“Hail to you, you owners of souls, who are devoid of wrong, who exist for all of eternity! Open to me, for I am a spirit in my own shape…” The Book of Going Forth By Day

“I’m sorry, Bit,” Spike said quietly.

Buffy’s unconscious form was sprawled across the tower’s walkway behind him. Even a Slayer could go down from one punch if it was well aimed.

The base of the skull was a good spot.

The chip in Spike’s head had erupted with pain, but he counted it a fair price. Buffy had been going to jump.

And that was unacceptable.

The unstable gateway rippled and pulsed in the air beyond Dawn. It was getting larger, spilling even more demons into this dimension.

Dawn knew what was coming, as sure as Spike could sense the sun rising. He could see it in her eyes along with a touch of fear and more than a little resignation. “Will it hurt?” she whispered, tears starting to rim her eyes.

“No, Bit,” Spike said, hating himself more in that moment than he ever had in his entire life or unlife. “I can promise you that.”

Promises. Such slippery things. Here he was, breaking a promise to the woman he loved. It ran against his nature and offended the twisted code of ethics he had lived by for so long, however some things were simply untenable.

Like Buffy dying.

He’d pay for this act with his unlife, which struck him as fair, but Buffy would live with both revenge and a focus for her hate, and if her hate of him transferred to other vampires, well, all the better. That way she’d live longer.

Dawn was crying in earnest now, but no matter the volume of tears coursing down her face, the girl’s chin was tilted high.

Spike gathered her into his arms. He loved them both, but in the end, he would always pick Buffy. He had a few choice words for whatever sick deity had set him up to make this choice on the other side.

The sky on the horizon started to lighten, and Spike knew he was out of time. Taking Dawn’s head in both hands, he kissed her forehead, a gesture of affection that only this moment could have prompted from him.

Dawn was wide eyed at his comforting smile, but before she could speak, before Spike could second guess himself, it was done. Her slender neck snapped under his fingers like a dry twig.

Strange, the chip didn’t even give him a twinge.

She looked surprised for a second that seemed to stretch on forever, but that faded into glassy emptiness. Without knowing how exactly he got there, Spike found himself sitting on the walkway, cradling Dawn’s lifeless body and shaking uncontrollably.

He’d made his choice, but it was one he didn’t want to live with.

That was why he didn’t turn his eyes from the growing glow on the horizon when he heard Buffy rise. She was screaming at him, questions, accusations, words he had never imagined hearing come from her mouth, but when the sun started burning him in earnest from the front, her stake found the home she had threatened for so long from behind.

Now he knew what hell felt like.

He had made his choice.

Day 60

Spike woke with a ragged shout.

The nightmare was fresh in his mind, bleeding into reality until he didn’t know what was the truth and what was the lie.

Further disoriented by the pain in his head, he lashed out when hands were suddenly upon him, but when his fist met flesh, even more pain blossomed in his head. In his mind, the same lines were repeating over and over. ‘Wouldn’t hurt the Bit. Wouldn’t. Didn’t.’ He couldn’t see, something was over his eyes, and the realization snapped him back into reality. Too bad the moment was cut short by Tara chanting.

A numbing lastitude swept through Spike’s body with unnatural speed, dragging him back down.

It was the first dreamless sleep the vampire had had all summer.

*****

Hours later, Spike drifted back into consciousness. Without the nightmare snapping at his heels, he let himself relax, adrift in a sea of scents and sounds that while unexpected, were still familiar.

He was at 1630 Revello Drive, on the couch in the living room to be exact. Someone was cooking in the kitchen, the strong scent of seasoning obscuring who exactly it was, and sitting across from him, drumming her fingers at what could only be a caffeinated pace, was Dawn.

Even though he was cogent enough now to recognize the dream for what it was, the realization loosened some of the tense pressure in the vampire’s chest.

Despite the clarity of his thoughts, Spike still felt like a dragon had picked him up by the head and squeezed. He pulled off suffering in silence for all of ten seconds before groaning and reaching for whatever it was that had his eyes covered.

Whatever it was didn’t come away as easily as he had expected and the attempt made him feel like puking.

A memory rose in the midst of the pain, making everything a little clearer. He had taken a swan dive into a tombstone thanks to Willow’s vamp sucking vortex.

Spike let his hand drop away from his face with a half-groan, half-snarl which sent his world tipping again. Head wounds were such a joy.

“You’re awake,” Dawn whispered, quiet voice throbbing like a drum beat in Spike’s abused head.

He managed a tiny groan of assent. Or was it complaint?

Warm hands spread a cover across his shoulders from where he had disturbed the blanket. “Want some blood?” she asked.

“With Asprin,” he said with a wince, giving up all pretense of stoicism.

“How many?” Dawn’s voice gave away her surprise, but as usual, she was willing to take the vaguerities of vampirism in stride.

Spike considered. Despite being very dead, his body was still basically human in design, so medicines, like alcohol, usually affected him in similar ways. The dosage was just off thanks to his significantly stronger constitution and creepingly slow blood ‘flow.’ “The whole bottle,” he finally said.

The girl’s tinkling laughter felt like shards of glass in Spike’s eyes, but he couldn’t help but quirk the corner of his mouth up in amusement. Not after the dream.

When she didn’t move, he finally reiterated, “No, really.”

*****

As it turned out, the witches were the only other people in the house, the others having gone home to ice various parts of their persons. Spike was briefly entertained by the fact that the Scooby he had apparently punched during his nightmare-induced flailing had been Xander, not that he had done any permanent damage.

He managed to sneak the bandages off of his face before his ‘nurse’ had caught him. Tara had apparently been the one to try her hand at mummification, but despite her surprisingly firm arguments, the deed was done and he could see again. Free of the gauze, he proceeded to worry the great gash that ran from under his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, and into his right eyebrow with probing fingers until the messy wound bled again. That prompted Dawn to fuss amusingly and slap his hands away from the cut, so Spike turned to the only real source of entertainment left open to him.

Complaining.

“Shoulda let me slide into that damned portal, Red. Leastaways those guys would have torn me to bits and have done with it.” Okay, that was melodramatic, even for him.

“No they wouldn’t, there’s a sanctuary spell on the holding dimension, and stop being such a big baby,” Willow snapped from the kitchen where she and Tara were apparently dumping taco ingredients into serving bowls for dinner.

Dawn plopped herself down on the couch next to the vampire. “They thank you yet?” she whispered.

The question struck Spike as bizarre and stupid. “No,” he groused. The Scoobies… thankin’ me for anything… That’s rich.

“Well they should,” Dawn said in a sharp, but still quiet, voice. “From the sound of it, you basically saved their bacon.”

That was probably true, but it also wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t just rest that the wicked lacked, it was forgiveness for any of their previously wicked ways. Spike tried not to let it get to him. Usually succeeded.

Not tonight.

“Fuck ‘em. Should’ve left them to get eaten. Ungrateful bastards.”

Dawn huffed at that. “You don’t mean that.”

Of course he didn’t.

“Yes I do. Not even getting’ paid. Don’t know why I bothered.”

Dawn just snorted.

“Hey Dawnie! Soup’s on!” Willow called again.

“Want some tacos?” the girl asked a little too loudly. Asprin or no, Spike still wasn’t anywhere near one hundred percent.

“Sure, kinda like Mexican food,” he said, which was true enough. Then again, any culture that dipped into the hot and spicy end of things in cooking was all right in his book.

“Spike,” Willow’s voice, much closer now, inserted itself disapprovingly, “I don’t think Dawn needs to hear anything about your taste in ‘foods.’” The redhead was standing in the front foyer, arms crossed across her chest and scowling fiercely.

Spike’s face froze, the half-smile at Dawn’s mother-henning thinning. Maybe he had been serious about leaving at least Willow to rot.

Much to his surprise, Dawn went from zero to jumping down the witch’s throat with both feet in less than a second.

“What the hell is your problem?” the girl shrieked, setting Spike’s teeth on edge and his head ringing again.

“Dawn, language,” Willow chided sharply.

“Screw that,” Dawn raged. Spike could have sworn that he heard her hair bristling. “He gets his brains smeared across half of Sunnydale saving your necks, so I offer him peace-tacos, and you ball him out for saying yes. So yeah. Hell. Problem. What?”

Spike only half managed to keep his lips from twitching upwards again. ‘Warm fuzzies’ and ‘vampire’ should never be placed in the same sentence, but there was certainly something going on in the heart region of his chest.

Something that quickly turned into razor-winged butterflies when an icy prickle down his spine picked up the fact that dark magic was starting to gather somewhere close.

It didn’t take a genius to guess who it was gathering around.

“W…w…willow!” Tara’s voice, wavery with surprise and agitation, suddenly broke the tension. “Can I t…t…talk to you?” Despite the stutter, it wasn’t really a question.

While Willow and Tara conducted a quiet argument in the foyer, which was probably a lot less private with a vampire in the house than they thought, Dawn stomped into the kitchen, Spike in tow, quite literally.

She released his shirtsleeve and dropped onto one of the stools in the kitchen. Spike would have reached out to pat her on the shoulder, ruffle her hair, something… but he still had blood on his hands from the head wound. All things considered, including the fact that the shirt she was wearing was the very one he had gone to all the trouble of nicking for her, a big bloody stain on the purple cloth probably wouldn’t do much for her mood.

Dawn started picking at the bowl of lettuce, disinterested and distracted. Spike just sighed and walked to the sink, the witches’ hushed argument swimming in the background noise of the neighborhood.

“You need to start controlling yourself better,” Tara was whispering worriedly.

The tingling warning that meant magic was in the air was starting to lessen, but it wasn’t completely gone. That fact made Willow’s next words even more chilling. “I’m perfectly in control,” she hissed.

Riiiiiiight.

“He just wanted tacos, why are you so mad?” Tara asked in confusions.

Willow just huffed. “Fine, take his side.”

“That’s not what I…” the quiet witch started, but Willow cut her off.

“Whatever, I’ll be upstairs, reading the Hymns to Osiris if you feel like helping do something useful.” There was venom in Willow’s voice that would have made an asp proud.

Even Spike, who had given up scrubbing in favor of watching the half-clotted red stain swirl around and around the drain, winced when Willow stomped up the stairs, slamming the door of Joyce’s old bedroom behind her. He looked over his shoulder at Dawn, who was staring blankly at the counter. Apparently the redhead’s last few words had dipped into human hearing range.

By the time Tara came into the kitchen, Spike had found an old brown rag that wouldn’t show the stain and was slowly patting his injured face dry. She didn’t seem to notice his probably gruesome face wound or Dawn’s furtive, upset glances as the Wiccan slid onto one of the bar stools and proceeded to stare at the faux-marble countertop.

The tacos were good. Too bad they didn’t make up for the oppressive silence that characterized the rest of the meal.

A/N Never fall off the writing horse. It's really hard to get back on, especially when you refuse to post the utter crap that seems to be the only thing you can produce. I think I'm starting to get my groove back, so hopefully you'll be seeing more of this soon.