Sara is six and Joey is two, and there's a space in between. Spike's not stupid - he can do the math. That's the space that Lex would fill. Four. It's what parents call a "good age." A four-year-old doesn't need diapers; can feed and pretty much dress themselves. A four-year-old has a sense of humor and a personality and they laugh and play with that special sort of fearless abandon.
At six, Sara is finding fear for the first time. She's learning about social groups and has felt the sting of childhood rejection. She's had her moments of first-grade hysteria over assignments or friendships gone sour. She's had her first crush - on a teacher - and been let down so easily that even Spike forgave the man, though Jase may never manage to.
At two, Joey still depends on them for so much, and she can be a holy terror. She's demanding and fussy and balky and stubborn and, well...two. They look at each other and roll their eyes and hop to get what she needs, muttering "this too shall pass" and smiling ruefully at the way she owns them all.
But Lex would have been four this year. Spike imagines him tall, but slim. Dark hair would be a given, as well as dark eyes. He thinks that Lex would have looked exotic, with Shari's almond eyes but Xander's olive skin and wavy hair - a devastating combination. He imagines that he'd be a wild child, rough-and-tumble, with scabbed knees and a wide smile. He hopes that Lex would have been carefree and confident, bold and loving like his father.
Spike watches Xander. Dawn and Jase have formed a regular playgroup - their girls and neighbor kids and the sons and daughters of the local Slayers and schoolmates. Xander designed and built a massive swing set in the back yard of the Summers' house. It's made of strong timbers and resembles a castle, with ramparts and a turret playhouse. It has slides and swings and bridges and a trapeze, and the whole thing is set in an oasis of soft cedar chips almost a foot deep to cushion the inevitable falls. He's got sketches going for a wading pool-and-sandbox extravaganza for next summer.
Spike watches from the house. Xander watches from the patio. He often gets in there and plays with the kids, but today is different. A new child has joined the fray, and as soon as Xander saw him, he folded into a chair and hasn't moved since. The child is a boy. He looks to be around four, and when Spike sees him, he, too, folds into a chair. Tall, yet slim. Olive skin and wavy dark hair. Wide, happy smile and a particular liking for the monkey bars. Spike can see that the boy's eyes are green, and they're as round as any American child's, but there's just something about him. He's got Xander's devil-may-care look, but there's a grace to his movements that reminds Spike of Naomi - Shari's friend who had sparred with them in LA. And, true or not, Naomi is Spike's internal vision of Shari.
Spike watches Xander. He knows the look on the other man's face. It's coming around more often these days - regret and want and longing and pain, and it tears at Spike. He knows in his heart that Xander doesn't blame him, but he blames himself. He relives the moment, so long ago, when he was a hair's breadth away from dusting Dru, long before she ever got the idea of destroying Xander's life and then destroying Xander. Regret is nothing new for Spike - it came with the soul, and he's learned to deal, but this particular regret cuts deep and wide. It's all mixed up, because, had things not happened the way they did, he would never have had Xander and the happiness they've forged. He feels as if Lex and Shari's deaths have given him a gift he never deserved, and it makes his heart ache.
Spike looks up as Xander levers himself out of his chair and walks toward the house. They meet at the sliding glass door, and Xander pulls Spike to his side, making sure they are shaded by the broad awning. Spike presses close as a warm arm comes around his shoulders.
"New kid," Xander whispers, nuzzling into Spike's hair. Spike can smell the faint salt of unshed tears, a drop in the ocean.
"Yeah," Spike says, looking out at the boy. "Saw him."
"His name's Tim," Xander says.
They stand together, the sounds of laughing children washing over and around them. After a few minutes, the boy they are both watching moves off to the side, looking at the clusters of other children with a wistful expression. Xander straightens, and Spike gives him a kiss on the cheek and a gentle push forward. He doesn't have to strain to hear the quiet exchange when Xander kneels in front of the boy, holding out a hand that is solemnly shaken.
"Hi, Tim. I'm Xander."
"Hello, Xander - do you like the monkey bars?"