Part 1: Where is the Love?
A/N: Thanks for Magz for betaing this for me!
See Prologue for summary, disclaimer, rating, etc.
PLEASE REVIEW! . . . .
He was awkakened by knocking - no, pounding - at his door. Then again, the pounding could've been his hangover announcing itself.
"William? Are you in there?"
Spike Rayne rolled over and stared at the glowing digits which glared back at him, unmercifully. Almost noon. When had he gone to bed? Had it been before or after he'd stumbled into the bathroom to heave? And what had caused him to pray to the porcelain gods? His gaze fell on the empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh right. That. Good old JD, his best friend when the chips were down, but it never stuck around when jusice was meted out.
"William!" The voice and pounding came again. Spike rolled over again and buried his head in the pillows, hoping to muffle the echoing throb in his head.
"I swear to God William. If you - " the pounding interrupted the person's shouting.
"Come in." He turned again, careful not to move his head too much.
The door opened slowly, as if cautious of what would be behind it. A head peeked around carefully and assessed the situation of the room.
"Bloody hell! What IS that smell?" Ethan Rayne stepped inside and looked around. Perhaps it was the stench of alcohol that permeated the air. Or maybe it was the week-old pile of dirty clothes and moldy towels accumulating in the corner... or it could have been the mountain of plates and cups in the sink with food and liquids stuck in them. Maybe it was a mix of all these foul things, but whatever it was, it was causing Ethan's stomach to let out a warning gurgle.
"William, aren't you going to do something about this mess?" Ethan moved to step deeper into the room, but stopped himself. He had no intention of navigating the mess of dirty clothes bombs and sock landmines that littered the room.
"Maybe someday," came Spike's disinterested reply.
"Come on, Will. You have to get out of bed. Or at least take a shower, change your sheets. Something."
"Says who?"
"I do."
"Whatever," Spike muttered, turning over so he could grab his cigarettes from the bedside table. He sat up carefully, not wanting to shake his head too much and lit one up. He leaned back over the bed to grab an old plate to flick his ashes on and nearly fell out. He caught himself in time and righted his body, plate in hand.
Ethan just shook his head. "I'm worried about you, son."
"Don't call me that," Spike muttered, taking a long drag.
"Don't use a term of endearment towards my own flesh and blood? Am I wrong in that assessment?"
"Very, mate. Endearment is something people who actually care about you feel," Spike threw at him.
"Do we need to have this discussion now?" Ethan sighed.
"It's a fight and no we don't. I'd much rather set it aside for later and let it fester and build up until the unsaid words unleash themselves in a violent outpouring. Can't wait. You probably can't either, seeing as how I learned all that from you."
"Dammit, Will! What can I do to help you?"
"Nothing! No, wait... You can leave." He stubbed his cigarette out, leaving the plate on the bed. He struggled out of bed, his vision swimming a little. When he stood up he was grateful he had passed out in bed in his jeans, as confronting his absentee father stark naked would not have strengthened his argument much.
"You know I'm not going to leave. It's only been a week since your mother passed and you need help," Ethan watched as his son staggered around the room, hungover and likely still half drunk.
"Not from you, I don't," Spike rummaged around in his dresser for another bottle of JD. When he finally found it he twisted the cap off and took a gulp, liking the way it burned on the way down. Liking that he could feel something at all.
Ethan stared at Spike in disgust and pity while filling with rage. Finally he couldn't take it anymore. He strode across the room and grabbed the bottle from Spike.
"S'my booze! Give it back!" Spike tried to grab the bottle back. The two men struggled over it before Ethan wrenched it away and hurled it against the bedroom door. It smashed into a hundred pieces sending liquor splashing everywhere.
"You bastard! You broke my alcohol!" Spike yelled.
Ethan just stood, almost defeated. "Good," he replied. "Maybe now you can sober up and start being a real man."
"What would you know about being a real man?" Spike pushed past him, stepping through the shattered glass at the door, uncaring if he got hurt. "You ran out on us, remember? On her?"
"This isn't the time, Will."
"Don't call me that!" he screamed.
"It's your name," Ethan said calmly.
"Not for you. You don't get to call me that. You will NEVER get to call me that. I don't need you here. I'm of age. I don't need a guardian or parental authority! I don't need you trying to be a father to me fifteen years too late!"
"You need me and I am staying. You're throwing yourself down a hole and soon you won't be able to get out,"
"Fine. Then leave me here to rot. I'll dig that hole next to her. At least she wouldn't be alone," Spike bit out before turning and walking into the bathroom and slamming the door. He waited, listening as Ethan gave a big sigh and started down the stairs.
Spike exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and relaxed a little, noticing for the first time that he was shaking. He stumbled to the mirror and stared at himself, wondering what the hell had happened to him. His hair was messy and matted to his head from not being washed or brushed all week. His eyes were beyond bloodshot and they protruded slightly. His cheekbones stood out a little more than usual leaving his face looking gaunt and starved. His general skin tone was poor, having taken on an almost grey look to it from all the alcohol and very little fresh air or sunlight.
He stumbled to the shower and climbed in after shedding his clothes, taking first a quick cold shower to wake him up followed by a longer hot one to wash the stench and filth from his body. **Too bad it can't wash everything away,** he thought.
Mechanically he scrubbed his body, rubbing it almost raw in some areas. As he got down to his legs and feet he noticed that the water running down the drainpipe was tinted red. At the same moment he felt the cuts in his feet start to send sharp pains through his legs from walking through the glass. He finished his shower quickly and got out of the tub as carefully as he could. He took out the first aid kit from underneath the sink and sat on the toilet to inspect his feet.
He had cut his feet up fairly bad, glass still stuck in a couple areas. As he worked at extracting the glass, disinfecting and bandaging his cuts he realized he was feeling pain. A horrible feeling, yes, but a feeling for him nonetheless.
He wrapped himself in a towel and walked back to his room gingerly to get dressed. When he opened the door and the smell hit him he understood what Ethan had been complaining about Dressing quickly, he took his dirty dishes to the kitchen, careful to avoid his father before returning to his room to open the windows. As he cleaned up the spilled whiskey and glass, mourning the quick escape from his harsh reality. As this thought crossed his mind it shook him to know he was thinking that way.
"That's it. I'm stopping this crap," he vowed to himself. He made a quick decision that for once in his life his father was right and he did need to get out of this room. It was a gorgeous, typical California day outside and he needed to do something. Anything.
So he picked up his short black jacket, threw on his boots without tying them and thudded down the stairs. As he reached the door he heard Ethan calling to him from the kitchen.
"Will? Are you going out?" He could hear the water running and the clink of glasses in the sink and knew that he was doing his dishes. For a moment he felt bad about acting like such a spoiled brat.
"For a walk," he called back.
"Anywhere in particular?" Ethan asked.
He almost turned to go to the kitchen so he could talk to him face-to- face but he caught a glimpse of the 'family' picture of he and his mother taken six years ago when he had been starting his senior year in high school and he set his jaw in a hard line.
"No," he yelled back and left the house, the door slamming behind him.
He was off the porch and down the stairs before he realized how bright it was outside and he had to throw his hand up to shield his eyes. After a week in his dark, smelly room this was a shock to his system. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the bright sunshiney day and started off down the sidewalk, with no real rhyme or reason to his path.
As he passed the neighbor's house he barely registered the large moving van and 'sold' sign posted at the front of the yard. His mom would have liked having new people next door. It had been so long since that house had been occupied. She would have baked a cake or pie and taken it over to them tonight with the offer of a homecooked meal or free tickets to an opening at her gallery that she ran downtown.
So much for that. There wouldn't be anymore baked goods or special cheesy potatoes or warmed sheets when he was sick. No more laughter or smell of her shampoo wafting into his room on the air from the bathroom. None of it. Things had already started changing. He had basically turned his life a 180 in this past week, going from a fun-loving, handsome, joking all around good guy to a wasted, pale, moody and depressed loser. He didn't want his absentee father there with him and he would rather drop dead like his mother than have Ethan run things from here on in. He didn't know what was planned for the house or any of her belongings, or the gallery. He had missed the reading of the will due to the quart of vodka that he'd downed after the funeral. The next day was a blur as that was when he got into the liquor cabinet in the den and had found the rum and brandy. He had never been up to asking Ethan what he had been left in the will or what it had said. He could wait for that.
He wandered aimlessly for the next hour, staying away from the busier streets in the small town of Sunnydale. He was well known by everyone as is mother was very popular and he didn't feel up to making nice with the majority of the town yet. That could wait as well. He knew he had to get himself together and write some thank you notes or make some calls but he couldn't bring himself to do it yet. Because that would mean she was really truly gone and there was nothing more he could do for her. He could wait for that forever.
He hadn't been watching where he was going and when he finally clued in he found himself standing at the main gate of the Sunnydale cemetery. He took a deep breath and walked in, making a slow beeline for her.
**For her GRAVE,** he corrected himself as he made his way to a newly carved tombstone, set near the side and back slightly from the mass of other graves. She was close enough to the trees that it shaded her a little from the bright morning sun and got the late afternoon heat, and she was secluded enough that not just anyone could see her. He had picked the spot. He hadn't wanted her to be gawked at by everyone in the town and he certainly didn't want any dumb oaf walking over her grave.
He stood at the end of her plot, looking down at it as if it were foreign to him. The last time he'd been here it had been an empty hole with her casket slowly being lowered into it. This was a grassy, lush place that looked as if it had been here for years. But it hadn't. She had been here, with him, two weeks ago. Smiling and admonishing him and encouraging him, laughing and teasing and talking and singing and driving and waiting and walking . everything that everyone else in the world got to do now but she never would again. It just wasn't fair.
He walked to the stone and sat down beside it, tracing his fingers over the lettering. Joyce Rayne. 1955-2003. Loving mother, devoted friend, everyone's angel. Spike snorted at this slightly, not because it was untrue but just because people likely thought they could judge what kind of person she was based on those six words. And they would never ever be able to know half of who she was in reality. How amazing and special she was.
Before he could stop it a tear trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away, furious at himself for letting his emotions get the best of him. The longer he stared at her tombstone and plucked at the grass with his fingers, listened to the tree leaves rustle softly from the small breeze and think about what he had lost in a split second it all ripped out of him. With a small moan he buried his face in his hands and cried, letting the sobs wrack his body. He broke down for the second time since she had left him, wishing he could rip his heart out and lay down next to her.
In his emotional state Spike failed to notice a slight blonde figure watching him from the trees, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin. She gazed at him, shaking and nearly writhing on the ground with pain and wondered what she could do, how she could do it, to stop him from hurting. She felt a strange twinge in her chest, right where her heart organ was and searched to place it, realizing it was empathy for him.
**What an odd feeling,** she mused, rubbing her chest lightly. She dropped her hand and continued to watch him, never moving or saying a word. For over an hour she watched him cry and wondered what it felt like to feel such emotion.
A/N: Thanks for Magz for betaing this for me!
See Prologue for summary, disclaimer, rating, etc.
PLEASE REVIEW! . . . .
He was awkakened by knocking - no, pounding - at his door. Then again, the pounding could've been his hangover announcing itself.
"William? Are you in there?"
Spike Rayne rolled over and stared at the glowing digits which glared back at him, unmercifully. Almost noon. When had he gone to bed? Had it been before or after he'd stumbled into the bathroom to heave? And what had caused him to pray to the porcelain gods? His gaze fell on the empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh right. That. Good old JD, his best friend when the chips were down, but it never stuck around when jusice was meted out.
"William!" The voice and pounding came again. Spike rolled over again and buried his head in the pillows, hoping to muffle the echoing throb in his head.
"I swear to God William. If you - " the pounding interrupted the person's shouting.
"Come in." He turned again, careful not to move his head too much.
The door opened slowly, as if cautious of what would be behind it. A head peeked around carefully and assessed the situation of the room.
"Bloody hell! What IS that smell?" Ethan Rayne stepped inside and looked around. Perhaps it was the stench of alcohol that permeated the air. Or maybe it was the week-old pile of dirty clothes and moldy towels accumulating in the corner... or it could have been the mountain of plates and cups in the sink with food and liquids stuck in them. Maybe it was a mix of all these foul things, but whatever it was, it was causing Ethan's stomach to let out a warning gurgle.
"William, aren't you going to do something about this mess?" Ethan moved to step deeper into the room, but stopped himself. He had no intention of navigating the mess of dirty clothes bombs and sock landmines that littered the room.
"Maybe someday," came Spike's disinterested reply.
"Come on, Will. You have to get out of bed. Or at least take a shower, change your sheets. Something."
"Says who?"
"I do."
"Whatever," Spike muttered, turning over so he could grab his cigarettes from the bedside table. He sat up carefully, not wanting to shake his head too much and lit one up. He leaned back over the bed to grab an old plate to flick his ashes on and nearly fell out. He caught himself in time and righted his body, plate in hand.
Ethan just shook his head. "I'm worried about you, son."
"Don't call me that," Spike muttered, taking a long drag.
"Don't use a term of endearment towards my own flesh and blood? Am I wrong in that assessment?"
"Very, mate. Endearment is something people who actually care about you feel," Spike threw at him.
"Do we need to have this discussion now?" Ethan sighed.
"It's a fight and no we don't. I'd much rather set it aside for later and let it fester and build up until the unsaid words unleash themselves in a violent outpouring. Can't wait. You probably can't either, seeing as how I learned all that from you."
"Dammit, Will! What can I do to help you?"
"Nothing! No, wait... You can leave." He stubbed his cigarette out, leaving the plate on the bed. He struggled out of bed, his vision swimming a little. When he stood up he was grateful he had passed out in bed in his jeans, as confronting his absentee father stark naked would not have strengthened his argument much.
"You know I'm not going to leave. It's only been a week since your mother passed and you need help," Ethan watched as his son staggered around the room, hungover and likely still half drunk.
"Not from you, I don't," Spike rummaged around in his dresser for another bottle of JD. When he finally found it he twisted the cap off and took a gulp, liking the way it burned on the way down. Liking that he could feel something at all.
Ethan stared at Spike in disgust and pity while filling with rage. Finally he couldn't take it anymore. He strode across the room and grabbed the bottle from Spike.
"S'my booze! Give it back!" Spike tried to grab the bottle back. The two men struggled over it before Ethan wrenched it away and hurled it against the bedroom door. It smashed into a hundred pieces sending liquor splashing everywhere.
"You bastard! You broke my alcohol!" Spike yelled.
Ethan just stood, almost defeated. "Good," he replied. "Maybe now you can sober up and start being a real man."
"What would you know about being a real man?" Spike pushed past him, stepping through the shattered glass at the door, uncaring if he got hurt. "You ran out on us, remember? On her?"
"This isn't the time, Will."
"Don't call me that!" he screamed.
"It's your name," Ethan said calmly.
"Not for you. You don't get to call me that. You will NEVER get to call me that. I don't need you here. I'm of age. I don't need a guardian or parental authority! I don't need you trying to be a father to me fifteen years too late!"
"You need me and I am staying. You're throwing yourself down a hole and soon you won't be able to get out,"
"Fine. Then leave me here to rot. I'll dig that hole next to her. At least she wouldn't be alone," Spike bit out before turning and walking into the bathroom and slamming the door. He waited, listening as Ethan gave a big sigh and started down the stairs.
Spike exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and relaxed a little, noticing for the first time that he was shaking. He stumbled to the mirror and stared at himself, wondering what the hell had happened to him. His hair was messy and matted to his head from not being washed or brushed all week. His eyes were beyond bloodshot and they protruded slightly. His cheekbones stood out a little more than usual leaving his face looking gaunt and starved. His general skin tone was poor, having taken on an almost grey look to it from all the alcohol and very little fresh air or sunlight.
He stumbled to the shower and climbed in after shedding his clothes, taking first a quick cold shower to wake him up followed by a longer hot one to wash the stench and filth from his body. **Too bad it can't wash everything away,** he thought.
Mechanically he scrubbed his body, rubbing it almost raw in some areas. As he got down to his legs and feet he noticed that the water running down the drainpipe was tinted red. At the same moment he felt the cuts in his feet start to send sharp pains through his legs from walking through the glass. He finished his shower quickly and got out of the tub as carefully as he could. He took out the first aid kit from underneath the sink and sat on the toilet to inspect his feet.
He had cut his feet up fairly bad, glass still stuck in a couple areas. As he worked at extracting the glass, disinfecting and bandaging his cuts he realized he was feeling pain. A horrible feeling, yes, but a feeling for him nonetheless.
He wrapped himself in a towel and walked back to his room gingerly to get dressed. When he opened the door and the smell hit him he understood what Ethan had been complaining about Dressing quickly, he took his dirty dishes to the kitchen, careful to avoid his father before returning to his room to open the windows. As he cleaned up the spilled whiskey and glass, mourning the quick escape from his harsh reality. As this thought crossed his mind it shook him to know he was thinking that way.
"That's it. I'm stopping this crap," he vowed to himself. He made a quick decision that for once in his life his father was right and he did need to get out of this room. It was a gorgeous, typical California day outside and he needed to do something. Anything.
So he picked up his short black jacket, threw on his boots without tying them and thudded down the stairs. As he reached the door he heard Ethan calling to him from the kitchen.
"Will? Are you going out?" He could hear the water running and the clink of glasses in the sink and knew that he was doing his dishes. For a moment he felt bad about acting like such a spoiled brat.
"For a walk," he called back.
"Anywhere in particular?" Ethan asked.
He almost turned to go to the kitchen so he could talk to him face-to- face but he caught a glimpse of the 'family' picture of he and his mother taken six years ago when he had been starting his senior year in high school and he set his jaw in a hard line.
"No," he yelled back and left the house, the door slamming behind him.
He was off the porch and down the stairs before he realized how bright it was outside and he had to throw his hand up to shield his eyes. After a week in his dark, smelly room this was a shock to his system. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the bright sunshiney day and started off down the sidewalk, with no real rhyme or reason to his path.
As he passed the neighbor's house he barely registered the large moving van and 'sold' sign posted at the front of the yard. His mom would have liked having new people next door. It had been so long since that house had been occupied. She would have baked a cake or pie and taken it over to them tonight with the offer of a homecooked meal or free tickets to an opening at her gallery that she ran downtown.
So much for that. There wouldn't be anymore baked goods or special cheesy potatoes or warmed sheets when he was sick. No more laughter or smell of her shampoo wafting into his room on the air from the bathroom. None of it. Things had already started changing. He had basically turned his life a 180 in this past week, going from a fun-loving, handsome, joking all around good guy to a wasted, pale, moody and depressed loser. He didn't want his absentee father there with him and he would rather drop dead like his mother than have Ethan run things from here on in. He didn't know what was planned for the house or any of her belongings, or the gallery. He had missed the reading of the will due to the quart of vodka that he'd downed after the funeral. The next day was a blur as that was when he got into the liquor cabinet in the den and had found the rum and brandy. He had never been up to asking Ethan what he had been left in the will or what it had said. He could wait for that.
He wandered aimlessly for the next hour, staying away from the busier streets in the small town of Sunnydale. He was well known by everyone as is mother was very popular and he didn't feel up to making nice with the majority of the town yet. That could wait as well. He knew he had to get himself together and write some thank you notes or make some calls but he couldn't bring himself to do it yet. Because that would mean she was really truly gone and there was nothing more he could do for her. He could wait for that forever.
He hadn't been watching where he was going and when he finally clued in he found himself standing at the main gate of the Sunnydale cemetery. He took a deep breath and walked in, making a slow beeline for her.
**For her GRAVE,** he corrected himself as he made his way to a newly carved tombstone, set near the side and back slightly from the mass of other graves. She was close enough to the trees that it shaded her a little from the bright morning sun and got the late afternoon heat, and she was secluded enough that not just anyone could see her. He had picked the spot. He hadn't wanted her to be gawked at by everyone in the town and he certainly didn't want any dumb oaf walking over her grave.
He stood at the end of her plot, looking down at it as if it were foreign to him. The last time he'd been here it had been an empty hole with her casket slowly being lowered into it. This was a grassy, lush place that looked as if it had been here for years. But it hadn't. She had been here, with him, two weeks ago. Smiling and admonishing him and encouraging him, laughing and teasing and talking and singing and driving and waiting and walking . everything that everyone else in the world got to do now but she never would again. It just wasn't fair.
He walked to the stone and sat down beside it, tracing his fingers over the lettering. Joyce Rayne. 1955-2003. Loving mother, devoted friend, everyone's angel. Spike snorted at this slightly, not because it was untrue but just because people likely thought they could judge what kind of person she was based on those six words. And they would never ever be able to know half of who she was in reality. How amazing and special she was.
Before he could stop it a tear trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away, furious at himself for letting his emotions get the best of him. The longer he stared at her tombstone and plucked at the grass with his fingers, listened to the tree leaves rustle softly from the small breeze and think about what he had lost in a split second it all ripped out of him. With a small moan he buried his face in his hands and cried, letting the sobs wrack his body. He broke down for the second time since she had left him, wishing he could rip his heart out and lay down next to her.
In his emotional state Spike failed to notice a slight blonde figure watching him from the trees, sitting with her knees tucked under her chin. She gazed at him, shaking and nearly writhing on the ground with pain and wondered what she could do, how she could do it, to stop him from hurting. She felt a strange twinge in her chest, right where her heart organ was and searched to place it, realizing it was empathy for him.
**What an odd feeling,** she mused, rubbing her chest lightly. She dropped her hand and continued to watch him, never moving or saying a word. For over an hour she watched him cry and wondered what it felt like to feel such emotion.