Simply My Childe
I talked to Buffy the other day. Apparently my little visit to Sunnydale was no longer a secret.
She told me in a round about way that she didn't know if it was me, but if I was the one who
draped the innards like macabre Christmas decorations on the bushes along the street, she
wouldn't have minded. Not after what they did.
I do so love that girl.
I tried to get her to tell me more about what happened prior to her finding my boy. All she could
tell me was that two vampires had escaped from the lab, found her and begged her to stake them.
She asked why, of course, and they told her they'd rather be dust than to go back there.
They also told her they'd rather be dust than to live with the memories.
That scared me.
On a whole, vampires aren't afraid of too much and are pretty immoral. Pain is a twisted form of
pleasure, torture is easily forgotten about after a few good kills. But somehow the sick bastards
found a way to destroy what made a vampire a vampire.
And they did it to my Childe.
My beautiful one.
The boy I'm not suppose to care about but find that I care more than anything.
Maybe even Buffy.
I shouldn't say that -- I love Buffy. Truly. Completely. She could make me happy with her
smile. I left Sunnydale for that very reason. My lines about wanting her to find someone else
were all a bunch of crap. True, I didn't want her to be unhappy, but that didn't mean I wanted
her to be with someone else. If only I didn't have this stupid clause on my curse...
Thinking like that will get me nowhere.
Except maybe sitting in the dark, brooding.
However, I can't afford to sit and brood. My Childe needs me. He needs me to be strong, to
protect him, to shelter him, to feed him, to be there for him, to just be. So for now, the brooding
is on stand-by. I don't think anyone would mind.
I don't know if he knows that I'm here or not. I can see him from where I'm standing -- lurking
really -- sitting on the bed, his knees pulled to his chest again, booted feet flat on my sheets. He
is rocking slightly side to side, his chin, mouth and the bottom of his nose pressed to one of his
denim-clad knees. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his pale face.
I really wish he'd talk to me. Or let me hold him. Something.
The door opens behind me and I turn to see Doyle and Cordelia standing there. I told them Spike
was here about a week ago, staying with me.
They told me I was nuts.
How could I explain to them that even though I shouldn't care, Spike was my Childe? I made
him. I trained him. I fucked him. I loved him. We had been as close as two men could get,
maybe even closer because of our ties of blood. He was my William. My boy. My lover. My
possession. He wasn't a significant other or boyfriend or whatever flowery word you put on it.
He was simply mine.
He was simply my Childe.
I turn back to see that Spike heard the door open and was now looking in my direction, a slightly
frightened expression on his face that anyone but me would have missed. I want to go over there
and tell him there's nothing to be scared of, that it's just Cordelia and Doyle and he had faced
them once before without problems.
But I didn't.
Instead I called to him that I was leaving and would be back after work.
He didn't answer.
I didn't expect him to.
Then I left, following Cordelia and Doyle after closing the door behind me.