Author: enigmaticblue <enigmaticblue@yahoo.com>

Rating: Mild R for adult themes and language.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters except for Tim. He's mine. Of course, I don't make money off of any of them. Oh, and the title is from a Patti Griffin song of the same name.

Archive: Anywhere that already has my stuff. Anywhere else, just ask.

Summary: Spike leaves after a slightly altered "Seeing Red," and doesn't come back. This fic is set about five years or so later.

A/N: A few things before we get started.

1) This fic is not Spuffy. Even if you don't normally read anything not Spuffy, I hope you'll stick with me, because I think it'll be good. Who knows? You might surprise yourself by actually liking a different pairing.

2) This fic is darker than my usual. I'm going to be exploring some pretty adult themes including prostitution, sexual abuse, and suicide. It's not going to be graphic, and I'm going to be sensitive, but I wanted to give fair warning.

3) I don't think I really have to say this, but I will anyway. I am not trying to make any kind of political statements with this fic. I'm doing Spara because I like the pairing and for no other reason. Personally, I think sometimes you just fall in love with someone, regardless of gender.

Dedication: For Speaker-to-Customers, who said he wanted me to try my hand at Spara, and for Heather, who thinks I can write anything, bless her heart.
 

Chapter 1
 

"These are the tears of things, and the stuff of our mortality cuts us to the heart." ~Virgil
 

Spike ran over the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign because it was tradition at this point. In the past it had been because it looked like fun, or because he was drunk, or the previous time because he wanted to point out that he was back in town to anyone who cared. (No one really had.)

This time, however, there was no more Slayer to care, no one to notice except for the rather inept Sunnydale PD. Tim got a laugh out of it, however, so maybe that was something.

His companion looked around at the dimly lit streets as Spike pointed the nose of the Mustang towards the Magic Box. "Doesn't look like much."

"It's not," Spike agreed. He had no problem remembering where to go. Everything about this little hellhole had been burned on his brain, never to be forgotten.

Tim glanced over at the vampire. "So, what? We're here to see the grave of some dead chick, and then do...what?"

"She's not 'some dead chick,'" Spike replied as evenly as he could, although a thin thread of anger could be heard in his voice. "She was the Slayer—the best that ever lived."

Tim frowned, hearing in Spike's voice something he'd never heard before. "You're in love with her."

"I was."

The young man decided not to argue verb tenses. "Yeah, okay. But then what?"

"What's the problem?" Spike asked, looking over at him. "You got somewhere to be?"

Tim shrugged. "No, it's just—Forget it."

"Not goin' to forget it," Spike replied. "Something's botherin' you."

"You think we could maybe stay somewhere for a while?" Tim asked. "Not forever, maybe, but—we've been going for weeks now."

Spike had to acknowledge the truth of that statement. They'd been on the move almost constantly for the last three years, going from place to place without any goal in mind. The vampire had to admit that he didn't think the boy would stick it out with him for this long, but Tim was a trooper, and had for some reason attached himself like a limpet.

It had been decidedly odd for Spike to find that he had an innate need to take care of something or someone. He'd found himself collecting strays—the odd cat here, a stray dog there. There was never any formal arrangement, but he left food out for them, and they in turn followed him around.

Of course, when it was time to move on, it was infinitely easier to leave the cats and dogs behind than it was a human stray.

But Spike didn't mind Tim's company so much. They liked the same kinds of music and the same kinds of video games. Plus, it was nice to have someone to talk to over the long miles. Driving down the East coast, through Florida and along the Gulf of Mexico, then across the Southwest to California—even the most interesting of scenery got boring after a while. Especially when most of the time you're driving after dark by necessity.

It was while they were in New Orleans that they heard the news. Spike actually liked it there—plenty of things to do, places to get lost in. There were demons to swindle and damsels to save, and a few of those women had welcomed him with open arms and rounded softness.

It was a way to forget.

Five months, and no thoughts of moving on, until the word had come—been whispered in back alleys and demon bars—the Slayer was dead. Both of them.

Spike had found Tim and gave him the choice of staying. He wasn't surprised when the boy had simply started packing, in spite of the crowd of friends he'd found.

For whatever reason, the boy had decided that Spike meant home, and where Spike went he followed. Human strays weren't so different after all.

So they'd headed out for Sunnydale, California, two guys and a yellow dog Tim had named Luz. Spike had tried to explain that one didn't name stray animals, mostly because it usually meant you were going to keep them, and they couldn't. Tim, as usual, did what he wanted, and Luz was not left behind.

Which was why Spike was returning to a town he hated with a young man and a dog in tow.

They wouldn't stay here, he knew. All he wanted was to visit Buffy's grave, to whisper his farewell, to tell her he was sorry for not coming back. He'd thought—never mind what he thought. It had been for the best. That much he was certain of.

Maybe  L.A., Spike thought to himself, as he pulled up outside the Magic Box. Or they could go farther north, up the coast to San Francisco or even father to Seattle or Portland. The hazy weather was a vampire's dream climate. He could see Tim settled, maybe convince him to go back to school. The kid was smart when he wanted to be.

They could have a life. Tim deserved it.

Spike could hardly bear to think it, but he could move on now that Buffy was dead. The holding pattern was over; there was no hope for the future. He would see her final resting place, and he would leave his useless desires there.

It was time.

~~~~~

Tim wasn't sure what the big deal was about Sunnydale. Spike had been hell-bent on getting to the small town from the moment he'd heard the news that the girl with the strange name had died. Seriously, who named their kid Buffy?

Spike wouldn't say much about Sunnydale, no matter how many questions he asked. All Spike would say was that he'd spent the worst years of his unlife there and not to ask so many questions.

There had to be something good that happened, though, for the vampire to want to get back so badly to see somebody's grave. Spike hadn't even said anything about her until he'd found out she was dead, and then it was only that he had to go and did Tim want to come?

He'd laughed at the question, then he'd started to pack.

There were two things that Tim was certain of: life sucked—and life was better while he was around Spike.

One thing was for sure at least. No one tried to mess with him anymore. That alone would persuade him to stay.

Besides, Spike needed him.

Even though the vampire hadn't been very positive about his experiences in Sunnydale, Tim was still unprepared for the reception they got when they walked through the door of the Magic Box.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

The speaker was tall, dark haired, and kind of meaty. If Tim had to make a guess, he'd say the guy was in construction or one of the trades. He was also advancing on the two of them with a stake in hand.

Surprisingly, Spike didn't move a muscle. "Xander."

Tim frowned, waiting for the vampire to say something—do something. Surely he wasn't going to just stand there and let the guy stake him.

"Why the hell did you have to come back?" Xander asked bitterly. "Couldn't you have done us all a favor and stayed away?"

Spike shrugged, just a small movement. "I heard about Buffy. I wanted to pay my respects."

The sneer on Xander's face was ugly. "Well, you came, you paid them, now you can take your friend and leave. You're not welcome here."

"I want to see her grave," Spike said stolidly.

"So you can dance on it?" Xander demanded, his voice shaky, angry, icy with grief. "Forget it, Spike. Just get out of town."

Tim watched as a muscle in Spike's jaw jumped, and then he gave a tight nod and turned to go. The boy was flabbergasted. He was used to people giving him the cold shoulder when he entered a shop. Used to being followed around by the employees for fear that he was going to carry off their goods because of the way he looked. Spike, of the two of them, got more respect, more deference—except, obviously, for this little hellhole of a town.

Grabbing Spike's arm, Tim shook his head. "Spike! We just drove five days to get here so you could see this girl's grave! You aren't going to let this idiot chase you off, right?"

"Let it go, Tim," Spike commanded quietly.

Xander laughed. It was not a nice sound. "I see it's not only the ladies you can charm, William."

There was innuendo there, and while it was aimed mostly at Spike for whatever history lay between the two men, Tim saw red. "You don't know jack-shit about this!" he burst out angrily. "You don't know sod-all about us, either! You can keep your dirty mouth shut, or I'll shut it for you!"

"Tim, lad, it's okay," Spike said quietly, trying to calm him, the same voice he had when the nightmares got bad. When he'd bathed his hurts that day—"Whelp's just mouthin' off to me. 's nothin' to do with you."

Xander seemed taken aback by this (obviously) human boy's rage. He was himself a little crazy from grief and guilt and so he spoke again when he should have kept his mouth shut. "You want to try something? You think Spike's gonna be able to help you against a human? I'll wipe the floor with you, you little—"

Whatever else he might have said was cut off by a strong hand closing over his throat. Xander hadn't even seen Spike move. "You touch a hair on the boy's head and I'll have your balls in my hand," the vampire said quietly. "Chip's gone, Harris. Nothing is stoppin' me from rippin' out your soddin' throat right now."

Spike released the other man impatiently. "Look, Whelp, I know you hate me. Just tell me where she is an' we'll be out of your hair. Preferably by sun-up."

Tim and Spike both often wondered what might have happened if Xander had simply told them—if they had left just a few moments earlier.

Fate can be a tricky bitch at times.