Fic - "Gifts" - Chapter 1

[green-maia.livejournal.com]

Title: Gifts
Author: Maia
Rating: G for the first few chapters; later chapters will be PG-13 for violence
Warnings: Multiple character deaths in later chapters
Characters: Dawn, William, Buffy, Giles, Xander, Willow, several original characters
Feedback: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: Everything except the original characters belongs to Joss

Author's Notes:
Gifts takes place in the future of an AU where Spike was resurrected as a human after dying in "Chosen" in 2003 (so the 5th season of AtS never happened).

After becoming human again, Spike went back to the name William, and did not contact any of the Scoobies.

Gifts begins five years later, when 22-year-old Dawn accidentally meets William-formerly-Spike in New York City, and learns the story of his first five years as a human. The story goes from there.

The plot revolves around the Key, and the question: is the Key too dangerous to be allowed to exist?

It's a Genfic story, and focuses on friendships and family relationships rather than romance. Buffy and William will get back together and get married, but their relationship will never be the main focus of the story.



This chapter was first posted on my LJ here.








Gifts
Chapter 1


June, 2008


“I still don’t understand why you didn’t contact me.” She felt her anger rising again as she said the words. Five years, five YEARS she had spent thinking that he was dead, killed spending his soul to close the Hellmouth forever and save the world. She’d spent five years mourning him, five years missing him. Spike. Her friend. Her brother - he felt like her brother - she thought of him as her older brother. The only adult who hadn’t abandoned her either emotionally or physically - until his death. And how could she blame him for abandoning her by dying? (Though she did, of course.) How could she blame him for saving the world but leaving her? (Though she did, of course.) She’d grieved and raged and cried and finally accepted, mostly. She’d mourned him and missed him and let him go, some. Maybe. Partly. She’d written letters to him, a whole stack locked in her most private drawer. She’d read poetry every night, because of him. She’d listened to music she would never have listened to on her own, because of him. Sometimes she’d talked to him, sometimes, when no one else was around. She’d imagined him there, witnessing her tribulations and her triumphs. She’d held him in her heart, always. She’d missed him so much.

And now here he was. Alive. Really alive. He was human now. He had been human now for five years. And he hadn’t told her. Hadn’t contacted her. Had left her to mourn him. Had left her alone when he could have been there.

Right now, she hated him.

No, she didn’t hate him. She wanted to hate him. But she couldn’t. It was hard to hate someone who was crying and saying “I’m sorry, Niblet” (how she had missed hearing him call her that) over and over and over again. “I’m sorry, Niblet. I’m so sorry,” he kept saying. And how could she hate him when she was so happy to see him alive?

But she was angry. She was furious. Even knowing he was alive was an accident. She’d been wandering around Manhattan like the hick she was, probably with “I’m a tourist, mug me” practically written on her face. She hadn’t been mugged, but she had tripped while gazing up at the skyline towards the Empire State Building (how cliche was that? And shouldn’t an ancient Key have more sense?) and gone sprawling on the sidewalk, and next thing she knew an oddly familiar voice was asking, “Miss, are you alright?” and an oddly familiar hand was helping her up, and then she saw his face. Spike’s face, only it wasn’t, because the hair was different, and he looked a little older, and the hand he’d helped her up with was warmer than a vampire’s, and when he saw her face the color drained from his, and vampires didn’t turn white as ghosts when they were stunned. But the look in his eyes was a look she knew, and his hands had been shaking violently as he held her shoulders and whispered, “Niblet?” and gazed at her face like he thought he was dreaming. And she’d thought she was dreaming, too. And then there had been hugging and crying and then more hugging and more crying.

And then, there were questions. And since they were still standing on a street corner in New York City, Spike had suggested that they go back to his place, where they could talk. And she’d agreed. But as he’d begun leading her through the streets of Manhattan, her mind formed the question: if he had a “place” - if he lived here - how long had he been alive? And with that question a seed of anger was born in her mind. And as they walked along the seed had taken root. He looked different. He looked five years older. His hair was different. His clothes were different. He had been human for a while. He had to have been. Her hands clenched into fists.

She hardly noticed where they were going. He pointed out a few landmarks along the way - the White Horse Tavern “where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death” - he said it like he’d been there - which for all she knew, he had. But right now she didn’t care.

She restrained herself until they’d arrived at his building and he’d unlocked the building door and they’d walked up three flights of stairs and he’d unlocked his apartment door and she entered and only vaguely registered the place before she turned on him and asked, “How long? How long have you been back?”

And he closed the door behind them, and then looked down, and said softly, “Five years.”

And she had wanted to kill him then. Or hit him. Or maybe run out of the building and never come back. But she hadn’t. She’d screamed at him instead. And he’d started crying again, and apologizing over and over and over again. And then he got down on his knees and begged her forgiveness. That was Spike. Always the Drama King. Except the emotion behind his dramatic gestures was always sincere. Made it difficult to hate him.

She was angry. She was really angry. But, okay, maybe there was an explanation.

And she wasn’t a child anymore. She was 22. (Or 8, if you counted from when the monks had made her. Or thousands of years old, if you counted her days as a blob of energy.) And a college graduate, as of last month. And she’d had some therapy, and dealt with her abandonment issues. Mostly. And she was going to journalism school soon. And the nascent reporter in her was whispering that this must be a damn good story. He was HUMAN. He was ALIVE. That was supposed to be impossible, wasn’t it?

“Okay, Spike,” she said. “Tell me the story. All of it.” She would put her anger aside, and listen.

He got up off his knees - thank god - and looked at her, and there was a quiet dignity in his voice as he said, “Dawn, please call me William. Or Will.”

“Is that what you go by, now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. William.”

“It’s a long story. Would you like some tea?”

“Okay. Sure.” She followed Spike - William - into the kitchen, looking around at the apartment for the first time as she did. It was nice. It was really nice. Old-fashioned, she thought - that was odd - or was it, since Spike had grown up in the 19th century? Modern stuff too, of course - including a great-looking stereo system. Big tv (she wondered if he still watched soap operas every day). Laptop computer. But it felt old-fashioned. Lots of bookshelves, lots of books. Furniture that looked antique. Secretary desk that looked at least a century old. The kitchen was beautiful, and the late-afternoon sunlight (how weird was that?) was streaming in the windows. There was a shelf by the window with a basket on it, and two kittens asleep in it, curled up around each other. Somehow it didn’t surprise her that Spi - William - had cats. “What are their names?” she asked.

“The black one is Christina and the grey one is Dante.”

“As in the Rossettis?”

He looked surprised (why, when he was the one who’d gotten her to start reading poetry?) and then smiled shyly. “Yeah. They’re brother and sister. Their mum was a stray. Got hit by a car.” He looked sad.

“They look really young.”

“Yeah, they’re about four months, I think. Don’t know for sure. There’s another cat, I inherited him from, well - that’s part of the story - but he’s older - seven years old - his name’s Merlin - he’s probably asleep in Rosemary’s - he misses her - ” he stopped, seeing the look on her face, and hastily explained, “Rosemary was - she was a lady, an old lady. Helped me out when I first...was human again. Like a mum to me. Left me this place. Merlin was her cat. I promised her I’d take care of him...” he trailed off, looking down, awkward and embarrassed.

“She died?” Dawn asked gently.

“Yeah. About a year ago. Cancer.” His eyes filled with tears again. Then he shook himself back to the present. “What kind of tea you fancy, Bit?”

“Do you have Earl Grey?”

“Of course. And - sit down.” She sat.

This is so weird. He’s so different. “You’re so different,” she blurted out.

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m still the same person, Niblet. Just plus a heartbeat and minus a demon.”

“Your demon is gone?” Dumb, dumb question. Of course his demon was gone!

He gave a tight smile. “Either that or my testosterone level fell to a tiny fraction of what it was. Or maybe both.”

She thought of various psychology classes she’d taken and found herself chuckling. “They should do a study of testosterone and vampires.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly. Oh, god, she’d forgotten about the Initiative. They probably had done just that. He’d never told her exactly what he’d been through there, but she’d always sensed it was far worse than the others imagined. This was probably not a good time to bring it up. She tried to change the subject.

“So - do you have a job?”

“Yeah. I’m a chef.”

“A what?”

“A chef.” He seemed very busy making tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“Milk, please.” He opened the fridge. No blood. Lots of vegetables. Weird.

“Where do you work?”

“Little vegetarian restaurant round the corner.” He put a mug in front of her. “What about you?”

“I’m starting at the Columbia School of Journalism in August.”

His eyes lit up and he broke into a grin. “That's wonderful, Niblet! Good for you!”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t ready to tell him about her life yet. Wasn’t ready to forgive. “Now tell me the story.” She took a sip of the tea.

He took a deep breath, then a sip of his own tea, then another deep breath, and began.








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Chapter 2