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Lapdog by Sigyn
 
Crickets
 
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    Buffy couldn’t sleep. She didn’t mention the brat to anyone at home, and no one else seemed to think about it. She tried to go through the motions, as she always did – dinner, check on Dawn’s homework, go over finances and choose which things were urgent, and which could be delayed. It distracted her for a while. But in the darkness, alone, the boy’s pale face haunted her.

    Sometime after midnight, she came in and snuggled up to Dawn. She remembered when Dawn was the brat's age. She herself had been only a few years older, but she had a memory – implanted or not – of snuggling against Dawn's soft, still babyish cheek, feeling the warmth of her tiny body, hearing her little laugh. All of that had been brought back these last few days with Spike and the brat. Life. Pure, burgeoning life. Music and stories and dancing and snuggling and sleep, tucked in and cared for. All of it seemed so very far away from her.

    It was even farther now.

    Dawn opened her eyes and looked up at her. "What's up?"

    "Nothing," Buffy said. "Go back to sleep."

    "What's wrong?"

    Buffy kissed her sister's forehead. "I just wanted a hug. Nothing's wrong. Not anymore." She meant it. The brat was dust by now. She was sure of it. She buried her nose in Dawn's hair, and Dawn hummed a bit and went back to sleep.

    She'd needed Dawn because she was a gift. A tender, innocent memory, a warm and loving family. The best thing she'd ever gotten from being the slayer – strength, agility, instinct, adventure, all of that she could have done without. But Dawn... no. Dawn she wouldn't trade back. It wasn't right that people had to become monsters, in order to stop the monsters that had once been people. Sometimes she really hated being a slayer.

    And Spike... she didn’t know how she’d face him after this. He’d done things a thousand times more evil than dust a newborn vampire lapdog. He’d done them thousands of times. But how was she going to be able to look at him, when the memory of music and laughter beside him – this tiny, happy moment in the middle of her darkness – had been turned to ash? She was afraid that she’d never really be able to forgive him for it.

    And she was so glad he’d been there to do it.

    Her heart hurt.

    She dozed for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness. She couldn't quite find sleep. She didn't know if it was her troubled mind, or Dawn's breathing, but even without sleep she wasn't ready to leave her sister's warm side. She stared into the dark room, closed her eyes for a blink, and opened them again to find a black figure lurking by the foot of the bed. She took in a startled breath, but recognized Spike's silhouette quickly. He made a gesture with his head and headed out into the hall.

    Buffy extricated her arm from under Dawn's pillow and followed him out. She didn’t want to look at him. "So. It's done then?"

    "Yeah," Spike said. She actually cringed at his voice. "It's all over. I need to show you something."

    "What?"

    "Come on." He started down the stairs.

    "Spike, what?" Buffy followed after him, trying to keep her voice down. "What is it?” She didn’t want to go with him. She didn’t want to look at him. She certainly didn’t want to walk beside him. And it wasn’t his fault, but she couldn’t help herself. “What do you need me to see?"

    "I found the brat's mum," he said.

    Buffy felt sick again. "Don't tell me this."

    "Believe me," Spike said. "You need to see this." He took her by the arm and led her, not roughly, but very firmly to the door. She sighed. The last time he'd done this, this cryptically, it was Riley.

    Buffy followed him in a sort of dream, unsure if she wasn't still curled up beside Dawn with her head on Dawn's blue star bear. The crickets chirped eerily, sounding like monsters in the darkness, but otherwise it was so still out. It didn’t seem real. Spike walked single-mindedly, not looking at or speaking to her. Buffy was relieved. She could pretend he wasn’t really there. For the first time, he felt dead to her. She knew his crypt would no longer be a comfort.

    No. She had to forgive him. She didn’t know how, but she’d have to try. He’d done everything she’d asked for, everything he could. It ended badly, but that wasn’t his fault. That was the demons they’d dusted before. He’d picked the child up and cuddled him, singing to him softly. He’d danced with him to punk rock. He’d...

    He’d tucked her in and let her sleep.

    Buffy only spoke when the hospital came in sight. "She was injured?"

    "Blood loss," Spike said. "Severe. They found her in a coma, she only woke up last night. That's why you didn't find anything. She wasn't able to report the child missing."

    Buffy baulked. "I don't think I can do this."

    "It's important," Spike said. He took her hand in his cool one, softly, reassuringly. "You need to see this."

    Buffy took another breath and followed him inside. Spike took her into the elevator, down a short hall, and then through a door with a security guard stationed outside it. "This is her," Spike said, and the security guard nodded.

    "She's got ten minutes. Keep quiet. The others are sleeping."

    Spike nodded, and led Buffy by the hand into the guarded ward.

    Buffy had been half afraid they were going into the psychiatric ward, what with the guard – had the woman been driven mad? – but it became clear this was not the case. This was pediatrics. "Spike, what...?"

    "Shh," Spike said. He went to a room a few doors down the hall and peered in. He made a strange movement, winced, and then gestured to Buffy. "Good. Take a look."

    Buffy went up and looked in at the open door.

    A woman in a hospital gown with a bandage on her throat was sitting in a rocking chair, gently rocking back and forth with an infant on her chest. The toddler was pale and sickly, but clearly alive. His eyes were open. He was weak, lying exhausted with his head on his mother’s shoulder, an oxygen mask on his little face. An IV dripped fluid into him. The woman was singing to him softly, something about pretty little horses. Buffy knew him on sight.

    She gasped, and Spike touched her shoulder. "His name is Jonathan Daniels," he said quietly. "I told them we'd found him in a crack house, injured, and but you had to get back to your little sis, and asked me to take him to the hospital. The police will need a statement from you to that effect, they'll be by your house in the morning. Sorry I had to involve you at all, but I needed a witness, or they would have put me as a suspect for the kidnapping.”

    “That’s fine,” Buffy said absently.

    “I told the security guard you were just coming by to see he was okay." He looked gently down at Buffy. "I thought you'd need to see."

    "Is he okay?" Buffy asked. She pulled away from the door so as not to disturb the mother and child. Whatever else was going on, it was clear they didn't need her anymore.

    "He was sick," Spike said. "We were so worried about him turning vamp on us, we forgot about his neck. He had a blood infection."

    "Oh, my god!" Buffy breathed. "And we could have..." She felt sick again at what they might have done, through neglect or mistaken action.

    "You could have," Spike said. "I couldn't."

    Buffy was insulted. She kept her voice to a whisper, but it was harsh. "That's really rich, coming from the mass murderer!"

    "No," Spike said evenly, not insulted. "I couldn't." He tapped his head. "I tried. I couldn't. I thought about just waiting for him to change fully, but....”  He trailed off, and gestured to the guarded door with his head, and Buffy agreed, following him out of the ward.

    “So you just took him here, and hoped for the best?” Buffy said as they headed back down the stairs.

    “Pretty much. I had two choices. It was clear he was going to die, and there was no way I’d know until after he did. I could have just waited it out but....” He shook his head. “Anyway, I took him here. There's a slight chance he could still vamp on us, but I really doubt it. We’re already almost past the third night. I honestly think I could have hurt him if he was turning. And he really needed a doctor." Spike shrugged. “So, showed up, spun the tale, told them we'd heard him crying in that abandoned house by the Magic Box, and went in to investigate. They think he was kidnapped by the vamps who attacked his house. Oh, sorry, crack heads who attacked his house," Spike amended. "His mum had finally woken, reported him missing. They put the two facts together, and put the two of them together within the hour. She was already here, after all." Spike laughed. "She called me a hero," he said with amusement.

    “And is he gonna recover?”

    “We should have brought him in yesterday,” Spike said, “before his blood pressure got low. But... yeah. They say there’s no organ damage, from what they’ve been able to measure, and they’ve treated the infection, got his blood pressure back up. It was close. He’ll be sick for a while. I’m sorry.” He shrugged. “I know death, I don’t know sick.”

    “You knew enough to bring him here.”

    “I gambled,” Spike said. “Looks like I won. I mean... what if we were wrong? You would never have forgiven yourself if he had just died in our care, and never turned.”

    “You wouldn’t have had to tell me,” Buffy realized. “You could have just buried him and told me he’d dusted.”

    Spike looked at her a little oddly. “Yeah. I could have done that.”

    But he hadn’t, Buffy realized. He’d taken a chance on life, rather than waiting for the inevitability of a death he’d feel no remorse for, and compounding the sin by lying about it. If all he’d really cared about were Buffy’s feelings, the lie wouldn’t have been a problem at all. Sitting at home and waiting would have been lots easier than going to the hospital, spinning a different lie, and dealing with the possible repercussions of it, while being noticed by human authorities with guns and laws. This choice was actually dangerous for Spike. Yet this was the path he’d chosen.

    She was very confused. But still, inexplicable choices aside – “He's okay,” she said with potent relief. “He's got his mom, he's okay."

    "Yeah," Spike said. "Dad and big sister are drained dry, though. Someone must have invited them in."

    "Oh, god," Buffy said, her elation hissing away like a punctured balloon.

    "Hey. We did our part," Spike said. "We even dusted the bad guys, his mum’s had her vengeance.” He looked at Buffy. “We had to keep him, Buff. If he had been a vamp, he'd have killed her."

    "If we'd just turned him over to the police, he wouldn't have got so sick."

    Spike shrugged. "The slayer's supposed to kill demons, not play nursemaid. The lines were a little blurred between the two this time. That's all."

    "We're sure he's not gonna turn?"

    "Pretty sure," Spike said. "I just tried to grab him again when I looked in at the door. Chip fired nice and hot."

    Buffy had never been so grateful for that neruo-chip in her life. Not even when it had saved Tara. "Thank you," she told Spike.

    Spike shrugged. "Hey. Just wanted him off my hands, one way or another."

    "I don't believe that."

    "You don't have to," Spike said. "What's done is done." He looked over at her. "Mind if I... walk you home?"

    Buffy glanced at him. He'd sounded so much like a shy highschool kid she was almost touched. "It's just a walk, Spike," she said. It wasn't really an agreement, but she hadn't pushed him away, either. He trailed by her side as she left.

    They walked in silence for a while, out the hospital, across the parking lot. Then Spike briefed her on their story, for when the police came to follow up. After that they talked about inconsequential things, the weather, the traffic, some of the music he'd played these last days, when she’d originally gotten her children's books. The light seemed brighter now, the crickets less unearthly. It was pleasant. Companionable. Funnily enough, it reminded Buffy of the first time Spike had ever walked her home, way back when he was big-time evil, and they needed to hammer out a truce in order to defeat Angel. She didn't know why she was reminded of it – Spike was very different now, and she... she was very different now. Her level of distrust of him had changed dramatically. But still... there they were. Allies again.

    She was so glad she didn’t have to try and force herself to forgive him.

    As they neared her house she changed the subject. "I wanted to thank you," she said, "for making me leave."

    Spike glanced at her.

    "You were right. I didn't need that image in my head."

    Spike smiled to himself. "That was one reason.”

    Buffy was confused. "What do you mean?"

    Spike shrugged. "You didn't need to see that, it's true. I mean, why torture yourself when you don't have to. But that wasn't the real reason."

    "What was the real reason?" Buffy asked.

    Spike stopped walking and looked up with his hands in his pockets. His eyes caught on the moon, and he gazed up at it.

    "Spike?"

    "I don't have a conscience, Buffy," he said, still looking at the sky. “Killing something doesn't bother me. I'd grown kind of fond of the brat, but not enough to be hurt by killing him. I can't feel guilt for that sort of thing. I don't have a soul."

    "Yeah."

    "You do."

    "That doesn't mean I'm not tough enough."

    "No, you're tough enough. That's not what I meant. You remember what you were asking me the other day, about finding ways around the chip, hunting people... and whether or not it was a moral decision?”

    “Yeah.”

    He finally looked down at her. "It’s true I don't have a conscience," he said. "I have you."

    "I don't understand."

    Spike stared at her, and the depth of his gaze disturbed her. "Look, I know you don't want to hear any of this, but you're inside me, Buffy. You're in my heart. In my gut. You burn through my blood. It doesn't matter how many times I try to push you out, push you away, you're always in there, whether I want you there or not.  And that's all of you, your voice, your scent, your tears, your heart, your disapproval, everything I know about you. I know how you’d feel... I can almost feel how you’d feel, about pretty much anything. Whether you’re really there or not,” he said. “You were still there in me even while you were...” He stopped, unable to say the words.

    “There are ways around you,” he admitted. “Kind of like the chip. And truthfully, when it comes to little stuff, petty larceny, cheating at poker, stuff like that, in the end you don’t even care. But big things... life and death things. The idea of killing that little guy and trying to ignore what you’d feel about it while your actual eyes were staring at me in horror and disgust....” He shook his head. “The bloody chip keeps me chained, Buffy. But when it comes to stuff like that... you're the closest thing I have to a soul."

    Buffy knew, then, why he’d taken the boy to the hospital. Why he’d risked his own safety. Why he hadn’t just let the child die and told her a lie. He wouldn’t have felt it was wrong. She would have.

    She swallowed, deeply moved. Also a little frightened – it was a lot of responsibility, which really in the end had very little to do with her directly. If he had up and fallen in love with someone less moral than she was... he’d still be a monster. As it was, he was this twisted mix of shadows that would go out of his way to save people’s lives, and rifle their pockets in the same gesture. That was, if he was even telling the truth – and she could never be convinced he was. How good am I, pet? Be honest. But still... it was a very potent thought. That somehow, in some way, she had actually changed him, inside. Buffy cleared her throat.

    "Sorry," he said, recognizing her discomfort.

   "No, it's okay," Buffy said. "It's just not every day you're told you're Jiminy Cricket."

   Spike laughed. "Should I give a little whistle?" he asked.

   "No," Buffy said. "You should give me a hug." She stepped forward and put her arms around him, the soft black leather of his coat slick under her hands, his chest cool and muscular through his t-shirt. He almost gasped as his arms went around her shoulders, and he held her very close. She could hear him drinking in the scent of her hair, feel a slight tremble in his flesh. All I could think was that I wanted to hold you. She knew she probably wasn't being fair to him. She’d hit him a lot, but she had never hugged him before, not like she would have Xander or Willow. In a way she was unfairly teasing him with this platonic gesture, but she needed a hug – really actually needed it –  and she knew he wanted it. "Thanks for helping me with this," she said against his chest.

    "I'll help with anything you need, love," he said, his voice heady and seductive in her ear. "Anything at all." His hands around her shoulders started to slide sensuously down, with just the faintest hint of his nails.

    Buffy suppressed a responsive erotic shiver, and she pulled away with almost-mock annoyance. "Hey, hands!" she said, slapping them down.

    Spike whistled a bit of the Disney tune, and Buffy pushed him away – more affectionately than angrily. "Goodnight, Spike."

    “Night, Cricket.”

    Spike strode off into the night, whistling.
 

 

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Chapter End Notes: The symptoms of septicemia include increased heart rate, rapid breathing, extreme paleness, cold, clammy skin, lethargy, low blood pressure at advanced stages, and either high fever or low body temperature. It is most likely to affect the immuno-compromised, such as the elderly or young children. Prognosis is extremely varied, with a death rate of 80% for the extremely immuno-compromised, to as little as 5% for a healthy person with no prior illness. Permanent organ damage is possible in about 25% of cases, and chances of survival increase the earlier treatment is begun. All of which means, the brat was probably fine, in the end.
 
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