Rating: R

Timeline: About ten years after season 5 of AtS; sequel of sorts to Crossing into Unchipped Territory

Author's note: Thanks to my dear betas, meko00, ayinhara, LadyAnne & mommanerd.

Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305

Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
 
 

Spike gasps. His bottled up momentum makes him stumble forward,  and he just manages to catch himself on the footboard of the bed. His anger rattles around without an object to latch on to and bounces off the walls.

"Buffy! Are you all right?"

Tears drip silently down her thin cheeks. Spike's heart sinks. Did she love the creep after all? He tries to catch her eye, wants to ask her. He needs some confirmation of whatever has been going on here, but her face closes off from him, her eyes look inward and she turns away. Her hands grip the bed, hard, so that the too prominent tendons stand out even more, and she breathes in harshly, in a rhythm Spike finally recognizes from her yoga exercises.

Domino stones fall to all sides in his anxiety clogged brain and lay paths to known concepts. He knows what he's seeing; she's in labor, and the breathing exercises are to help against the pain.

There's a mighty impulse rising up in his blood, to start running around like a headless chicken and call for boiled water and clean linen, but he quells it with what's left of his common sense. He puts aside all questions and feelings from the last days and weeks to be resolved later, and turns to the present crisis. First he needs to get Dawn out her of here. This is a private moment between him and Buffy, not for her to see. Dawn and Tara are still standing in the door opening. The whole drama must have taken place in less than a minute.

"Dawn!" he barks. "Get to the kitchen and start boiling water! We need at least six gallons."

Dawn doesn't react immediately; she stares at the heap of ash on the floor and at the now tiredly slumping Buffy. Spike looks beseechingly at Tara. Please let her understand and help him.

She nods coolly at him and leads Dawn away to the kitchen.

"Dawn," Spike hears her say, "It's not over yet. You need to keep your head cool and do exactly as I say. Get a good start on boiling all that water and in a few moments I'll come over to you with a list of things that must be done."'

Tara's back within a minute and rolls up her sleeves. Spike still can't recall any of the things he should be doing from all the Birth Partner books he devoured, and hasn't moved from his spot. He doesn't want to take the risk of doing the wrong thing

"Right," Tara says. "We need to make Buffy comfortable. I can't imagine you'll want to give birth on those sheets, do you, even if the new ones won't last long."

Buffy pants on grimly, preoccupied with what's going on in her belly, and doesn't react.

Random gobbets of information pop up in Spike's brain, like debris after a shipwreck. "We have to call the midwife," he says urgently. "Buffy, do you have the number?"

Buffy turns an indignant eye on him, but doesn't speak.

"Calm down, Spike," Tara says. "Buffy's had, what, three contractions so far? There's no hurry whatsoever. We'll be doing this for hours yet, even if she's fast."

Her voice is so calm, so certain and reasonable, that some of Spike's anxiety simmers down. Tara knows what to do. Buffy will be fine. Together he and Tara clean up the room and change the sheets. Tara fetches a glass of milk and a sliced apple from the supplies they brought; Spike is shocked when he sees how avidly Buffy devours the food and drink. When he thought of the hardships Buffy would be going through, he hadn't thought beyond sexual abuse and frequent blood drinking. Dawn remains busy somewhere else in the house; he's profoundly grateful to Tara for that.

He approaches Buffy hesitantly, his hands big and useless things at the end of his arms. "Buffy, love? Would you like more food? Orange juice, fruit, water, cookies?"

"Everything," Buffy nods.

Spike squeezes her arms briefly between contractions. The knowledge from the birthing books skitters from his grasp on stiff panicky legs when he reaches for it, but aren't contractions supposed to be further apart in the beginning?

He finds Tara in the mercifully Dawn-free kitchen and asks.

Tara nods, busily slicing more fruit. "Most women have more rest in the beginning, but everyone's different. If she goes on like this, she'll have a short, but real intense labor. My concern is how undernourished and exhausted she is right now. Let's feed her again and give her a shower. She must feel awfully dirty."

When the Buffy, silent and busy with her own body, is clean and dressed in a fresh nightgown, she gets on with the business of labor as if nothing has happened. She seems in control. Spike bolts to the kitchen again, feeling fucking useless and in need of some violent action. He hasn't even gotten to kill the fucking bastard. What point is his existence, anyway? If only he could go out for a nice brutal kill or something, but it's broad daylight and he's not going to leave Buffy alone again.

Tara sends him gently but firmly back to the bedroom. "Just be there. And how about this? She can lean on you just as well as she can lean on a headboard. Go on."

Spike tiptoes back in. There's no real need to be silent, but Buffy is making so little sound that he feels constrained and awkward if he makes a noise. He can't read the look Buffy gives him, and her body is in such turmoil that he has no clue to what she's feeling except pain and relief. And quite possibly that's all she's feeling right now, no need to read anything in it, is there? How do other people ever communicate without all the extra heartbeat and scent information? It's like stumbling around between aliens when the universal translator on your tricorder is off-line..

Spike sits down on the edge of the bed and waits for the current contraction to subside. It's only ten to nine, strangely enough. How can so little time have passed? Here he is, in his own pleasant airy bedroom, on his own cream sheets, and he has absolutely no idea of what to do next.

Buffy looks at him, blowing out a tired breath. Spike holds out his arms and she leans into him as naturally as if they'd agreed on this beforehand. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't want to spout banalities, inquiring about the relative badness of the last contraction or some such. He strokes her back and she sighs contentedly.

It's only a few minutes before he senses the renewed attack. Thank God, he can read her body, he knows her again. Her fingers dig furrows into his arms and he welcomes the pain.

"Lean on me, Buffy. You're doing great. Good panting, that's my girl."

Buffy's too deep in the breathe in, hold, breathe out pattern to answer him, but her fingers unclench and clench briefly. They're talking.

This is how he imagined it would be, Buffy working along with the instinctive actions her body, him steadying her, being there for her, participating in any way he can, even if a headboard or a tree would do as well. It makes him ridiculously happy in the middle of all the turmoil and confusion. Things can be all right again, they will be after they get through this.

Time bunches up, then lurches forward again with the rhythms of Buffy's womb. When Spike notices that the time between the contraptions is getting really short, he wakes out of his Buffy-induced trance and tentative fingers of panic creep in back in. The miraculous Tara chooses that moment to pop her head around the door.

"Tara!"

"Yes?"

"One minute between contractions. Now what?"

Tara examines Buffy, who suffers it in silence. Tara purses her lips. "So do you have insurance? Were you planning to take her to hospital to deliver?"

"'S not the same as where you live, we've got NHS. the midwife is our contact with it. We don't want any hassle or authorities getting a whiff of us, so we decided on  home delivery."

"You call her," Tara decides. "With luck, the baby will have arrived by the time she gets here."

Great, a new phase, where again he doesn't know what to do or what to expect. He searches for his cell, drops it twice, has to hook it up to let it recharge and is thoroughly flustered already when a bloodcurdling throaty yowl bursts from the bedroom. He's back there before the yowl has ended. Buffy is sitting straight up in bed, her eyes popping out of her head,  and bellows.

Tara retrieves her hand from between Buffy's legs. "She's got full dilation. You're ready to push, honey." Her voice and face are calm and bland as milk.

Spike's not. "Yes. Okay. But the scream. Why was Buffy screaming?"

Even Buffy, deep in her trance, manages a brief eye-roll, echoing Tara's grin. Secret female knowledge oozes from their pores, excluding him.

"Don't worry, Spike, Buffy just felt her first urge to push. It's a powerful, primeval kind of feeling."

"You have kids, Tara?" Spike says, unable to reel in his mind from the wild zigzags it's making.

Tara's face shadows. "Yes," she says.

Spike regains enough control to zip his tongue. Not now. He looks at Buffy, waiting for her next action. Buffy stares back. Nothing happens.

"Spike," Tara asks softly, "what did the midwife say?"

The cell shoots from Spikes' nervously clenching hands and he just manages to catch it before it lands on Buffy's head. Under the amused eyes of the two women, who are suddenly acting as if they've had a dozen babies together, he calls the midwife. She gives him a right bollocking but agrees to come over.

Spike's just in time to catch the change in Buffy's body language and gets back in position so she can hold to him. Her whole demeanor has changed. No longer space Buffy, hunched in on herself, grimly breathing to bear the pain. Instead, she wears a look he knows and loves. It's the triumphant warrior in the middle of a battle she's winning. He can still see it's hard work, but there seems to be no pain.

This doesn't last. After a long push, Buffy's becoming purple in the face from effort, he sees the surprise and hurt grow on her face.

"Stop pushing," Tara says urgently. "Puff the next one away. You're almost there."

Buffy moans. "It hurts."

"Just a few moments more, sweetie. Try to relax."

Buffy's almost breaking his arm, but she puffs obediently. Her eyes search his, scared and anguished. Spike can do nothing but be there and push her hair out of her face, wipe the sweat off.

"Here it comes! Gently, Buffy, a small push – stop! Puff now. Good girl. The head's crowning."

Head? What head?

"Yes, softly, yes, there it is!"

A wet, black and red thing has emerged from between Buffy's thighs. His child is deformed. Oh God. Buffy gasps in relief.

"Good!" Tara says. "Just one more, Buffy, An easy one. Just try, honey, and see if a good one comes along to help you."

A heap of slack lilac sausages slide out. What kind of creature have they made? He'll love it anyway, no matter what it looks like. He could take it out nights, maybe, where no one can see it. Tara deftly catches it and deposits it on Buffy's belly. Buffy grasps it greedily.

"It's a boy. A healthy boy."

It must be true if Tara says it. It doesn't look right. Tara fusses with the head and a soft mewl comes from the little creature in Buffy's hands.

"Spike! Oh Spike, look!"

Spike's vision is graying. He blinks hard to steady himself, bends over the snuffling little thing and stares straight into impenetrable dark blue eyes. He wants to touch the red wrist and a tiny hand grasps his finger, and then his heart.

"He's quite a boy," he says, embarrassed by the quaver in his voice. "Should his feet be so blue?"

"They'll turn pink soon enough. He's perfect," Tara says. "Everything is just right. Do you want to cut the cord?"

His nerveless fingers fail to grasp the scissors she holds out the first time. "What Cut? What? Where? I don't want to hurt them."

Tara directs the scissors firmly to a place between two plastic clamps. "Here."

It's the most nerve-wracking cut he's ever made. He expects howls of anguish from Buffy or the baby but they seem oblivious to what he's done. Buffy's face is shining

"Spike, look, he has five fingers. And one curl."

Spike dares to put his hand on the soft warm head. He hopes his hand isn't too cold. The texture of the downy skin is like a very ripe apricot, a bit loose and wrinkly, very soft and fragile hinting at flesh more tender than warm butter underneath. It's more, deeper, bigger than anything he could have imagined. His child. Their child. He can't believe he's a father. Buffy's a mother. The implications for the rest of his life are hazy, but immense. How will he ever bear up to this?

"Can I give him my breast?" Buffy asks.

"Sure," Tara says. "You milk won't have come in yet, but hell like it."

Spike holds his breath along with Buffy when she puts her nipple against he baby's mouth. The baby whimpers and opens wide. He sucks, kicking his legs and scrunching up his velvet forehead. He quickly loses interest and yawns again. He can yawn, that is so clever.

Spike's arms are empty. If only he had a heartbeat and body warmth to soothe a child with. Buffy reads his mind and offers the baby up to him. He can't believe how little a baby weighs, how small he is; he seems shorter than his forearm.

He remembers to put the head in the crook of his elbow and cradles the body to his still chest. His heart is expanding, 'tis grown a baby in it. It's truly awesome, it's love.

Buffy smiles proudly at him. They're fine. Nothing could come between them if they can produce a wonderful complete being like this.
 

TBC
 

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