He walks in silence, my lover. He comes with the night. With all the night brings, darkness, fear, distortion of reality. He is lurking in the dusk, only his flaxen gold head and alabaster skin visible through the gloom. His clothes are black, invariably. He moves with the sensuous, sinuous grace common to all his kind, but accentuated in him by his slim, lean figure. And like all of his kind, in particular the old ones, those who have had many years to perfect their skill, He is soundless, able to blend effortlessly into the shadows, hidden until he spies the one to whom He wants to be revealed.
That was how it was, that first night. Over two years ago. He came to me, to my window at night, tapping softly. I rose to answer, and shuddered with fear at the sight of him. He represented danger and death then. He begged me to invite him in. I refused, staunchly. He left.
He re-appeared the next night. I had taken the unwise decision to walk myself home from the Bronze, unable to stand any longer the sight of Xander and Buffy laughing together in one another's arms. I hadn't noticed I was being followed until it was too late, and the large vampire was upon me. He pushed me to the ground, and was attempting to violate my body at the same time as he tore open my throat. I was defenceless, alone. I prayed for death to be quick, trying not to think of all I would never do if life was taken from me at the age of eighteen.
The vampire was suddenly pulled away from me, and I saw my saviour. Like a pale avenging angel, his black leather coat whirling as he fought the vampire who'd attacked me, swinging powerful punches with all the strength of his panther-like body. He was filled with a fury so intense I shook with fear just to watch him.
The other Vampire collapsed and my rescuer took my arm , leading me away as we broke into a run. The words "frying pan" and "fire" sped through my mind, but I was again powerless. I allowed him to drag me towards the cemetery, relieved to see that his face remained human and he showed no signs of being in a feeding frenzy. What was he doing back here anyway? Why had he saved me?
Maybe he needed me to do another spell.
When we reached the cemetery, he guided me into the unused crypt - the one which young couples often used to make out in, gangs started fires in, creeps camped the night in, trying to spot "ghosts". My heart didn't stop racing, even after it was evident that he didn't want to hurt me. He convinced me of this, slowly but surely.
It seemed he had returned to Brazil and had been unable to find his love. She had left, with another. When I asked him why he had returned to Sunnydale, he gave me a look which literally smouldered, his blue-green eyes full of yearning, longing. I was horrified, afraid.
Yet strangely intrigued.
"Me?" I asked.
He smiled, seductively.
My mind was unable to take it in. I demanded that he let me go. To my surprise, he agreed, insisting that he walked me home - the streets were far too dangerous for a young woman to face alone.
I felt infinitely safe with him - a peculiar feeling, considering what danger he himself had posed to us all in the past. But I knew that he would never let another do me any harm. I also sensed that rather than being in his power, I had an immense power over him.
It was a tantalising thought. This gorgeous blond fiend had placed himself in my hands.
It took me a while to come to terms with the whole idea. I didn't see him for a few days. Days spent telling myself what I fool I would be to trust him - that he was a monster, a demon. However, when I did see him, the next Friday night, at the Bronze, the sight of him turned my body to molten liquid and I realised that I was anything but repulsed by him.
He moved through the crowd, his marine-blue eyes fixed on me, burning with a slow fire. He prowled, his lean body in its casement of black leather and silk, in a hypnotising rhythm from which I could not tear my eyes. He came towards me and silently took me in his arms, leading me to a quiet spot on the dance floor. We began to move. His eyes never left mine for a moment. I was completely within his power as we swayed. He moved gracefully, directing my motions to match his, so that I felt graceful, too.
We danced for what seemed like an infinity. Finally, he stopped, gazing at me intently with those burning eyes that sent shivers down my spine. He drew me closer and inclined his head to mine. When I felt his cold lips on mine I knew that I was mastered, utterly, that I was his.
He made me his that night, within the eerie silence of the mausoleum, which he had made his home. I remember the moonlight shining through the gothic arched window, pooling on the floor at my elbow. The gentle rustling of the leaves on a tree branch, black against the rich dark blue of the sky. A single star, shining like a diamond, shining like my lover's eyes as he made love to me. The delicious shiver of fear and excitement as I bared my neck to his savage kiss. The night was more beautiful than anything I had ever known in my life, and I cried with joy as I lay in His arms afterwards, his cold, pale fingers stroking my hair, his lips like ice against my temple, the silkiness of his skin under my cheek.
I was his.
I kept our love secret for a long time. They didn't even know he was back. When the secret was finally revealed . . . they all reacted badly. Xander swore to kill the devil who had seduced his little Will. I exploded. Why the fuck did I have to be anyone's little Will? I was a young woman, intelligent, independent, passionate, and beautiful. I could do what ever I like - with whomever I liked.
Surprisingly, Buffy was the first to capitulate, wishing me happiness - she was something of an expert in the field of vampire lovers, and felt she was in no position to castigate me. One by one they all seemed to come round - even began to accept Him as part of their team, although I always felt that there was a tension - a mistrust there, particularly from Giles and Xander. To them he was, and always would be, the enemy.
It was that suspicion that finally drove him away. That, combined with the guilt he felt at taking up so much of my life. I was a young girl of nineteen - a student, with innumerable possibilities ahead of me. For some reason - (I've always believed it came in the shape of a tall, dark Irish vampire . . ) he began to convince himself that I deserved better than him - he didn't deserve to be with me - soulless monster that he was - never capable of giving me the things that all young women my age dreamed of. Once the idea entered his stubborn head, it stuck - like everything does with him. He wouldn't leave it alone. And then he left. One warm night in May, he came to me in my rooms at college, and told me he was going to LA, to Angel. I was to forget him, to choose myself a nice young college boy from the several who had shown an interest in me.
I was angry. I asked him how in Hell I was just supposed to forget him - he who had been my first true love, my everything? He was unmoveable. He held me, he kissed me with his cold, beautiful lips. He bent his cold lips to my neck, drawing my blood into his body, a final relic to carry with him. He told me he loved me and always would. And he left.
I lay in my own tears throughout the night. When the morning came I rose, washed and dressed and walked out into the sun. I was determined to put it - and him - behind me. A new life beckoned.
For two months everything went well. I even began dating a handsome young man named David - a Scottish Psychology student with great prospects ahead of him. He invited me to spend Summer with him and his family in Scotland. I accepted.
And then I became ill. Constant sickness and nausea. David had to go without me. He - and I - thought I had studied too hard, and was run- down. He promised to call me regularly, and would be back at the end of the Summer.
However, when he returned in September, I had some news to tell him which turned him away from me for good.
I was pregnant. And it wasn't his.
How could it be? I was four months pregnant. David and I had only made love once, the night before he left, two months ago.
I couldn't believe it. I searched through book after book for an answer. When I could no longer hide it, I told Buffy, breaking into sobs in her arms. Together we broke the news to Giles.
He was stunned. But he told me it was possible. Had I not heard the legends of "Dhampirs" - children born to mortals and vampires? They often possessed supernatural powers, heightened sense perceptions, intellect, vampire-like abilities. Many became vampire hunters. There had once even been a Slayer who was a Dhampir.
This meant nothing to me. All I knew was that I was carrying a child.
His.
My life was going to change forever. No more carefree days, luscious irresponsibility. And to make it all the more difficult, I would have to do it all alone.
Giles, dear Giles, he offered to marry me - to help me - to bring the baby up as his. I declined. I loved him too much to marry him with the constant thought, the possibility that He would one day come back to me. Giles told me to bear his offer in mind, that it would stand - he would always be there.
Rupert was the one who was with me when Richard was born.
Rupert is the one who helps me, supports me, cares for Richard while I catch up on my studies or my sleep. And I feel myself growing fonder and fonder of him. I believe that, before the year is out, I will have accepted his proposal.
But I know He is there. I sense him. I know He was there the night I gave birth to Richard, lurking in the darkness outside my window throughout the long and agonising hours of my labour. He didn't leave until the daylight and I was sleeping, my baby curled up in my arms.
And at night, often at night, I see a shadow pass along my wall opposite the window. A tall, lean shadow, the breeze lightly ruffling a long, dark coat which rustles of leather.
Then one night, he came into my room. I kept very still and watched from beneath the covers.
His pale gold hair was longer, tied neatly back at the nape of his neck. His clothes were the same. Black. Leather. Silk. His heavy boots made not a sound as he walked across the bare floorboards, his movements so fluid as to be almost imperceptible in the darkness.
I saw Him cross the floor to the cradle where his son was sleeping soundly, tiny breaths audible in the silence. He bent down and lifted Richard in his arms. I lay still and watched him, his beautiful, pale features enraptured as he gazed at his son's silky wisps of hair - palest brown curls like his own, natural hair. A tiny pair of blue-green eyes which mirrored his own. Tiny, rounded limbs, minute fingers, perfection. I had felt much the same when the doctor had first laid Richard on my chest. I watched him. It seemed he was weeping, silently.
He seemed to remain a long time, holding his son in his arms, talking to him in gentle whispers. Richard didn't wake or cry, just yawned, stretched and snuggled against his father's silk-clad chest. Soundless tears were pouring down my face. I couldn't keep quiet any longer.
I raised my head from among the blankets.
"Spike?" I said, softly, my voice quavering at the sound of the name I hadn't spoken for so long.
He was gone. Moonlight streamed in through the open window. The night breeze blew the lace curtains across the room.
I rose and padded silently across the floor. My son slumbered peacefully in his crib.
A small white rosebud lay on Richard's satin pillow. Underneath it, a neatly folded slip of paper.
I picked it up and opened it, turning to the window into the moonlight.
I recognised His graceful, flowing hand immediately. I read:
Thank you, Willow. Our son is beautiful. I love you both.
William
A tear stung my eyes. I lifted Richard out of his crib and walked back to my bed, holding my son.
He has come every night since. Silently he comes and silently he leaves. I pretend to be asleep. Usually he steps soundlessly across to my bed and moves the covers slightly to see my face. He looks at me for a while, and plants a cold kiss on my lips, before going back to his son, gazing at him, totally spellbound.
No magic could have greater power.
Tonight I am going to speak to him. I will wait until he is bending over me and will reach up and quick as lightning, fasten my arms around his neck. I will look into his beautiful eyes and pull him down to me. I will kiss him, deeply. I will tell him how much I love him, how much I need him, that I can not and will not let him leave again.
I lie awake. Richard is quiet. The darkness fell several hours ago.
I listen.
I can hear his footsteps. So soft, almost inaudible.
Except to the one who loves him.
FIN