Part 12:

**************

"No man is an island. You can be your own cruise director, schedule your own activities and pick your ports of call, but there is one thing that I have learned after many years spent excelling at the Robinson Caruso lifestyle. Island living, for all of its self-relying benefits is bloody madding in its loneliness and I didn’t want to do it anymore."

I cringed inwardly under Willow’s gaze. She had that ‘aww - puppy’ look in her eyes. As if she were about to take my face in her hands and start bloody weeping any moment. I was practically helpless as she dramatically brought a hand to her chest and heaved a great sigh -

"Oh, William…"

Oh for fuck’s sake.

"Wow, Will, this wasn’t what I was expecting at all," Oz, my publisher, spoke up, thankfully managing to stop the symphony of screams that were going on inside of my head. He tucked away the few pages of my manuscript on his desk and raised his brow in question at Willow who was dabbing her eyes and nearly convulsing.

In the world of publishers, Daniel ‘Oz’ Osborne was like a godsend. He was never concerned about making his sodding commission like all of the other, slick, corporate bastards I’d had the displeasure of being acquainted with when I was first starting out. Oz was laid back; he came to work with electric blue hair and black nail polish and played lead guitar with his band ‘Dingoes Ate My Baby’ on the weekends. The man could name every Husker Du album known to man in order and date released. He was the one stoically silent bright spot in a world full of wankers.

I smirked at him. "Thought you’d get something about how I would rather bleed from my asshole than be with another woman?"

He cracked something akin to a wry smile. With Oz, one could never be sure. The wry smile looked very much like the happy one, the sad frown, the crazed look of panic, and the constipated scrunch of discomfort.

"From you, references to rectal bleeding are to be expected," he said dryly. "But this is - the public is never going to see this coming from you. That’s potentially a good here."

"I’m just happy I managed to scribble down something that didn’t turn out a complete disaster," I sighed and regretfully spared a glance over in Wills’ direction. Her hand was resting on her chest and her eyes seemed watery - with my fucking luck, the bint really would burst into tears.

"Is she okay?" Oz asked, actually looking worried.

"Dear god," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "She’s fine, forgot to take her meds this morning is all. Pay her no attention."

"This is Buffy’s doing! It’s all Buffy!" Wills shouted suddenly, excitedly pointing at the space on my mate’s desk where my scribblings from the night before lay.

"What’s a Buffy?"

"A neighbor," I quickly told Oz before turning back to my insane friend, a frown on my lips. "And it is not her doing!"

"Yes it is!" She gave me a stern look. "Will like likes Buffy and wants her to join him on his self-imposed little island," she said casually to Oz.

"Are you at all in control of the rubbish that’s spewing out of your mouth?!"

Willow smiled. "See? Whenever he’s trying to hide something he gets really British and Rupert sounding," she paused, "kind of like he is now."

"I do not sound like my father!" I roared, nostrils flaring. I watched Willow give Oz a look before she turned back to me, patronizing grin plastered on those red lips of hers, and I resisted the very primal urge to find the bluntest object I could and beat her over the bloody head with it.

"Of course you don’t, honey," she cooed and I grit my teeth.

"I’ve been pretty damn self-reflective over the past few months, Oz. And yeah, Buffy and Liam have had a hand in it…"

"Liam?" Oz shot me something like a quizzical look, but like I said with him, it’s hard to tell. "Your island’s sorta kinky, huh?"

"Liam’s Buffy’s son," Willow handily supplied. "He’s ten, cute as a button…"

"Oh."

"But that doesn’t mean my ‘island’ includes Buffy running around in some fucking gold, string bikini!" I shouted and had to grit my teeth once again in an attempt to keep the vision of Buffy in said gold, string bikini out of my mind.

Wills smiled sweetly before pinching my cheek,

"Of course it doesn’t, sweetie."

God help me.

****************

At some point, somewhere, something had drastically changed in me.

This change wasn’t just manifesting itself in my writing, but in my life in general. It was as if my final, honest declaration of not wanting to be quite so alone anymore had a snowball affect and I was beginning to see everyone and everything in a new light.

The neighborhood kids, which, I used to lovingly refer to as ‘fucking germ encrusted piles of stunted growth’ had become more endearing than annoying and I didn’t even mind when suddenly hoards of them starting showing up around my flat asking if "Spike could come out and play".

My days became divided between teaching Liam how to play football in the evenings after school and working on my book at night. Of course spending time trying to stop Lee from referring to the greatest game on the face of the planet as ‘soccer’ (bloody, buggering Americans) also meant spending more time with Buffy - by default.

Just because I was admittedly physically attracted to the girl, didn’t mean that I got some kind of weird happy whenever she decided to pop by my backyard to watch Lee and I sweat it out -

Okay, so it did give me a happy, but it wasn’t in a gross, vile way.

"You need a haircut," Buffy said absently running a hand through Liam’s long, dark locks.

"No I don’t," Lee grumbled and stuffed another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

After the day’s football lesson, the three of us decided to head out and cram ourselves into one of the booths at the local Coldstone Creamery. As more proof of my change, I didn’t even mind being lodged into the same, sticky ice-cream filled space as fifty or so minivan moms and dads and their perfectly blonde Aryan daughter’s named ‘Caitlin’.

"Spike doesn’t think I need a haircut, do you, Spike?"

I gave Lee a crooked smile and snatched the cherry from atop Buffy’s hot fudge Sunday,

"You are starting to look a little bit like Shaggy there, Bite-size."

Buffy playfully swatted at my hand. "Keep your mitts off my food!"

Liam shrugged. "But Shaggy’s cool." He stuffed another great, big spoonful of peanut butter fudge into his mouth and began to sway in his seat, singing. " ‘Pass the dutchie on the left hand side - past the dutchie on the left hand side…’ mom, what’s a dutchie?"

"Uh-um…" Buffy stuttered. "You’ll find out in college, eat your ice cream."

"Do you think I’ll be good enough to get on the sixth grade team next year?" Liam asked me, dipping his spoon into my ice cream.

"Here mate," I said pushing my bowl towards him and taking his, "we’ll switch for a while. Yeah, you should be good enough. Better than good even. For a clumsy bugger, you’ve got pretty graceful footwork out there on the field."

Buffy grinned. "Wow, that was almost a compliment." She nudged Lee, laughing. "Who knows, Spike may even start hugging if we’re not careful."

"Very bloody funny."

Lee giggled, turning towards his mum, who wiped a glob of chocolate ice cream from the corner of his mouth the way only mum’s can.

"Should I ask him now?"

She shrugged. "It’s up to you."

"Ask me what?"

"There’s this thing at my school - they want our dad’s to come in and talk about what they do for a living and stuff…" Lee trailed off, swirling the spoon in the newly formed puddle of ice cream. "It’s stupid and you don’t have to - it’s just my dad can’t make it…"

I don’t consider myself to be a nice person. ‘Sweet’ William Giles was roasting comfortably in the fiery bowels of Hell for all I bloody cared so I don’t know exactly what force of nature propelled the words:

"I’ll do it, Bit"

out of my mouth but it must’ve been the fault of my sudden changes.

TBC…

Part 13:

*****************

"Have you lost your fucking mind?!"

"Quite possibly…"

"I mean, you’re completely bat-shit insane, Spike!"

"I’ve realized that."

Xander paced around in front of me, I’m sure wearing a hole in my plush carpet and alternated between wringing his hands together and giving me the deadliest of looks.

"But, what the hell was I supposed to tell Lee, Xand?!" I sighed, narrowing my eyes at him. "He pulled the manipulative wide-eyes on me and practically cried ‘Be my fill-in Daddy’. I couldn’t turn the kid down!"

"So, a bunch of ten and eleven year olds are going to give you their undivided attention as you give them overviews of chapters such as ‘Mailmen Are Not To Be Trusted’ from your appropriately titled book Loves’ Bitch?"

That thought hadn’t actually occurred to me. I guess I was so caught up in the casual ice cream swapping, sticky floored, perfect, happy family atmosphere of the day, that I didn’t realize exactly what I had signed myself up for -

Two years ago when I was on my book tour, I frequented hundreds of college lecture halls. Had discussion after riveting discussion on what it was that ultimately compelled me to sit down in front of a computer screen and type out all of my thoughts, my feelings, my frustrations, and my endless tragedies. I owned those rooms; those kids kept me on my toes and I knew I had their distinct attentions and interest.

But the comprehension gap between a twenty-two year old college senior and, an, eleven year old elementary school fifth grader was as wide as the goddamn Grand Canyon…

I know times have changed somewhat since I was that age, but I’m pretty sure eleven year olds aren’t into discussing how one is an ‘enabler of their own intimacy problems’.

My head fell into my hands as I grumbled loudly,

"Bloody fucking hell…"

"My sentiments exactly," Xander snorted and plopped down on the couch next to me, grabbing up my remote like he lived in the place. "Is Password on yet?"

"I’m going to be surrounded by Firemen and Police with their buggering drug-sniffing dogs," I moaned. "And with my luck, a sodding Astronaut back from drinking bloody Tang on his bloody space station will probably swing round just to hand out patches to the kids and show them videos of him being fucking weightless and all that! Of course there’ll be a carpenter, who’ll construct a whole goddamn state-of-the-art playground right before their very little eyes…."

Xand gave me a look. "So Career Day now includes the Village People?"

"And what did I do?" I continued to ramble, ignoring him. "Wrote a book…"

"A very good book."

"Big sodding deal!" I sighed, "I’ll be the most boring nance up there."

Xander gave me a reassuring pat on the back. "You’re not boring, Spike. You are the least boring person I know. Mainly because you’re so screwed up - but still, neuroticism keeps things interesting."

"Bloody fucking hell…"

"Again," Xander smiled wearily, "gonna have to echo those sentiments."

TBC…

Chapter 14:

**

If I didn’t choose to be such a bastard, it would simple things up in my life so much more.

If I’d only had it in me to give a hardy laugh and some fucking stupid Ward Clever smile, with a "those crazy kids" rolling off my tongue the second Lee’s mate put that ball through my window, then I wouldn’t be stuck in this shithole position once again.

But no, the healthy sadist in me roared and wanted to disembowel the guilty, little fucker, wanted to scare them so badly, that they’d never want to step foot out of their bedrooms let alone play bloody baseball ever again -

If for once I could of held off on my dickhead tendencies, Buffy and Lee would have never waltzed into my life and everything would be exactly the way it always had. By being a royal asshole, I succeeded in overcomplicating my very existence.

In short: Buffy Anne Summers was lucky #13 on the ever-growing list of women I would act a damn fool over.

"Lets give Commander Abrahams another round of applause!"

I cringed and slumped down in my seat as the screams and cheers for that wallie Abrahams echoed in my ears. Unfortunately, I decided to look towards my right and caught Xander’s attempt at a sympathetic smile.

Goofy, mocking, sardonic as all hell, that smile was anything but sympathetic.

He shrugged. "Who knew there really would be an astronaut in the class?" Xander snorted, shaking his head. "Those kids were totally bored, you could see it in their eyes! You see the chubby one over there in the corner, I caught him nodding off through Commander Abrahams’ ‘Weightless in Space’ video about five times. What the hell kind of name is Parker anyway…?"

"Shut up, Xander," I grumbled.

"Excuse me, Mr. Giles, can I have a word with you for just a minute?"

Lee’s teacher was everything I feared she would be. The dowdy, slightly, overweight kind of bint with at least ten cats at home and one of those Fabio, supermarket romance novels glued to her bleeding hand. Best of all, she had read my book cover to cover. Had all of her favorite passages highlighted and memorized and wanted me to autograph some picture of me straight off a plane in an airport, that she’d cut out of a tabloid -

"Of course you can."

I eased out of my chair and made a mental note to look into the restraining order filing procedure as I followed her outside of the classroom.

"Mr. Giles," she began smiling, "you know I’m a huge fan of yours."

"Yeah," I nodded, "caught on to that fact after the first thirty two times you told me…"

She laughed. "Right, right - and though I’m extremely honored to have you in my classroom, well, just standing in front of you is an honor…"

"Thank you…"

"I just," she paused, frowning suddenly, "I don’t think the material in Loves Bitch is appropriate for a fifth grade class to hear," chuckling she put a hand on my shoulder. "I mean, even the title’s a little too much."

I managed to shrug out from under her mitts without being overly rude and let out the fakest laugh I could muster,

"You’re quite right."

"But, I would love it if you stayed for our Career Day…"

Looking through the tiny window on the classroom door, I caught a glimpse of Liam. Just six months ago, I would have gladly taken this get out of jail free card, and hightailed it down the maze of stick figure drawings and pictures of rainbows that is a primary school hallway. But now - I had made a promise, told him that I would play the father figure just for today so that he wouldn’t feel left out and I couldn’t let him down.

I was so screwed.

"Um, Mrs. Barrett…" I began.

"Ms. Barrett," she quickly corrected. "I’m not married you know." The bint’s eyes had this half leer, half crazed look in them; it was enough to make my skin crawl…

"Right, of course you’re not," I muttered. "Ms. Barrett, if you wouldn’t mind, I would still like to do something for the class. See - I kind of promised Liam that I would…I’ll keep it strictly G-rated," I put my hand over my heart, "swear on my mum’s life."

**

"Alright, our next speaker is Mr. William Giles…"

As I walked the tiny little path in between the desks, I felt very much like a death row inmate being lead down the ‘Green Mile’ towards his certain death. I could feel their beady, little eyes burning holes into my back and it took every ounce of strength in my body not to run out of that room screaming…

A lecture hall filled to the brim with three hundred people I could do fine, but an elementary classroom of about twenty had me on the verge of passing out.

"Mr. Giles is a published author," Ms. Barrett prattled on. "I’m sure many of your parents, especially your mothers…" She turned and gave me that skin-crawling grin after the word ‘mothers’, "have read it."

"Bring back Commander Abrahams!"

"Yeah!"

Who would’ve guessed it would’ve taken a sodding eleven-year-old to crush every measure of self-esteem I’d managed to build up.

I swallowed the hardened lump in my throat and threw a helpless glance in Xander’s direction. Like a true git, he couldn’t even make eye contact with me; he merely coughed, scratched his head and turned away…

I knew I should have brought Willow…

"We want Commander Abrahams!"

"Please bring back the astronaut!"

I could feel tiny beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead -

Fucking Abrahams and his fucking zero gravity adventures…

Fucking Liam Sr. for being a high and mighty absentee father…

And fucking me for letting my inner, sensitive wanker surface long enough to attempt to impress a beautiful girl and her son…

"Hey! Spike’s the best storyteller I know!" That lone voice of support came from Liam (fucking un-supportive best friend, Xander…) who, looked at me with such hopeful eyes. "Aren’t you, Spike?"

I opened my mouth and only managed a squeak in response.

"Then tell us a story if you’re so good…"

I took a deep breath, narrowing my eyes. The pudgy bastard in the corner of the room that Xander had pointed out earlier, who had been reduced to riveted silence all throughout Abrahams’ presentation was now the goddamn mouthpiece for my shame and complete humiliation. A brief fantasy involving me bashing his tiny skull in with the history book on his desk was pushed aside; I instead, took another deep breath, moving from behind the podium and grabbed Ms. Barrett’s chair, rolling it out in front of the desks.

"Alright," I began taking a seat, "what are you Bit’s waiting on, gather round."

I tuned out the sound of desks and chairs scraping across the bare floor and concentrated on pulling a good story out of my ass: no outline, no first draft, and no time for my anal retentive, perfectionist crap.

Lee gave me a supportive smile as I leaned forward and opened my mouth, blurting out the first thing that came to mind -

"Any of you ever heard of ‘The Scourge of Europe?’"

"No…"

"What’s that…?"

I smirked, lowering my voice. "I’m surprised - you should all have heard this story." I shrugged and leaned back against the chair. "Oh well, if you haven’t heard it by now, it’s probably because it’s way to terrifying for such young ones like yourselves…."

"Hey! We’re not too young!"

I smiled; it seemed as if I had offended Pudgy Bastard…

"Tell us the story, Mr. Spike."

"I dunno. Wouldn’t want any of you getting nightmares…" I paused, a mock thoughtful expression on my face. "You all really think you’re old enough to hear this tale?"

"Yes!" they answered in unison.

I leaned forward again, hands on my knees, and I smiled as I settled into that cliché storyteller mode.

"Once upon a time…"

**

"…So, he’s got the hubby by the throat…"

"D-Does he let him live?"

I smiled an evil smile and titled my head towards the meek little girl who’d asked that question. "What do you think?" I said dropping my voice a couple of octaves. I let the uneasy climate in the room further marinate with that comment before I slipped back into my hastily thrown together tale of terror without missing a beat.

"But then, he realized someone was missing. Supposedly a little girl - no bigger than any of you, really. He got real quiet, strained his ears, and that’s when he heard it. This tiny noise coming from the coal bin. This little sigh…" I locked eyes with that same meek, little girl, "it’s very, very quiet…"

And that’s when the loud, not - very pleased sound of Buffy clearing her throat caught my attention.

I whipped my head up and came face to face with her; standing at the back of the room with Harris, her arms folded, she raised that threatening eyebrow at me and I gave in completely…

"And what happened?! What did he do next?!"

"Yeah, what happened!"

"Don’t stop there!"

"Um…" I slunk back in my seat, head dropping at Buffy’s disapproval, "well, he - uh, he heard her in the coal bin, right. So, he, um…he took her out and - and gave her to a good home, nice family where they were never mean to her and he didn’t lock her in a coal bin."

I spotted Pudgy Bastard’s face screwing up and braced myself.

"What?!" he screamed. "That’s so lame!"

**

"Jesus Christ, woman! You’ve been giving me that evil eye all night, can’t it take a break?!"

Buffy frowned. "Gee, which one of us is going to be up all night with the screaming ten-year-old who thinks he’s been locked in a coal bin?"

I smiled sheepishly and shrugged my shoulders as I followed she and Liam into the house.

"I said I was sorry."

"I will not be up screaming!" Lee pouted, flinging his backpack in the corner of the room. "The story wasn’t even that scary…"

She gave him a look. "This coming from the boy who was terrified of the lady on the pancake syrup bottle until he was eight."

Liam paled. "What? Mrs. Butterworth was creepy. Besides, Auntie Dawn told me that right before we all come down for breakfast, Mrs. Butterworth climbs off of the bottle and sharpens all of the knives in the kitchen and…"

"Run upstairs and put your PJ’s on," Buffy laughed shaking her head, "it’s late and the further you go with that story, the more reasons I have to kill your aunt."

"It’s not that late…" Lee sulked as he slowly headed towards the stairs.

"It’s 9:30 and a school night - you’re lucky I let Spike and Xander keep you out at the PutPut course for that long."

"But, I wanna watch a movie! Can I stay up long enough to watch one movie with Spike, pretty, please?" He threw a helpless look in my direction, begging for my support.

"Don’t look at me, Bit," I shook my head and pointed at Buffy, "I’m totally in the dog house with this one, no way I can help you."

She looked back and forth between us for several minutes before she sighed and throwing her hands up in the air. "Oh, alright!"

"Yes!" Liam shouted racing up the stairs. "I get to choose the movie!"

"But just one - no conning mommy into a second or a third! And you go straight to bed right after!" Buffy shouted after him.

"So," I began grinning, "for the record, Mrs. Butterworth always looked kind of shifty to me, too."

She chortled. "Gotta love my sister. I think because she’s the baby and didn’t have anyone smaller to torture, she’s taking it out on my son."

"Let me guess, you also told her breakfast tales of terror?" I laughed.

She smiled wickedly. "Once, I told her the powder on French Toast was ground up monkey feet."

I nodded and gave her a look. "You Summers women are a depraved lot, aren’t ya?"

"Oh yeah."

That strange level of comfort crept upon me again, allowing me to toss aside reality and give into a healthy slice of delusion.

At some point during A Nightmare Before Christmas I’d ended up with my legs lazily stretched out on the couch and with Buffy resting comfortably against me, a huge bowl of popcorn in her lap. While, Liam curled up on the floor in front of us and pretended not to be asleep.

It was this perfect picture of familial bliss that led to my imagination running wild. For just a moment, Liam was my son, and Buffy was my wife and life was a bloody bowl full of cherries…

"Did I thank you for today?" she asked stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

"Well, yeah," I slipped a hand around her waist, aiming for the bowl and deftly left it there a moment longer than it should have been before snatching up a few kernels, "but don’t let that stop you from doing anything else you feel necessary."

Buffy rolled her eyes, smiling. "Seriously, despite scaring the hell out of a bunch of fifth graders, you were great today. And I know how much you hate being known as a good guy, so, I’ll stop being all schmoopy."

"There’s nothing wrong with ‘schmoopy’ especially when it involves praise for me," I grinned and eased that hand around her waist again. "Go ahead, kitten, be ‘schmoopy’. Don’t let me stop you."

"Ego maniac."

"Proud of it."

"I should probably put him to bed, huh?" Buffy asked, tilting her head, up towards me and then down at Liam.

"You’ve been ‘mummy’ for ten years and now you’re asking for my advice?"

She shrugged. "I just don’t wanna get up. How horrible is that?"

"It’s not horrible," I chuckled.

"Yes it is. I’m willing to leave my only child on the cold floor because I’m comfortable - I’m terrible. He could get pneumonia…"

"First of all, it’s 80 degrees outside - and second, I’m sure that thick, plush carpeting you’ve got down there is working to keep the ‘cold’ out. Pneumonia would be impossible."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at me in mock anger. "You’re making fun of me."

I smiled. "A little bit, yeah."

"You know, if I were evil I would bring up Ms. Barrett pinching your ass on the way out of the class this afternoon."

My mouth dropped open and she gave me that wicked smile.

"And you thought I didn’t see that."

It was my turn to narrow my eyes. "That cow should be put away for all eternity…"

She laughed and patted my cheek patronizingly. "Aww, poor Spikey. He can’t help it if he’s just so darn sexy."

Again, it might’ve been the ‘bowl full of cherries’ delusion I was stuck in, but I was suddenly feeling right bold. I didn’t want to hold back everything like I’d done so many other times. Somehow I managed to play it cool and I didn’t even need C&C Music Factory to build up my courage -

"You think I’m sexy?" I smirked.

Buffy’s eyes widened. "No! I didn’t mean it like that - I…"

I nodded, smiled, then leaned in and kissed her.

Quick, closed mouth, sweaty palms, I felt like I was a bleeding fourteen-year-old nance all over again. Buffy stared at me like deer caught in the headlights of a redneck’s pickup truck and it felt like an excruciatingly painful millenium had gone by before I was able to mutter:

"I’m - uh sorry ‘bout that." If I wasn’t a wanker before…

Finally, she blinked - a sign she was still fucking alive.

Pulling her lips in for a second a thoughtful look crossed her face.

"Don’t be."

I won’t be cliché. Fireworks didn’t explode and Beethoven’s Fifth didn’t ring in my ears and all that rot, but Buffy kissed me back and my stomach did this wonderful little floppy thing…

That’s the closest I bloody get to cliché.

Slow at first, our lips kind of fumbling over each others; a cautious first kiss between two people who were used to things going to shit afterwards. Deciding to go for broke I pulled her closer and ran my tongue across her bottom lip. There was this heavenly mix of popcorn and Cherry Coke on her lips, and I smiled into the kiss like the dopey sod that I am when she opened her mouth for me.

One would think with all of my wisdom, that I would be prepared for the possible moment my utter happiness and contentment kicked me in the balls farewell…

But oh no…

I was here with Buffy Summers’ hot, little tongue in my mouth…

Wise!Spike was nowhere to be found…

She pulled away and took in a deep breath giving me an uncharacteristic coquettish smile.

"I guess this changes a few things."

I opened my mouth to speak, but a loud knock at the front door quickly cut me off.

Buffy curiously raised a brow. "Okay - the only person who would knock on my door at eleven at night is already here…"

Knock, Knock, Knock…

She gently set the popcorn bowl down on the floor before she climbed off of the couch and pulled me up with her.

"Oi! Why do I have to get up, it’s your door their knocking on."

"In case this is a psychopath and I need you to do something manly, like wrestle him to the ground."

Knock, Knock, Knock…

"I can let out a manly shriek if you want," I smiled, grabbing her hand, "perhaps a bellow."

Buffy shook her head opening the door. "You’re completely hopeless…"

The second she froze at the sight of him, I knew this was worse than opening the door to some sick fuck with a butcher knife or a whole gang of clowns.

Hands shoved in his jean pockets he gave us a lopsided, uneasy smile. "Buffy."

"Angel," she breathed and dropped my hand like a ton of bricks.

My happy ‘bowl full of cherries’ delusion crumbled in that instant and the ‘bowl full of shit’ reality that was life returned with a bloody vengeance.

TBC…

Chapter 15:

**

Deep, calming, soothing breaths - that was the three-hundred and fifty dollar an hour advice I got from this therapist once upon a time when I was bug-shagging crazy enough to think my problems could be wrestled by weeping to a professional.

For the record, deep, soothing breaths amount to nothing more than a crock of shit when your eyeballs are boiling in their sockets.

I watched Angel make a move to step inside, that awkward, half-smile still plastered on his face - and I did what any other, good man in my position would’ve done:

"So, you’re the infamous Angel…" I began, moving a shell shocked Buffy out of the way, "bloody good to finally meet you, mate!" Giving him my friendliest smile, I positioned my hand on the door. "Well, nice of you to drop by and all; wish you could stay."

And slammed it in his poncy, fucking face.

Two tons of soulful, brooding puppy drowned, in a lame fashion sense and a vat of Gigia Hold describes the great Liam Leery Sr. in a bloody nutshell. Just looking at him, I could tell he was the sort of sensitive bastard girls swoon over - dark hair, penetrating brown eyes, all forehead and muscles; fucking puppy-love personified, this one - hell, if I were a fourteen year old girl I’d soil my panties over the wanker…

"Spike!" Buffy glared at me before snatching the door open.

An irrational hope that, that poofter might’ve disappeared into a wonderful thin air was quickly defeated; Angel was still standing there, hands still shoved in his pockets, and wounded animal look still on his face. I’d forgotten God doesn’t make people disappear into thin air, no matter how hard you pray or how many times you offer to stick his name on the "Thank You" page in your next book.

"Angel - what are you doing here?" she asked him in that breathy voice. What is it with the breathy voice and this guy?! My mere presence never reduced Buffy to the breathy voice.

"Well, I…" Angel began, taking a step forward. He paused suddenly and turned his attention on me, "who’s he?"

My eyes narrowed and I threw him a nasty smirk. "The bloody babysitter."

"That’s what you think you are to me?!" Buffy gave me a look of disbelief.

Insane jealousy and rage subsiding for a moment, I could feel my features soften as I looked her straight in the eye. "What am I to you, luv?"

"Are you dating this guy?!"

"We were in the process of figuring that out, mate, until a certain person didn’t feel the need to telephone before his visit…"

"I’m not your ‘mate’. Buffy…"

"It -It’s complicated," she sighed heavily before giving the ex a weak smile and politely shoving him out of the doorway. "Could you excuse us, please? Thank you," she finished quickly and closed the door in his face.

"The ‘bloody babysitter’?!"

Most women, I’ve found, like to make you guess whether or not you’ve pissed them off. Give you the short non-committal phrases, the tiresome silent treatment, or the worst, agreeing to everything you say or want to do with no sort of argument whatsoever - a snake rattle should follow that one. But, with Buffy, I never had to guess whether or not I’d done something not exactly to her liking; the second her hands made it to her hips, I automatically knew I was in deep shit.

"All this time we’ve spent together and that’s the best English accent you can do?" I winced, "I’m deeply ashamed, pet."

"Don’t! Don’t do that!" Buffy snapped. "You don’t get to do that!"

I raised a brow. "Do what?"

"Be a - a dope, and a bonehead!"

"Yeah, well at least I’m not being shirty!"

"Shirty?" she gave me a look. "Is that even a real word?"

" ‘Oh, Angel…" I gasped in a mock falsetto and dramatically brought a hand to my chest, "it’s complicated now that you and your enormous forehead have galloped back into my life’."

"And this is all simple to you?!"

"It’s very bloody simple! You send him packing and you and me pick up where we left off…"

"I can’t do that," Buffy sighed. "Spike, you know I can’t do that." She flashed me a small smile. "He’s the father of my unconscious child."

"Yeah, I know," I said with a sigh of my own.

"All I want to do is see why he decided to drop in - no plans to run off with the man and get married, I promise."

"And we’ll talk later?"

Smiling warmly, Buffy put her hand in mine, entwining our fingers. "Definitely later."

I’m pretty sure it took the strength of ten men - ten right wallies to be exact, for me not grab her up then and there and drag her upstairs like a caveman, never to be heard from again.

Instead, I nodded and smiled back.

**

"I knew it! I knew it!"

I looked up briefly at Willow and grumbled, "Yeah, you were right, okay! I like-like Buffy. I more than like-like Buffy - do you want a sodding cookie?"

She frowned, plopping down on the couch next to me. "No need to take your bad fortune out on me, Mr. Grumpy-Pants."

I sighed. "I’m sorry, Wills - it’s just, she’s over there with that pinhead…"

"How do you know Angel’s a pinhead? You barely met the guy…"

"I can tell."

"Ohh."

"They’re doing god knows what…"

"I’m sure it’s just talking…"

"And I’m sitting here like a wanker waiting on her to ‘come-a-callin’! I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do this any more! Spike’s already had his fill of bloody bints driving him round the bend!"

Willow gave me that supportive best friend smile that she’s so great at; that smile’s the very reason why I always call on her in a time of crisis instead of that whelp Xander. "It’s pretty hard to shut out all emotions when you’re probably the most emotional person on the planet."

I chortled. "Was that supposed to help?"

"Not sure," she shrugged with a grin. "But, hey - here’s something that might. Well, it’ll give you something to do besides driving yourself crazy waiting on Buffy. It’s the company kareoke night - I usually make Xander and Cordy suffer through it, but it might make you feel better to watch my bosses make asses of themselves."

"You have got to be kidding," I snickered.

"Come on! Kareoke’s a great time killer…"

"I think you’re confusing the word ‘time’ with the word ‘soul’, Willow."

Willow looked at me sternly, resolve face etched on. "You have exactly thirty minutes to get ready."

**

Usually when one thinks of kareoke, I’m sure images of drunken sorority girls and tiny Japanese businessmen come to mind; and as horrific as those images are, they are nothing compared to the terrifying reality that is computer programmers and kareoke.

"Loren’s really good. Don’t you think Loren’s really good, Spike?"

Willow’s inner nerd, I’m sure, is responsible for leading her to work in a sodding social leper colony and Clearasil advert all rolled into one. I counted about five people in our little group of ten wearing OneRing.Com T-shirts, but the guy Andrew, who decided to make me his talking buddy for the night, was possibly the forefather of all of nerdom.

Squeaky, little voice, bad hair, an annoying face that scrunched up all the time topped off with a stylish Use The Force tee; this boy latched onto me the minute Willow and I showed up outside of the bar asking me all kinds of stupid questions…

"Wow, you’re British?! Have you ever met Dr. Who?"

"Your hair’s really cool, what kind of product do you use?"

"Can I try on your coat?"

I concentrated on my Jack and Coke and grumbled a response to the git. "Yeah, he’s good - the bleeding second coming of Gloria Gainer."

"Are you gonna sing next?"

I gave him a very pointed look. "I don’t sing."

"Oh," Andrew sighed. "That’s too bad. So, uh - Willow tells me you’re a writer…"

"Something like that, yeah."

"I’m a writer too," he beamed, "well, I mostly specialize in um - Harry Potter slash fanfiction. Harry and Ron are the next literary super couple."

I quickly downed the rest of my drink. I had this sinking feeling that this night was only going to get longer, much longer…

TBC…

Chapter 16:

**

Somewhere between Andrew’s stirring renditions of Avril Lavigne songs and his riveting Cher power medley (really, you’ve never heard ‘Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves’, until you’ve heard it done by Andrew Leesak: Potentially Gay Computer Programmer), I passed out in a blazing glory. Head surrounded by a multitude of shot glasses - this could very well be looked at as my lowest point…

Lower than not being good enough for Cecily…

Somehow worse than walking in on Dru legs akimbo.

I had it in my head that I’d lost Buffy before I even got a bloody chance, and singing nerds, soundtracking the whole event only made a horrible situation fucking unbearable.

"See, this is fun, isn’t it? Told ya it would be fun…" Good ole Willow chimed in, bubbly voice cutting a swath through the liquored mess that was my brain. All I could manage was a groan and rolled my head to the side, silently hoping Wills would take pity on me and split it open like a melon.

"God, Spike, are you still moping?!"

"No," I lied."

Another groan escaped my lips and I think I could actually hear Willow roll her eyes,

"Buffy said you’ll talk later, jeez learn to deal and quit thinking the worst."

"I am dealing! This is me dealing, Red." I got a lovely rush of blood to the head when Willow yanked me up by the collar of my shirt. "Oi, woman!" My cheeks puffed out in an attempt to stop the vomit before it had a chance to refill my empty glasses. "Depressed, drunk bloke over here! No sudden movements…"

"She likes you, dumbass," Willow said sternly, pointing her little finger in my face. "That fact has been painfully obvious since that day Cordy, Xander, and I met her at the Espresso Pump! Angel’s Liam’s father and guess what Spanky, if you really think Buffy’s worth coming off your little island for, Angel’s gonna be a part of your life! You’ll see him at Christmas, he’ll drop by for Easter - he may even pop up at random soccer games and school plays. That’s what happens when you date a woman with a child - so you can’t freak out every time the daddy comes to town!" Willow grabbed my cheeks and smashed them together. "No freaking out!"

"All right," I said, muffled through squished cheeks, "no ‘freaking out’."

Willow smiled. "Good. Now get your cute ass up there and sing me something pretty." She punctuated that sentence with a slap to my thigh. I didn’t exactly hide my shock from the action and Willow simply shrugged and gave me a goofy grin. "The mudslide’s making me a little punchy."

**

With what I assumed to be a vote of confidence from Wills ringing in my ears, I took a taxi home (sadly not before witnessing Andrew being dragged of stage, kicking and screaming the lyrics to ‘Complicated’). Instead of stumbling my way inside of my humble abode, I ended up drifting off of the walk and onto the lawn where I promptly collapsed in a big, drunken heap.

What can I say? Grace is my sodding middle name.

I never would’ve guessed it, but apparently the combination of tequila in your system and dirt clods in your goddamn hair leads one on a path of self-reflection and discovery.

She’s worth it.

Spending various - not short from painful Christian holidays with the ex, one upping him on the coolness of birthday presents…

Fighting through the uncertainty of whether or not a romantic relationship between us would work…

Being the primary father figure to a ten-year-old, I’ve found despite my better judgement, I care about more than anything in this world, and at the selfish age of twenty-six even…

It was all worth it.

Tonight I packed my bags, put out the bonfire, and made the unsteady climb from the safety net of William Giles’ Island of no Feeling to the boat waiting for me just at the edge of the shore. I was really going to do this - I was really going to scarily dive head first into something that could potentially blow up in my fucking face - leave the shrapnel embedded in my skin and all that rot…

But the alternative - playing the ‘what if’ game for the rest of my bloody life to me, in that moment was more terrifying than taking a chance on my feelings.

"For better or worse…" I said aloud with a snort and that, nice sobering thought was my last before the alcohol finally won out, and everything went black.

**

"Spike? Spike…?"

Cracking one, bloodshot eye open I was pleasantly awakened to the sight of Super Forehead standing over me. I blinked and he gave me one of those awkward smiles he seemed so goddamn good at,

"Are you okay?" he asked.

It isn’t illegal to shoot trespassers in the state of California is it? "Do I look okay?" I snapped and made a face - lovely, dead cat taste at home in my mouth once again.

"You want the truth?" Angel smiled smugly.

"No need," I shook my head and Prince Valiant helped me to my feet. "What are you - why the hell is my front door open?" I had no memory of somehow sliding across the sod to open my door and the lovely print of my body in my lawn told me I hadn’t exactly done much moving last night.

"I um - was waiting on you to come home last night…"

"How sweet of you," I replied dryly.

"Buffy told me you keep a spare key under your door mat," Angel paused thoughtfully, "you know, that’s really not a safe place to put a spare…"

I frowned. "Yeah, I’ve heard. Get to the part where you break and enter…"

He laughed nervously. "I didn’t exactly plan on needing a place to stay when I got here."

"Thought you could shack up with the former misses?" I snorted and he gave me a look before continuing,

"And Buffy said you wouldn’t mind if I spent a couple nights with you."

I spared a glance in the direction of my garage. Yeah, just as I expected - were no signs declaring Holiday Inn or Wanker-Ex Storage, hanging above it.

"If all goes well, I might be out of your hair tonight." He smiled. "But, you know Buffy needs time to think - which is, you know, understandable…"

"Think about what, exactly?"

"Whether or not she’ll have me back," he sighed. "Spike, my boy, you never realize what a good thing have until it packs up its things and walks out that door."

The seconded I felt blood trickle down my of my throat, I figured it would best to remove my teeth from the meat of my jaw. "Is that a fact?" I grounded out.

"Oh yeah." Angel nodded solemnly.

"You pick up that bit of information in therapy?" My snicker and good jab were wasted when the wally smiled at me.

"Dr. Mathers - helped learn how to be more open and sensitive to others needs. In the past I was…" the nutter paused and shook his head as if he couldn’t bear the thought of what he was about to say. Buffy really let this nance touch her… "Closed off. Brood - I heard that one a lot…"

"Right…"

"But, I’m a new man!" Angel exclaimed slapping me on the back. "And I can’t imagine my life without her."

"Neither can I, Hair gel," I mumbled.

"Huh?"

"I said I understand."

"Oh," he pauses, "so, about my staying here…"

Like a sign from god it dawned on me - with, Low Slopping Forehead staying under my roof I could keep an eye on him, and work on keeping him as far away from Buffy as humanly possible…

"Angel," I began, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder, "stay as long as you need to mate."

TBC…

Chapter 17:

**

I was a genius.

A bleeding god among men - or so I thought.

In my head, this half-cocked, fly-by-night plan to keep Angel away from Buffy was a series of carefully drawn battle maps and strategies all akin to the goddamn invasion of Normandy.

The Battle of Revello, I silently dubbed it while lying awake in my bed trying to fend off a massive hangover. This was the sort of thing that required great generals like Grant or Lee. It screamed for a Winston Churchill type. Hell, even, a weasel-y George Bush Sr. puking on dignitaries while setting Kuwaitie oil fields on fire was needed in this fight.

And if I were all of these people, then Angel would have to be Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Richard Nixon, and Jennifer Lopez all rolled into one. A true Axis of Evil.

The enemy was right in my own backyard. Or as it were on that particular morning, sitting at my kitchen table gingerly sipping on some pussy, International Coffees vanilla nutmeg blend, and listening to self-help tapes. I don’t know what the wanker was like pre - ‘hug and kiss/share and grow’ phase, but it couldn’t have been any more horrible or half as annoying than the Dr. Phil quoting, Depac Chopra loving jerkoff wasting air in my home.

"Today will be a great day!" I heard Angel recite as I peeked, my head out of my bedroom. Hangover and still present urge to vomit everything I had ever eaten aside, I figured I needed to be up and about. Studying the fucker’s habits and whatnot - couldn’t sleep on the job and let the prancing nance sneak up and invade my territory…

But a sudden overpowering feeling of self doubt and the smell of patchouli sent me scurrying back inside.

Magnificently brilliant plans of action aside, I hadn’t taken into account the possibility Buffy might not want me at all - and could anyone really blame her? I was as she put it once ‘a therapist’s wet dream’ and relationships were bleeding complicated enough without having a slightly emotionally unavailable basket case to carry on your back like dead weight.

In two months, I’d be twenty-seven years old and I had yet to have a committed, loving relationship.

It could have been the traces of alcohol still left in my system or maybe I had finally gone off my sodding rocker. But as I paced my bedroom floor (damn near wearing a hole in it) every girlfriend I’d ever had in my sad, little life was right there with me.

Emily (Age 5): She was the first and I wholeheartedly believe the one who cursed me. I only said I would be her boyfriend because she had one of those posh tree houses in her backyard with all kinds of secret rooms and a tiny bridge so you could go from one part to another.

Sarah (Age 10): First bint I ever kissed. That ‘relationship’ consisted solely of fevered, awkward makeout sessions in the guestroom of her flat while her parents were away and her smacking me in the back of the head every day at recess.

Nancy (Age 15): Lasted for a month in which I damn near came down with carpal tunnels due to consistent wanking off thanks in large part to Nancy’s ‘nothing under the shirt - don’t even think about the panties’ policy.

Drusilla (Age 18): A crowning achievement (see page 85, chapter 7 "Mailmen Are Not To Be Trusted" in Loves’ Bitch).

Kendra (Age 21): Beautiful, exotic woman I met after moving to Sunnyhell post-Dru. I was still shaken up and vulnerable after the three years of being cheated on and all (can never say Dru doesn’t work hard when she puts her mind to something), and scared her off by declaring my undying love for her two weeks into the relationship.

Willow (Age 22): Good ole, Wills. I’m truly happy I was the bloke who helped her realize she was gay.

Faith (Age 25): Not a relationship at all - luckily we were both looking for the same thing, a good fuck without any sort of emotional investment at all. The party ended however after five months and last week I was cordially invited to attend her wedding to a one Mr. Robin Wood.

They were all here, including those who had rejected me, and they were all talking at once. Yammering on about my shortcomings - my faults. Why things had all gone to hell and why I was to blame for it. The room began to spin and all of their nasty little faces were a blur to me, but I could still hear their words:

That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. Years of carrying all of this shit around - feeling not good enough in damn near every aspect of my being…

I clutched my head and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Shut the fuck up, you bloody bitches! I’m threw being your whipping boy - year after sodding year living in a dead shell filled only by memories of every one of you - I don’t need it anymore! Don’t want to be alone and don’t need excuses to keep me that way! Stay in the bloody past and quit fucking up my future!"

The room finally stopped twirling and the voices and faces finally disappeared, but Buffy, Angel, and Liam were standing in my doorway all looking at me as if I needed to be carted away by men in white coats.

"Spike…" Buffy began quietly, looking right concerned, "are you…?"

"Working out my issues," I said taking a deep breath.

"Does he always use that kind of language, cause I really don’t think Liam should be exposed to words like that," Angel blathered on in Buffy’s ear but she wasn’t paying attention to the prat. Just staring at me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Angel invited us over for brunch…"

"And we heard you screaming like an insane-o," Liam spoke up and I couldn’t help smiling.

"Liam! That’s not a nice thing to say…" it was Angel’s chastising that reminded me the wanker was still here, and I knew what I had to do:

"Get out."

Buffy gave me a wounded look. "You want me to get out?"

"No, not you," I shook my head and pointed at the ex, "him. You can’t stay here, mate. I’m sorry."

"What, why…?!"

With another deep breath, still present insecurities screaming in my ear, I looked directly into Buffy’s eyes and fell completely over the edge head, first. "I’m in love with you. He can’t stay here and you have to make a choice."

Fully loaded, all hands on deck - William Giles’ ship departed the island.

TBC…

**

If I’ve learned anything in the past five years, it’s that growth is a never-ending process. You think its over for keeps when you stop waking up in the middle of the night with achy leg joints or when the pubes on your chin finally develop into full fledge stubble.

It’s not.

The events in your life shape who you are - what you’ll become, and if you wade through enough of the shit, eventually, some higher power will have mercy on your pitiful soul and give you the bloody catalyst you’ve been waiting on. But I can’t guarantee it’ll be near death by a baseball for every bloke.

For, four of those five years my Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons have been occupied by Dr. Holden Webster (I absolutely refused to call the pretentious nutter ‘Webs’ like he wanted) therapist extraordinare. Despite the fucking insane amount of money he charges, I’ve actually gotten something out of our sessions - like the ability to look at my life in snapshots:

There’s the day I finally decided to stop being a rotten bastard and drop in on Dad and Anya, a good two months after my baby sis Hannah was born…

And of course, there was the day I got the ghosts of my ex-girlfriends to go haunt any one of the other male members of the population they’d fucked up - while managing to tell Buffy exactly how I feel:

These, therapy induced snapshots tend to come to mind while I’m in that half awake half sleep stage. Head buried under a mountain of covers, trying desperately to fight consciousness but failing miserably when I hear the routine slow creaking of my bedroom door.

Tiny footsteps padding over the hardwood floor, the shift of the weight on the right side of my bed…

I could feel a finger move under my nose to check for breathing followed by a burst of giggles…

And I opened my eyes only to be met with a wide incredibly blue pair smiling back at me.

"Hehehe, hey daddy."

I yawned and gave my daughter the biggest smile I could muster this early in the morning. "Hey, Sweet Bit." No one ever tells you how kids like to get up at the ass crack of dawn or how they love to drag you up with them.

"Mommy said you have to get up cause it’s time for breakfast…" Estella took that opportunity to jump on my stomach and began bouncing up and down, curly brown locks falling over her face as she did.

"All right," I breathed.

"And Lee-am wouldn’t let me in his room again! He locked the door and you and mommy said he’s not spose to, but he did…"

Estella Giles: born December 12th 2004, 8:20 a.m., six pounds, eleven ounces. Looks exactly like her mum, despite having my eyes and dominant curly hair gene. Inherited the Buffy withering look (putting tiny hands on tiny hips included) and the ramble-y ‘ask every question under the bloody sun’ Summers trait.

"And yesterday, he had a girl in his room - I saw em."

Liam hit a growth spurt at twelve that put him towering over me at six feet tall while dropping his voice five octaves. Sticking with football proved to help him grow out of the clumsy bugger phase and he’s the only freshman in Sunnydale High on the varsity team.

I rolled out of bed and grinned at Stella as I scooped her up. "You can watch me yell at him later, Bite Size."

"Okay!" she said excitedly. Oh yeah, she also showed signs for having inherited my penchant for sadism. "Daddy?"

"Hmm?"

"Hannah says she’s my aunt, but aunt’s are spose to be bigger, like Auntie Dawn…"

"I’ll let Grandpa explain that one."

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Stella?"

"What’s a condo? Hannah says her mommy is always complaining about Grandpa using condos…"

"I’ll tell you when you’re older."

My book is still on the New York Times Best Sellers list after two years now. Like I told Oz, I was sticking to my guns and doing something different - I chose to focus on my rather late journey into adulthood and wrote about the boy with the baseball who finally brought me there.

The End