Days in the Sun







It had been a long time since Spike had bought liquor. A very long time.

Not that he had always been sober since he had been with Buffy, of course not. They had shared many romantic dinners over the years with candlelight and fine wine. But other than these few bottles, other than the champagne they had had for their wedding, other than his one-time dive into the bottle when their children had unwittingly brought to the surface painfully vivid memories of his mother, he had never drunk more than a half glass at a time in more than thirty years.

Now though, he was ready to get himself pissed, good and proper.

It was past midnight when he finally entered the liquor’s store. A couple of hours earlier, the nurses had threatened to get security if he didn’t leave, and Buffy had pleaded for him to go. He had bitten back his growl, kissed her forehead, and glared at the humans as he stalked out. He knew, of course, that they thought they were acting in Buffy’s best interest, but that had not prevented him from cursing them under his breath as he left, or from imagining their deaths in very graphic details. He, of course, didn’t actually intend to harm them in any way, but imagining it wouldn’t hurt them.

Nonetheless, his fury at being chased out of the hospital had demanded violence, and he had complied. The first cemetery, along with a second, had been a disappointment. Only a couple of vamps and it had been far from enough to calm him. He had tried a demon bar, and again hadn’t found much resistance. For the first time, he had almost started regretting having sealed the Hellmouth with Buffy, years before. If they hadn’t, Sunnydale would still have hosted enough demons for Spike to satisfy his bloodlust.

Instead, he had decided to fall back on old habits. It wasn’t as though anyone would be home to look at him with disapproving eyes, anyway.

He stood in front of the hard liquors for a few minutes before finally picking up a couple of whisky bottles, and just as many of scotch. Years and years before, he would have killed the cashier on his way out; somehow, the memory was at the forefront of his mind when he took bills out of his wallet and threw them on the counter before heading out.

He was home in no time. Their home. The place where he and Buffy had lived and loved, where their children had grown up. An empty home, that night.

He didn’t turn on a single light as he walked heedlessly through the rooms. Each of them held more memories than he could bear. He uncapped the first bottle in the living room and started drowning them out.

Laying on the sofa with William laying in front of him and Lisa at his feet, Spike was slowly falling asleep, lulled by the voices and songs of the video he had put on for them. William was sleeping already, and had been for a while; only Lisa was still paying attention to the telly, clapping her small hands in time to the music.

He knew, the instant the front door opened, who was there. He would have known anywhere, any time. It went beyond the innate sense all vampires developed to recognize when a Slayer was close. It was more basic than that. His lover, his love was near. And all his need for sleep was suddenly gone from his body, replaced by the simple but overwhelming need to touch her, hold her, be with her.

She came to him, to them, and, lifting Lisa up from the sofa, she took her place, settling the child on her lap even as she leaned against Spike.

“So?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she replied just as softly, and Spike smiled as brightly as she was. He had known, of course. They had both known. They had both wanted it, and had done what was needed to make it happen. Now it was official. They would soon be graced with another child.

Half drained bottle still in hand, Spike made his way down the corridor and to his office. The door was half open; it was rarely closed, these days. With the children all grown up and gone, most of the distracting noises had disappeared with them, and Buffy wandering into the office to sit and read next to him as he worked had become an usual and welcome occurrence.

He wasn’t sure why he still wrote. He had started for his children, putting on paper the stories he had told them at bedtime, and they were long past the age where they could enjoy them. Maybe it was for his – their – grandchildren. The first one was only a few weeks old. Matthew. One more addition to his family, but then there might soon be one less.

He walked around the room, unable to see anything. His vision only cleared when he brought the bottle to his lips once more and took a few mouthfuls. He knew the room as well as the back of his own hand; yet, it suddenly seemed different as the thought filled him that Buffy might never walk in again.

A soft knock on the door was Spike’s only warning before Buffy entered. He had been so absorbed by what he was writing, he had not heard her come closer. He turned to her, smiling, and noticed immediately that she was holding a package. She held it out toward him.

“It was just delivered,” she said. “For you. It’s from Angel.”

Frowning slightly, he accepted the parcel. About four feet tall and almost as wide, it was rather slim, and Spike wondered what it might hold. He ripped open the packaging, quickly revealing a simple wooden frame. He had to pull at layers of bubble wrap to discover the drawing, and when he did, he froze.

In front of him, beyond the surface of the glass, three familiar faces stared back at him. His own, as he had been a century and half before; Drusilla’s, a twinkle in her dreamy eyes; Angel’s. Or was it Angelus?

“What the hell…” he breathed, unsure what meaning to give to the drawing. Suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone, he worriedly looked up at Buffy. Her eyes shifted from the frame to meet his gaze.

“I never realized Angel had a sense of humor,” she said coolly, and Spike raised a questioning eyebrow. “I asked him to draw your family,” she explained. “It was going to be a gift for our anniversary. I have the drawing upstairs; I received it three days ago. You, me, and the kids. I never imagined he’d make a second one. Especially one like that.”

Spike struggled to keep the grin off his face. Angel had a sense of humor, yes, but a decidedly fucked up one.

“You want me to send it back to him?” he asked, indicating the drawing with a tilt of his head. Buffy’s eyes returned to it, and after a second, she shook her head.

“Not unless you want to,” she replied. “The two of them would probably look good next to each other.”

His old family, to the notable exception of Darla whom he had never been able to stand, and his new one.

It had rarely been any more obvious to Spike how completely she had accepted his past, who he had been, what he was. Abandoning the frame at his desk, he swept her up into his arms and, as she laughed, carried her up to their room.

His fingers left a faint mark on the glass as he caressed Buffy’s drawn cheek. She was smiling softly, leaning against him, Jay in her arms, Will and Lisa in front of them. Spike chased the prickling in his eyes by draining the rest of the bottle before storming out of the room, glass shattering behind him. He stopped briefly by the living room to retrieve a second bottle, before stepping down to the basement. It was darker than the first floor, but Spike could see just fine, having thoughtlessly slipped into game face.

“Good job,” Spike grinned at Lisa and William. “You’re getting quite good. I’m proud of you.”

Delighted smiles answered his words, and he soon found himself assaulted and hugged by the two teenagers.

“Off you go, now,” he admonished them. “Get cleaned up and get in bed.”

They ran up the steps, racing each other to the bathroom. Only Jay remained behind, her big eyes blinking away tears. Alarmed, Spike picked her up.

“What’s wrong birdy?”

She hugged his neck so hard that, had he needed to breathe, her hold would have soon been uncomfortable.

“I’m too small,” the seven years old wailed. “Will and Lisa are big and I’m small and they always beat me.”

Spike shushed her with quiet words. “It’s OK, baby. I’m proud of you too. I know you do your very best. It’s OK.”

Sniffling, she pulled back to look at him very seriously. “You proud of me?” she repeated, questioning.

“Oh, of course, luv. Always.”

She sniffled again, but now she was smiling. Only then did Spike allow himself to look at Buffy where she stood at the bottom of the staircase. Her look said exactly what she thought of what had just happened, but Spike refused to acknowledge it.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he told Jay as he carried her up the steps. “Do you want me to read you a story?”

It was only an hour later when he returned to the basement, all three children tucked in and fast asleep. Buffy was beating the punching bag as though it had insulted her. She never broke her rhythm as she said:

“One more checkmark in the ‘bad idea’ column.”

He didn’t reply. They had had this particular argument many times already, and for better or for worse, the decision had been made. Spike would continue to teach their children how to fight until he was satisfied they could defend themselves against demons should they ever need to.

Rather than arguing, he walked onto the training mat and just stood there, waiting. It didn’t take long for Buffy to launch her first attack at him.

He had never told her how much he missed their sparring sessions. He suspected she did as well, but they had never talked about it since deciding together that maybe they ought to stop, for Buffy’s health sake.

The empty bottle he had set down on the steps next to him fell and shattered against the floor when he stood. He didn’t pay it any mind, and instead, walked up the stairs. After a quick detour by the living room to retrieve a third bottle, he made his way upstairs, to the bedroom he had shared with Buffy for almost thirty-five years. A bedroom that he dreaded entering now that it was empty.

After long minutes of standing in front of the door, he finally pushed it open and walked in, but not before he had taken a long swig of whisky. He could smell Buffy all around him. He could almost see her in the bed, as he had so many times before, half asleep yet aware that he was approaching, and opening her arms to him. He took a few more gulps of the bottle before settling it down on the night table and crawling into bed. Without a second thought, he grabbed Buffy’s pillow and buried his face in, breathing deeply. Memories of the many things that had happened in this room assaulted him.

William’s birth. Joyce Anne’s. Spike’s request to turn Buffy. Her refusal. The marriage proposal. His admission to having killed and turned his mother. So many nights spent in each other’s arms, so much pleasure and so much love…

He tried to hold back the tears as long as he could, but the images struggling in his mind to take precedence were too much, and he was sobbing when he eventually fell asleep.

Spike was awake long before sunrise, but he forced himself to remain in bed until a little after noon. Getting up earlier than that and having nothing to do would have driven him insane. Buffy had asked him not to come before the sun set so that she wouldn’t worry about him getting burned, and he had said he would try.

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he got up and took a long, scalding shower, trying to chase away the ice that had settled into his bones. How would he ever get used to sleeping alone again?

Mindlessly, he retraced his steps from the previous night, picking up shards of glass and moping the floor, erasing the evidence of his despair. As he reached the living room, he sat down on the sofa and picked up the phone. In front of him, on the coffee table, the last remaining bottle called his name, but he refused to listen.

One after the other, he dialed the numbers of his children. To the three of them, he gave the same words, unable to say anything more.

“Your mother is sick. Come home. Quick.”

He knew the words would worry them. As well, they should. But whatever way he could have chosen to tell them, the result would have been the same. Buffy was never sick. Had never been sick as far as Spike could remember. The simple fact that she was said it all, and their children would realize that.

His last phone call made, he left the phone off the hook. He didn’t want to be asked questions he had no answer to. For a long time, he stared at that bottle, still tempting him, before finally reaching for it as he stood. He put it in the liquor cabinet. He would need it soon.

In the meantime, he was going to the hospital, the sun be damned.







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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.