#please refer to ao3 closing authors note for a bit more reference regarding the song choices.

[hartxstarr-art]

I’m Awful-Glad We Met

warnings: canon-typical violence. abusive relationship. child abuse. referenced suicide.

notes: also on ao3. 1.5k word count. pre-canon. spike plays the piano and he is NOT having a good time.

He was thrown to the ground. Everything hurt. His shattered ribs and broken nose—and it didn’t matter that he was a child. It never mattered. He was ten, plucked out of the gutters like a stray, blood dripping down his chin. A month ago, he buried his father. Last week, he had found his mother, hanging from the rafters.

He couldn’t even manage a tear anymore. “What do you want?”

“Ah...” A noise of disappointment, Mao looking down at him from around his desk. “You’re making a mess of the carpet.” And he had said it so sincerely, so directly, that Spike decided to follow him for the rest of his life.

---

He manned Annie’s register, occasionally. He sat there for more hours than he could count, during his off-days, earning honest money, for her honest business; selling pinups, and porn, and periodicals. It wasn’t official—he had been only twelve, after all—but she still paid him for his time.

It was good for him, Mao had said—customer service and money-handling. Spike just thought if he were there, on the rare chance he didn’t have a task to accomplish, he wouldn’t have to practice the piano for hours at a time. It’d be a few more years until he’d start to spend his free time down on Earth, soaring across the dusty sky, after all.

Business was slow, most days. He often filled the hours working through text after text, hungry for literature; life writings, and reviews, and short stories. Mao said that was good, too—it was good to train the mind. Spike took that to heart.

---

He told himself he would run away. That was how he came across Doohan’s shop, stationed out in the middle of nowhere. The work ethic was grueling, but the heat is what got to him; and in the end, after only a week, Spike had packed his bags and reluctantly returned home. Back to Mars, to his own apartment, to his own bloodied life, and that damning office. He kept up visits though, whenever he could—accomplishing the tasks that were given, without complaint, silently pleading for a vacation—learning more about machinery, and how to fly, and the man who taught it all.

For his sixteenth birthday, he had made the trip back out, just to get away from everything; dragons, and bullets, and burns. When he came back home, pulling up in Swordfish, Mao had been unreasonably upset. “If you had wanted a racer, all you had to do was ask.”

Spike hadn’t wanted to ask. He hadn’t even expected to bring it home in the first place. In fact, he was certain he never would have gotten a ship from his captain, even if he begged for it—and he’s learned how to beg the man by now.

He kept the keyring held tight in his palm.

---

“Happy birthday.”

Spike stood there for a moment, silent, in the entranceway of Mao’s office. He didn’t need to look at the calendar on the wall. He knew what today was—his birthday had been last month. It had been years since he stopped correcting him, ages since he came to the realization: the day Spike was born didn’t matter to Mao, at all. Today was the day he got picked up. That’s what was important to the man.

Spike turned—using the opportunity to sigh—closing the door behind him, before stepping further into the room. “Thanks.”

“Eighteen, now,” Mao mused, and leaned back into his chair. At least he got the number right this time. “How does it make you feel?”

Younger than you, Spike thought, but bit back the response before it could leave him. Instead, he shifted his weight, standing in the middle of the room. It felt like there was a spotlight on him. “…Fine.”

“Here,” Mao gestured. “Make some tea. It’s your special day, I wont give you any tasks. Let’s spend time together, instead. It’s been a while.”

Spike made his way over to the kitchenette, where he prepared the kettle. He took a moment to scan the horizon, outside the window, grimacing. He didn’t wake up early and dressed up, to report, just to sit around and drink tea all day. When he was a kid, Mao had assured him that he would one day come to appreciate the taste. Spike was still waiting for that day.

He rummaged around in the cabinet, looking for the blend that tasted most like nothing. Letting it steep, he turned back to his captain. “Y’know,” he tried for casual. “It’s just a day. There’s nothing special about it.”

Mao’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, but there is.”

Spike frowned, and finished preparing the tea. Carrying the tray over, he made his way to the desk, and placed a cup carefully in front of the man, on a coaster. He put his own on the other side, near the edge of the desk, where he stood, and tucked the tray beneath his arm. He almost didn’t bother with a coaster.

The sentiment wasn’t lost on him—serving tea, on his own apparent birthday, stuck in the office. With Mao.

He watched Mao sip it with a sigh. “You always do it best, Spike.”

Spike didn’t think so. But he also didn’t think it was the tea he was praising. He was no longer a pup, trailing after his heels, seeking his approval—no, he’s long since grown out of that phase. Despite the fact, something inside of him stirred back to life at the words. Again, he shifted his weight. Then, as if it had acted on its own, his head inclined slightly in response.

“Tell me,” Mao sat back once more, interlacing his fingers together before him. “Have you been practicing?”

Head still lowered, Spike froze.

“Ah…” A noise of disappointment. “What have I told you? If you don’t play, you will lose it.” He gestured to the standing piano, tucked into the corner of the room. “Go on.”

Spike’s eyes flickered between Mao and the piano. He felt twelve again. The stirring grew louder, pounding against his ears until it was all he could hear. Slowly, he raised to full height. It’s true—he hadn’t played in a while...

Making his way over to the corner, the spotlight burned brighter. He set the tray down on the lid, taking a seat and flipped over the fallboard. Exhaling, his shoulders sank. He worked his jaw, sitting there for a spell.

“What—ah,” he tapped at a few keys, idly. “What do you want to hear?” He turned his head, only a bit, in Mao’s direction. The notes formed a melody, slowly; familiar and safe. He continued on, trying to keep it upbeat—but it was hard. The spotlight felt heavy, his fingers not extending as far as they should.

“This is why you need practice,” Mao sighed. “You’re rusty.”

Coming from any other person, Spike would have been on his feet in an instant. But then, if it were any other person watching, Spike wouldn’t have felt so tense. He swallowed, and focused on his hands and where they landed. He allowed himself to be silent for only a moment, before carrying on with the tune.

A celebrated man amongst the gurneys…

“None of that,” Mao cut him off. “I don’t know where you got that from, anyway. Play something different. Something good. Something real.”

“Well,” Spike felt himself clenching his jaw. “What do you want? Give me a request.” When he got no response, he bared his teeth. Keeping his back turned, he glued himself to the bench; the stirring flickered, flaring up before it collapsed onto itself. It left his shoulders tense, losing control of the notes once more.

“You’re hurting my ears now, Spike.”

Spike stopped completely. Hovering over the keys, his hands clenched into fists. “Then tell me what to play.” Again, no response. He remembered why he only ever came in here to report, nowadays. It never mattered—the money, or the rise, the lives, his own blood flooding out like a constant river, screaming, always on his knees—he never got what he truly wanted. Exhaling, sharply, he started a different melody. He didn’t breathe. His entire attention honed in on the keys before him, unintentionally increasing in speed, incrementally, the metronome inside his head ticking faster and faster.

This was a mistake, I’ll take my leave—

He only got about halfway through the piece before the hand coming down on his shoulder shot him back to the present. He looked up.

“Breathe.”

That one word prompted the inhale into his lungs, ceasing his thoughts instantly; nearly wiping his mind completely, leaving only him and Mao. The stirring crept up again, the embers burning, still. Despite the churning in his stomach, the revulsion at being touched, always, always, always—the one truth remained: no matter his age, from one person, he wanted to be praised. Catching the eyes of his captain, he sat, trying his hardest not to heave and failing miserably in the process. Embarrassingly. Obviously.

“It’s alright, Spike. Try again.”

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to tear his gaze away, and he turned back to the piano. Again, he worked his jaw. Distantly, Spike knew Mao was only letting him play this one because he had never heard it before—this was the first time he’s ever tried. He exhaled, once more, and tried again; humming the words under his breath, to help him along.

Can you read between the Morse code lines...?

After he was done, he looked out of the corner of his eyes, reflexively, back at his captain. Mao still stood, hovering over his shoulder, arms behind his back.

“That sounded better,” he had said, and Spike needed nothing more to feel ten all over again.