Rating: R
Disclaimer: Hey, Joss! If you want your characters back, come on and pry 'em off each other!
Concrit/Feedback: As much as you can stomach =D
Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: AU, post-“Harsh Light of Day”(S4) and Ats “In The Dark”(S1).

A sequel to Lost Boy.

Found

by
Beetle

Part 1

Spike keeps up a steady litany of promises and soothing nonsense words, but the boy's dreams are still dark, still . . . nightmares.

He murmurs the names of people Spike has heard of, or knows--people he's tried to kill more than once--in the most forlorn voice. But despite the temptation to wake him up in any of a thousand deliciously wicked ways, Spike refrains from doing so. He senses that for all of the boy's twitching and muttering, sighing and moaning, this may be the best day's rest he's had since he was turned.

"Please . . . don't leave me," the boy begs. Filtered, dusty light sneaks in through the rips and tiny holes in the moth-eaten black-out curtains over the room’s only window, providing more than enough light to see the boy’s pale, tired face scrinching up as if he’s about to cry in his sleep.

Spike remembers the signs well, remembers mornings spent trying to keep that look from Dru’s face, keep the voices and visions from waking her out of the little sleep she was able to get. . . .

He brushes the boy’s dirty dark hair back out of his face. “Hush, now, love. It’s alright, isn’t it? I’m here now. Won’t ever leave you—“

And so on. He misses Dru in pangs that hurt less than he would’ve thought possible.

Under the gentle caress of his index finger, the boy’s brow smoothes out and he inches infinitesimally closer to Spike, his hair spilling onto his forehead. Spike brushes it back again, taking another good, hard look at his prize.

Pale, even for a vampire, from lack of blood, and rail-thin to boot, his face is young and starved, all strong angles, but for the slight curve to his cheek and the fan of thick dark lashes that fan out on them. His lips are bitten and chapped, his skin cold to the touch.

Spike would wonder how the boy’s been staying ahead of starvation, but the building they’re currently dossing in—-that the boy’s been squatting in for three years, and which has surely been condemned for at least as long as Spike’s been undead--is teeming with absolutely nothing.

Taking a page out of Angel’s book, are you, love? No more. Gonna be bloody brilliant when I’m done with you: fearless, deadly and beautiful. Spike strokes his finger down the boy’s face. And mine. You’ll be--

Dark, alert eyes are suddenly gazing up into Spike’s own. The transition from sleeping to waking is nothing more dramatic than a blink, and a sudden, sharp breath that isn’t exhaled.

It takes Spike nearly a minute to figure out what to say to break the silence of their stare.

“Hello, lovely.”

“Hello, William,” the boy says, a somber acknowledgment of Spike’s presence with no indicators either way as to his own feelings on the matter.

Not that I care, Spike thinks--anger thinly veiling anxiety. This isn’t bloody kindergarten—-not bloody Sesame Street. Gave himself to me, and there’s no givesies-backsies. I won’t let there be.

The rest of the thought is lost as the boy leans toward Spike hesitantly, and tucks his face into the crook of Spike’s neck. The tip of his nose is cold against the spot where Spike’s pulse isn’t.

“Warm,” he whispers huskily, shivering; Spike pulls him closer possessively in response. “You’re so warm.”

“Hush, now. Rest.” There’s a fine tremor in Spike’s voice, one the boy probably doesn’t notice. But Spike does, and he smiles ruefully.

Angelus had been right about one thing; Spike would always be a soft touch for any needy brunet with a sad story and even sadder eyes.

Bugger what Angelus thinks. Especially now. Spike’s in gameface, for a moment, the blurry, dusty lines of the room taking on a sharp, red-tinged edge. He shakes it off.

In his arms, the boy--his boy shifts and wriggles like a fish, molding himself to Spike’s body. When he finally settles, his clothes look filthier and rattier next to Spike’s clean leather and denim. His hand looks dead and bloodless against the black of Spike’s t-shirt.

“Master?” His lips shape on Spike’s throat, flickers of tongue and breath causing only passing tremors of interest. For the moment. Every bit of tension in Spike’s body dissolves and he smiles, the demon rumbling audibly, contentedly.

“Yes . . . Master.”

The boy sighs and drops back into sleep. Shortly after, Spike follows. There are no dreams to disturb either of them.

Part 2

At dusk, Spike stands up, shrugs his duster on and looks at the boy.

He’s sitting on a crate that doubles as chair and table, and biting his fingernails miserably. (He’d offered the chair to Spike, when he’d brought Spike in just before dawn, but Spike’d demurred. Didn’t look like it’d hold the weight of anything but a starving child.)

Spike lights a cigarette and watches the nervous boy gnaw his nails bloody. He tries not to feel like Henry Higgins—this boy is no Audrey Hepburn, and that’s the gospel truth, there—but he can’t help the smile that curves his lips around the cigarette.

“Here, now, pet. Hope there’s not anything in this place you value.”

The boy’s eyes drift slowly up to Spike’s, confused but alert, the question in them nearly audible. In response, Spike takes one last drag on his cigarette before pitching it into the boy’s squalid, make-shift bed. It seconds,the flames are leaping toward the ceiling.

“Oh,” the boy says, frowning as if trying to concentrate on a complex math problem. Spike’s seen Rain Man--Dru’d dragged him, one evening, nattering on about bloody Dustin Hoffman—and allowed that he very well could be. No telling how the blood is going to affect someone.

“I—I rigged an electrical line once . . . so I c-could listen to my radio and maybe have some more light but someone stole my stuff a couple years ago and I didn’t have the money to get new stuff and all my comics are back in Sunnydale, anyway, so. . . .” the boy trails off—forlornly, he does everything that way, it seems. “This isn’t a nice neighborhood anymore.”

“Get a lot nicer once the two of us scarper.” Spike snorts. The fire’s already made its way up two walls and the ceiling is definitely about to catch. The boy looks more pathetically lost than ever, but Spike thinks he understands.

He holds out his hand in invitation, 99% sure it will be taken.

“They—whoever they were—stole my extra sweaters, too, but I found these the next night,” the boy informs Spike very solemnly, gesturing to the three or four sweaters he’s currently wearing. Then he looks once more around the smoky room, his expressions as morose as ever. “They aren't warm enough, though. They never are.”

But he looks at Spike and slowly stands up . . . steps forward and takes Spike’s hand tentatively, his mouth almost bending into something that’s almost a not-frown.

"By George, I think he’s got it," Spike murmurs. He expects more confusion, but actually gets a wan smile instead, and soft, not even remotely tuneful crooning:

" Who takes good care of me,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?

“You're full of surprises." Spike laughs, and pulls the boy close. "Right, then. Let’s be off.”

Spike leads him out of the swiftly burning room.

Part 3

“Oh, wow. . . .” the boy breathes.

The motor lodge Spike’d got them a “suite” in is nothing special—worn, seen better days, but clean. No creepy-crawlies and in good repair.

No, nothing special, but the boy goggles around like it’s the Taj Mahal, turning a slow, awed circle, eyes as wide as saucers.

So, as shabby as the room is, Spike tries to see it through the eyes of an even shabbier boy.

Can’t seem to do it though. Not that there’s any real need to. A few days—a week tops’ll see the boy battle-ready, and then, it’s back to the Hellmouth to kill that interfering bitch of a Slayer. After that. . . .

Anywhere but bloody SoCal.

“Take it this room’ll do ya fine, then?” Spike shrugs off his duster and tosses it on the bed. “You’ll not be wantin’ to find a Ritz-Carlton?”

The boy doesn’t get the joke, doesn’t hear him. He’s being distracted by the old, scratched microwave that holds a dubious place of honor on the counter of the “kitchen”. Creeping up on it slowly (so it doesn’t run away?) one shaking hand outstretched as if he’s reaching for the Holy Grail.

When he finally dares to touch it, a deep shudder goes through him . . . then he pets it like the family dog.

“It’s so beautiful.” The boy turns a tear-bright gaze on Spike. “Like out of a fairy-tale.”

Spike doesn’t know whether to laugh, or have the kid committed. “Hardly,” he snorts. Though if he were to squint hard, the water stains on the ceiling could be viewed as bad modern art.

“It’s nicer than any place I can remember living . . . I think.” The boy bites his lip and looks at the microwave like a young man gazing upon his ain true love. “After I got . . . vampified, everything was weird and jumble-y. Sometimes—it’s like there’s two of me, both with permanent fog-on-the-brain. But I remember these. You can blow stuff up in them.”

“We won’t be, though.” Spike shrugs, pats himself down for cigarettes and remembers they’re in his duster. The boy’s rubbing off on him, and not in the naughty-tingly way. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be so easily impressed. This place and everything in it is one step above shithole, including that damn microwave. It’s beneath your notice, and you’ve got to learn to tell the difference.”

“Oh.” The boy says, visibly shrinking into himself, his hand shying away from the microwave as if he’d just been caught stealing. “I—s-sor—“

“Bloody hell--stop that cringing and come here! Come here,” Spike commands when the boy doesn’t seem inclined to move. In fact, he leaves the microwave’s side only reluctantly, and drifts listlessly over to Spike, who pulls him close. Underneath three sheep worth of threadbare sweaters, he feels about as relaxed in Spike’s arms as one of Angelus’s victims. “I'm not going to hurt you . . . until you ask me to. So I don't want you wilting every time I raise my voice, alright?”

The boy nods, staring holes into Spike’s collarbone.

Maybe once he’s had someone to eat he’ll stop being so skittish. . . . “So I’m guessing that you’re probably wanting to grab a quick bite--get some new clothes, too, then--”

“The wiring was easy, though I got electrocuted a few times. But I--I couldn’t rig water pipes.” The boy admits, no doubt doing his bloodless best to blush. He plucks at the right sleeve of the top sweater. “And it doesn’t rain a lot in L.A.”

“Not your fault, is it pet?” A shake of the boy’s head, and it takes a few seconds, but yes, his sequiturs are becoming less and less non the longer he’s around Spike. “A shower’s what you’re wanting, right?” A nod. “Well, go on, then. Don’t need my permission to bathe, for future reference. Take as long as you like.”

“Really?”

“Really.” The boy’s perked up more about the bloody shower than he has about being Spike’s. The demon grumbles, whispering things like take, and claim, but there’ll be time for that later, after Spike’s run a few errands.

“Plenty of time later,” Spike reassures the both of them, brushing back the boy’s hair and caressing his face. When the boy’s eyes flutter shut in concentration and—yes, pleasure, Spike leans in and kisses him, long and slow. He tastes . . . off, like cheap coffee and bitter tears, but he responds eagerly enough, his hands fluttering about Spike’s shoulders like dead butterflies.

When Spike leans away, the boy follows him, looking completely dazed. This time, Spike can tell it’s in the good way.

There’ll be time to take the boy hunting tomorrow night. Tonight, I think we’ll stay in.

“Sooner you’re in, the sooner you’re out. Go on.” Spike nudges the kid toward the bathroom. About halfway there, he turns to look back at Spike, alarm written large on his face. His eyes are as huge and pathetic as Spike soft spot can make them. “I’ll be here when you get out. Understand?”

The boy nods but doesn’t meet Spike’s eyes, and that sort of faithlessness won’t do at all, not for one bare moment. And in less than that time—in a move the boy probably couldn’t even see, let alone duplicate--Spike’s blocking the way to the bathroom and in gameface.

He catches the boy’s chin--gets right in his face until his dark eyes widen with the kind of reverence heretofore reserved for outmoded kitchen appliances. This is a moment his demon should recognize, even if the boy doesn’t. “Do you understand?”

It’s a drawn out, quiet challenge, oddly similar to the ones Spike’d had with Angelus and Darla (most of which he’d inevitably lost, in much the same way the boy's about to lose this one).

Of course this boy, being who he is, seems relieved by the show of dominance, not chastened or angry. He nods again, that tiny not-frown lightening the misery written on his face. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” Away goes gameface and out comes a serenely indulgent smile. The boy probably can’t tell that Spike suddenly feels in over his head . . . just a bit. “Go on, then. And don’t forget behind your ears.”

When the bathroom door snicks shut, Spike sits on the bed, drained.

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