Chapter Notes:
Warning: parts of this chapter are very disturbing. One of the worse famines in history occured in the Karamoja region of Uganda in 1980-81 and, you guessed it, Spike and Dru will be there. It's also right next door to where Spike probably went to get his soul in 2002. Karamoja's struggles with starvation and war are ongoing today, and the poverty index is one of the highest in the world.
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September 1980
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"She's the third eye, the jewel of your crown. Dusty, hungry death."
"What are you on about, Dru?" She'd been in one of her moods for weeks, and Spike had quit paying attention to her mutterings hours ago. Except now he was trying to sleep, and she wouldn't let him be.
"There," she hissed, digging her nails into his shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "She's there, your next Slayer."
Spike rolled over and cracked open one eye. "Inside the telly?"
Drusilla gave him a withering look. "The place they're talking about inside the moving pictures box." You moron, her tone added. "Karamoja. That's where you'll find her."
Well, what do you know. A straight answer, for once. "Yeah? How d'you know?"
"Miss Edith sees her. A bright spark in the dark that burns and burns and burns."
"Of course she does," Spike muttered. He watched the telly special on the region for a bit, not much interested in the walking skeletons other than for a quick laugh, but curious as to whether Miss Edith was telling the truth.
Sometimes she lied.
"This one will probably snuff it before we even get there," he said when the next commercial came on. "And besides, if the populace is starving, so will we, pet. Not much fun in that."
"But I want to make a balloon."
Spike didn't even blink. "I'll fetch you one from a kiddie party. A lovely red one, how about, and a kiddie to go with it?"
"No!" Dru said, working herself up for a good shriek. "I want to -"
"All right, all right," Spike said, "You'll have your balloon, my princess, don't fret."
"Promise?"
"Promise." It was easier to placate her, and hope she'd forget after a day or two, when a different whim struck.
Hidden away below deck on the ferry from Tanzania to Kampala a month later, Spike had to admit this wasn't some passing fancy. And she'd made him promise, the bitch, which meant he couldn't back out. Not unless he wanted to spend the next decade chasing Dru 'round the globe, trying to win her back. He'd been there, done that. Would rather play along - at least for now.
It was a long, boring trek from the capital city out to the dusty backcountry of the Karamoja region. The meals grew more pitiful with each passing mile, and while the mewling children, all bloated belly and fly-covered eyes, were funny, they weren't fun.
Dru was enchanted, though, and fancied herself their Angel of Mercy. It was a role she took very seriously, singing each child to sleep before snapping its neck or slashing its throat. Hush little baby, clickety-clack, bones will stack like twigs in my sack. Dusty, hungry, have no fear, away to heaven, little dear. Her lullaby even rhymed, which Spike felt was an improvement over some of her ditties.
He amused himself as best he could. If Dru was happy, he was happy. Or tried to be. The children were good for a laugh or two when they'd burst like a pinata with a well-placed kick, and watching their babies put out of their misery made the near-helpless mothers into a barely decent meal. With all that anger and sorrow pulsing through their veins, paired with the tang of shamed relief, it was almost possible to ignore the thinness of their blood.
They finally reached what seemed to be Dru's final destination: Namalu, in the Nakapiripirit district. "These are them," she said as their stolen Red Cross relief truck puttered to a stop. "My balloons."
He still had no idea what she was on about with her balloons, but he shrugged and hopped out. Dru waited in the passenger seat, until he came around and opened the door for her. "Who first?" he said, eyeing the emaciated villagers shambling towards the truck, faces alight with hope.
Several of the women reached for his hands, and Spike shook them off with a snarl and a flash of fang. They fell back, terrified and watchful but too weak to challenge the demons in their midst.
Humming, Dru swayed her way through the dusty village, Spike at her back, until she came upon a little girl curled facedown in the dirt. She turned the mostly-dead toddler over, exposing bloated belly and spindly limbs. The stench that wafted up was enough to turn even Spike's stomach.
"This one's soul wants to float with the angels," she said. "Make me a balloon of her, and I'll set her free."
"How?"
"Like this," she said, and showed him.
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December 1980
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After three weeks of Dru's circus balloons, Spike had had enough.
The truck they'd arrived in had contained food and medical supplies, so the villagers had let them be, willingly sacrificing the children Dru took in exchange for a chance at survival.
Dru, bless her, had seen how bored he'd been and sent him on his way with a blood-soaked kiss and a promise to meet him before the new year. They hadn't set a time or place - she would simply find him. She always found him.
Spike was glad to be well shut of that scene. There was no glory or fun to be had in killing those for whom it was a mercy. Besides, the Slayer Dru had promised him was nowhere to be found.
"Miss Edith says you're twenty years too early," she'd said before sending him on his way. "I put out her eyes for being a lying little sneak thief, but I don't think she's learned her lesson. Do you want a turn at punishing her?"
He hadn't; he'd just wanted to get back to civilization, or what passed for it in this hellhole. He'd left the truck for Dru to use, if it was still in workable condition after the locals got through scavenging parts from it, and hoofed it out of there two nights ago.
Now, he exited the cave he'd spent the daylight hours in, tired, dusty, cranky, and starving. Spike was halfway to Mbale and a decent meal by his calculations, and had no time for the scrawny old rag-wrapped woman perched on a nearby rock. On another night, he might've killed her for the fun of it, but right now he just wanted to get the hell out of this godforsaken land.
"You're too early," she croaked out in heavily accented English as he passed by. "I should be dust, and my children's children the ones to greet you."
He turned to snarl at her, and stopped short when he realized she was facing the night sky, not him. Her eyes were clouded white and unseeing in her shadowed face, and if it hadn't been for the uncanny echo of Miss Edith's message, Spike would've never assumed she was speaking to him.
A strange prickling ran down his spine at the sight of the woman's clay-streaked face and wild hair, but Spike shook it off and continued on his way. The blind old bat probably didn't even know he was there.
"You'll find him when the time has come for change," she called out. "In this same cave. But not now. You have to wait."
"Wait for what?" Spike snapped, whirling back around.
Slowly, she pivoted her head to stare at him with unblinking eyes. "To show the Slayer who you really are."
"The Slayer?" he said in his most menacing voice, advancing slowly on the old woman. "What Slayer?"
"You don't scare me, demon."
She sounded almost pitying, which made Spike even angrier. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, making her teeth clack in her head. "How about now?" He shook her again, digging his fingers into her old bones until they began to crack beneath his grip. "What Slayer?"
The old woman grinned up at him, her smile strangely savage. "He'll make you whole," she said. "When the time is right. If you're worthy."
"What the bloody hell do you mean, if I'm worthy?" Spike shook her harder, thoroughly pissed off now. It was bad enough when Dru played mind games with him; nobody else had the right. "Tell. Me. What. You. Mean!" he shouted, punctuating each word with another shake and crack of bone.
His only answer was laughter.
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May 2002
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Spike's feet seemed to have a mind of their own. He'd intended to head for Kampala, but his feet took him in the opposite direction, to Nakapiripirit, covering the distance in a single night. He must have run the entire way, but he didn't remember it. Triggered by the surroundings, his conscious mind had been hijacked by the horrors of what he and Dru had done to these people, and he'd had to see for himself what had become of the village he'd left to her not-so-tender mercies.
He slowed as he neared the outskirts of Namalu. The village was humming with life in a way only he could detect; to the rest of the world it lay still and quiet in the predawn hours. Spike let out a sigh of relief. The memories had been so strong, he'd half-expected to find a wasteland littered with flayed corpses.
Good enough, he thought, turning to go. The village had survived, and it wasn't like he could do anything for these people anyway. Meanwhile, shelter was becoming an immediate concern.
"Are you needing help?" a deep voice said.
Spike turned to see a large man approaching the village. He shook his head, intending to continue on his way, but the man said, "You're hurt." He tilted his head, examining Spike's half-naked state and multiple injuries. "Were you attacked?"
Merely a flesh wound, Spike thought, stifling a giggle. "I'm fine, mate."
"This area is not safe for a man such as yourself. A lesson I think you have learned already, muzungu."
This time, he couldn't repress his snort. If only the bloke knew just what sort of 'man' he was talking to, he'd be singing a different tune.
"You come," the stranger said, beckoning him towards the village. "My home is small, but you are welcome to rest there."
Spike meant to say no, but he could feel the impending sunrise itching its way along his nerve endings. "Much obliged."
"I am called Jacob Byabagambi," the man rumbled as they made their way through the village. He looked at Spike expectantly.
"Sp… William."
Jacob paused outside a circular hut and drew back the curtain over the entrance. "Welcome, William." He ducked inside after Spike, and added, "Forgive the state of my home. My son has been ill and I had to leave to get him medicine." He opened the small cloth sack he'd been carrying, and removed what looked like leaves and twigs. "It is not contagious, so do not worry."
"Not an issue," Spike said, wondering what to do with himself now that he was here. Normally, he would've had himself a nice meal and settled in for a nap until the sun set, but this wasn't normally. Nothing would be normally ever again.
Shifting uneasily in the tiny, dark enclosure, he wondered if there was still time to find himself a nice cave. Somewhere that didn't reek of illness and poverty. The slowly brightening room suggested probably not, and Spike resigned himself to a miserable day. Not like he deserved otherwise, really, but it didn't mean he had to enjoy it.
Soul or not, he was no Angel.
A shape in the corner stirred, revealing a woman who could've been anywhere from thirty to seventy. She began to jabber, words Spike didn't understand, but cut off abruptly when she noticed him standing there. Climbing to her feet, she narrowed her eyes at him.
Spike shivered under her hard gaze. She knew him. Knew what he was. He was sure of it.
He really shouldn't have come here.
"My wife's mother," Jacob said. "She does not speak English much, I am afraid. Nor does she trust strangers."
"Don't rightly blame her. Tell her I mean no harm," Spike said, his eyes locked on hers and hands raised to emphasize his words. "I'll be on my way at nightfall."
Jacob relayed his message, which prompted a rapid, angry back and forth between the two of them. He snorted in contempt, and turned his back on her.
"You are welcome here, William," he said again. "Are you hungry?"
"Just point me to an out-of-your-way corner where I can catch a bit of shut-eye."
"You may use my bed," Jacob said, with a jerk of his thumb. "It is unused many nights now and not dirtened. I have been too busy caring for my son, Nsubuga, to sleep in it."
"I'm sorry to hear that, mate," Spike said. He lowered himself to the pallet on the floor, keeping a careful eye on Jacob's mother-in-law. As he gave in to exhaustion, Spike thought that it would only be fitting if the woman ended him. She deserved her vengeance.
But not before the Slayer had hers.
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July 2008
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What did killing two Slayers, earning a soul, and closing a Hellmouth have in common? They were a hell of a lot easier than figuring out your purpose in life and becoming your own man, Spike thought sourly.
Unlife had been simple with Dru. What Dru wanted, Dru got. The same had applied to Buffy, even after the soul. He'd been happy to dance to their tune, letting their purpose be his purpose. After LA, he'd gotten a taste of being his own man, and living for Buffy - well, it wasn't quite enough for him anymore.
Which was a good thing, he supposed. More healthy-like, yeah? But harder.
Since his trip to the far side of the moon, Spike had come to accept that he was a follower, not a leader. And that he was willing to follow Buffy in the fight against evil, not just for her, but for him. It was a big enough cause for the both of them.
But he still wanted something that was his and his alone. He had a lot to atone for, and could never make it up to all the families he'd destroyed, most of them being long dead. Even the ones still alive - there were so many. He'd never be able to make restitution to all of them, not if he lived another century, and how could he choose which families deserved it most? He couldn't.
After Sunnydale, he'd tried being a brooding wanker. Atoning for his sins through random acts of Champion, helping the hopeless and all that rot. But that was Angel's gig - Angel had always been about the grand gestures. Spike needed something smaller. More personal. It had always been people who'd drawn him in, even when soulless, not noble (or un-noble) causes.
Which was why he kept returning to the idea of making it up to the families he'd destroyed - not that he truly could make up for murder, ever, but the impossibility of it didn't absolve him from atonement. But how? The sheer numbers alone were enough to paralyze him into inaction. Spike wanted to make a tangible difference. Something he could point to and say, I did that. I made a difference to that one.
As he thought the phrase, he was reminded of long-ago conversation with Buffy.
Maybe that was what he needed - a starfish of his own.
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March 2009
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Buffy sorted through the mail on the end table. Bill, bill, junk mail, bill… Oooh, Victoria's Secret catalog… She flipped through it for a few minutes, thinking it was nice to finally have a reason to buy sexy underwear, before going back to the stack of mail.
She paused at a letter - an actual letter! - addressed to her, in a handwriting she didn't recognize. Buffy checked the return address, and let out a surprised oh! as she realized who it was from. Smiling, she slid a finger under the flap.
"I see you found Aluel's letter," Willow said, plunking down on the couch beside her a few minutes later. She picked up the photograph Aluel had sent, and examined it. "How's she doing?"
"Good. Sounds like she's done well for herself - she's finishing up university now and everything." Buffy didn't add that it was more than she herself had accomplished. No jealousy there, nope. "I suppose I have you to thank for tracking her down and giving her my address? Thank you, by the way. I always wondered what happened to her."
"Wasn't me."
Buffy frowned. "Huh. If it wasn't you…?"
Willow hesitated a long moment before saying, "Um. I'd ask Spike."
"Spike? What? Why would you think it was Spike?"
"Just… talk to him," Willow said. Getting to her feet, she patted her messenger bag. "I've got to finish up this project for Theo. Catch you later?"
"Sure," Buffy said absently, still wondering why Willow thought Spike was the one responsible for finding Aluel. She followed Willow out the door, and made her way down the hall to the guys' apartment.
"Hey," she said when Spike answered her knock. "Guess who I got a letter from today?"
He motioned her inside. "Who?"
"Aluel. Remember her? Mom's starfish? I wonder how she found me."
Spike shifted, his expression distinctly evasive. Buffy raised an eyebrow, and he caved. "Yeah, it was me. Just thought you'd want to know how she was." He shuffled his feet some more.
"Yeah, I did. I really did. So thank you," she said, smooshing her body up against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. Any excuse to make with the snugglies, right? Besides, she really was grateful. "But what made you think of it?"
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We've been together, what? Three months now? Four?"
Fourteen weeks, five days. Give or take a few hours. Buffy knew he was counting too, but she didn't call him on it. "Yeah, sounds about right."
"Guess it's time to introduce you to the kids, then," he muttered.
Spike pulled out of her embrace and, taking her hand, led her to his bedroom. She followed, bemusement turning to curiosity as he dropped to his knees and began rooting under his bed. A moment later, he pulled out a large book and handed it to her.
"Is this a scrapbook?" she said, taking in the brown faux-leather cover and the simple cream ribbon running up the inner edge of it.
"Of a sorts."
Buffy looked at the single word written in Spike's most careful lettering on the cover. Namalu. She had no idea what that meant, but it was obviously something he cared deeply about. Taking a seat on his bed, she set the book on her lap and looked back up at her boyfriend's apprehensive face. "Spike, what is this?" She spoke quietly, sensing that his sharing this with her was a pivotal moment for him. For both of them.
He perched beside her, shoulders tense, and shifted the scrapbook so it covered both their laps. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it open to the first page. With a wave of his hand at the half-dozen photographs of brightly-clothed children smiling up at them, he said, "Buffy, I'd like you to meet my starfish."
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Fin.