“I come in order that I deal harm. You shall not deal harm against me. I am your protector.” – The Book of Going Forth By Day


Spike looked up from the singed box just in time to see Xander wipe Doc’s blood off of his face. Too bad he hadn’t been the one to run the old demon through, but at least the box, whatever it held, was safe. He picked it up, trying to ignore the smoke that was still curling off of its surface.

“What d’we got?” Xander asked, eyeing the vampire’s burden with equal parts curiosity and trepidation.

Spike glanced at Doc’s body. The fact that he had been so foolhardy as to bring Dawn here after her mother’s death tainted whatever pleasure he felt in their unexpected find.

“Something worth dying for,” he conceded darkly.

Xander started for the door, but Spike continued looking at the fallen demon.

“C’mon,” the boy called from the doorway. “If that thing’s important, then Giles’ll want it stat.”

“Wait a tick,” Spike said tightly. He put the box down on the floor and yanked the sword from Doc’s body. Before Xander could protest, the vampire swept the blade across the demon’s throat, neatly severing his head and leaving another spray of blue blood across the floor.

Both vampire and human jumped back in surprise as Doc’s headless body convulsed. Huh, not dead then.

Xander laughed nervously, a high pitched sound that nevertheless diffused the situation. “Decapitation, for when impalement just won’t get the message across,” he quipped.

Spike snorted at what was, admittedly, a very bad joke. He honestly hadn’t known if Doc was dead or not, but now was not the time to take sloppy chances, and some demons were harder to kill than others. Taking that as a mantra worth embracing, he stooped low and picked up the severed head. It hit the fire with a wet sizzle, catching quickly and sending stinking smoke rolling out of the fireplace.

“Right then,” Spike said as he scooped up the mystery box again, “Let’s get this back to the watcher.”

*****

Day 31

One more week.

Seven more days that he wasn’t able to look for Ammut. Seven more nights that he was only undead on borrowed time.

Seven more ways that Willow’s grand robotic plan had gone up in smoke, quite literally two nights ago.

She had tried to insist that Spike come along, again, but no matter how seriously she seemed to be taking that tacky ‘Boss of Us’ plaque the Whelp had knocked together, he wasn’t having any of it. Informing all of the Scoobies as to exactly what kinds of physical impossibilities they should perform upon one another had ended with some impressive special effects; a lingering tingle down his left arm; shocked sensibilities on Tara’s part; and a new post for the vampire: Dawn-sitting.

That was fine, he’d much rather be with her anyway.

“Queso dip?” Dawn tipped the bowl of congealed goo towards him.

Spike eyed the mess dubiously, there were bluish chunks of… something, only the gods and Dawn Summers knew what, floating in the yellowish mix. “Not much of an appetite tonight, ‘Bit.”

She rotated the bowl in her hands, letting the viscous gloop coat the inside of the Corningware. She scooped a bit out with a corn chip and chewed it disinterestedly. “Yeah…” her voice was full of the kind of weariness that had no right to exist in a girl her age. She slid the bowl onto the coffee table and stared at the television. “Think they’ll get it to work tonight?” she asked without making eye contact.

By some unspoken agreement, they had both settled on pronouns with regard to the BuffyBot. It made these discussions a little less painful.

“Maybe,” he grunted noncommittally. Spike hoped like hell that the damned thing would explode. He never wanted to see it again, but he also knew that all it would take was another guilt trip from Giles to drag him back out in the cemeteries with it.

“You need anything?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

Dawn shrugged apathetically. “Tara takes care of groceries, and Willow finally managed to figure out how to get mom’s insurance money out of Buffy’s bank account without casting glamours on herself, so bills are okay too.” She poked listlessly at the remote on her armrest, changing the channels from sappy Romcom to mindless Sitcom. Another poke turned the television off, and the girl sank back further into the couch. “Food, shelter, cable TV… See? I’ve got the basic needs of life covered.” The light tone of her voice was tainted by an underlying note of bitterness.

Spike, slumped on his end of the couch, scowled to himself. Considering that his promise to Buffy had been to take care of Dawn, it had more often seemed that the opposite was true. He needed to do something about that.

“Thought shoes, irritatin’ music, and shiny baubles were amongst that list at your age.”

Dawn favored him with a forced smile. “Nah, I’m good,” she said with a long sigh.

“Liar.”

Instead of denying his charge, she just shrugged. “Not gonna ask Willow for anything when money’s still so tight.”

“So, ask me,” Spike said bluntly.

Dawn was pretending to look at the blank television screen, but Spike could see blue glittering at him from the corner of her eyes.

“You keep bein’ this mature and responsible, you’re head’s gonna explode. ‘S unnatural. Surely there’s some bit of frippery that you want.”

“Well,” she hedged, “I’m almost out of lip gloss.”

“That’s not even a challenge, what do you really want?” Spike quirked his brow at her, making his intentions plain. Dawn arched her own eyebrow in return, letting Spike know without words that she knew exactly how he was planning to obtain her present. Plausible deniability was a very useful thing. The others would not approve, but Spike had pretty much settled on a ‘screw them all’ mentality with regards to the Scoobies at the moment.

“Davidson’s Boutique, center display, purple blouse with draw strings lacing up the front, small,” she finally listed in an arch voice.

Spike grinned wickedly; it felt good.

“Done,” he said. A little uncivil disobedience, especially on Dawn’s behalf, had the potential to go far in improving both their moods.

“Now give me that remote, there’s gotta be somethin’ on tonight.”

*****

Dawn was tucked in her bed, sleeping the sleep of the completely exhausted. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable lying there with one hand curled under her cheek and dark hair splayed across her pale sheets. Spike stood in the doorway of her bedroom, watching over her and trying to put a name to the roiling emotion in the pit of his stomach. There was something very wrong about this girl trusting a vampire so much, but ironically, he knew that trust to be well placed.

He would do anything, shed every drop of borrowed blood in his veins and then set fire to himself, or promise to refrain from doing so, to keep her from pain, in spite of how terribly unnatural that was as well. His heart had been dragging him against the grain of what was ‘natural’ for a vampire for so long that he was starting to feel a certain empathy for the first wolves drawn in by human fires and companionship. If he didn’t keep a sharp eye out, Dawn would be carrying him around in a customized purse and feeding him beef flavored heart worm treats soon.

The fact that a scant few years earlier, this same sight would have evoked a very different reaction made Spike wince and softly swing Dawn’s door shut. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself grabbing Dawn by the hair and dragging her back to Dru as a special midnight stack. The imagined scene wasn’t hard to conjure; he had done similar things so many times throughout the years. Spike shoved his dark thoughts aside, trying to ignore the tight, crawling sensation under his skin.

He started towards the stairs, but a low thrumming sound coming from Buffy’s room caught his attention. Willow had been storing the ‘Bot in there, charging it up night after night. He had been looking for something to distract him from reminiscing about his past, and thinking of the robotic imposter ‘sleeping’ in the slayer’s bed was more than adequate fodder. Before he really thought it through, Spike stormed through the fading scent of Buffy and found himself standing over the whirring device.

Blocking out his surroundings, Spike grabbed the box and jerked the trailing cords free. He immediately decided that smashing it to bits was too easy for a witch and techie of Willow’s caliber to fix. He stomped downstairs, box in tow, and made his way to the kitchen. The charging device just barely fit in the microwave, but the door did shut and Spike found himself facing a blinking row of zeroes.

His finger paused half-way to the key pad. As much as he hated the ‘Bot, and as much as it caused both he and Dawn pain to see it, it was helping with the vampiric situation around town… kind of. Was sabotaging the ‘Bot actually the greater of two evils?

Spike snarled and punched a random quick-start button. Willow’s scheme for the ‘Bot wasn’t any more effective than chopping the fledglings to bits and hiding the pieces. Cleaner maybe, but the ‘Bot tended to get in the way with her less than stellar fighting skills and every patrol that included it ended early due either to some new mechanical mishap or to magical failure. Plus, her programmed fighting skills were pathetic.

No, for once, Spike’s heart and head were in the same place.

The rotating plate squealed under the weight of the device and it didn’t take long for sparks to start shooting from the thing. It was strangely fascinating, but he couldn’t let the show go on for too long without destroying the microwave as well.

When a little smoke started trickling out of the front of the appliance, Spike opened the door and retrieved the fried charger. Still running on anger alone, he took the thing upstairs and reattached all of the chords. It made a weak buzzing sound before coughing and sputtering into silence.

Spike bared his teeth in an expression that fell somewhere between a grin and a snarl.

Let Red try to figure that one out.

Upon retreating downstairs, he opened the kitchen window to let the smell of burned electronics waft out before retiring to the TV and wait for the witches’ return. No reason to leave any hints behind for them.

He was almost cheerful when the Scoobies returned from their patrol with the badly charred BuffyBot in tow.