Snowflake, when heís sleeping in my arms thatís what I call him. So pale and chiselled with such intricacies and delicate perfection.
Heís not fragile though. The peace and vulnerability he shows when heís curled next to me tells me that. After lifetimes with Darla and Deadboy and Dru, heís still William, he might be hidden under layers of Ďgrrí and ĎBig Badí armour, but heís still there. Changed perhaps, but still William. Still warm and gentle, loving above all else, chivalrous in ways beyond even his Victorian upbringing.
In a weird way, maybe I owe His Broody-ness for that. With all his attempts to destroy Williamís beauty, all he did was teach him how to protect it, protect what mattered.
Kinda why heís my Snowflake. They go through so much and still manage to stay true to themselves. Guess it just goes to show, even acts of god canít change who we really are- even my Big Bad, bumpy-headed, grr-faced Snowflake.
Spikeís thoughts directly after Fiendish Revenge
ďYes Sunshine, your Snowflake,Ē I whisper against his ear.
He doesnít realize I know he calls me that, or that I understand why. Though what he sees as beautiful intricacies, I see as the blackened recesses of base emotions. Still, heís always there shining his intense heat into that cold darkness and somehow, amazingly he sees beauty and compassion in the fractured and refracted backdrop.
It makes me wonder what heíll see once his warmth and light illuminate all those shrouded niches.
I want to be an open book for my boy, but Iím afraid of what heíll find- afraid my darkness will infect and consume him before his purity and light cleanse me.
I donít mean redemption, leave that to the Poof and his precious Ďsoulí. Iím talking about the love and acceptance he gives me everyday; the promise that that love and acceptance is eternal and that I, William the Bloody, am deserving of it.
Heís my Sunshine and Iíll open myself to him even if his warmth burns me and threatens to destroy all that I am. Iíll always be his Snowflake.
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