Summary: *Sequel to Constant Craving* When William “Spike” Pratt walked out of her life nearly seven years ago, Buffy Summers never expected to see him again. But here he was, home for her mother’s funeral and determined to get her to open up to him by using whatever means he deemed necessary… even if it meant holding her hair back when she got sick.
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Quite a bit of emotional turmoil going on in this chapter so I thought I'd be nice and warn you all about it first. Joyce is not painted as a nice woman here, either, but for the purposes of the story I am telling, this is the way it has to be. Please remember this is an AU all human story I am writing and therefore not everything here will be as it was in show canon. Also, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I know I owe some responses, or a lot of responses actually, and I promise I will get to them. Life's just been a bit crazy for me is all.
Buffy choked back a relieved sob as her stomach finally settled down, giving her the opportunity to get to her feet and rinse her mouth out. She instinctively avoided glancing in the mirror, more than used to the blood-shot eyes and pale, chalky skin.
She hadn’t slept well last night, or the night before that, either. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard her mother’s reproachful voice, admonishing her for her poor choices in life, for her continual disappointment as an adult, for… not being woman enough to give her a ‘respectable’ son-in-law and a grandchild with him before her death.
It was then, in the jumbled up thoughts and guilt-laden tears, that Buffy hated the woman. Hated her with so much of herself she feared she would never stop. Yet even as she hated her, even as she told herself she would never forgive her for the awful things she’d said, she mourned her. Mourned her with everything she had inside.
After all, it wasn’t her mother’s fault the tumor turned her into such a malicious bitch. It was all the unrelenting pressure on her brain, her inability to censor and control her thoughts that made her say the things she’d said.
Of course, that knowledge didn’t stop Buffy from wondering if they were true.
Did her mother really feel that way about her? Did she really see her as such a failure, such a disappointment? Had she really died thinking those awful things about her own daughter?
Buffy told herself she hadn’t. That somewhere, deep down inside, her mother knew the truth. That she knew Buffy loved her and would do anything to make up for the pain and humiliation she’d caused her by being a rebellious, stubborn teenager.
But had she really? Had she known she was loved? That nothing Buffy did in her sordid past was her fault?
A knock sounded on the bathroom door. Buffy jumped, startled by the unexpected sound… and the sleep-rough voice that followed it. “Buffy? You okay, pet? Been in there a while now.”
There was an unspoken question there, a concern he didn’t feel comfortable voicing to her. She was grateful for that. The last thing she needed was his disquiet on top of everything else. “I’m f-fine, Spike. Just ate something that didn’t agree with me, I think.”
“You didn’t eat anything last night, Buffy, and Rupes said you didn’t anything at breakfast or lunch, either.” The doorknob rattled, a frustrated sigh coming through the hollow wood a second later. “Open the door, love. Just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
She glanced at the mirror, wincing at the woman she saw there. “Dammit, Spike, I said I’m fine. What more do you want from me?”
“The truth might be nice, pet.” He sighed, a soft thud echoing from the other side of the door. “Come on, love, let me in. Let me help you.”
She didn’t need his help. She didn’t need him. At all. “I told you I’m okay,” she whispered softly, hanging her head, hating that he knew her so well, even after so many years. “Really, Spike, I’m fine. Just… a little stressed.”
“A little or a lot?” he questioned sharply, too sharply if you asked her. “Buffy… open the damn door. I mean it, pet. Don’ make me break it down again. Don’ make me wake Rupes.”
Damn him. Why couldn’t he just let her alone? She wasn’t hurting anything. She wasn’t. She was just—she sighed, closing her eyes—shutting him out. “Don’t do that, Spike. Please just… give me a few minutes. I need— I need a few minutes alone.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. So long Buffy thought he’d gone, that he’d actually given her the reprieve she’d requested. But then, even as the thought registered, a noise sounded from the other side of the wood and the lock clicked out of place, his troubled face appearing in the open doorway before her.
She met his eyes, hating the apprehension she saw in them, and slowly shook her head, turning back to the face the mirror. “You ever look at yourself and not recognize the person you see? You ever look so deep you don’t have a clue as to who you are or what you want?”
He stepped up behind her, not touching her yet his quiet warmth invaded her all the same “Yeah, pet, I’ve felt that way a time or two.” His gaze fell to the hand resting on her stomach and a resigned sort of acceptance entered his eyes when he looked back up at her. “How far along are you, love?”
She blinked. “S-Spike?”
“Come on, Buffy,” he said gently, stepping closer, his bare chest hitting her back, warming the chill she hadn’t even know she felt. “You didn’ honestly think I wouldn’ recognize the signs, did you? The tears, the dark circles under your eyes, the fear, all that… bloody wretchin’ and maudlin’ thinkin’? Been a while granted, but… I lived with it for months, pet. Never forget it, not when it comes to you. Recognize it for what it is and… what it means.”
He gave her a soft smile, leaning forward to place his chin on her shoulder, his hands landing on the edge of the vanity, trapping her body between them. “But what I don’ know is who the lucky daddy to be is and why he isn’ here with you, why he isn’t holdin’ your hand through all this?”
“Like you did, you mean?”
Buffy hated herself for it the second the words came out. She hated the coldness in his eyes, the harshness of his tone… and she especially hated the genuine hurt she knew lurked somewhere deep inside of him.
“I didn’ hold your hand because you wouldn’ let me, pet. Wasn’ cause I didn’ wanna be there for you. No matter what you try to tell yourself now.” He lifted his hands from the counter, lightly turning her around until they stood face to face against the sink. “You know that I wanted our baby, Buffy, that I wanted you, too. Never hid it from you, never tried.”
That much was true. He hadn’t hid those feelings from her. But he had hid the ones that came later, that came after. “Did you even cry, Spike? Did you cry for our baby? Did you cry for me? Did you cry for the way you left me behind? Left me to deal with all the grief, all the pain, all the… hurt?”
“Every single, soddin’ day, Buffy. Not a day went by I didn’ regret it. Leavin’ you like I did. But your mum was right, love. I wasn’ right for you. Wasn’ the one you needed.”
No, he wasn’t. But he was the one she wanted, the one she loved. “You were selfish, Spike. You left without even bothering to stick around to ask me what I wanted, what I needed. You let her control us, let them both control us, and for that, I’ll never forgive you.”
She broke his hold and stepped around him. She paused as she got to the door though, looking back at him over her shoulder as she opened it. “Who the father is doesn’ matter, Spike. The only thing that matters now is that it isn’t you.”
* * *
Spike flinched at Buffy’s parting words, lowering his head as she disappeared out the door and inside her bedroom, softly putting a wooden barrier back between them. He’d pushed her. Even after he told himself he wouldn’t, he’d done it. Pushed her so far she’d lashed out at him, wanting to hurt him the only way she knew how.
Yet even through her upset, she’d been right. It didn’t matter who the father of her baby was. The fact that he even existed told Spike all he needed to know about his chances of a reconciliation some day.
“Stupid, soddin’ git,” he mumbled under his breath, turning to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. As he expected, his eyes were as blood-shot as hers had been… and just as lost.
Bloody hell. What was he going to do? He’d promised Rupes he’d help her get through this and he couldn’t exactly do that if she didn’t trust him to get close enough to her.
Of course, given the change in circumstances, he wasn’t entirely sure he was the best person to get her to open up anymore. Maybe her boyfriend would have better luck, and where the bleeding hell was the stupid ponce anyway? Did he care about his girl at all? Didn’t he realize she needed him here?
Spike frowned, his eyes straying back to the closed door.
Something wasn’t right here. He didn’t know what it was, but it sure as bleeding hell didn’t settle well on his stomach. If anything, it made the current knots of anxiety worse.
Why in God’s name hadn’t Rupert mentioned Buffy having a boyfriend and being pregnant to him? Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he tell?
Granted, she wasn’t exactly showing yet, and Joyce’s illness had been a pretty good distraction for him, but still… the symptoms were familiar enough. Hadn’t taken him more than a second this morning to realize the reason she wouldn’t open the door for him. Once he’d recognized the fear in her voice and put it together with her early morning nausea and her loss of appetite from the day before, not to mention the placement of her hand on her stomach, he’d put two and two together fairly quickly.
Probably helped that the last time he’d seen her, she’d been much the same way, only back then the pregnancy symptoms had just started to vanish, having been replaced by grief and stress and more heartache than any person should ever have to take.
She said she wouldn’t forgive him for leaving her the way he did. Spike hadn’t had the heart to tell her he didn’t need it. He’d done what he had to do not what he wanted to do and he’d do it again if given the same dismal choices he’d had then.
Did the sodding chit think he wanted to leave her like he had? That he wanted to turn his back on what they’d found? What they’d shared?
Was she really that bloody daft?
If Spike hadn’t gone when he did, Joyce would have ruined them both. Didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that. The woman hated him, blamed him for every wrong thing done in her and Buffy’s life. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually been there for most of it. By her way of thinking, he was the bleeding catalyst for their fractured mother-daughter relationship. He’d turned her little girl into someone she didn’t recognize, someone wicked and dirty and… damaged.
Hell, the woman had been so busy hating him, despising him, she’d failed to see how much her own daughter loved and needed her. Needed not just her love and support, but also her understanding and acceptance. All it would have taken was one kind word, one meaningful hug, and they’d have been fine, one big happy family again.
But Joyce hadn’t been able to do that. She hadn’t been able to welcome him, accept him, and she damn sure hadn’t been able to accept Buffy’s pregnancy by him. She saw their child as a mistake, the worse mistake Buffy could have possibly made in her life, and no amount of talking to her would have changed that. Even Rupert knew that.
The woman was dead set in her ways and nothing short of a miracle would have changed her mind about any of it but especially about his role in her daughter’s life.
So Spike had done the only thing he could do at the time, he’d walked away and let Buffy reconcile with the person she needed the most. He knew it would hurt her, destroy her really—destroy him too, truth be told. Yet he hadn’t done it without careful thought. He’d thought of nothing else but that for days, for weeks and in the end, no other decision made sense. Not when it came to Buffy.
She needed him gone, out of her life, out of her heart. It was the only way she could have the full happiness he knew she craved, the happiness he knew she deserved.
Maybe he’d been wrong though. Despite what Rupert had said about Buffy and Joyce patching things up after he left town, he couldn’t help wondering if things may have worked themselves out even if he had chosen to stay and fight for them.
Surely Joyce would have calmed down and accepted him as her son-in-law eventually? Wasn’t like he’d deliberately set out to seduce her daughter into bed. He hadn’t. They knew he hadn’t. Buffy had told them how it happened the second they found out about the affair.
Didn’t make it any less disturbing, of course. Buffy had been underage when they had sex and he damn sure couldn’t blame Joyce for wanting to protect her little girl from him, a full grown man that really should have known better than to go where he did with her daughter.
Even if he did love her, he’d taken advantage of her youth and no matter how obstinately Buffy disagreed about it, it didn’t change the truth of it.
He should have kept control of the situation. He should have walked away. Get his own place the second he learned who she was at the wedding—and how old she wasn’t. But he hadn’t. He’d given in, taken them where he shouldn’t and Buffy… she’d been the one to pay the price. For that, he’d never forgive himself.
Shaking his head, he walked toward the door and closed it, locking it behind him. If he wanted to be there for Buffy and Rupert today, he had to get a move on. They’d be leaving for the church in a few hours and despite how hypocritical he felt by attending the service, there was no way he’d miss it. No matter how Buffy felt about him, he knew his girl needed him at her side today and that his godfather would need them both.
* * *
Buffy hated the stares, the quiet whispers in the back of the church. She didn’t have to have enhanced hearing to know they were about the reappearance of the man beside her. Seven years later and still the gossip hungry busybodies couldn’t leave well enough alone.
She shook her head, doing her best to ignore the whispers and focus on the words of the preacher. His words were nice, some of them even fit with the woman her mother used to be, but the woman she’d become, the woman she’d turned into those last few weeks, hell, those last few years… they didn’t fit so well.
“Not her fault,” she muttered aloud, closing her eyes when Spike’s head gently swung in her direction, one brow arching in silent question.
She drew in a breath, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes, and exhaled a startled sigh when his long, lithe fingers linked themselves with hers. Her eyes shot open, her gaze landing on his face and she lost herself in the broad, understanding smile that spread across his face.
He didn’t need to say anything, his apology, his warmth and compassion were there for her to see, so plain, so pure, so… raw. She squeezed his hand and gave a smile of thanks as his free arm moved across her shoulders, pulling her tight against his side, his lips hovering next to her ear. “It’s okay, pet. ‘M here. You can let go if you want. I’m right here, love. ‘M right here.”
Maybe he was, but she couldn’t let go. Not here. Not now. Because if she did, she might never stop… and her tears of regret wouldn’t change anything. Her mother would still be gone. And Buffy’d still be here, in this church, in this town, in this state… forever a failure in her mother’s eyes.
Her eyes burned with the effort to forestall her tears and she quickly turned her face into Spike’s black dress shirt, hoping his presence would ward off their onslaught. It didn’t. The second she felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, an action as familiar to her as his calm, quiet breathing, she lost the battle for control, tears freely slipping down her face and onto the open lapel of his shirt.
His arm tightened around her, drawing her more fully against him, his hand rubbing tender, smoothing circles along her spine. “’S gonna be all right, love,” he whispered softly, his voice calm and soothing within her ears. “I’ve got you. M’ here. ‘M right here, pet. ‘M right here.”
She nodded against his chest, not trusting herself to speak, hating her weakness, her need to rely on him for comfort and his need to so readily offer it to her. She wanted to be angry with him. She wanted to hate him for leaving her. Hate him for coming back. Hate him for anything as long as she didn’t have to focus on everything else, on all the other feelings inside of her, churning in her gut, catching in her throat.
It hurt to know her mother was gone, to know she didn’t know, that Buffy hadn’t been strong enough to tell her. To admit to her what she’d done. The mistake she’d made. The consequence of her error in judgment… and yet, Buffy knew she’d done the right thing by not saying anything. She didn’t know for sure, hadn’t taken a test yet…
She could be wrong. It could be stress. It could be anything other than what she thought it to be, what Spike thought it to be. Telling her mother wouldn’t have done either one of them any good really. Not when she had no real proof of what she was feeling, what she suspected.
Someone laid a hand on her shoulder blade and Buffy started, her head swiftly jolting up from Spike’s shirt, her blurred eyes connecting with those of the benevolent man before her. She cast a quick, furtive glance around her and, realizing the service was over, she slowly staggered to her feet, accepting the hug the preacher so graciously offered her.
When she pulled back to thank him for speaking, she found herself stepping into the comforting circle of Spike’s warm embrace. “Gonna be right here behind you, love. Lean on me much as you need to, yeah?”
She gave a jerky nod, not trusting herself to look at him as she began to accept more condolences from the people around her. By the time the line dwindled over a half hour later, Buffy was leaning against Spike so fully she began to think of him as her anchor, her rock, the only thing preventing her from drowning, from slipping right through the floor and into that dark abyss she couldn’t quite bring herself to name.
Muttering the last of her goodbyes and thanks, Buffy turned in Spike’s arms, burying her head against his chest. “Can we go home now? I just… I wanna go home.”
“You sure you don’t want to go to the graveside with the others?” Buffy shook her head, tightening her arms around his waist, afraid he’d pull away and the jelly that passed for her legs would crumble at his feet. “All right then, let’s get you home, pet.”
Scarcely listening as he explained the situation to Rupert, Buffy drew in a shaky breath, the heavy numbness in her arms and legs slowly easing up, increasing her range of mobility. She barely managed to follow Spike outside the church and to the car before the unbuttered toast she’d had this morning threatened to unleash itself in the near full church parking lot, probably would have if the man holding her to his side hadn’t somehow talked her through it.
They didn’t speak as he drove them home. Didn’t utter a single sound as he unlocked the front door and quickly ushered her inside, following her up the stairs as she made her way into the bathroom, losing what little she had for breakfast.
He held her hair back for her, wetting a wash cloth to wipe her face when sweat broke across her brow and upper lip and when she was done, when she’d rinsed her mouth out with the cup of water he’d given her, he simply picked her up and carried her into her bedroom, gently easing her low-heeled shoes off her feet as they went.
“Get some rest, love,” he stated, pushing the hair back away from her eyes as he carefully coaxed her to lie on the mattress. “Know you need it with all that bloody tossin’ and turnin’ and cryin’ you did last night.”
She closed her eyes, sighing, hating that he knew, that he heard and yet… she needed his strength, his embrace. She needed them so much she ached from the loss. “Stay with me?” she asked, opening her eyelids and capturing his hand when he moved to leave. “Please? Just… until I fall asleep.”
“Do better ‘n that, pet. I’ll stay until you wake up.”
“Will you hold me?” she questioned softly, scooting back to allow him room on the bed. “Like you used to? Whenever I had a bad dream?”
He nodded, waiting for her to roll onto her side before he cautiously pulled her to him, carefully easing one suit-clad thigh between her legs. “Long as you want, love. Hold you as long as you want.”
She didn’t respond, simply letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lull her to sleep. She thought she heard him whisper her name just before sleep overtook her, but she couldn’t be certain and her body was too worn out for her to open her eyes and search his face for an answer.
A/N: Special thank you to Dusty273 for the beta! Hugs and love you, hun!
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