Dear readers,
May you enjoy this story and may it bring you some inspiration to write more Spike centric stories, because frankly, I badly need my fix during this hiatus and there just aren't enough out there.
Story is written from Spike's mom's perspective. Because really, having your (only?) son in the SRU can be a little nerve wrecking, I'm sure.
A mother understands what a child does not say.
.
She never listened to the radio anymore, and whenever her favourite show was interrupted by breaking news, she'd switch the channel or turn the tv off.
She'd go to the kitchen then and make a cup of tea as she listened to the old grandfather clock on the wall tick the hours away.
Staring out the kitchen windows at those far off neon lights, like stars twinkling, signifying so many other lives like her own, her husband would come in and hold her. No words needed to be spoken and the moment would pass and she'd return to the living room and watch him read his books.
And later when he'd make for bed, she'd sometimes make another cup of tea, sitting at the table, but with her eyes on those ornamental hands tick away the time. She'd follow him shortly; staying up late was another thing she didn't do anymore.
Sometimes she'd be woken in the middle of the night by the front door closing, even though it was such a careful sound. Then she'd fall back in peaceful dreams, a load lifted from her heart. She'd awake in the morning to find his clothes on the washer. Not thrown, like all the clothes in his room, but always folded, with care.
Some mornings she wouldn't find clothes at all.
Those mornings she would open the door at the top of the basement stairs and look. She would imagine his sleeping form on the bed, pillow over his head to block out the morning light, tussled hair still sticking from under it. She'd imagine telling him to get his lazy ass out of bed and he'd groan some incoherent reply, forever the mischievous child: In her mind, he did not age. Back then, the only thing that would get him to fly out of bed was either the arrival of his best friend, Lewis, or some strange package with random mechanical parts that he could tinker with.
She'd smile at the thought that those two things would still get him up in a flash, if presented.
But nowadays, all she ever found was an empty bed. The blankets randomly discarded in a rush, his hasty departure maybe not observed but certainly registered by the things he'd leave behind in the room. She'd still go down and make the bed, at least, though she knew enough not to interfere with any of his other belongings. He'd always notice but never comment.
Sometimes she'd be denied this simple ritual when the bed would still be made, not having received it's nightly visitor. These were the same mornings when she wouldn't find any clothes on the washer.
She would quietly shut the door again and walk to the kitchen and make a warm breakfast, using recipes her mother had taught her. She would set aside some extra and put it in the microwave, leaving it there to wait for him. She'd set out for her morning walk, do the groceries and other daily chores and when she'd return in the afternoon she'd always find the meal gone and folded clothes on the washer. She'd walk carefully whenever in the corridor then, so as to not wake him.
Those were the days they'd have dinners together; he'd complain about her cooking, jokingly accusing her of fattening him up on purpose. She'd fuzz over his hair, complain about his lean figure and her husband would smile at them, pretending to read the paper.
Some of those evenings he'd be more silent, lost in thought, but she'd dismiss his demeanour as being still fuzzy by the afternoon nap. She'd ask him if the breakfast had been to his liking, and he would return from his thoughts and smile that, yes, it had been fine, thank you mom.
That smile would shine on her world and she'd try to flatten his hair even though he'd try to dodge her and for a moment, he'd be a child again, and they were back to being a normal family.
He'd have those days off, and in the morning, she'd always get up early to prepare them lunch, for Lewis and him, because she knew it had been a rough one and they'd need a good kick start today. In that respect she cared just as much about her son's best friend. At the sound of a car horn he'd come bolting in the kitchen and give her a kiss and she'd trade it for their lunches. He'd leave through the front door and she'd wave at Lewis, who would wave back from his car with a smile, like a lost second son. Those two boys of her, brave and confident.
He'd nod at her one last time and step inside the car, his face shining, greeting his best friend; He would never be down, her little hero.
Because a hero is what he was. They both were.
She'd watch the car disappear and go back inside to start her routine.
Fear did not enter her life. Nor did she ever discover it in her son's eyes, though she searched for it every day; It simply had no place in this Italian home.
Always she'd make his bed again. Always those folded clothes would be waiting for her and always, always, when those days called for it, breakfast would have disappeared when she got back with her groceries and she started on dinner.
Always.
Her husband spoke her name softly as she stood staring at the opened microwave with the casserole tightly in her hands, her fingers turning white. He lay a hand on her shoulder and asked her something, but she did not hear.
He carefully took the casserole from her hands, which was good because she would have smashed it, smashed it against the kitchen tiles. He took her by her arms and they sat down carefully on the old sofa. He held her softly and she stared at the clock. Stared at the clock and not the tv.
She watched time tick away forever, dinner forgotten. With each passing hour her heart did not sink, for it could sink no lower.
Then the spell broke as noise floated down the hall; keys jangling as the front door opened with such care and uncertainty, revealing that the person opening it was apprehensive about what he would find on the other side. She entered the kitchen as if in a dream, the sight of her son greeting her. He stood not confident now, but alone, the furniture seemingly shrinking away from him.
Bleary eyed if not by the hours of grief then surely because of alcohol, he looked at her unsteadily: in her mind's eye he was five years old again and lost, calling out for her. Unfamiliar eyes locked with hers, betraying his fear of what was to come from this day onwards, for surely no day would be the same again. Instantly she knew, even before his broken voice ever left his lips.
"He's gone."
.
Thanks for reading.
This came to me in a flash last night, and even though I had to get up early in the morning I turned on the light and wrote it all down in my notebook, heh.
I always imaged the Spike as the kind of person to be very considered of other people, and as a messy, chaotic kind of person. So even though his own room would probably look like a bomb went off, him folding his clothes for his mother to wash signifies him thinking about other people. All these tiny details just popped in my head so I had to add them to the story.
What else to say? I mean, other shows have made me cry over time, but One Wrong Move? This show f-ing broke my heart.
I also discovered a recent Q/A on the CBS website, talking about Spike in the third person. This has revealed to me a piece of information (where his interest in explosives began) which has made me want to write another lil' story as well, so you may look out for that in the future (though no promises!)