there, she gave up her study of the drawings and pondered where to
look. The desk, almost in the center of the room, facing the window,
with its laptop, inkbottle and pen, picture frames, and large drawers?
Or the huge shelves that covered completely the right side wall? Her
eyes fell on a line of more than a dozen slim black books, and she didn’t
have to decide, since she had already found.
Stepping to the shelves, she reached out to the lower one, to the first of
these books, and carefully pulled it out. She ran her fingers over
the leather cover, frowning briefly at the golden monogram at the very bottom.
Why a W? Then curiosity took over, and she opened to the first page
and read.
“As I write these lines, it has been two weeks since you left, taking
with you our Lisa and my life, and one week since the chip came out.
You feared I would be a monster again, but here I am. Instead of hunting
for a meal, I am pouring my broken heart onto paper. I hadn’t done
that in a century, you know? I only wish that, if you ever read this,
you’ll understand what kind of monster I was back then, and what kind of
man I try to be now.
For you.”
Just a few lines, and already Lisa was puzzled. Her mother had left
her father? What was this chip? When had this been written exactly?
With a slightly shaky hand, she turned the page and started reading again.
“William W. died in March 1880, in the same London where he had been born
twenty six years earlier. His heart died first, by the hands of a woman,
then his body, by the fangs of another. The very last thing he saw
was his murderer stepping aside to give room to a dark haired man.
The last thing he heard, this man’s voice, praising the woman for her choice.
The last thing he felt, thick blood gliding on his tongue and down his throat.
The following night, I was reborn. Childe of Angelus, of the Aurelius
line. He was there when I dug myself out of my grave, impatient already,
glaring at me because I was taking too much time, but refusing to help me.
The dark beauty that had chosen me was there too, dancing and laughing under
the stars as she called to me to join her. Drusilla. She needed
a companion and a caretaker, and I was to become both for her, and more as
time passed. She was also Angelus’ Childe, turned because she had prophetic
visions. He had made her insane, before he turned her, and I often
thought that he tried to do the same thing to me, after. A third person
was there, Angelus’ Sire, Darla, even more impatient than him to be out of
the cemetery and back to the world. From the first instant her eyes
fell on me, I could see that she disliked me profoundly, and it wasn’t long
until I returned the feeling. I only started to comprehend the reasons
for her aversion for me months later, when I finally understood that Angelus
loved me, as much as he was able to love, and that she was immensely jealous
of the time he…”
A sudden creaking sound startled Lisa, and she held her breath as she listened
intently. Nothing. It must have been one of these random noises
that had had her believing, when she was a child, that the house was haunted.
The interruption made her aware of how risky it was to remain where she was.
But now that she knew what was in the leather journals, she just couldn’t
stop reading until she had read the entire story. Her father’s entire
story. He never talked of his life before he met Buffy, and this was
an opportunity Lisa couldn’t let go. Nibbling on her lower lip, she
considered the shelf in front of her. Right now, it was obvious that
a book was missing, but if she just pushed the others just so… The
empty spot had now disappeared, and only by counting the books could anyone
see that there were only sixteen of them instead of seventeen. She
hid the journal under her PJ’s top and silently returned to her room.
Hiding under the covers with her flashlight, she resumed her reading.
As soon as he set foot in his office, Spike knew someone had been here.
For all purposes, it was his lair, a refuge that was only his and his mate’s.
No human could have discerned it, but the scent in the room was very much
his, with just a light touch of Buffy’s. Except that now, another scent
lingered, though already fading. Lisa’s.
His eyes roamed over the room, trying to see if anything had changed.
Nothing had moved that he could see, nothing missing. Or maybe…
Had the leather bound books been so neatly set? They rarely were.
Walking to the shelves, he let a finger run over the spines, counting as
he went. One of them was missing. One by one, he opened them
all, to know which one, and wasn’t that much surprised that it was the first.
With a worried frown, he left the office and went upstairs. Buffy and
Lisa had left for the mall at the beginning of the afternoon. Will
and Jay were watching a DVD in the living room. And there was Spike,
snooping around his eldest’s room. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what
to think or feel, and how to react. He was angry that she had taken
the book. Sad that she had broken his trust. Annoyed that he
would have to punish her. But mostly, worried about what she may think.
It didn’t take him long to find the book, hidden under her mattress.
He flipped through the pages, hoping to find a bookmark, or any clue about
where she had stopped reading. He found nothing. Did it mean
she had read it all? God, how he hoped she hadn’t… Not that he
was particularly ashamed of anything in his past, he was, after all, a vampire,
and until Buffy he had never had a reason not to act like one. But
not being ashamed didn’t mean that he wanted his children to know everything
about him.
As he was walking down the steps, the book in his hand, the front door opened
and Lisa entered, followed by her mother. He could see the exact moment
when she realized he knew, because her eyes widened and her cheeks suddenly
became crimson. Unable to deal with the child now, he gave a tight
smile to Buffy and walked away without a word, retreating to his lair.
He placed the book back where it belonged, and came to stand by the window,
hands in his pockets, his forehead pressed to the cool glass.
Repressing a sigh, Buffy closed the office door behind her and walked to
her husband, her arms encircling his waist as she pressed against his back.
“She told me,” she said quietly. “That’s why she wanted to go out alone
with me today. So that we could talk.”
Spike didn’t answer. His only acknowledgment to her presence and words
was to cover her hands with his and lace their fingers together.
“She was a little… confused about a few things,” Buffy continued, just as
softly. “But she’s not upset.”
If she knew him at all, that was what he was worried about right now.
He adored all three of their children, but Lisa would always be his firstborn,
the one that had started it all. And if William was physically a double
of his father, it was Lisa who resembled him most by the way she thought
and acted.
“That was never meant for her eyes,” he finally said, no louder than a murmur.
“I know, love. But she was curious. She’s always been the most
curious about vampires. Always the one to ask questions. You
used to say it was normal, because it’s part of who she is. Did you
change your mind?”
“You used to say that the less she knew, the better she would be,” Spike
retorted. “Did you change your mind?”
“Yes. Because today I’ve heard our daughter ask very sensible questions.
I’ve seen that she understands the difference between who you are now and
who you used to be. She’s very smart, love.”
“Too smart, sometimes.”
Buffy chuckled against the fabric of his shirt and he turned around in her
embrace, wrapping his arms around her.
“She wants to read more, doesn’t she?” he asked quietly.
Buffy nodded. “But she won’t if we don’t want her to. She promised.”
A few years back, probably, Buffy would have burnt all these books before
risking one of the children reading any more of it. But time had passed,
and she had changed. She had started to really appreciate the depth
of Spike’s change, what he had given up for her, and for their kids.
She had only loved him more for it. And if Lisa really wanted to know,
Buffy felt like she had a right to.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Spike asked, a soft whisper against
her hair.
She could see where the question was coming from. The first book was
not devoid of blood and sex, but compared to some of the following, it was
nothing.
“If it becomes too much for her, she can always stop reading. But you
know that if we don’t give her the opportunity to know for good, she’ll imagine
worse than what you ever did.”
“I suppose she might.”
Later in the day, they told Lisa that she was allowed to read the books,
on the conditions that she would remain in the office to do so, that she
would immediately talk to Spike or Buffy should she have any question or
comments, and that she would stop reading if it ever got too upsetting for
her. They also confiscated her car keys for a month, punishment for
entering Spike’s office without permission and borrowing a private thing
without asking first.
The characters and names used in these stories do not belong to me. All copyrights remain with Fox and Mutant Enemy. No profit is made from this fanfiction.
