12 Days

For the split second before his conscious mind caught up with his body, he thought it was Buffy's scent invading his senses.

Then another candle knocked him upside the head, accompanied by an unholy screech that could only belong to that deadliest of creatures... the teenage girl.

"Get up! Get up! Get up!"

He blinked. Were his ears bleeding?

Dawn stood above him, her face sharp with righteous anger. Her shiny hair positively crackled with rage, and her eyes blazed. She hauled back and launched the last of her missiles; at least to his blurry vision it appeared her - four? - hands were now empty.

He wasn't entirely sure his skull was still in one piece.

He looked blearily around him. He hadn't made it to the bed again, he noted dispassionately. He had, however, made it down the ladder. That was surely an improvement in circumstances, even if that task had obviously been accomplished by falling face first through the trap door. He groaned as he - very gently - prodded at his nose. A blaze of fire shot down his spine as he realigned the abused cartilage. It had been a while since he'd felt this distinct sort of pain.


The Slayer's fist shot out in a flash - no hesitation, no shame. She loved playing 'kick the Spike.'

And he loved letting her.


He shook his head, and regretted it immediately. He glimpsed the nearly empty bottle of rotgut tequila still clutched in his right hand. He had a vague, sick memory of several other bottles prior to this one. That would go a long way toward explaining the headache. And, perhaps, the expression on the Niblet's pretty little face.

"You don't get to do this!" Dawn screamed at him.

He instinctively held his hands in front of his face. "Wha'? Uh, Bit..." He sat up suddenly - too suddenly for his unusually tender stomach - when Dawn collapsed into a boneless pile of tears at his feet.

He hated it when they cried.

His hand fell - helpless, heavy - on her shoulder. She turned into his chest and threw her arms around his waist. He was glad he'd never made it out of his shirt last... morning? - he had no idea where the sun was right now; it had been a long time since he'd been this dangerously inebriated - because Dawn was covering him in snot. His least favorite of all human secretions.

"You promised," he heard Dawn gasp against his chest. His unbeating heart clenched; it actually hurt. He took a deep, superfluous breath.


"I'm counting on you. To protect her." Their eyes met for a penetrating second.

"Till the end of the world," he said solemnly. "Even if that happens to be tonight."

Her trust in his ability to take care of her sister was a sight more than the crumb he craved. And a good deal more than what he deserved, he was well aware.


"Hush, now," he murmured. He went on, susurrations of nonsense filling the air between them. It was only when she was soothed that he noticed the soft, rhythmic circles his hand was rubbing against her back. He stilled its motions and slowly backed away from Dawn by the barest inch.

She snuffled once more, hitched in a breath, and turned her fathomless blue eyes on him. He was a goner before she even opened her mouth.

"You can't do this, Spike," she said. "If you don't stop, they're not going to let you stay with me anymore."

He smoothed her soft hair back from her sweaty forehead as he absorbed that statement. "Not gonna let that happen, Platelet," he said.

"But Willow said..." she choked out on another sob.

He growled quietly, a soft, warning rumble that started deep in his chest. "What'd Red say, Niblet?"

"That... that if all you’re going to do is drink yourself silly, there's no use keeping you around." Dawn wiped her eyes and then - cheeky little bint - rubbed her snotty nose all over his t-shirt. She snuffled against his chest one last time before standing up and planting her fists on her hips. "So you need to get up right now and get over to the house. They're having a Scooby meeting tonight. It's important."

"Have no doubt it is, but I'm no way a Scooby. Din't you get the memo?" He squinted at her; distress was writ large across her face. He sighed. "All right, Li'l Bit, lemme get myself together and I'll be there. What time is it anyway?"

"It's almost six. I can wait for you."

"Huh. Unless you wanna walk home with a vampire flambe, you can just wait for me at the house. I'll be there. I promise."

"We can take the sewers, can't we?"

"No, we can't take the sewers. Never know when some nasty thing's gonna try to take a bite out of you. Now run along." He pushed himself off the cold stone floor and glared at her until she scurried up the ladder. Once he heard the outer crypt door slam closed, he stripped out of his sodden t-shirt and skinned off his jeans. He headed into the tunnel behind his bedroom for a quick wash in his makeshift shower.

Dawn was sitting on his bed when he emerged from the tunnel. He almost dropped the towel slung around his waist. And wouldn't that give Red and the Whelp an excuse to stake him.

"Bloody hell, Dawn!" he roared. "I told you to get gone!" Then his eyes fell on the box she was rifling through. All his pictures of the Slayer, the items of clothing and other mementos he'd collected during his mad obsession. He vamped out before he could stop himself.

Dawn didn't seem to notice either his anger or his next-to-naked state. “Is this…” her voice trailed off as she finally looked up at him. “Oh my gosh, Spike! What happened to you?” She stood up and moved to him, her hands ghosting across his torso.

He jerked away from her. His game face fell away as he stared at her wide, shocked eyes and pale face.

“Who did this?” she asked, tracing the bruises that littered his chest and stomach. One little finger dipped into the gash that ran across his left side.

He winced. “Got into a fight,” he said shortly. He pushed her hands away and rummaged through his dresser for a clean shirt. He knotted the towel firmly at his waist and hurriedly pulled the shirt on. “Now get out of here,” he commanded. He didn’t turn to look at her.

“Spike.” Her voice was firm. Little Bitty Buffy, back in residence. “Have you even been eating? I can see all your ribs.”

“No, you can’t, cuz I’m wearing a shirt. Can’t see anything you’re not supposed to be looking at. I’m serious, Niblet. Get out of here and let me get dressed in peace, or you’re going to see a sight more than you’re ready for.”

She hesitated for a moment before complying with his command. He could hear her heart thumping away in the upper level. He stepped into his jeans and looked around for his boots before remembering that he had taken them off upstairs. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t think it fair that vampires should get headaches. Especially ones caused by tiny little human girls. Wasn’t enough aspirin in the world to take care of that particular pain.

Dawn was poking through his refrigerator when he emerged from the trap door. His duster was draped across the sarcophagus, his boots on the floor beneath it. Dawn turned around as he was lacing up the first boot.

“You don’t have any blood, Spike,” she said accusingly. “When was the last time you ate something?”

He ignored her and stepped into the other boot.

“I’ll stop at the butcher’s on the way home,” she said. “See you at the house. The meeting starts at seven thirty. Try not to be late.”

He growled angrily, but only once the door had swung closed behind her.

***

He emerged from the sewer on Revello Drive and ran for the back door, his tattered blanket shielding him from the last rays of sunshine. The kitchen was empty except for the enticing aroma of hot blood. His eyes were drawn to the mug sitting on the counter. A note propped up in front of it read “Drink Me” in Dawn’s bubbly handwriting. He shook his head, but reached for the mug. His stomach growled as he downed the spicy liquid. He’d have to thank the Niblet for the addition of burba weed.

He could hear voices and heartbeats coming from the living room. He rinsed the mug and left it in the sink before sauntering down the hallway to join the meeting.

He stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes fell on… Buffy? If his heart could beat, the sight of her would have made it stop dead. Then she turned her bright eyes and brighter smile on him.

“Look, it’s Spike!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “Spike’s here!”

“No,” he said. “No sodding way!” He scanned the faces of the Scoobies. None of them would meet his eyes. Dawn stood next to the ‘Bot, biting her lip and twirling a long strand of hair around one finger. “Bugger this!” he growled. He turned and stormed back to the kitchen, retrieving his blanket from its resting spot next to the door.

“Spike, wait!” he heard Dawn call from behind him.

He kept going. The sun was just sinking below the horizon, so he vaulted over the fence rather than heading for the sewers.

“Spike, please stop!” Dawn’s voice was thick with tears as she raced to catch up with him.

He skidded to a halt and spun to face her. “That’s what the important Scooby meeting was about, is it? Why wouldn’t you… how could you just let me…”

“No, I didn’t know, Spike, I swear. Willow fixed her and, and she brought her to the house tonight. I didn’t know she was going to do that.” Dawn threw herself at him, and his arms went around her. “Please come back and talk to them. If you don’t…”

“Yeah? What happens if I don’t go along with this? I’m not gonna… that thing is…”


“The robot was gross and obscene.” The Slayer stared at him, her disgust almost a palpable thing.

The sense of shame that filled him was overwhelming; for the first time since becoming a vampire, he felt truly guilty for something he had done.


“You don’t understand, Dawn,” he said quietly. “I can’t look at… at that thing.”

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I understand, Spike,” she said.

He looked down at her and nodded. “Yeah, guess you would, Bit.” He walked with her back to the house.

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.

53 Days

“That’s a good way to get yourself in trouble,” he said, startling Dawn as she slipped a pair of earrings into her purse.

She spun around with a gasp. She glared at him and then swatted him across the chest. “Geez, Spike! Stalk much?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to spot you, thought I'd come see what my Li'l Bit was up to. No good, obviously.”

Dawn had the grace to flush.

“Best put that back, pet. Any other goodies you’ve got stashed in there, too.” He watched sternly as she sheepishly placed two pairs of earrings and a necklace back on the display rack. He raised one eyebrow, and another necklace and a handful of bangles emerged from her voluminous bag. "That everything, then? Any other stores you might have liberated merchandise from that we should visit?”

Dawn shook her head. “Come on,” she whined. “You steal things all the time, why can’t I?” She glanced down at the bag in his hand. “Unless you’ve decided to become a good little consumer? Anya would be so proud of you.”

“Vampire here,” he said. “Evil, remember?” He wasn’t about to admit that he’d willingly paid a corporation for an overpriced item of clothing. He made a mental note to get rid of the receipt before she could find it; his girl was sweet, but had no compunction about going through his things.

“Really. I suppose you shoplifted the bag, too?”

Well, she’d caught him there. He thought fast. “’Course I did. Be a little conspicuous walking around with goods and sundries flapping in the breeze, wouldn’t I?” He folded up the bag and stuffed it into one of the inside pockets of his duster, hoping to end this particular conversation.

“Since when do you ‘shop’ at the Gap?” Dawn asked incredulously.

His eye twitched. “My best girl’s got a birthday coming up, yeah? Didn’t suppose you’d like a Grappler tusk or some such oddity you’d find at the demon shops.”

“Uh, no.”

He took her elbow and led her out of Claire’s Boutique into the main concourse of the mall. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school right now?” he asked her.

“Spike, it’s Saturday.”

“Oh. Right. Well, still doesn’t mean you should be hanging about the mall, picking up anything that’s not nailed down. You can’t afford to get in trouble, Dawn,” he said seriously. “How d’you think the ‘Bot would do, trying to defend you to the police? Hell, even the mall rent-a-cop would smell a rat.”

“Yeah, well, whose fault is it that she’s all weird and stuff?” Dawn yanked her arm out of his grasp.

He tried not to let the hurt show on his face.

“I’m sorry, Spike,” she said almost immediately. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed, to show she really hadn’t meant it. He smiled faintly at her.

“Want some ice cream?” he asked, to show that he wasn’t upset with her.

She smiled back at him. “Sure! There’s a Ben and Jerry’s in the food court.”

They were both prickly these days, and more often than not ended up sniping with each other, because more often than not it was just the two of them at the house. Red and Glinda always had their noses buried in books – thick ones, old ones, from the restricted section of the Magic Box. He wasn’t sure what they were researching, though they occasionally pulled out some new trick on patrol. Red lately had taken to directing patrols by speaking to them mind-to-mind. He hated the way that felt, her rummaging through his brain. Was worse than the chip the bloody Army blokes had shoved up his cranium. He hated, too, the way it reminded him of the battle with Glory. He’d hesitated when she’d told him to go. If he hadn’t… if he’d only been a little faster…

He shook his head and skipped out of the way of an errant sunbeam before it could do more than slightly singe him. He growled at Dawn, who was still holding his hand and leading the way to the food court. “Sorry,” she said. "Seriously, though, how have you managed to make it through the past hundred and twenty years without figuring out how to not burst into flames?"

He just glowered at her. She grinned at him unrepentantly and followed a safer path, out of the way of the skylights littering the ceiling of the mall.

“Hey, Dawn,” a chirpy voice called out.

She dropped his hand and turned around. Her chin came up and she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Hey, Kirstie. Nice to see you,” she said to the pretty blond girl who’d called her name. Her tone was bright and falsely sincere, though he doubted anyone who didn’t know her well would recognize it. “Lisa.” Dawn turned to a slim black girl, who looked a little embarrassed to be seen. “Thought you were busy today?”

“Um, yeah, well,” Lisa stammered. “I was supposed to, you know, hang out with my folks, but then they changed their minds. I tried calling you, but you must have left already.”

He itched to go into game face at her obvious lie. He could scare the bloody hell out of these little bints; wanted to, for snubbing his girl. Then he tuned back into the conversation.

“Who’s your friend?” the blond asked. She eyed him with interest and gave him a coquettish smile. A slightly taller brunette, standing just behind the girl, gave him a very similar sort of look.

He swallowed hard and glanced at Dawn. She looked back at him with a smirk, and curled an arm around his waist. Inside his duster. He was not comfortable with this. “This is Spike,” she said, sweet as pie.

“Hi, Spike,” all three girls chorused, almost as one. The way they looked at him made his skin crawl. He was used to being the predator - or had been, at least, before the Initiative happened. Feeling like the prey was unnerving.

“’Lo,” he mumbled. He backed away from them a bit, but Dawn pinched him to make him stop. He looked down at her again and saw the pleading look in her eyes. He sighed and turned back to the girls, who were now advancing on him. "'S nice to meet you ladies," he managed.

There were blushes and giggles all around, interspersed with admiring comments about his coat and accent. Dawn preened a little, standing even closer to him and plainly enjoying the envious glances the blond sent her way.

“Well, Spike was going to buy me some ice cream, and probably some other stuff, too,” Dawn said. “So, I’ll see you around, I guess.” She released her grasp on him, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and pranced away.

He took one last look at the girls, all of whom were still staring at him that way, and swallowed his pride. He ran after Dawn’s retreating figure. She giggled when he caught up with her. “What’s so funny, Bit?” he growled.

“You’re scared of them!” She laughed at him, and he gave a grin back. It was good to see an honest smile on her face, one not marred by shadows in her eyes.

“'Course I am. Got a brain in my head, don't I? Teenage girls are worse’n most demons,” he said. “Present company excepted, of course,” he added when she looked daggers at him. “And what was that all about, anyway?”

She shrugged and tossed her hair again. “Kirstie’s a bee-yotch. She was totally drooling all over you, though, did you see that? She thinks she’s hot stuff because Kevin Berman asked her to the spring formal. But you’re way cooler than Kevin. It’s gonna drive her crazy to think you’re-"

“What? Your boyfriend? ‘Cause that would be fantastic if any of those chits decide to blab about little Dawnie Summers’ inappropriately older beau to the wrong person. You’ve gotta be more careful, Niblet. I don’t exactly stand up to scrutiny any better than the ‘Bot would.”

She stuck her lip out. He looked away from her. Damn Summers women and their pouty lips.


His fiancé squirmed around on his lap. Very nice, but very distracting. He tried to focus on their argument. Because this was important to both of them.

“This is our wedding and you’re treating it like a huge joke!” she complained. Her bottom lip pooched out appealingly.

“Ooh, pouty. Look at that lip. Gonna get it.” She giggled and he tugged her closer. “Gonna get it.” He got it, pulled it into his mouth, bit it lightly.

She was delicious, and she was all his.


“C’mon,” he said roughly. “Let’s get some sugar in you.” He followed her to the Ben and Jerry’s counter, where she ordered a triple scoop. He looked doubtfully between her tiny frame and the giant ice cream cone, but if he’d learned one thing about Dawn so far this summer, it was that she could eat incredible amounts of sweets when she set her mind to it.

They sat in silence for a while, as she worked on the ice cream cone. When she was sure she had all the potential drips under control, she looked up at him. “Why do you always try to convince me you’re evil?”

He stared at her for a moment. “Shouldn’t have to convince you,” he said finally. “I am. Vampire plus no soul equals evil. Pretty basic equation. Even someone who’s repeating ninth grade math should be able to figure it.”

She let that one go, for which he was thankful. Her little stunt earlier had him on edge still, or he’d never have said it. “But you’re not. I mean, yeah, you’re a vampire and you don’t have a soul, but… You know, Angel’s got a soul, but all he did after Buffy…” She paused. “After the funeral, he gave me his card and told me to call him if I needed anything. But he couldn’t wait to get back to L.A. He wouldn’t be making sure I do my homework or, or sitting outside my window every night in case I have a bad dream.”

He snorted to cover the depth of his emotion. They never talked about the nights he spent watching her; he’d half-thought she was unaware of his presence. “Bleeding poofter just doesn’t know what to do with a kidling he can’t snack on. Soul or no soul, he’s a berk.”

Dawn giggled. “And he’s got stupid hair.”

He knew there was a reason he loved this kid.

“But, Spike, you do those things and you don’t have a soul. So I don’t think you can really be evil. Not anymore.”

He should have known she wasn’t going to drop it. "Well, I am," he said. "I ever get this chip out, I'll..."

"You'll what? Bite me?" She rolled her eyes at him. "Please, like I'd believe that."

He wasn't sure what to say. He could tell her that little girls like her used to be his favorite appetizer, back in the good old days. So fresh and sweet, all innocence and screaming terror, blood pouring hot and luscious down his throat, squirming soft flesh in his fingers. That would set her straight about him and his status as the Big Bad. He looked at her, eating her ice cream cone just as if she weren't sitting across from one fourth of the Scourge of Europe, and opened his mouth to tell her exactly how vile he had been, how dangerous he undoubtedly would be again as soon as he got this infernal piece of technology out of his skull.

He couldn't do it.

"Nah, you're right, I wouldn't bite you," he said. "Snack-sized skinny chit like you would hardly be worth the trouble. I'd get what, a mouthful or two? Just enough to whet the appetite, but no more." There. That was evil, but not too evil. Wouldn't do to be giving her more nightmares than she already had. "Would probably bite Red, though," he added for good measure.

"Whatever," Dawn said, clearly unimpressed. "You wouldn't, and you know it. You want me to think you're all evil and stuff, but you're just not, Spike. So I don't get why you keep making such a big deal out of it. Besides, you've got that chip and it's not going anywhere. Not with the Initiative gone. That's as good as a soul."


“I’ve changed, Buffy,” he said earnestly, willing her to believe him, to give him a chance.

"You mean the chip?” she retorted. “That’s not change, that’s just holding you back. You're like a serial killer in prison."

He couldn’t stand the scorn in her voice. For the briefest of seconds, he wished the damned chip away, just so he could rip her holier-than-thou head clean off her shoulders.



"It's not," he said. He slammed his fists down on the table. She jumped. The last bit of her cone fell from her nerveless fingers, and she stared at him with wide, scared eyes. "It doesn't change one thing about me, except for the fact that I can't hurt humans anymore. Doesn't mean I don't want to, doesn't mean I wouldn't if I had the chance. I'm a bad dog, Little Bit, I was made to slash and bash. I’m made for hurting and bloodshed. Best if you remember that from now on."

He stood up and stormed away from the food court, stopping only once he was out of range of those big blue eyes. He slumped against a wall and covered his face with a shaking hand. He hated this, hated the chip with a fiery passion. Weren't for the chip, he'd still know who he was, where he belonged in the world. He wouldn't be feeling all this guilt and regret and grief that wouldn't let up for one single second.

He certainly wouldn't be standing here kicking himself for being the one to put that pained expression on the Niblet’s sweet face.

He heard the thumpity-thump of her little heart a second before her scent – raspberries and fresh-cut grass and something a touch darker, something he thought came from the way she was made, the part she got from her sister – filled his senses. He looked up to see her standing in front of him, big eyes full of tears she wouldn't let fall and chin all a-quiver. He sighed.

"Sorry, Dawn," he said. "Didn't mean all that, you know."

"I know," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to make you mad, Spike. It's just... Giles can't even look at me since Buffy..." Her voice cracked. "And the rest of them, too. So if you're evil and you're the only one who can stand to be around me, what does that make me?”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and wished desperately for Tara to appear out of thin air. She’d know just what to say. “C’mon, now, pet,” he said. “You're the furthest thing from evil I've ever seen. The Scoobies love you, you know that. They’re just… everybody’s sad right now. Bound to get better, yeah?”

She sniffled and wiped a tear away. “I should have been the one to jump,” she said, and buried her head in his chest. “It’s my fault she’s gone.” There was a note of misery in her voice that he hadn’t heard since the beginning of the summer. He’d really thought she was doing better. Probably because he was wallowing so deep in his own grief that he’d been neglecting hers.

He patted her back awkwardly. “Wasn't your fault, Niblet. Slayer did what she had to do. She’s a hero, and that’s what heroes do, right? Make the sacrifice so people like you don’t have to.” He could have pointed out who was really at fault, who had failed to keep the promise he’d made, and thus led directly to the Slayer’s death, but he didn’t want to argue blame just now. Not in the middle of the sodding mall, with nosy teenagers and those creepy mall-walking old ladies already gawking at the two of them.

Dawn nodded hesitantly. “She told me… right before she jumped, she said, ‘This is the work I have to do.’ She told me to live for her.” Her watery eyes fastened on his face. “She told me to tell her friends that she loved them, that we should take care of each other.”

He wanted to think he was included in that sentiment, but he knew better.

“We’re not doing so well taking care of each other, huh?” Dawn said sadly.

He shook his head. “No, not so much. Sorry ‘bout that, Li’l Bit. Let you down, let the Slayer down. Told her I’d protect you. Wasn't up to snuff when it came down to it. Or since then, either.” Then he touched her face lightly and, because this had been festering inside him for fifty three torturous days, added, “I meant it to be me, you know. Thought I’d be the one to go down fighting that hell bitch. Never meant for it to be Buffy.” Her name rasped against his throat.

Big tears began rolling down Dawn’s cheeks and her shoulders convulsed as she cried. She flung her arms around his waist. He glared at a blue-haired, sweat suit clad rubbernecker, letting his eyes go amber and his fangs drop for just long enough to get her heart racing along like a scared rabbit. He wondered if his chip would fire if the biddy dropped dead of a heart attack.

“No one will talk about her,” Dawn hiccoughed out between sobs. “No one even says her name when I'm around. It’s like they all want to pretend that the stupid robot’s really her and everything can just go on like normal. But nothing’s normal! Nothing’s right! I miss Buffy so much and I miss my mommy and, and I just want to talk about them sometimes. I don’t want everyone to hush up when I walk in the room, or look like I killed a puppy every time I mention her name.” Her tears quieted. She wiped her face clean on his shirt.

Well, he had lots more shirts back at the crypt. What was a little snot between friends?

“C’mon, Bit, let’s get you home,” he said. "You wanna talk about Buffy, we'll talk about her." It still hurt him to say her name, but for Dawn, he'd force himself. He'd fix this. "We'll talk to the witches, to Harris and Anya. You tell them what she said, 'bout taking care of each other. Make sure we do a better job of it from now on, yeah?"

She smiled up at him. “Can we make some popcorn when we get home?” she sniffed. "With garlic and chocolate sauce?"

He chuckled and hugged her tighter for a second. “You are one weird little human, but yeah. Whatever you want.”

90 Days

He took the sewers to the Magic Box, entering through the trap door in the basement. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and extended his senses. Three distinct heartbeats. Demon-girl was up there, of course, probably rubbing her hands gleefully over the cash register. Likely the Watcher, as well; not like he had anything to Watch these days. When he wasn't holed up in his flat with his expensive bottles of scotch – the bottles he refused to share with anyone – he could be found at the store, much to Anya's obvious dismay.

He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and headed up the stairs. As he'd thought, Anya and Giles were both in evidence; deep in discussion over the books, from appearances. A lone shopper browsed among the scented candles and love-charms.

"Yes, I see what you're saying, Anya, but this still is my establishment," the Watcher was saying. "I merely wish to review this with you, so that I know I can trust things will run smoothly when I'm no longer here."

"When, exactly, is that going to be?" Anya asked.

He approached the counter where the two faced each other. "Goin' somewhere, Rupes?" he said. They both startled at his sudden presence and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Definitely spending too much time with the Bit.

Anya eyed him suspiciously. "Do I need to make you turn out your pockets, Spike? Last time you were here, I was mysteriously out of burba weed. It doesn't grow on trees, you know."

"You can pat me down if you like," he said with a leer. The ex-demon blushed and turned back to the ledger spread open in front of her. "Where you off to?" he asked again, looking at the Watcher.

Giles removed his glasses and polished them before speaking. "If you must know, Spike, I am making arrangements to return to England. Things here are... under control, at least for the time being."

"Well, yeah," he said. His tone was derisive; the Watcher's face turned stony. "It's low tide on the Hellmouth. But what happens when the tide turns? Think the 'Bot's going to be any use? Hell, we're hardly keeping up as it is." He wanted to ask about Dawn, what was going to happen to her when yet another person she loved disappeared from her life.

"I'm really not interested in your opinion," Giles replied.

"Yeah, getting that." He pulled out his smokes and lit one up, despite the glares both Anya and Giles gave him. "Just saying, when the next Big Bad hits, we're going to need all the help we can get. The 'Bot's handy for fooling the local demons, but it's not a Slayer. And that's what the Hellmouth needs. You'd think the Council would spring that Faith bird. Or off her, if nothing else, so another Slayer can get all chosen."

Giles gaped at him. "The Council would never..." he paused. "Well, yes, the Council most certainly would do such a thing." He shook his head. "I can't in good conscience suggest killing an innocent..."

He cocked an eyebrow at the Watcher. "Like they haven't thought of it themselves. Or... do they not know about Buffy?"

Giles polished his glasses again. Anything he might have said was interrupted by the customer approaching the counter. At the same time, the bell above the front door jingled as Tara, Willow, and Dawn entered the shop. The three girls were chattering happily to each other.

"Might wanna mention your plans to the Niblet," he said to Giles in a low voice. "Let her get used to the idea instead of just taking off on her, yeah?" He swung away from the counter, heading for the back door and the solitude of the well-shaded alley, where he could smoke in peace and quiet and the complete absence of dirty looks.


***


He smoked his way through half a pack before returning to the Magic Box. The witches were snuggled up together at the table, poring over a pile of old texts and talking excitedly about potions and spells. Giles had retired to his desk and was shuffling through the mess of papers that covered its surface, while Anya watched him with a gimlet eye from behind the cash register.

Dawn was standing in front of the bookcases, one finger trailing across the spines of the books and her head tilted to the side to read the titles. She threw the occasional glance over her shoulder, pausing in her perusal if it seemed anyone was looking her way. He moved to stand next to her.

"Looking for something, Bit?" he asked quietly.

She looked up at him, then around at the others. When she was satisfied that no one was watching her, she inclined her head silently toward the training room. He smothered a grin at her cloak and dagger antics, but followed her.

"What are you up to?" he said, once the door was closed behind them.

She chewed on a ragged thumbnail. "I... Am I still the Key?" she blurted out.

He blinked. "Huh. Hadn't thought about that," he said. "Glory's gone, seems safe enough.”

"Well, what if I am?" Dawn paced around the training room. "What if someone... something else comes after me and wants to, to use me?"

He grabbed her arm as she stalked past him and stopped her in her tracks. "Not gonna let anything happen to you," he said fiercely. "Got it?"

She nodded slowly. "But... I want to know more about it, about what I was. What I am."

"Okay. I get that, Bit." He studied her for a moment. "Talk to the Watcher," he said finally. "Don't go haring through his books all willy-nilly. Take you ages to find what you're looking for. He's bound to know something. Might even be willing to share it with you."

Dawn nodded again. He followed her when she left the training room. The gathered Scoobies looked up at them when they came back into the shop. Giles narrowed his eyes, a hint of Ripper in his mien.

Dawn took a seat with the witches; he stopped next to the Watcher's desk. "Meant what I said before," he said, pitching his voice for Giles' ears only. "'Bout the Hellmouth, and about Dawn."

Red piped up at that moment. "Spike, can you stay with Dawn tonight?" She gave Tara a sickly-sweet lovebird smile. “We want to go out for a while. Not too late,” she assured him.

He silently nodded his consent, and headed for the basement. Feeling particularly spiteful against British shopkeepers, he pocketed the store's entire stock of burba weed, despite being nowhere near to running out of his own supply.


***

Dawn stuck her head out the window. "Hey, Spike," she said softly, then climbed through the window. She dragged her quilt behind her.

"Hiya, Niblet," he said back, just as softly. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? Got school tomorrow, yeah?"

"Can't sleep."

He lit a cigarette as she settled down on the roof next to him, snuggled up tight in her blanket. She leaned her head on his shoulder and they sat silently for a time, listening to the sounds of the night around them.

"I miss her," she said suddenly, and began to cry.

He put an arm around her. "I know," he said. "I do, too. I'd even like it if she were here to pop me in the nose or tell me to shut up."

That made Dawn laugh a little through her tears, which was what he'd wanted. The laughter didn't last long, though, and the tears went on a bit longer.

"I thought it would get easier," she said finally, sniffing a little. She wiped her nose on the corner of her blanket.

He gave her a squeeze and released his hold on her. She sat up, and he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. "Takes time," he said around his smoke. He let his head fall back against the house and squinted up at the sky. The moon was a thin sliver, just barely there, and stars littered the black night.

Was she out there somewhere, watching them?

Dawn turned her eyes upward, too. "What do you think happens after we die?"

"Don't know if I'm the best one to be asking that question," he said. "But, um, well..."



"Your father is gone, William," his mother said. Her eyes were very dark. He'd never seen her cry before, and the sight frightened him.

"Where did he go?" he asked.

She didn't answer him, instead pulling him onto her lap, even though he was a very big boy now, and cradling his head against her chest. She hummed his most favorite song as they rocked back and forth. Later that night, she took him outside and told him to find the brightest star in the sky. "There's your father," she whispered in his ear. "Dancing in the sky with all the angels."



"My... uh, my mother told me, when my father died," he began. Dawn sat up very straight, eyes fixed on his face. "She told me everyone, when they died, became part of the sky. That the stars were the souls of everyone who had ever lived, and that someday I'd have a star of my own."

"Oh," Dawn said quietly. "That's... that's really nice, Spike."

He shrugged. "Bunch of rubbish, you know."

"Yeah, but still." She leaned against him again. "When you died, what happened? Do you remember anything about it?"

He fidgeted a little. "Nah. Think it's different, being turned. Not the same as someone really dying. Just remember Dru biting me, and then waking up in a coffin. Nothing in between." He glanced at her; she looked a little pale, but not scared.

"What happened to your family?" She gave him a sidelong look. "Giles said that the first thing most vampires do is go after their families."

He shook his head. "Can't listen to everything the Watcher says. Some do, I suppose. Angelus did, I know that. Did for his whole village."

"Did you?"

He scrounged for another cigarette before answering her. "Didn't have much family to speak of," he said finally. "Was just me and my mum when I was turned." From the periphery of his vision, he saw her open her mouth. "Leave it, Little Bit," he said sternly. "I never was much like Angel, that's all you need to know."

Dawn nodded and put her head on his shoulder again, wrapping her warm little arms around one of his."Giles is going away, you know," she whispered after a while.

"Told you, did he?"

"You knew?" Her voice went all squeaky, up into dog-whistle territory. He winced. The girl could be hard on vampire hearing when she wanted.

"Overheard him talking about it today. Wasn't holding out on you, Dawn. Wouldn't do that."

“I know you wouldn't,” she said. The confidence in her voice warmed him. “Tell me again, Spike, what you promised Buffy.”

He looked at her, her earnest face and those big eyes he couldn't resist. “Told her I'd protect you,” he said. He waited for her response in what had started to feel like a ritual between them.

“For how long?”

“Till the end of the world.”

Dawn sighed, a happy sound, and wormed a little closer to him. “So you'll never leave me? Even when I'm grown up?”

“Never, Li'l Bit. Not even when you're old and gray and dandling fat grandbabies on your knee.”


TBC

129 Days


He was sitting in his ratty green chair. The crypt was dark; well, as dark as it got when the sun was high in the sky. Still, he didn't have any candles lit; the television was off. He took a long swig from the extremely nice bottle of scotch he'd swiped last time he had been to the Watcher's flat. He almost felt bad for chugging it as he was – this was booze that deserved to be sipped. But he found that he really couldn't care too much, not when it was creating such a pleasant warmth in his belly and limbs.
 
He took another drink of scotch and set the bottle carefully on the floor next to his chair. Then he brought the blue sweater he held in his left hand up to his nose and took a small sniff. It barely smelled like Buffy anymore, he realized sadly. He rested his cheek against the soft material and let his eyes slip shut. He narrowed his senses down, focusing only on the feel and the smell of the sweater. There it was; if he strained hard enough, he could make it out. A hint of her own unique smell hiding beneath the organic scent of the fibers, the barest touch of the Slayer, the woman, he loved.
 
So intent was he, he never heard the crypt door creaking open or the footsteps approaching his chair. "Uh, Spike?"
 
He jumped and belatedly shoved the sweater into the cushions of his chair. "Bloody hell, Dawn, aren't you s'posed to be off learning stuff instead of creeping around the cemetery?"
 
Dawn eyed him suspiciously and darted around his still-flailing hand to pull the garment out of the chair. "Is that Buffy's cashmere sweater?" she asked. "She accused me of stealing it, you know."
 
He shrugged and reached for the bottle of scotch to cover his embarrassment.
 
"Do I want to know what you were doing?"
 
"What? Nothing! I mean, y'know, it just... reminds me of her," he said defensively. He pointed a finger at Dawn before she could say anything. "D'you think I haven't seen you curled up with that grotty little pig of hers?"
 
"All right. But... were you sniffing it?"
 
He was eternally grateful that vampires couldn't blush. "Well, yeah. Vampire, remember?" He looked at her 'ew, gross' face and cut her off. "What brings you around at this time of day? Cutting class?"
 
Dawn rolled her eyes. "No. Summer school ended last week. I actually get to have summer vacation for, like, ten minutes before the real thing starts up. God, this has been the worst summer ever." She paused for a moment, a strange look crossing her face. "But then, this is the only summer I've ever lived through, isn't it?" Her whole body trembled at that thought, then she shook it off and pulled a CVS pharmacy bag out of her back pack. "I brought you something," she said, dangling it in front of him.
 
He eyed it warily. Last time she'd sprung a 'gift' on him it had been a hefty supply of nicotine gum; she was determined to get him to quit smoking. "Hope it's not any more of that bloody gum," he grumbled. He secretly hoped it was. He wasn't going to tell her, but he quite enjoyed having a smoke while chewing the stuff – the nicotine rush he got was incomparable. After sixty-odd years of smoking, that was saying something.
 
"No, it's not," Dawn said. She dropped the bag in his lap. "Wanna have a salon day with me?"
 
He opened it to reveal a bleaching kit and a tub of Manic Panic hair dye in Ultra Violet. "Appreciate the bleach, pet, but no sodding way am I dying my hair purple."
 
Dawn laughed. "No, you idiot, the purple's for me. I'll bleach your hair if you help me dye mine. Deal?"
 
He regarded her for a moment. "Why do I feel like I'm supposed to say, 'over my dead body, young lady'?"
 
"Because you watch too much TV?" Dawn suggested. "Life's not a sitcom, you know."
 
"Huh. This is what comes of not having an authority figure in your life. Next thing I know, you'll be getting a tattoo or piercing various bits of your anatomy."

Dawn plopped down on the floor at his feet and put on her best puppy-dog eyes. He hated it when she did that. Was worse than tears, really, because at least when she was crying he knew there was usually a good reason for it. The big, sappy eyes, though - those just meant she knew exactly how to manipulate him into giving her whatever it was she wanted.
 
"Please, Spike?" she pleaded. "It'll be fun. And I want to do something before school starts." Her lower lip jutted out. She was pulling out all the stops, it seemed. "Everyone thinks I'm some crazy freak and if they're going to be talking about me, I'd rather it be because I have wicked cool hair instead of spreading rumors that I tried to kill myself."
 
He sighed. "All right, Niblet. But I better not get an earful from the witches about this." He was sure that spoiling a teenager, even one who used to be – and possibly still was – a mystical key, was not the way to go about things. But then, it wasn't like there was a parenting manual for vampires who were sort of helping raise the kid sisters of their former mortal enemies. So if he screwed things up, he could just claim ignorance and inherent evilness, and the Scoobies would probably let him off the hook.
 
Dawn squealed with excitement. "Oh, thank you! This is going to be awesome!" She jumped up from the floor and into his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. "We should do this at my house, though, don't you think? Hot water and all that."
 
He nodded resignedly. "Yeah, sure, pet." He cocked his head at the windows, where the sunlight was attempting to break through the layers of grime. He pushed her off his lap and reached for his bottle. "Gonna take a bit of a nap first," he said, taking a long swallow. "I'll be there by sundown, yeah?"
 
Dawn nodded and gathered up her bag. "Okay, see you later, Spike," she said with a big grin.
 
He smiled as she let herself out. Maybe he shouldn't be giving in to her every whim, but he couldn't help but be happy to see her happy.

 
***
 

His scalp burned. "More Sweet 'n Low next time, Bit," he said through gritted teeth.
 
Dawn didn't give him any sympathy at all. "You can get the crap kicked out of you by a hellgod, but you can't take a little pain from bleaching your hair? You are the weirdest vampire I know."
 
He growled. "Just how many vampires have you gotten to know?" he asked.
 
"Oh, well, just you and Angel." She giggled. "And you're definitely weirder than Angel. He's, um, he's kind of boring, you know?"
 
He smiled. She may have never met the Poof in reality, other than his appearance at Buffy's funeral, but she had him pegged.
 
"I think you're ready to rinse," she said. He moved to the sink and bent down so Dawn could run the hose over his head. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the feel of the warm water sluicing away the sting of the bleach. Dawn dumped a handful of cold shampoo into his hair and rubbed it in with strong fingers before rinsing his hair a second time. She was smiling smugly at him when she finally pronounced him done and handed him a towel.
 
"What?"
 
"You were purring," she said.
 
"Bloody hell! I don't purr," he said. "Growl real quiet-like, maybe, but I do not purr."
 
"Whatever." She shrugged and turned her attention to the tub of hair dye. "Okay, my turn."
 
"Uh, yeah. How about just some highlights?" He was having second thoughts about this, mostly stemming from not being sure how Red and Glinda would take it if he helped Dawn transform herself into a walking grape. "To see how it looks before going whole-hog," he added when Dawn scowled at him, clearly seeing him as a traitor to the cause.
 
Dawn sighed. "Yeah, I suppose." She leaned over the sink, and he helped her wash her hair. It made him think of the many times he'd done the same thing for Dru. He felt a sudden stab of longing and nostalgia for his ripe, wicked plum.


He looked down at the girl in his arms; she was limp and warm against his chest, her head thrown back and her neck elongated, just waiting for him.

He'd felt like his old self not ten seconds ago, stalking through the Bronze with Drusilla at his side, eyeing up the pulsers surrounding them. When Dru'd spotted the couple on the balcony, a thrill had gone through him. This was what he was meant to be doing; he was a hunter, a predator, even if he'd spent the better part of the last two years pretending he was anything but.

But now... now, with the girl's body cooling in his grasp, he wasn't sure what he really was, wasn't sure how much of the act he'd adopted for his own sanity actually was an act anymore. He looked up and caught the expression in Dru's eyes – the challenge and expectation. He steeled himself and morphed in to game face. After one last moment of hesitation, he dipped his head and bit into the tender flesh.


The feeling passed.

He rinsed Dawn's hair, squeezed the excess water out of it, and started applying the dye.

 
***
 

Dawn held a section of hair between two fingers and squinted, a little cross-eyed, at it. "It's not as purple as I wanted it to be,” she said grumpily. She slumped down on the back porch steps, upwind of his cigarette smoke.

He turned a critical eye on her new look. “'S not bad, Niblet,” he said. And likely not to get him turned into a toad next time he saw the witches. He flicked his cigarette butt away, ignored Dawn's exasperated sigh at his littering, and leaned back on his elbows. “So what now? We're all beautified and before you ask, no, you may not do my nails again.”

Dawn snickered. “Um, wanna help me make dinner? Tara and Willow should be home in an hour or so, I thought it'd be nice to have something ready when they get here.”

Having been subjected to more than a few of Dawn's kitchen experiments over the past few months, he wasn't positive the witches would agree with her. Even for someone with dampened taste buds and a palate that appreciated a warm mug of O neg, her creations were fairly horrific. “Dunno how much help I'd be,” he said. “Never had much call to do any cooking. Wasn't really something a gentleman bothered with.”

“You were a gentleman?” Dawn laughed. “Buffy said you were some sort of hooligan.”


The Slayer huffed at his repeated request for wings and beer. “Were you born this big a pain in the ass?”

He cocked his head to the side. “What can I tell you, baby?” he drawled. “I've always been bad.” With equal parts imagination and braggadocio, he cooked up a tale of misspent youth and dark dealings, anything to keep her from guessing what a git he'd been as a human.


“Uh, cooking was woman's work, I mean to say.”

“No, no, go back to the gentleman thing.” She smirked and nudged his elbow. “Why won't you ever tell me about who you were before you got vamped? Were you, like, an earl or something? Ooh, were you famous, and when you mysteriously disappeared it was the talk of the town?”

He shrugged and looked at her animated face. The stories he'd told Buffy had been to protect his reputation, or what was left of it. Besides, would the Slayer have believed him if he'd told her of his upper-class upbringing, how he'd been a proper young man up to the day he met his salvation in a dark alley? The Niblet, now... well, he never had been able to scare her, not from the first time he'd clapped eyes on her. She didn't care a whit about his reputation as the Big Bad.

“All right,” he relented. “But I swear on all that's unholy, Dawn, you breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to a single soul and I'll, I'll...” He wracked his brain for a suitably impressive threat. "I'll tell every one of those little bints you go to school with what you wrote in your journal about that boy you like so much. What's his name? Kevin?" Hah. That was inspired.
 
Dawn looked properly chastened. And a little bit horrified. "You... are you twelve?" she squeaked. "And, and whatever! You did NOT read my journal!"
 
He smirked at her discomfiture. "Privacy's a two-way street, Little Bit. Maybe think about that next time you feel like rummaging through my things." No need to tell her she was right; with what he was prepared to spill, he needed a little leverage. “Now, do I have your promise? Not a word to anyone.”

She mimed locking her lips shut and throwing away the key. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her closer to him. And if he was at all embarrassed to be telling his pathetic life story, the smile on her face more than made up for it.

147 Days
 

 
He had good days and he had bad days. This, he reflected as he watched Dawn deal the cards with a wary expression still in her eyes, was not one of the better ones. He hadn't meant to snap at her, and he hated seeing the way she'd jumped when he'd gotten short with her. Maybe he couldn't really feel guilt, not without a soul, but he came damn close whenever he put that look on her face.
 
He looked down at the table and smirked. "Really, Niblet? Think you've got a chance to beat me?" She'd dealt the cards for a game of Speed; even moving at half his normal speed, he could whup her skinny behind every time.
 
Dawn shrugged. "Well, we're playing Slapjack next, so I figured it was only fair."
 
He groaned. She liked that game because it was the only one that made him hesitate; every time he slapped her on the way to the pile, his chip gave him a warning. Besides, bluster and temper aside, he never wanted to hurt her. Even in play.
 
"You'd make a fine vamp, pet. Already got the instincts for torture." He grinned at her mock-offended expression and settled in to win a game of cards before her turn came around.
 
He begged off after the third round of Slapjack. He was starting to get a headache, and that wasn't helping his mood one bit. He slunk out to the front porch for a smoke.
 
Last night had been a bit of all right, even with the witches' latest trick making things more difficult. He'd saved the Watcher's ungrateful neck – that was sure to earn him some non-staking points for the future, always a good thing. And it had been a decent fight, though he still thought it would have been easier for him to patrol alone rather than taking the whole Scooby gang along. Proved his point, though. The Bot was not Buffy, no matter how much they all wanted to pretend otherwise. A robot could never be a Slayer, and with the fall closing in on them, the Hellmouth was starting to wake up. They were scraping by now – just barely – and he didn't like to think of what would happen come the annual apocalypse. The conclusion he'd come to was that they'd find a way around it, as the Scoobies so often did – an annoying habit he was familiar with from painful experience – or they'd be royally screwed. The smart money, what with them being short a Slayer, said the earth was definitely doomed. The thought didn't thrill him.
 

 
“I told you. I wanna stop Angel.” The incongruity of his next statement struck him funny, and a smile curved his lips. “I wanna save the world.”

The Slayer stared at him in utter disbelief. “You do know you're a vampire, right?” Her expression grew even more incredulous as he spoke, listing all the things he loved about the world.

“You got dog racing, Manchester United, and you got people. Billions of people walking around like happy meals on legs. All right here.” So maybe emphasizing how much he loved snacking on the innocent populous wasn't his brightest move ever, but at least she was listening.

They walked to her house in a tense, watchful silence. Slayer and Big Bad, side by side; yeah, they'd be an unstoppable team. Long as she didn't 'accidentally' dust him with that stake she still held in a death grip.

 
 
Not much had changed in the past four years to make him welcome the end of the world with open arms. Sure, no more happy meals on legs for him, but he liked Manchester's chances this year. And to top it off, he had all these... attachments. Dawn, first and foremost. But Tara and Willow were sweet birds, though Red could be scary when she wanted. Anya was always good for a little demon-y commiseration amongst all the goody-two-shoe-ness that permeated the whole Scooby team. Even Harris was tolerable when you got enough beer in him. Walking in on him dancing around like an idiot and singing along to one of Dawn's Backstreet Boys albums hadn't hurt either; that had been blackmail material enough to get him to lay off the 'I-oughta-stake-you's for a whole week.

He shook his head and lit up another cigarette. This was the problem with hanging out with humans; at some point, they stopped being food and started being people he sort of had to care about. He was worried about them – not just about Dawn, but about all of them. It wasn't right. Wasn't what a vamp was meant to do, but he couldn't help it. Hence the case of the crankies he'd been nursing all day.

The door opened behind him. He automatically shifted over on the steps so Dawn could sit upwind of his smoke. “Hey, Li'l Bit,” he said as she settled herself next to him. “Isn't it about your bedtime?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah, 'cuz I'm, like, eight years old.”

“Got school in the morning, is all I meant. Need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, yeah?”

“Ugh, don't remind me.” She planted her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and stared out into the night.

“Those girlies still giving you a hard time?” he asked. He stubbed his cigarette out in the flower pot Dawn had set on the porch for that purpose. “Want me to scare them for you? Could bite one of 'em for good measure.”

Dawn giggled and leaned against his shoulder. “Nah, that's okay. They're stupid, anyway. Like it's my fault I had to go to summer school. It's not like I'm some kinda J.D. or something. ” She twirled a lock of hair around one finger. “Janice is nice, though. We've got a lot of classes together this semester. I think it'll be okay.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. Dawn had met the little twit in summer school and they'd become fast friends. But Janice was, to use Dawn's terminology, a J.D. – at least in his opinion. The girl didn't have a thought in her head beyond boys and having a good time, she used altogether too much eye makeup, and she wore skimpy little outfits that made him flinch every time he looked at her.

And his Victorian roots were showing.

“Glad you got a friend, Bit,” he said begrudgingly. “Just make sure you two stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dawn said. She stood up then and peered down the street. “Hey, is that... is that the Bot?”

He followed her gaze. Yeah, this would make his night complete. The Bot was making its way down the street in a shambling fashion. As they watched, it butted up against a fence, backed up a bit, and walked directly into the fence again.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and hurried down the street to rescue the thing. A gash across its forehead, exposing the inner workings of the Bot, was the likely culprit for the stumbling and bumping. The Bot smiled up at him brightly as he took its arm and led the way into the safety of the house.



***


He sat at Willie's, staring morosely into his glass of whiskey. There wasn't enough liquor in the world to soothe the emptiness that had been consuming him. He snarled at the Grolshank demon sitting next to him; the thing had been poking him with its spiny appendages all night. It swayed drunkenly on its bar stool and landed heavily on his arm. One of the spines drove straight through the leather of his duster and embedded itself in his arm. He growled, snapped the spine off, and twisted the Grolshank's neck till it gave a satisfying crack.

Damn. Killing things didn't make him feel better, either.

He slammed down the remains of his drink, tossed a twenty on the bar, and pushed through the crowd to the door. The assorted demons and sad-sack humans hastily moved out of his way. It wasn't until he was standing in the cool night air that he realized he was still in game face. He shook his demon away before slamming his fist into the nearest wall. He roared with mingled pain and grief.

The hollowness in his gut wasn't something that could be filled by blood or booze or hot wings. It was the pain of losing the woman he loved, no matter that she never could have loved him back. It was a pain that wasn't easing. Wasn't anything he could do to change the way he felt - there was no enemy to throttle into submission, no way to bring her back. Her face, her crumpled, broken body, haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. And he knew, he just knew, that wasn't going to be changing in a hurry. The eternal greyness of unlife alone stretched out ahead of him. If not for Dawn, if not for the promise he'd made, he'd have met the sunrise long ago.

“Buggering fuck,” he muttered. He sucked the blood off his knuckles and stormed away from the bar.



***


Dawn wasn't in her bedroom. He felt panic spread its wings in his chest, beating against his ribs. It was the middle of the night, so where the hell was she? She knew better, was intimately aware of all the things that went bump in the night. He gripped the windowsill so tightly the wood started to splinter beneath his fingers. If she'd snuck out with Janice, he was going to eat them both.

He took a deep, calming breath and stretched out his senses. The witches were in their room, talking softly. He could hear their heartbeats pitter-pattering along. And then he heard it – a third heartbeat, slow and steady in sleep. He crept around the corner of the house and peered through the window into Buffy's room.

The Bot lay on the bed, eyes open and staring blankly, and cords running from her body to the car battery they used to power her up. Dawn was curled up at her side, head resting on the Bot's shoulder, fast asleep.

He slumped against the window frame. “Ah, hell, Little Bit,” he whispered. “What are we gonna do?”




148 Days


She was gone.

She couldn't be gone.

But she was gone.

And it was his fault. Again. He spun around in a frantic circle. “Dawn!” he hollered. “Niblet, where are you?”

Fuck.

Double fuck. Couldn't catch her scent, not over the greasy odor of burning rubber and the stink of exhaust and the stench of those filthy hellions.

He ran for the bike. One little girl couldn't have gotten far. Unless she'd been snatched.

No.

She was fine.

She was going to be fine.

He was going to find her and she was going to be fine.


***


He couldn't find her. Seemed the hellions had headed out of town, though he couldn't say why, what might have chased them away.

But still no Dawn.

The Magic Box was dark and empty. He growled in frustration and pointed the bike for Revello Drive. She had to be there, or he didn't know what he'd do.

“Dawn!” He could smell her, of course, but was it just her lingering scent or had she come back? And there was something else, something familiar that teased at his brain for a second. He could hear two heartbeats from above him and there was a faint trace of blood in the air. If she was hurt... “Dawn, are you there?”

“I'm here,” she called from upstairs.

Relief swept through him; anger followed hard on relief's heels. He slammed the door shut as she walked slowly down the stairs. “Thank god! You scared me half to death.” He thought about that for a second. “Or more to death. You...” he pointed an accusing finger at her. “I could kill you.”

“Spike.” Her voice was soft and a little hesitant, but she looked no worse for the wear.

“I mean it. I could rip your head off one-handed and drink from your brain stem.” Ah, the power of worry; always ample inspiration for new and creative threats.

Dawn paused on the last step. “Look,” she said, and turned her eyes to where the Bot was coming down the stairs.

“Yeah?” He was not impressed. “Seen the bloody Bot before. Didn't think she'd patch up so...”

And that was when it registered.

The second heartbeat. That familiar scent. The coppery aroma of blood that wasn't Dawn's.

He could do nothing but stare at her. Buffy. Buffy. Buffy. His brain tried to catch up with his heart – his cold, dead heart that he swore had just begun to beat again.

She looked back at him, big dark eyes full of shadows and trepidation.

Dawn was talking, but it didn't compute. His world narrowed down to her, alive and breathing and standing in front of him. She squirmed a little under his stare, glanced down at her unbuttoned shirt, and moved to close it.

“Spike?” Dawn said. “Are you okay?”

He couldn't speak for a moment. “I... What'd you do?”

“Me?” she squeaked. “Nothing.”

Buffy folded her arms around herself and slowly raised her eyes to his again. He couldn't take this in. It was too much.

“Her hands,” he said with a nod in her direction. Buffy tucked them quickly behind her back, and he began to understand what had happened.

“Um, I was gonna fix them,” Dawn said. “I don't know how they got like that.”

“I do. Clawed her way out of a coffin, that's how. Isn't that right?”

Buffy looked around uncomfortably. “Yeah. That's... what I had to do.”

“Done it myself,” he said, very quietly. She looked him in the eye and for just that one moment, all the pain and sorrow and grief of the entire summer melted away.

Buffy was back.

Spike shook himself out of his daze; she needed him and he wasn't going to let her down. Not again. That was a promise to himself, and Spike always kept his promises.



The End