Saturday's Child

Chapter Nineteen

…

The baby felt strangely right and perfect in Angel's arms, but he wouldn't stop crying. He'd only been a father for a couple of hours, and he was already doing things wrong. He couldn't even manage his own life all that well. How the hell was he supposed to take of this little miracle without ruining him somehow? Angel stared down at the wrinkled red face, feeling lost and helpless.

His team was crowded around him, trying to help. Wes was saying something about having bought diapers and formula while Gunn talked about a cousin he'd helped raise from infancy. The words all seemed to float around him, circling without actually sinking in, even though he knew they were important. Those words would help him take care of his son, help him to stop the crying.

"Hand him over," Cordelia's voice cut through everything as she planted herself in front of him. "This calls for a woman's touch."

"Wow, sexist much?"

Angel looked towards the stairs just as Buffy and Spike came down them. Her expression was as annoyed and exasperated as her tone had been. "Did you not just hear Gunn talking about taking care of his baby cousin?" she continued. "And Spike does a damn good job with Thursday. Way better than me on some days."

"Sprog probably needs a change and a feed," Spike said. "Need to get to it soon, before he falls asleep. Newborns tucker out right quick, and you need to get grub into 'em whenever you can."

Angel wanted to ignore the younger vampire on general principle, but what he was saying made sense. Babies cried when they were hungry and a quick sniff revealed that his son had wet himself. Which meant the pricey jacket Angel had bundled him up in was ruined. Huh. He found he didn't really care much about that. It was just a jacket, after all. His son was…. He was just perfect.

He felt a strange sort of tearing pressure as he stared down at the baby, but it was washed away by the sudden return of his fear. He was going to mess it all up. He didn't like to admit it, but he knew the truth about himself. He tended to destroy everything he touched. Even Buffy. He glanced up at her as she pushed through the others to stand beside him. He'd ruined her for the normal she so desperately needed, to the point where she was shackling herself to Spike.

"You're holding him too tightly," she said, grabbing the baby away from him. The cries got even louder. "Right, heartbeat. Uber scary for vamp baby."

Before Angel could take him back, Buffy handed him over to Spike. And… the baby quieted. He was still upset and fussing, but he seemed to feel safe, cradled gently and securely against Spike's chest. Angel wanted to protest and deny it was possible, but it made sense. Spike was an evil monster, but he'd always been good at taking care of others. And he was good with his own child.

"Hush now, that's a good lad," Spike murmured. "Calm down for Uncle Spike." He frowned thoughtfully at that. "Though I s'pose you're technically the uncle, seeing as how your dad is my grandsire and all. And your mum was the great grandhag before Dru went and made her my li'l sis." He looked over at Angel. "What's his name?"

Name? Angel stared blankly for a moment. "I… We didn't actually…. And then Darla took off. She stole my car, so I had to use yours to get back here with him." Which was what had happened, but had nothing to do with a name for the baby. A possibility, one that had been swimming around in the back of his mind all along, floated to the surface. "Connor. His name is Connor."

"Here are the diapers," Fred said suddenly, returning from wherever she'd gone. Angel hadn't even noticed until now that she'd left. Or that Wesley had as well and wasn't back yet. "Wesley is fixing up a bottle."

Instead of giving Connor back, Spike passed him over to Gunn, who seemed to have a similar baby-holding style. Connor's fussing got louder at the transfer, probably because of the heartbeat thing Buffy had mentioned.

"You've people about what know how this all works," Spike said. "Let them help. God knows we'd have been lost without Tara." He glanced towards the blonde witch, who had been quietly waiting off in the corner for things to die down. "She –"

He stopped abruptly, eyes wide with panic as he stared towards the stairs. Holtz was there, a strange expression on his face and Thursday in his arms.

…

...

Leaving Thursday behind and leading Spike down into the lobby had been one of the hardest things Buffy had ever done. Okay, maybe not "facing her prophesied death at the hands of the Master" hard, or "stabbing a man she had loved in the heart before sending him to hell" hard, but pretty up there. She'd sent the two of them away to safety before she could even explain about the kiss, only for them to end up in the clutches of the very danger she'd been trying to save them from. Now she had them back, and she hated the thought of doing anything other than just cuddling with her family.

But she'd thought that Spike needed proof that Thursday would be safe if they left her alone for a few minutes. She'd needed that proof, too. And now… now an unhinged man from two-hundred years in the past was holding their baby.

"Such a sweet little child," he murmured as he came the rest of the way down the stairs. "Children should be protected and cherished. But it isn't always possible, is it?"

Buffy's muscles tensed, the ritual induced protective instinct combined with her own natural need to protect, pushing for her to lunge at the man and take her daughter from him. She felt sick and enraged, both at Holtz and herself. She'd left her baby girl alone, knowing he was probably still in the hotel somewhere. She'd thought he was harmless. She'd thought it was safe.

"I heard, you know," Holtz continued. "The sun would burn her and human blood restore her. An abomination," he shifted Thursday to one arm, using the other to pull a stake somewhere from his clothes, "that must be destroyed."

Buffy's vision was suddenly washed in a haze of red, the ability to think completely overwhelmed by sheer fury and terror. Everything slowed to a crawl as she ran forward, the stake inching towards Thursday's chest. She'd rip his arm off, then his head. Catch the baby before she could hit the ground while Holtz's blood painted them both in a shower of gore.

There was a bone-chilling howl of absolute rage that didn't sound entirely sane. And it hadn't come from her. She was shoved aside as Spike surged past her. He grabbed Holtz by the face with a sickening crunch, lifting the man up in the air one handed as he took Thursday away from him. Then he twisted until Holtz's neck was at an unnatural angle and dropped him to the floor.

…

...

Thursday gave an angry little cry at being jostled about, but then settled against Spike's chest and fell instantly asleep. She was safe and alive, and the man who had tried to kill her – Holtz he supposed – wasn't. Spike stared down at the body with its crushed face and broken neck, barely aware of the chaos that had erupted behind him.

It was the first human he'd killed since getting his soul. Shouldn't there have been guilt, even if he'd killed the man to save Thursday? He just felt… numb. Tara shouted something in another language, using her magic on Angel or one of his team most likely. He should probably care about that. Do something to assure them that, yeah, no chip and he'd just killed someone, but he wasn't actually a threat. He couldn't seem to stop staring down at the body.

Daniel Holtz. He'd never met him before, of course, but in a way, he'd felt like family. Like some distant uncle what had gone off to war and never come home again. Angelus had enjoyed telling stories of all he and Darla had done. How they'd emotionally and mentally tortured the man, destroying his family and turning him into naught but a shadow of himself living only for revenge. And now he was dead.

Dead while Thursday was alive, all because he'd given them time by declaring what he was going to do. Spike found himself vaguely wondering if Holtz had been compelled to do it by some small part of him that was still the good man Angelus and Darla had first encountered, and he'd wanted to be stopped. Or maybe he was just bloody theatrical about things.

"Oh god," Buffy breathed, her hand settling on his shoulder. He flinched away from her, but she reached out again, firmly taking hold of his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Is she okay? Are… are you okay?"

"Is he okay?" Angel's voice was incredulous. Spike turned just enough to see behind him. Angel was there, frozen by Tara's spell in mid-run towards him, game face on. His team was arrayed protectively in front of Charlie and Connor, staring at Spike with distrust. "He just killed someone, and you're asking if he's okay? He's been lying to you this entire time about the chip."

Spike closed his eyes to block out the accusing looks for a moment. It hurt. He knew he deserved that and worse after all he'd done, but it hurt. When they'd thought he couldn't harm them, they'd been open and even friendly. And now…. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking directly into Buffy's. Worry, guilt, sympathy. And deepest of all, there was love.

"Tell them whatever you need to," he said. "I need…." He shook his head and took another deep breath. "I'll be outside."

Getting his soul had been a personal, private thing. That particular cat had to come out the bag now, but he didn't want to be there for it. Didn't want to see Angel's face as he came up with ways to dismiss and demean it.

Cuddling Thursday as close as he could without hurting her, Spike swept out of the hotel and into the night.