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She was a huntress. Sleek. Powerful. Deadly. Buffy stalked her prey, weapon held at the ready. Close. Closer. And then she struck.
“Time to get undusty!” she called out, swiping the feather duster across a shelf in the basement.
There wasn’t any kind of dire need to clean the basement, and if there had been, it could have been a Dawn chore. Apparently, there was something about firmly slamming the metaphorical door on an ex that really brought out the urge to clean. She’d swept out the dust and cobwebs left in her heart, and now it was time to do it in the basement. Or something. Either way, it was something to do while Dawn and Mom were out and Spike was napping with Thursday.
Her thoughts lingered on Angel as she continued to clean. No stabby angst or wistful longing. Not anymore. She’d made her peace with things, with the fact that she would never love again like she had with Angel. Not because it had been so pure and special, but because she’d grown up. She’d moved on to adult love. And she had the feeling that even if the curse hadn’t been an issue, neither Angel nor their relationship would have moved on with her. He hadn’t even bothered to try calling her now that he had his magical mood ring chip firmly in place. Fred and Tara had really come through with that, making it so Angel would get a shock if he got too happy.
Ben’s right, she thought, Angel was in love with the idea of The Chosen One, not the girl who was actual—
Her thoughts scattered as she tripped over the corner of a cardboard box tucked partially under a shelf. She assumed that it was a misplaced box of Christmas decorations, or something, but a quick look inside proved otherwise. There was a fancy, old-timey looking jewelry box inside the cardboard one, along with a few doll heads and two video tapes. One of them had been neatly labeled “For Thursday” in a familiar left-handed slant.
Huh. That was kind of weird. What had Spike recorded for Thursday? A collection of his favorite holiday shows, or something? It hadn’t been all that long since Halloween, and now with Thanksgiving over, they were getting into the Christmas specials.
Well, watching something like The Great Pumpkin or How the Grinch Stole Christmas seemed like a better way to pass a few hours than cleaning. She grabbed the tapes and headed up to the living room, putting the “For Thursday” one into the VCR.
Instead of some kind of cartoon, the image on the TV screen just showed her bed for the first few seconds. Then Spike entered the frame, limping slightly. He turned sharply, making his coat flare out behind him before he dropped down on the bed, a smug smirk partially masking the pain in his eyes. That and what he was wearing — his usual ensemble of black jeans, black shirt, and coat along with the open, red dress shirt he sometimes wore — meant he’d probably recorded it while his feet were still pretty tender from Glory soaking them in holy water.
The black and red of charred muscle-tissue. The white of exposed bone…. God, he’d been hurt so badly, all to keep Dawn safe. Would Angel or Riley have gone through all of that? For Dawn as a completely human girl who had always been her sister? Probably, but right after finding out she was some kind of mystical key inserted into their lives? Angel might have. Riley? She really wasn’t sure.
“ ‘Lo, there, love,” Spike’s voice said through the TV, capturing Buffy’s attention again. The look in his eyes had softened, full of love and affection. “Hopin’ you’ll know who I am, but if not…. I’m your da. Name’s Spike. Or, well, William, but it’s been a spell since I’ve gone by that. Slayer — that’s your mum — she’s been trying to play by the rules. I’ll give her that. So, she probably won’t kick me out of your life. Doesn’t mean something else won’t happen, though. Could go out in a blaze of glory while you’re still just a wee sprog.” He flashed a wry grin. “Or, knowing me, could get right sodding plastered and fall over on someone’s bloody picket fence.”
Buffy’s own lips twitched up into a smile at that.
“Anyway, just in case I scuttle off into the great dustbin beyond before you’re old enough to remember me, I just want you to know….” Spike’s expression shifted again, becoming absolutely serious. “I love you, Thursday. That’s why you exist. Could have killed you at one point, but… uh, I didn’t, obviously. Slayer or her mates didn’t stop me. I stopped me. Because you’re mine. You’re my li’l sprog, and I want you. Because I actually love you.” He fidgeted a bit, looking down at this hands for a moment before glancing back up at the camera. “There’s some things been going on to prove it, so your mum at least’ll probably back me on that, but there’s some as think vampires can’t love. That’s bollocks. You ask your mum. And your grandmum and Aunt Dawn.”
The screen went to static for a minute, then cut back in, focused on the empty bed again. Spike bounced over to it this time, practically vibrating with excitement. “Fought a bloody big snake monster yesterday, I did. Me and your mum.”
His eyes gleamed and he started gesturing wildly as he described the fight. Buffy felt her cheeks heat as he went on about how “bloody brilliant” she’d been.
“Course, the same can’t be said for her talking skills. Had her li’l sis convinced she was a doorstep snake demon baby before I came back into the room. Got that all sorted, though. Filled the little bit in on the monks and being a mystical key and whatall.” He tilted his head slightly, studying the camera. “Blob of energy bits, blob of cells. Don’t seem much different to me, honestly. But then, not much of one to judge, me,” he said with a shrug and a grin.
“Live and let live, and all that rot. Unless you’re feelin’ a bit peckish and someone would make a nummy snack.” His eyes widened slightly in alarm. “No, wait, ignore that. No eating anyone. Humans taste bloody fantastic, but your mum wouldn’t like it. Even if she doesn’t know the person. So, don’t eat people…. Or snog’though demons. Delicious, but no real nutritional value and they give a wicked case of heartburn.” He tilted his head again. “Also, sentient and all peaceful like and mostly human-looking, so your mum probably wouldn’t like it, either.”
They continued like that, apparently about one a week or so based on what Spike was saying. It was weird, watching the little snippets. Buffy had fallen in love with Spike before the baby’s soul had started influencing him. If asked about it, she wouldn’t have really been able to say why. But watching him like this? He could be really charming, funny, and sweet. Also kind of an asshole. Crude, rude, and a total pain in the ass. But that just made him real. He’d said before that he loved her, warts, halo, and all. She loved his warts, too. And his devil horns. And the fact that he’d made the effort to try to wear a gray hat, just because he loved her.
Eventually, Spike showed up on the screen in a sweater and black utility kilt. His steps were slow and methodical as he made his way to the bed, and just stared at the camera for a moment, a haunted look in his eyes.
“I….” He stopped and swallowed, then took a deep breath before continuing. “I, uh, hurt someone today. Was an accident. And it… it bothered me. It’s not supposed to….” He ran his hand through his hair with a muttered “bloody hell.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and just breathed. Then he opened them again, and Buffy’s heart ached. She knew exactly when this was and what he was going through.
“I don’t have a soul. You do, though. I can feel it. I can feel you. It’s… god, it hurts. But I don’t regret you, and I’m gonna do my best by you, you hear? Not gonna hurt your soul. I’m not….” He rubbed at his face, wiping away sudden tears. “Bloody hell... I can’t….”
Spike surged to his feet and lunged towards the camera, sending the image back to static. When it came back, he was more composed. The rest of the taped messages were more like the earlier ones. Light, kind of funny, a vehicle for Spike’s innate showmanship and flair. Sometimes he looked exhausted and there were undercurrents of depression, but mostly he just talked to Thursday, telling her what was going on and making sure she knew she was loved.
For the last message, he was wearing a pair of soft, baggy pants and a loose t-shirt. It was pale blue, with the words “#1 Dad.” She’d gotten it for her own father when she’d been five and had stolen it after the divorce. She’d thought about burning it, but…. She’d ended up wearing it as a nightshirt a lot throughout the years, and when Spike had needed something soft and loose while recovering from Dru slicing him open, it had just felt right to give it to him. A tiny bundle of peacefully sleeping infant was held tenderly in his arms.
“Hello, Thursday,” he said to the camera. He smiled down at their little girl. “This is you. Thursday Anne Summers, daughter of Buffy Anne Summers and, um, William Henry Summers. It’s, uh, actually Pratt. Or was when I was alive. That man is dead. Even if I….” He trailed off and shook his head.
Buffy wondered if he’d been thinking about getting his soul, even as early as that.
“Doesn’t matter what I do or not. William Pratt died over a hundred years ago. Spike is who I am now, for the most part. William Summers if need be. But none of that’s important for the nonce, now is it? You’re here, and soul or no, I love you. Just like I told you at the start of all this. You’re Thursday Summers, and you’ve far to go.”
That seemed to be the end of it. Buffy frowned thoughtfully at the unlabeled tape. Had he started up a second set of recordings for Thursday, or maybe something for Aliena? She could understand him not telling her about the ones for Thursday — things had been kind of dicey between them, then all fragile and new — but if there was a tape for Aliena, she wanted to be part of it.
She swapped the tapes and hit play.
Oh, jeez, she thought, her face suddenly getting so hot she was sure she looked like a tomato. Like the other tape, this one had been recorded in her bedroom. But when Spike came into frame, he was completely naked. She thought, at first, that it was some kind of weird masturbation tape or something, but then she realized he was limping as he approached the bed. Had this been recorded at the same time as the other tape?
Even though his feet had to be hurting, he didn’t sit down. He just stood in front of the camera for a moment before putting his hand against the middle of his chest. He slowly moved it down until it was just under his navel, the place where she’d felt the little water balloon of Aliena.
“Really real, then, are you, bitty-bit?” he murmured. “Nothing much to see yet, I imagine, but….” He slowly turned to the side, lifting his arms so they wouldn’t obscure his body, then lowered them as he turned back. “Can’t exactly take a gander in the mirror, now can I? But I want to see, much there yet or no.”
Oh. That’s what this was. Spike had wanted to see the changes to his body during the pregnancy. That was kind of adorable. And sweet.
“Having a bit of a time wrapping my lobes around all this, yeah? Male vampire up the duff from the Slayer. And that’s not even the weirdest part.” He snorted and shook his head. “Weirdest part is how the ritual what caused all this is supposed to work. You wouldn’t exist if I didn’t bloody well love the Slayer.”
He finally sat down, taking the pressure off his still-healing feet. “Completely sack of hammers, innit?” He laughed, a self-mocking sound rather than anything with real humor. “And here I am, Thursday, talking like you’re actually going to see any of this.” He blinked and tilted his head slightly, and Buffy was pretty sure he’d just gotten the idea for the other tape. “Not a bad notion, that. Need a change of wardrobe, though, obviously.”
They continued on like that, documenting the changes and Spike’s inner thoughts.
“…sometimes I don’t even feel like myself. Don’t know how I feel, or how I should feel. It’s just… wrong for a vamp to be in love with the Slayer, but… I am. Even though when she gets near or touches me….”
More talk, and then static. I should turn this off. She shouldn’t be watching this without Spike’s permission. He was naked, his heart laid bare even more than his body. She needed to turn it off, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to do it. He talked about the time she kissed him. About them trying to recreate what had happened, but on their own terms. About the first time they made love. And then….
Spike walked into the frame, doing his usual poses. He was showing by this point, and there was a haunted look in his eyes.
“Bit of a rough day,” he said, then laughed. “God is that an understatement. All I’ve done…. It’s been bothering me. All came to a head today, but now, looking on it, I can see. It’d been creeping in. Feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.” He lightly rubbed the baby bump. “And I don’t just mean the physical.” He stared down at himself. “Your wee soul growin’ in me just like the rest of you…. Making all the things I’ve done… making them hurt.”
He shuddered and closed his eyes. She’d seen it in the other video, but this was even stronger, the agony he’d felt as all of the murder and mayhem he’d gleefully engaged in became a source of pain and horror. It gradually shifted over the weeks. He still talked about all of the lives he’d taken, all the people he’d destroyed. Sometimes he’d just curl up and cry for a few minutes before turning the camera off. But then joy and snatches of poetry started tempering the sorrow.
“Your mum is something else, you know?” he said, voice warm with admiration. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hand resting on his belly as he spoke to the unborn child who would never see this particular tape. “I don’t deserve her, but she wants me anyway. She’s had a hard life, your mum. Called to be the Slayer at fifteen. And then that wanker showed up in her life, messin’ with her while she had to deal with that calling. She’s strong, though, and full of fire. Good sense of humor, too, when you can draw it out. She’s shy in some ways. Uncertain. But if she feels like she can be herself….”
He smiled, and he seemed to glow with it. With happiness and love. God, he was beautiful.
The snippet went to static, and then the next one came up. He didn’t do any of the posing this time, just paced back and forth, swearing.
“He was here. That smug wanker, strutting about like he owns the place.” He snarled, vamping out for a minute before shaking it off. “Wanted you dead, Thursday. Said you were an abomination.” He laughed and shook his head. “He’s the one what’s an abomination. Two years after his soul, and he was still tryin’ to be evil. How could he…?” Spike’s voice cracked, and he just stopped talking for a moment.
“All those people…” he whispered. “God, all those people I killed. The nightmares…. How could he keep doing all of those things for two years? How didn’t it make him sick to think on it all?”
Buffy reached out, her fingertips brushing the television screen. “Because you’re a better man than he is, William,” she said quietly.
And he was, a fact made clear by how they’d behaved as soulless vampires. Angel had murdered to keep from getting his soul again. Spike had fought for his after experiencing Thursday’s. And during the time when he hadn’t even had one at all…. He’d done more good than Angel had in those first few years after being cursed.
He’d made an effort to change himself. For her. And for Thursday. He’d done so many seemingly impossible things for Thursday.
More snippets of video, and it didn’t feel quite so wrong anymore. It was more like silently bearing witness instead of invading his privacy.
Finally, he appeared on screen with clothes on. The loose pants and the #1 Dad shirt. He wasn’t holding Thursday for this one. His arms were wrapped around himself, like he was holding things in. He stared at the camera, looking dazed.
“Lot of things’ve gone down since my last recording. We took out Glory. Dawn’s had a rough time of things, but she pulled through okay. She’s a fighter, like her big sis.”
He went quiet again as he shuffled over to the bed and carefully sat down with a soft hiss of pain. Even with her blood, he’d been in pretty bad shape after Dru. She’d sliced him open, cutting through skin and muscle to get at Thursday and rip her out. He’d healed, eventually. Physically anyway. The emotional trauma was still there, made worse by everything that had happened down in L.A. But he’d be okay. She’d keep doing what she could to help him through it.
“Normally…. Normally I do this all starkers, because that’s the point, yeah? So I can bloody see. I… I don’t want to see this.” His voice went low at that, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t want… I can’t do this.”
He grabbed a pillow and threw it at the camera. It fell, leaving Buffy sitting in there, watching static. She took a deep breath, then slowly let it out and got to her feet. She’d put the tapes back where she found them. And then….
She’d hunt up the video camera, so she and Spike could make some more recordings. Together.