Days in the Sun





This vignette contains spoilers for Season 7's 'Lies My Parents Told Me'.

January 7th, 2018 - History (4)

It was already late in the afternoon when Buffy arrived home, having taken Joyce Anne to her swimming lesson after school before stopping by the Magic Box for a short chat with Anya that had turned into a much longer one over several cups of coffee. The house was unusually quiet as she and Joy got in, as for once there were no sounds of TV, music or cooking, to the point that Buffy wondered for a moment if her husband and children were out. But Spike’s car was in the garage, and there was still some sunlight outside, so he had to be there. And she found the kids sitting on the stairway steps, obviously waiting for her, their faces too grim for Buffy not to instantly be concerned.

“What’s going on?” she asked, alarmed.

“Dad’s in your room,” Lisa answered quietly.

“He is? What’s wrong with that?”

Spike had still been in bed when she had left that morning, a slightly unusual occurrence, but it had happened before. It was even more unusual for him to return to bed during the day, but not a first either. He still had trouble falling asleep at night, and when he was particularly stressed, it turned into full insomnia. And he had been very tense the night before after the kids’ questions. Buffy had tried to make him tell her what was wrong, but he had obstinately refused. His edginess had only risen when she had gently observed that it was nice that Joyce Anne had both her grandmothers’ names. He had been the one to suggest the first name of their youngest, and she had thought until a few hours before than the Anne stood for her own middle name. She now knew better, but Spike had not commented about that.

“He didn’t come out at all today,” William finally answered her question with a worried frown. “I tried to talk to him through the door and… he shouted for me to leave him alone.”

OK, so that was more than unusual, that was completely abnormal. Even tired, Spike always greeted the children when they came back from school. And even tired, upset, or cranky, Spike never shouted at them.

“I’ll go see him,” Buffy said softly. “Why don’t you three try to cook something for dinner?”

The teens darted to the kitchen, taking Joy with them, but Buffy noticed the worried looks they exchanged. In truth, despite her apparent calm and smile, she felt as troubled as they seemed to be.

She walked up the steps slowly, wondering what she would find up there, and even lingered by the door for a second before quietly entering. The room was dark, the shades drawn, the only source of light coming from the bathroom through the open door. Her eyesight adjusted to the lack of light and she soon could see Spike where her other senses had already localized him, crouching in a corner of the room.

Cautiously she came closer to him and as she did so she could see the two bottles on the floor next to him. One was good Scotch, given to them by Giles a few years back, the other an expensive old whisky. Both had been reserved for company and special occasions. Not anymore, since they were both empty.

“Love?”

He flinched visibly at the endearment. She rarely ever used nicknames for him, as he usually complained that it didn’t suit the Big Bad image. Such a Big Bad he was, too, writing kiddies story, singing lullabies to his children when they were younger and cooking dinner for his family on most nights.

She sat down next to him and gently took his fisted hand where it was resting on his thigh. Slowly, she worked the fingers open so that she could clasp his hand.

“Spike? Talk to me, baby.”

His face turned toward her at last, and his eyes were empty as they found hers.

“Nothing to say”, he mumbled.

“Liar,” she murmured as gently as she could.

A sad, so sad smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“True,” he replied in a whisper. “Nothing but a liar and a murderer and a monst…”

She shut him up the best way she knew, with her lips on his.

“You are a good man,” she assured him after breaking the kiss.

“I’m not even a man,” he shot back hollowly.

Releasing his fingers, Buffy cradled his face with both her hands, her thumbs caressing his cheeks lightly.

“You are a wonderful man,” she stated with all the strength she could muster. “A wonderful husband, a wonderful father, a wonderful friend. And if you dare say otherwise I will kick your sexy ass from here ‘til Sunday and then shag you silly.”

She had hoped for a smile, a smirk, a waggling eyebrow, or a suggestive comment, but all she received was a blank stare.

“You don’t know,” he said expressionlessly after a couple of long seconds. “If you did, you would think I’m a monster too. You wouldn’t let me be in the same house as the kids and you. You would have staked me long ago.”

“How about you tell me and let me prove you wrong?” she suggested softly. “What is it that I don’t know and that upsets you so much?”

He shook his head, a clear refusal to answer.

“Is it about what happened yesterday?” she tried to probe. “Did the kids’ questions upset you?”

There was the barest flicker in his gaze, and she knew even if he didn’t answer that she was on the right path. Remembering the discussion, she had no difficulty finding what had put him in such a bad mood the night before, and what was maybe the cause of this.

“Is it because they asked about your parents?” she asked with her most gentle voice, still stroking his face lightly.

Pain and anger shot through his eyes in the form of furtive golden flakes. Moving back just a little to lean against the wall, Buffy drew his head to her so that it rested against her shoulder. Lightly, tenderly, she ran her fingers through his hair, hoping that this silent demonstration of love would be enough to reach him through his too obvious pain. They remained like this for long minutes, until he finally broke the silence with a croaked whisper.

“I turned her.”

There. He had said it. The one and only thing that he just couldn’t make himself put on paper even when he revealed everything else, the one thing that seared him to his bones, that tore him apart, that made him think that yes, he did have a soul, he had to have one, there was just no way otherwise that this would hurt so much. Had hurt so long. Had never ceased hurting and was so much worse now that he was a father, that he had children, and that they wanted to know…

They were our grandparents too and we don’t even know...

He had said it. But it didn’t help one bit.

“Spike… love… who did you turn?”

For a second, he had almost forgotten his Slayer was there. The stroking hadn’t stopped, though. She was still caressing his hair, and her other hand had taken hold of his again, tight but non-threatening.

“My m… Anne.”

The stroking kept on, regular, soothing, familiar, without a beat or hesitation when he said the name, and he wondered if she had understood, if she knew, now, the extent of his crime, or if she just waited for more.

“I’m sorry,” she offered at last. “You want to tell me about it?”

He didn’t want to, no, not really, but despite himself he started telling her about Anne. About her kindness as a mother and as a human being. About his wish to offer her the gift he had been given. About the way things had turned, so wrong, so horribly wrong, until he had had no choice but to make her ashes after he had made her a vampire.

Never, as he talked, did Buffy’s hand hesitate, and she continued to show him she was there, with him, comforting and loving.

“I am sorry,” she repeated her earlier sentiment as his tale came to an end. “I wish I could make your pain go away, but I don’t know how.”

“It can’t go away. It mustn’t. If it goes away, if I forget, maybe I would hurt…”

As his voice broke, he started shivering uncontrollably, and Buffy made shushing noises, trying to calm him.

“You wouldn’t,” she said softly. “I know you wouldn’t hurt any of us. I know it, and deep down, you know it too. Don’t beat yourself up for something you would never do.”

He wished he was as sure as she seemed to be, but God help him, he wasn’t, far from it. He had hurt, no, killed the two women he had loved before Buffy and who had returned his feelings. As well as the other one, the one who didn’t return his human love. And it was useless to deny it, he had thought about turning Buffy, he had even gone as far as to talk to her about it. She had said no, he had agreed, but who knew what would happen, who knew what he would do, in ten days, ten months or ten years?

“I hurt her,” he tried to explain despite his tight throat. “And I loved her so much… I’m afraid, luv. Afraid to hurt more people I love. Afraid I won’t be strong enough…”

It was finally too much, and the tears that had been slowly rising since the night before, since more than a century before, finally broke through his last barriers. He muffled his sobs against his Slayer’s shoulder, holding her tight as if letting go of her would signify his doom. His mind wasn’t truly aware of the tender words she was offering him, but they soothed his unconscious, until at last, after hours or centuries, the sobbing subsided. Having let all of this out had somewhat appeased his mind and heart, and he was able to give his love a faint smile when she asked him through worried eyes if he felt better.