27 Days

He rushed from the sewer to the back porch of – his mind shied away from her name, even in thought; this wasn’t her house any longer. He burst through the back door just as Dawn walked into the kitchen. She raised one eyebrow at him as he stomped on his smoking blanket.

“Thanks for not setting my house on fire,” she said, and dove headfirst into the refrigerator. Grape jelly, ketchup, pickles, cheese, bologna, and mustard were excavated and placed on the counter. He had the sick feeling she was going to incorporate all those ingredients into one disgusting sandwich. The girl had an iron-clad stomach.

It had been nearly a month now since… well, it had been nearly a month, and things had settled into a routine. Only on the Hellmouth, he thought, would a vamp minding the Slayer’s kid sister be considered routine. But that was exactly what was going on here. He knew if word got out about this, his already-tattered reputation would be completely shredded. But such was his life. The Scoobies had better things to do than mind a heartbroken teen; who better for the task than the now-mostly-sober (during the daytime, at least) and equally heartbroken vampire? Which was all fine and good; the Niblet was the only one of the bunch he could even stand to look at these days.

He was at Revello Drive each afternoon, so someone would be there when Dawn arrived home from summer school. Anya was busy running the Magic Box; she had made some noises about having Dawn help in the shop, but the way she looked at the girl sometimes made him think the ex-demon knew more about the Niblet’s foray into raising the dead than she let on. Harris, too, was occupied by his workaday life in construction. The witches, while they’d taken up residence in Joyce’s room and were nominally responsible for the care and feeding of the littlest Summers, spent much of their time at the Magic Box, researching spells to assist with the ragtag patrolling the gang did each night. So far, all of Red’s enthusiastic plans had come to naught. He wasn’t complaining too loudly, however; her plan for portable sunlight didn’t strike him as the most Spike-friendly idea she could have come up with.

He watched, weirdly fascinated, as Dawn constructed her after-school snack. Peanut butter, banana, and honey had joined the mix. She licked a dollop of jelly off one hand while squirting mustard on a slice of bread with the other.

“You’re not really gonna eat that, are you?” he asked.

She looked at him guilelessly. “I’m hungry.”

“I’d recommend actual food, in that case. That’s just… gross.”

“Says the guy who drinks blood.” She rolled her eyes at him, slapped the sandwich together, and took a big bite. “Speaking of which,” she mumbled around her mouthful, and swung her backpack onto the counter. She rummaged through the contents of her bag and emerged with a bag of blood. She smiled brightly and handed it to him.

He took it reluctantly. Nothing like a fourteen year old former-ball-of-energy hounding him about his eating habits to make him feel like a pet vamp. “Y’know, Niblet, you don’t need to spend your allowance on me. Managed to survive this long…”

Dawn shrugged. “Yeah, whatever. Just eat. Then you can help me with my history homework.” She took another bite and chewed sloppily. That didn’t improve the appeal of her snack in the least. “You were alive during the Crimean War, right?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I was, but I was just a little nipper. Don’t remember anything about it.” He retrieved his mug from the cupboard and fixed his own snack. Dawn gave him a grimace when he sucked on the remnants left in the bag while he waited for the microwave to ding. He followed her trail of crumbs into the dining room, where her school books were already opened to the relevant chapters. He sat in the chair she had pulled out next to her, well out of reach of the sunlight streaming across the head of the table.

He answered questions on autopilot, only half-listening to her. His eyes were transfixed on the sunbeam that was slowly slanting its way toward him. He calculated how many minutes till it reached him, stared out the window at the blaze of summer sunshine. He could clearly picture himself pushing back from the table, walking to the door, and striding through it. He wondered how many steps he could take before he was just so much dust blowing in the gentle breeze.

A sharp elbow in his ribs broke him out of his pathetic thoughts. Dawn’s eyes, too big and dark in her pale face, were fixed worriedly on him; she looked from him to the encroaching light and hurried to draw the curtains closed. She settled down next to him again. She scooted her chair closer, so her skinny leg butted up against his.

She was always touching him these days. A hand on his arm, a quick hug here or there, sitting closer to him than was strictly necessary. She was like that with all the Scoobies and with Giles, but if he was in the room, he was the object of her attention. It was disconcerting and strange and heartwarming.

Less heartwarming and more annoying was her persistent questioning about his life – as a human, that was. Always trying to worm little bits of information out of him.

Like now. The textbook was pushed aside. “How old were you during the war?”

He shrugged. “Not more’n three or four, I reckon.”

“When it started or when it was over?”

“’S not polite to ask a vamp his age.” He tried to inject humor into his tone, but it was so very hard.

Dawn nodded seriously, though, and changed her line of inquiry. “You lived in London, right? Which part? Was your family poor, or were you, like, wealthy landowners with lots of servants and fancy houses all over England?”

“Focus, Li’l Bit. I can guarantee that the life and times of William the Bloody is not going to be on your exam. Now, what were three major contributing factors to the Crimean War?”

Dawn sighed, but turned her attention back to her homework. She snuck little glances at him as they worked.

He wanted to snap at her, tell her he wasn’t going to disappear if she let him out of her sight or took her grubby little human hands off him for one minute. But that wasn’t fair to her, so he bit his tongue and quizzed her on names and dates and battles, until he was satisfied that she’d absorbed the material. And when they were done, he let her drag him into the living room to watch a movie before supper and patrolling.

He flopped on the couch and stared sightlessly at the television. He was so tired; he was a creature of the night, not meant to be awake on a sunny California afternoon, watching cheesy cheerleading flicks with a teenager.

“I’ll do your nails for you. Okay?” Dawn jumped up before he could answer and scurried upstairs to fetch her cosmetics. He looked at his hands. His nails were ragged, the polish chipped and mostly gone. He tried to think of the last time he’d cared about his Big Bad image enough to paint them.


He sat cross-legged on the sarcophagus, nails still wet, when the Slayer slammed through the crypt door. He eyed her warily, enjoying the enticing aroma of rage rolling off her, although he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done this time to deserve it.

Then she yanked the lid of the tomb out from under him and, before he could move, slammed it into his chest. “You let Dawn find out like that? From books and papers? You hate me that much?”

His heart cracked. He wanted to tell her how much he didn’t hate her, but his temper got the better of him.


Dawn plopped herself down practically in his lap and reached for his hand. He let his head flop back into the cushions, tried not to think of Joyce lying cold and still on this couch, and closed his eyes. The astringent smell of acetone filled his nostrils as Dawn went to work. Once his nails were polish-free, she carefully trimmed them. The caress of her fingers on his and the brush of her hair against his bare arm lulled him almost to sleep. She reached for a bottle of polish, but he stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

“Sorry,” he said into his chest. He wasn’t quite sure she heard him, so he repeated himself, louder and clearer. “Sorry I’m so…”

“Cranky?” Dawn supplied. She shrugged a careless shoulder, but he could see the mingled hurt and relief on her face.

“’S not you, Niblet. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” She turned away from him and began brushing the polish on in slow, neat strokes.

He felt like he should say more, but the warmth of the afternoon and the murmur of the TV combined with Dawn’s movements to relax him. He sank deeper and deeper into the soft couch.

He woke to the sound of the telephone. The room was dim; it was past dark, and Dawn was just stirring from her spot beside him. A line creased her cheek from where she’d snuggled against his shoulder and fallen asleep.

He felt oddly unembarrassed at taking a nap with the kid. They both needed it, he figured; he knew Dawn’s sleep had been erratic. Worse than his own, if that was possible. So he just patted her shoulder until she roused fully and went to answer the phone.

“Hello?” She nodded and ‘uh-huh’ed while the person on the other end spoke. “I’ll tell him,” she said, turning to look at him. “See ya later.” She hung up the phone but stayed by the desk, twirling the cord around one slender finger. “Willow wants you to bring the ‘Bot to the Magic Box,” she said finally. “So you guys can go patrol.”

He swallowed. “Right. Guess I should get a move on, then, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll go get her.” She trotted up the stairs.

He sat in the dark on the couch, not moving, trying not to think or feel. Certainly not looking up when Dawn traipsed back downstairs with it trailing behind her. He stood, though, and pulled his duster on. “You gonna be okay by yourself, Platelet?” he asked. “You could come along, maybe help Anya out at the shop while we patrol.” He wasn’t pleading for company; he could be alone with it, no problem. Just didn’t feel right leaving the Li’l Bit home alone.

Dawn rolled her eyes. One day she’d roll them too far and they’d get stuck – that’d teach her. “I’ll be fine, Spike. Go, kill.” She practically pushed them out the door. She paused before closing the door behind them. “You’ll come back later, right? Say goodnight?”

“’Course, pet,” he said mildly. “Lock up tight, now.”

She smiled and the door swung shut. He waited to hear the snick of the deadbolt before turning toward the sidewalk.

It was staring at him, an expectant smile on its face.

He growled and swept down the porch steps, duster flaring out behind him. It hurried along behind him, boot heels clattering against the sidewalk until it was walking next to him. It reached for his arm, and he resisted the urge to shove it away. Though he knew it wasn’t her – and why couldn’t he have figured that one out before having the damnable thing made in the first place? – he couldn’t bring himself to harm it. So he simply evaded its grasp and gritted his teeth the entire walk to the Magic Box.

He was ready to explode by the time they reached the shop. He yanked the door open violently; the bell clanged loudly and the Scooby gang turned as he stomped through the store. He ignored Giles’ lukewarm greeting, heading straight for the training room.

“I think Spike is angry with me,” he heard it say as the heavy door slammed shut behind him.

He let out an almighty roar of anger and frustration and punched the nearest wall. Brick wall. Hard.

“D-does that help?”

He turned to see Tara, all softness and sympathy, standing in the doorway. He sucked on his bloody and bruised knuckles, then dropped to his knees on the hard floor. “No,” he said honestly. “It doesn’t. Nothing does.” The tears that sprang to his eyes were impossible to stop. Something about the witch, though, kept him from hiding them.

She sat down next to him. “Willow’s going to work on the programming. G-get her to stop, um…”

“Ogling me?” He laughed bitterly. “’S’okay. It’s… I deserve it, y’know? The stupid ‘Bot wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

“It’s a g-good thing she is, Spike, really,” Tara said. Her hand brushed against the back of his neck. He shuddered at the contact. “Who knows where Dawnie would be right now if social services knew Buffy was…” Her voice trailed off. So, she couldn’t say the word, either. He felt a little better at that.

“I know.” He shook the tears off and turned to her. “Thanks, Glinda.”

She smiled, and it lit her up. “Ready for patrol?”

He nodded, springing to his feet and offering her a hand up. She took it, a sly grin on her face.

“I like your manicure,” she said as she turned to head into the main shop area.

He glanced down at his hands. Cotton-candy pink polish coated his nails. “Bloody little brat!” he cursed under his breath. A tiny smile curved his lips, though, at the thought of his cheeky girl.


***

Dawn was asleep when he returned to the house on Revello Drive. The ‘Bot, thankfully, was in Red’s capable hands. She had stammered through a half-hearted apology after it babbled on about his ‘washboard abs’ and ‘sinister attraction’ during patrol. From the looks on the faces of the entire gang, no one wanted to hear much more of that talk. All the more motivation for her to deprogram the thing, which could only be good.

He climbed to his nightly perch outside the Bit’s window, smoking cigarette after cigarette until he heard her stir from the inevitable nightmare. He crept quietly into her bedroom, and stroked her silky hair until she fell back to sleep. He thought this time she hadn’t even fully woken up; perhaps they were starting to ease somewhat.

When he was sure she was settled – knowing from experience that one bad dream was usually her nightly limit – he leapt to the ground and headed for Willie’s. Time enough to get moderately smashed and perhaps find himself a satisfying demon-bar fight before sunrise.

And tomorrow, he would do it all over again.