Part 1
Bid me weep, and I will weep while I have eyes to see
And having none yet I
will keep a heart to weep for thee (1)
The ‘cold' gray light of morning was anything but as it danced along the
surface of his skin. Even wracked with pain after his plummet from the tower
and his previous capture by Glory, Spike couldn't summon up the wherewithal
to focus past his numbing sense of loss. The emotion of the shocking
realization that she was gone blanketed his perception. Buffy, his beautiful
golden Buffy was dead. Over and over those words repeated in this head. Yet
still the concept that she was gone slipped from his grasp. Her strength,
her perseverance, her raw, focused determination against insurmountable odds
had been his bulwark during the single most unsettling time of his unlife.
When he had first been chipped, he had denied her power. He had been at a
disadvantage - couldn't hunt, couldn't feed, shaken to his very core. It had
been worse than when he had been fledging, the sense of powerlessness. The
Big Bad had never had to depend on anyone, not to feed. Spike never had
found he could depend on anyone, not since his death or before. Reluctantly
the Slayer had offered him sanctuary and obediently her minions had followed
suit. He hadn't been able to bring himself to depend on that sanctuary.
Unable to bring himself to rely on humans, he had been unable to believe
they would hold up their end of the deal. No more than he had been able to
believe that the bonds of that little group, not being enforced by pain and
fear, could stand against his interference. He had been wrong, painfully
wrong. He had first admired Buffy as a worthy opponent. Gradually over time,
watching her with her ‘minions', he came to respect the way she had enhanced
her Slayer persona with their support. Her loyalties and loves had not
weakened her, as any vampire would believe. These qualities had not left her
open to attack or distracted her at a crucial moment but had time and time
again turned the table on more powerful antagonists.
Her relationships with them were so unlike the way a vampire used its
minions. When they put their backs together they could stand against
anything. There was no struggle for power, no jostling for position. They
each gave all they had; building on each other's strengths and without
conscious thought they fortified each other's weaknesses. Nothing could sway
their faith in each other. Spike had learned that first-hand from the
results of his attempt to divide and conquer them in his agreement with
Adam. And now they had placed their all-too-brief and fragile lives between
all the power and rage of a Hell-God and the rest of humanity.
It was impossible. They lacked the rigid discipline of an army or the
viciousness of a mob. What they were was something far more subtle -- kin.
In the oldest sense of the word; stronger than any blood bond, much like the
primal hunt/coven bonds of vampires but lacking in the darkest traits. They
were a collective of determined, independent individuals. Each one would at
times willingly circumvent their own wants and needs to protect the others.
Spike saw that his mistake in the past had been in first treating them like
prey, and then when that failed approaching them like a rival master's
conclave. His failures had been mostly due to his wrong assumptions of who
was this group's master, and what their weakness was. Time and time again,
the traits he had assumed would work in his favor had been the very ones to
blow his plans to hell and back. Rupert's insistence that he only guide, not
control his Slayer should have hampered both his ability to impart his
knowledge and the speed of her response while she questioned his
instructions. Instead it had created a more powerful Slayer, one who could
make her own decisions under pressure, yet was unafraid to expose her
limitations by seeking help. The whelp's eagerness to please and willingness
to let the others take all he had to give and more should have drained the
boy. Xander had no enhanced strength, and while Spike had noticed that he
was far more perceptive than most people thought, he wasn't the sharpest
knife in the drawer. Somehow the boy used that. Seeming completely oblivious
to slights and insults, the whelp remained ever ready to bleed himself dry
in his feral devotion to his friends. Red, with her self-effacing
insecurities, should have been easy to manipulate. *Wouldn't she make a
pretty and powerful pawn in the right hands?* Yet there was a steely resolve
to the fragile-seeming witch, and Spike knew from personal experience that
the girl did not back down. Buffy had called Willow her big gun before the
tragic battle in which they had won the war, but lost what had made it worth
fighting. They had won, largely due to Red. She had managed to brain-suck a
hell-god minutes before she was tossing that mob of humans around like ten
pins. *Would have thought twice about kidnapping her and the whelp, if I
knew she could do that.* When the seven of them tumbled into the magic shop
it seemed days had passed, rather than hours. *Wellesley [2] was right,
funny you don't see a won or a lost battle as melancholy, when the remains
resemble a food fight --- when it's not your own that's lying broken and
lifeless.*
Spike thought this might be it; Buffy had been their linchpin and without
her the little group might just slowly drift apart. Rupert had fought for
the white-hats before Buffy had come into his life, but the others cared
more for the girl than any cause. Spike dropped onto the metal stairs
leading up to the loft and watched as the others settled around the shop. Or
attempted to. The Watcher led the Nibblet to one of the chairs at the table,
and guided her to sit. She sat, unaware of her surroundings, shedding quiet
tears for her sister, for her mother, for the safe world she remembered but
would never know again. Red fluttered about, fussing over her girlfriend and
the little one, covertly keeping a close eye on the Watcher. Spike admitted
to himself he was waiting, waiting for when one of them to look at him and
ask, ‘why are you here?' waiting for them to close ranks against him and
possibly drive him out into the sunlight. He wondered if he would resist, at
least make some token effort at self-preservation. As his tears blurred his
vision again, he could almost see Buffy in front of him. He could almost
take himself back to that one brief moment, when they had gone back to her
house and she had said "Come inside, Spike." She had crossed the Watcher and
the whelp to include him on that disastrous escape attempt. She had trusted
him with her beloved sister's life. It more than made up for her repeated
rejections. Those small words, that show of trust, more than justified his
turning his back on his dark princess for her. She had trusted him, and for
one brief moment he had belonged. Belonged to her and to hers, and Spike
didn't think he could bear it if they turned him out. He promised his lady
he would protect Dawn, and in retrospect all her minions would fall under
his protection now that the Slayer was dead.
He was jarred out of his introspection by Anya's hysterics. At least her
disjointed words had sounded like hysterical gibberish before she had limped
out of the shop. He expected the whelp to follow after the demon bint. *She
has the boy well trained; he should follow,* Spike thought, looking at the
shattered looks of the humans. *When he goes, that will start it. They will
each stumble off on their separate ways.* Spike reasoned it would be just
like he had predicted to Adam, they would drift apart in their own private
miseries. But the boy hesitated and surprised him by turning back to the
gang. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Spike remembered those strong human
arms dragging him out of the collapsing library only hours after the whelp
had threatened to kick his shiny white bum. If nothing else, the boy was
unpredictable.
The little blond witch said something about shock, and that they should make
Dawn drink something hot. She said she would get something. The Watcher had
gone back to the office. Spike could hear his stifled sobs. He didn't think
the humans could hear that soft sound, but Red went back anyway. Given the
uncanny powers she had so recently displayed Spike wouldn't have put it past
her to have read his mind. The boy knelt in front of Dawn, his hands
enveloping her small white fingers as he first pressed her hand between both
his palms and them gently kissed its back. *Angelus was right, a true white
knight.* The girl remained unresponsive, and if not for Spike's enhanced
hearing he would have missed Xander's soft words.
"You know Dawn; there's so much I don't know. But I can tell you this with
absolute certainty. When you love someone, you give them a part of yourself.
It binds you to them. Nothing, not even death can sever that connection.
Part of you is with Joyce and Buffy and always will be. They're even now
drawing strength and love from it. And part of them will always be within
you. I know it hurts too much now, but eventually you'll be able to look
inside and feel that part of them and wrap it around you, and nothing will
ever be able to shake the love and strength you draw from them." Xander
swallowed hard, and Spike felt a pang of sympathy for a boy raised in an era
where men just didn't cry. Xander's voice was rough with suppressed emotion
when he continued. "I love you, Dawn. You have a piece of my heart and you
always will, in life and in death. I loved them too. That hasn't stopped. It
never will. I just want you to know you're not alone. We're family. You know
what that means - even if you wanted to, you can never get rid of us."
The blond witch returned with the hot tea, and coaxed Dawn to drink. Spike
saw Red catch the whelp's eye and wordlessly summon him to the office. As
the boy passed by, Spike was astonished to feel a warm hand briefly squeeze
his shoulder. He had thought they were so wrapped up in their own grief they
had forgotten him. He had still expected at any moment one of them would
notice he was there and chuck him out. That wordless 20th century gesture
expressed so many things. In that one fleeting gesture he was included,
acknowledged, and the precarious welcome he had obtained courtesy of the
Slayer had been reaffirmed. It also reminded him of the last promise he had
made to Buffy, the promise that hadn't ended with her death but had been a
just in case - just in case I don't make it she had said, like there was a
chance in hell she would. Spike, who had been privy to the secret of this
unit's power, had always been on the outside looking in. Now, with that one
unconscious gesture, Xander had given him a glimpse of what it felt to
belong, a taste of the wellspring of power that the Slayer had drawn upon
for five years.
The nibblet hadn't shown much interest in drinking the hot tea, but she did
clutch the warm mug in both hands. Spike quietly slipped into the seat next
to her at the table. The boy's words hadn't seemed to reach her so he
wrapped the long fingers of one hand around her hands and gently stroked her
hair with the other. The witch seemed to sense the futility of trying to
make her talk and just offered her quiet comforting presence.
At length Spike spoke in a low, calming voice. "Hush now, nibblet. There,
there, you'll make yourself ill." Dawn did not answer with words but
gradually her tears slowed and stopped. Tara had to pry the mug loose to
take the cold tea and went to make more. Once they were alone, Spike said,
"The whelp's right, you're not alone. As long as they draw breath and blood
flows in their veins they will stand by you, through hell and back. Not
being hampered by those restrictions myself, I'll be there to dandle your
great-grandchildren on my knee when you are old and gray. This I swear."
"That's a promise, isn't it?" She whispered softly, eyes still unfocused.
Spike was so relieved that she had spoken he barely managed a firm nod and
squeezed her hands. She turned, still clutching at his hand; the fires of
grief in her eyes banked but not burned out. Her voice was raw from her
silent crying when she said, "I remember. That man said you didn't have a
soul, that he couldn't understand why you would risk yourself, and you said
you had made a promise. You take your promises pretty seriously."
"Very seriously, Pet." *There's hidden depths to this one.* She reminded him
so much of Joyce, he was hard-pressed not to start sobbing again.
"What can I promise you?" Twice in the space of an hour he was astonished.
He knew that she grasped the concept of a demon, more than most, given her
background, or the background she remembered. Yet the trust she placed him,
which now shone in her eyes, made him fear for her and long to keep her safe
in any way that he could.
"You swear you'll listen to the Watcher, and the witch, and the whelp. You
keep yourself safe. You promise me you won't let this break you." He hadn't
meant to sound so fierce. He feared for a moment he might drive her back
into her silent shell, but she tried to smile.
"This is one of those 'do as I say not as I do' things, right?" Still
resilient under such a burden, her feeble attempt at humor, accompanied by
the Dawn version of Buffy's patented eye roll, was oddly reassuring. *Sums
and parts. Wonder if this was what the Slayer was like at this age.*
Spike countered, "I'm willing to try." It seemed only fair to trade her
endeavored sarcasm for his less than classic smirk.
"I guess we'll have to stick close to each other," She squeezed his fingers
between both hands. "Just to keep each other honest." *And didn't she just
wink? Amazing. She's going to survive this.*
part one
1. Robert Herrick ‘To Althea Who May Command Him Anything’
2 Arthur Wellsey, Duke of Wellington
Part 2
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