Her Sire

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Her Sire

Kallysten

Disclaimer : Of course they belong to someone else, I just play with them sometimes.
Distribution : Sure, just tell me where. When the story is finished, I will post it on my website at http://www.geocities.com/kallysten_fr/
Feedback : Anything but flames kallysten_fr@yahoo.com
Story notes : This is a sequel to my story His Childe. If you haven't read it, I strongly suggest you stop right here and go read it first, some things in here will make more sense if you do.

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William

One by one, the flames of the candles wavered and died, until only a pale frame of light seeping around the curtains broke the darkness. William’s eyes were wide open, but he didn’t notice the last flame disappearing. He didn’t realize night was gone and morning well on its way.

At first, all he was aware of was Buffy’s regular breathing, her warmth against his skin. It took him back to their relationship – was it even a relationship? – before he had turned her, when she ran away from him with the first rays of the sun, if not before, and he almost expected her to wake up and leave. It wouldn’t be surprising if she did, after all he was just a monster.

After a while, it came almost as a shock when he realized that he was breathing too. Habit, he told himself forcefully. Mimicry of his lover. But when he tried to stop, his lungs rapidly started burning, and he had to start inhaling again.

And then it began, as if they had just been waiting for him to realize he was back among the living to remind him that they were dead because of him. In the beginning, they came one at a time to confront him. For some of them, it was just a face, or not even that. For others, he could see clearly up to the last button of their fancy attire, up to the smallest tear in their too old jackets. One after another, they accused him, sometimes with only a date, a place, and sometimes with all the grim details of their deaths. Their deaths at his hands or fangs. He tried to close his eyes and shut them out, but it only increased their numbers. He tried to plead that it was the demon, not him, but they didn’t listen. They couldn’t listen. They were dead. Because of him.

For an eternity, he endured the litany of the accusations, while trying not to hear it, not to let it affect him. Over and over, he repeated to himself that he had to be strong. For Buffy, he had to. For the heavenly creature that trusted him enough to sleep in his arms, he would be. In ten days, the apocalypse was coming, and he needed to be strong to help her. Help them. Too much was at stake for him to allow the voices to touch him. They were dead. He had to be strong for the living.

“Spike…”

Buffy’s quiet and still sleepy voice startled him out of his thoughts, and for a blessed second the voices were quiet. He almost corrected her, but caught himself just in time. Yes, he was Spike. He had to be Spike.

She half rose from her lying position and leaned on her elbow, her other hand pressed flat against his chest.

“You’re warm…” she whispered, now fully awake, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re alive.”

“Not just me,” he said through a tight throat. “We are.”

She let out a delighted laugh and again she was against him, on him, pressing kisses all over his face and giggling softly. He managed to smile, because her joy was such a beautiful thing to witness, almost beautiful enough to make him ignore the horrible words that were still ringing in his head.

“God I am famished!” she said between two laughs. “Breakfast?”

Without waiting for an answer, she was out of his arms and out of the bed, gathering clothes before stepping into the bathroom. Yes, he was hungry, too; if his stomach making weird noises did indeed mean that he was hungry. Still trying to ignore the voices, he got up and opened his closet. Paying only half a mind to what he was doing, he pulled out tan trousers and a light blue shirt. Nibblet had given these to him for Christmas the year before, and he had worn them only once, to please her. Spike had worn them just once. Spike didn’t wear these kinds of things. Frowning at the garments in his hands, he shoved them back into the closet, grabbing instead jeans, a t-shirt and a shirt, all of them black. Black suited him. Black for all his victims. Black for a murderer. A costume. Spike’s costume.

He was buttoning his shirt when Buffy called him to the bathroom. He joined her, wondering what was wrong, and she pulled him to stand next to her by the sink. Then she pointed at the mirror. A shockingly blonde man stared at him through bloodshot blue eyes, raising a scared eyebrow. Next to him, a laughing Buffy was making all sorts of funny faces. He half smiled at her, and so did the man in the mirror. With a different hair color and glasses in front of these too blue eyes… No, it didn’t just look like him, of course. It was Spike. It was him.

* * * * *

Buffy couldn’t help grinning at the look of amazement on Spike’s face as he ran a hand through his mussed curls, then touched his scar, his features, almost as if not believing it was his reflection he was staring at. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror for quite a while, true, but he had seen pictures, so he shouldn’t have been that surprised.

She remembered she had something else to show him, and touched his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Look,” she said as she rolled her shirt halfway up her chest, exposing her skin. “The burns are all gone.”

Again, as if not believing his own eyes, he let his fingers confirm what he was seeing, trailing them lightly on the unscarred skin of her front, and the caress sent shivers down her spine. Just the night before, she had been covered in angry red marks. They didn’t hurt anymore, but they should have taken days to disappear so completely, if not weeks, even with accelerated healing.

Spike’s gaze and fingers traveled up to her neck, first where Drusilla had bitten her, and the punctures were completely gone too, as if they had never existed. Then he was checking the other side, and the barest smile touched his lips as he caressed ever so softly the two healed marks he had left just a few hours before. It seemed that Cordy, or whoever, had decided to heal her, but had understood the distinction between scars that were painful to see and welcome ones.

She looked down at Spike’s wrist as he rolled up his sleeve a little, and lightly traced the two clear pink puncture marks she had made.

“The marks are there,” he said softly, “but I can’t feel you.”

There was sadness in his voice, too much of it, and Buffy hugged him impulsively.

“I’m still yours,” she replied firmly.

His body was shaking in her embrace, and Buffy looked at his face, almost expecting to see him crying. He wasn’t, but his eyes were tightly shut.

“Spike, love, are you OK?” she asked worriedly. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

The shaking stopped then, and he took a couple of deep breaths.

“Nothing wrong,” he replied, his voice rasping. “Just feeling weird.”

A question was burning Buffy’s lips, but she wasn’t sure how he would react to it. She knew when Angel had first been cursed the guilt had basically broken his mind. There was just no good way to ask Spike if his soul was torturing him. And if it was, he would tell her, right?

“You would tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly, and a frown barred his forehead, gone as quickly as it had appeared. He gave her a lopsided smile.

“Of course, luv. But there’s nothing to tell.”

She studied his expression for an instant, but all she could read on his face was love as she caressed his cheek lightly.

Buffy’s empty stomach protested loudly, and she felt half embarrassed, half amused by the rumbling. Giving a quick kiss to Spike, she took his hand and pulled him out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen. He had to be ravenous too.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she asked as she took out various things from the fridge and cupboards.

“Anything,” he replied absently. “Anything you make for yourself will be fine for me.”

In a few minutes, Buffy had cooked pancakes and omelets, and made coffee. Usually her improved cooking skills benefited Dawn or their guests, but this time at last she could truly taste what she had made. Covering a pancake with Nutella, she looked at Spike who was sitting on a stool opposite her. He was munching absentmindedly on what she had put on the plate in front of him, very obviously not caring what it was. He had talked so little since they had awoken, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. He had said before that he didn’t want to be human, and she could only wonder whether he was changing his mind or still feared he might not be himself anymore. Except for the unusual quiet and the slight broodiness, she could see no difference.

She followed his gaze, noticing that he was looking through the window, and a huge grin made its way onto her face. Quickly washing down the pancakes with some juice – apple and raspberries did taste better than she would have ever thought - she grabbed Spike’s hand and pulled him with her out of the house through the back door. He resisted, a look of pure panic crossing his face as she tried to get down the steps and into the sun.

“It’s OK, love,” she reminded him kindly. “We can go in the sun now. Come? Please?”

To prove her words, she walked a few steps away from him, tilting her head toward the sky, enjoying the warmth and light that bathed her. Laughing, she raised her arms above her head, turning so that she could feel the sun all over her.

Remembering her lover, she extended a hand to him, inviting him again to join her. He frowned a little but took a couple of steps, just enough to be able to touch her hand, not coming fully out of the shadows of the house yet. As he held on to her fingers, he was looking at his own, now in the sun. Gently, Buffy pulled him to her, for the first time admiring him under direct sunlight. She’d seen him during the day before, but she really hadn’t just been admiring him at the time. Not much, at least. She was pleased at the tentative smile that slowly bloomed on his lips.

“You are beautiful,” he said quietly, toying with a strand of her hair.

She felt a sudden rush of warmth in her body, and it had nothing to do with the sun.

* * * * *

How could he have ever said, let alone believed, that she belonged in the darkness with him, William wondered a little bitterly. She was a child of the sun, and seeing her glowing in the light only proved it once and for all.

He wished he could have felt her presence within him, felt the light and warmth of his Mate, but that comfort had been taken from him almost as soon as he had found it. And now he was alone, in the dark and cold, with the voices, even if he knew he was in her arms, in the sun, and listening to her laugh.

A shrieking Dawn suddenly jumped on him and Buffy, trying to hug them both at the same time.

“I saw you through the window,” she said excitedly. “It’s so great! So wonderful!”

Oh yeah, bloody wonderful.

The two sisters laughed and talked for a while, and William just looked at them, barely understanding what they were saying, their happy voices almost drowned out by harsh, accusing ones. He had failed them both. Didn’t protect Dawn when it counted, and let Buffy die. Two more voices to add to the cacophony.

A hand touched his shoulder and startled him. He turned toward Steven, who, despite his grin, looked a little concerned.

“You OK, Spike?” he asked.

“Will...” the blonde started, then stopped abruptly.

Spike Spike Spike I am Spike murderer yes but strong Spike need strong need Spike.

“I will be,” he said with a forced smile. “Feels a bit strange, that’s all.”

“You should get inside,” Dawn said suddenly, a bit worried. “You two are going to get sunburn if you stay out too long too soon.”

Sunburn. Yes, the sun burnt. The sun burnt bad men. He was a bad man. He was burning inside, the soul burnt. But the sun wasn’t burning his skin. Why wasn’t he burning?

* * * * *

The backyard was empty again, and Giles turned his back to the window, leaning against the sill. He took off his glasses, drying with the back of his hand the tears that had rolled down his cheeks. Buffy’s laughter had awoken him, and seeing her in the sun, alive, was even better than her last return to the living, because this time he wasn’t worried.

Or not much. She had been gravely, terminally, ill before being turned. What if the illness came back, now that she was human once more? His smile disappeared slowly at the thought.

He dressed quickly and joined the joyous impromptu breakfast party in the kitchen. Joyous, that is, except for Spike, who seemed strangely subdued. After the required hugs and congratulations, Giles managed to convince Buffy to go to the hospital for a check up. Actually, he convinced Spike, who didn’t leave much choice to Buffy. She was still protesting in the car, claiming that all her wounds had been healed – when had she been wounded? – and that it would have been stupid of whoever had made her human again to leave the tumor in her brain in the process. Five hours later, she was half sulking, half gloating, as the doctors pronounced her in perfect health.

From the hospital they went to the Magic Box, where the Scoobies, warned by Dawn, were all assembled. Angel was also there, beaming and breathing. He and Buffy hugged and laughed together, and Giles expected Spike to scowl at the display, or make it clear to the brunette that the changes didn’t affect his relationship with Buffy. But Spike said nothing. He just watched Buffy hug all of the Scoobies in turn, remained silent among the general laughter and excitement, as if none of it concerned him. The only explanation Giles could find to his detached behavior was that facing his human side – his soul – for the first time in more than a hundred years wasn’t that easy for the ex-vampire. But when he had tried to talk to him about it at the hospital while they were waiting for Buffy, Spike had just shrugged, never answering the question.

Buffy had been told in her dream that all three vampires would keep their strength when they became humans, but again some confirmation was needed about that, and Giles talked them into doing a bit of sparring. It was quickly clear that they were indeed as fast and as strong as they had been before, the two men having conserved their vampiric abilities, and Buffy her combined Slayer/Vampire strength. They all needed to work on their breathing, though. To Giles’ insistence, they did just that for the rest of the afternoon, joined by Steven and later Manon. Willow, Tara, Dawn and Andrea were in the Magic Box, researching the spells they would need for the big day, and Xander, who had taken two weeks off work, was busy sharpening and oiling the many weapons stored all around the shop. The joined armies of hell and Quortoth could come, Sunnydale was ready.

* * * * *

Patrol. William could do patrol. Find vamps, stake them. Easy. Easy because he could still sense the vampires, feel them. Yet he wasn’t one anymore, was he? So how could he sense them? Interesting problem to think about. Think about it and nothing else. He couldn’t let himself listen to them, or he wouldn’t be able to patrol. He wouldn’t be able to help his Buffy. He wouldn’t be able to do anything. If he listened to them, he would just curl up and wait for sunrise. Wait. The sun didn’t burn him anymore. So sunrise would do nothing to help. Nothing could help. Nothing but Buffy. When she slipped her small hand into his, the voices faltered for a second. When she smiled at him. When she called him ‘love’. When she kissed him. When she cuddled against him to go to sleep. So tired, she was, after a long and exciting day. So tired, he was, trying to shut the voices out. But they never faltered more than a second. Never. So he clung to his lover, his only protection against them all.

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