Title: The Crow and the Pitcher

Author: freak-pudding

Disclaimer: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer and all associated articles are the sole property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: Paris was so lovely in the summertime and oh how he wished they never had to go there. Post-Intervention

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the awesome reviews, guys. This story's reaching upwards of 10K words so far, and I plan to make it even longer. Don't expect this too be much of an action-driven story. I've found that's my muse is turning more and more to Spike's past. Probably only because we're reading about the Victorian era in history.

Chapter Five: De Profundis

It was summer again. They were in France. He lay facedown in a wide river, and he held his breath.

The sun beat down on his back, and he could hear the rush of water far beneath him. He opened his eyes to a world of greens; aquamarine veiling beige, speckles of gold trickling through turquoise and emerald. He could see the gentle sway of weeds on the periphery of his vision. They shook and shimmied against each other. At times they'd part and he'd be rewarded with a brilliant flash of gold from the slippery, reflective back of a fish. He smiled then, because it made him think of the gypsies they'd watched in the Parisian market their first night in the city.

"William! Come out of that water at once!"

He lifted his head, letting his body slip slowly into the rushing water as he looked up at Clara. Hands fisted on her hips, Clara scowled down at him from the rail of Uncle's rotting stone bridge.

Wispy trails of black curls peeked from beneath the brim of her pink-patterned bonnet, and her mouth was pulled into its perpetual grimace. She'd put the little yellow daisies he picked for her through the buttonhole of her new pink jacket.

Everything she wore was brand new now. Mother had really wanted to impress Grandmère this time. They'd all gone to downtown London together; Clara, Mr. Foss, Mother, and him all bundled up and stuffed in a carriage. They bumped over cobblestones and splashed through mud to get to the market to buy new fabrics.

This is how the world ends.

Still, Grandmère had found something to complain about.

"Look at this boy!" she'd cried indignantly, gripping his chin tightly, near to forming bruises. "Little more than a stick! I hardly see how he could be from my dear William."

Grandmère'd always said Father's name like that. My William, and no one else's. As though he was some great god of parenting, a shining example of the perfect son and husband and person and now he could really see why Uncle had hated him so much.

"William, I'm not even close to joking," Clara said impatiently, stamping her little black boot on the wood boards. "Get out of that water before Madame Bennett sees you!"

"Why do you call Grandmère Madame?" he asked innocently. "Me and Mother are your friends."

"Mother and I," she corrected, smiling. "And it's a term of respect, Master William."

He made a face, sliding onto his back.

"I don't like being called Master," he sighed. "It makes you sound like you're less than me. But you're not. You're older."

"Age's nothing to do with it," Clara retorted, the dimples around her lips looking sad. "Now get out of that water at once!"

"No!" he replied. "I don't want to."

"William!"

"I hate Grandmère!" he burst out, flailing his arms wildly. "She's mean and evil and always rude to Mother and—"

The last of his passionate sentence was drowned in a shower of bubbles as he slipped beneath the surface. The swift current caught his ankles and pulled him down quickly.

This is how the world ends.

Dazed, he opened his eyes to see Uncle's bridge and the riot of pink that was Clara rushing away behind an angry veil of jade. He opened his mouth to call out, and water flooded his lungs.

He'd felt it then. The icy grip of mortality on his soul. Felt it harder when his foot caught on a rock. Three feet just three feet from shore and he couldn't pull himself free and oh God he's drowning he's drowning he's gonna die because he said he hated Grandmère and he's sorry so sorry he'll take it back take it all back if only if only he can live please God please don't let him die like this please he's scared frightened can't reach the air can't kick free oh God oh God oh God.

And he was sick still so sick and he thought he'd retch everywhere and thank god he wouldn't have to hear it he always hated that noise hated that stupid stupid noise hated the way it sounded.

He could hear, dimly, the shrill filtered sound of Clara screaming Clara shouting begging his name over and over trying to get his hand trying to save him. And he'd ruined her new jacket but she said it was okay he was alive thank god he was alive, "Thank god oh Madame he was so lucky so lucky I can't believe I grabbed him he was drowning and I thought he was dead."

Wrapped in thick blankets and cradled in Mother's lap Uncle trying to feed him some warm chicken broth begging him to open his mouth open his eyes show them he was okay and Grandmère Grandmère sitting staring, lip curled over those horrid horse teeth just staring just staring.

"Stupid girl. Why couldn't you just leave him at the bottom?"

And it had been quiet so quiet Mother shaking Mother trembling beneath him, her cheeks red in anger as she stood and screamed at Grandmère, "You horrid horrid horrid woman he's your grandson how can you say that how can you even think never asked never asked for William to leave loved him loved him so much he left me with this boy and no hope and haven't heard from him in years haven't seen him how can you say you want my only boy dead?"

And she'd gotten up and set him in the carriage called Mr. Foss from the fields told Clara to get the bags and Uncle drove them into Paris drove them to the docks and saw them off as Mother declared she'd never come to France never set foot in Grandmère's house.

This is how the world ends.

But always, always when he thought of Grandmère he thought of that terrible silence that followed her dismissal of him. How he hadn't understood hadn't comprehended really what she'd said what she'd meant not until he was older not until Angelus and the whippings and beatings and the pain and death and darkness—

And in those moments he was back, back at the bottom of that sinister river in France, the world around him darkening fading light leaving as he thrashed and screamed and choked, tears pouring from his eyes and diffusing in the water around him, Clara's hand mere inches mere sweet precious inches from his own, and he'd felt it felt it felt how hard and cold and terrifying death really was, felt the water pounding into his ears drowning out everything drowning out the sound of his own racing heartbeat and he was going blind blind blinded by the light by the nothing blind because he was dying.

And he was glad.

Glad he'd never hear Dawnie giggle or see her smile again never hear the whelp argue with his demon over donuts never see the way Glinda tried to hide behind her smile when she thought the Scoobies wouldn't approve never see the way Willow's eyes softened when Tara entered the room never hear the strange sound of Rupert singing never hear Buffy's ridiculous Slaying puns or how her voice cracked when she was trying not to cry never see her golden hair never see her bright smile of sunshine and never see her throw back her head and laugh and dance and fight and brush her hair and be.

Never see Buffy.

Spike choked. The saltwater of his tears soaked into the bandages criss-crossing his mutilated face.

And somewhere long, long ago and too far away, six-year-old William lay at the bottom of a river, flailing desperately for Clara's fading hand as his sobs echoed dully through the sludge-water. And as he sat back and watched his pretty green-and-gold world black out, he thought.

This is how the world ends.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.