[A/N: I’ve had a little relief – but not enough. I wish it were more. . . . anyway. Title is from one of the quotes; and they are as attributed. Disclaimers, as always, in full force and effect.]

Previously: Faith’s woken up after a Slayer dream; Spike went out and worked off his tension; Dawn is awake. And Drusilla slept with Lawson. This picks up not long after the last installment.

Book two. Chapter 46. An untimely frost

Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Romeo and Juliet, act iv, sc. v

Quem Di diligunt
Adolescens moritur
(He whom the gods favor dies in youth).
Plautus: Bacchides, act iv. sc. 7

The whisper of your scream
sighed through the air
and faith-the flag is torn and frayed
inferno heat, glory in flame
love was beaten and betrayed

In every step I hear your sobbing
dare I break the shade with one caress?
dare I trespass to lift the veil
to touch the lips so soft and frail?

Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
I seemed to know the ghost in you

Your captive heart, the belief you share
with a kiss eternal, the spirits of the square

Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
hope remains with the ghost in you
Hold the whirlwind, don't let it blow
I seemed to know the ghost in you
Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Ghost in you from the album Superstition




Her eyes fluttered, opening slowly, everything coming into focus breath by breath. Pain crested, rising with awareness, sharpening her senses. Dawn felt air passing through the swollen tissues of her throat, moisture flooding her mouth.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt to swallow.

It hurt whether she moved or didn’t.

Sweat broke out along her hairline with every agonizing step she took toward the bathroom.

One more step. . . one more. . . . Dawn focused on her thoughts, trying to ignore the pain, the effort breathing took. I can do this . . .

Coz the pain has to freaking stop.

Can’t . . . one more step. . . . look, there’s the bathroom. . . . just a little bit . . . then no more pain.

Dawn gripped the doorknob tightly, almost leaning into the door for support. She wanted to fall, just give into the pain and sink down into oblivion, but she didn’t. Wouldn’t. With a stubbornness that was inherited from both her parents, she fought the waves of pain, willfully shoving them aside.

No. . . open the damn door Dawnie. . . just turn the knob and shuffle in. . . .

Her mind went blank when she inhaled deeply, dark spots flashing before her eyes drawing her attention.

Long moments passed before Dawn came back to herself, forehead pressed against the unyielding door, hand still wrapped around the doorknob. Gathering rapidly flagging strength, Dawn turned her wrist and pushed open the bathroom door.


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Rupert woke, a slim arm wrapped around his waist and a definitely female body pressed close against his side, when a door creaked open somewhere overhead.

It took him long minutes to recognize both his surroundings and his companion. He was more surprised to find himself in bed with Anya than to find himself sleeping in Buffy’s basement bedroom. Waking up in the basement was at least something he’d become accustomed to in the months Buffy had been gone. More often than not, Spike had trudged in the door with just minutes to spare before the sun rose, having allowed Rupert to get a somewhat comfortable sleep in a borrowed bed.

But he’d never once woken up with someone else snuggled in beside him. It was so unfamiliar, years since he’d had overnight company, that Giles wasn’t exactly sure what the proper etiquette was; not that he was entirely sure what the etiquette was for waking up next to your employee and business partner. Giles untangled himself from Anya as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Rupert? Are you awake?” Wesley’s voice floated down, a sense of urgency threaded through his tones.

“I am. What’s wrong?” He fumbled for his glasses, squinting up at his fellow Englishman.

“Faith’s had a Slayer dream, and she’s got some information.” He’d paused halfway down the stairs, giving the older man some privacy.

“I’ll be right up.”


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The ache in his neck and the grumbling in his belly finally brought Xander to wakefulness. The machines keeping Cordelia’s body functioning whirred and clicked, oblivious to his state and the door swung opened, revealing the blank smile of the Buffybot.

“Good morning Xander.” She chirped happily at him. “You slept for a long time. Are you better now?”

“Better? There wasn’t anything wrong with me.” Xander shook his head, clearing the cobwebs and confusion.

“Humans sleep when they aren’t well. It looked like you were ill.” The Buffybot stepped purposefully over to the window, pulling on the strings for the blinds forcefully, throwing the room into bright sunlight.

“Augh! Give a guy a minute to wake up before you do that!” Xander flung a hand over his eyes, missing the minute flinching of Cordelia’s eyelids.

“Sorry.” The bot adjusted the blinds, leaving them half-opened.

“No problemo. Just gimme a few to wake up.” He headed for the bathroom, ignoring the blinking lights of the neural monitor.


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Oh my god. I look like shit. . . . Dark bruises circled round her neck, a second set of smaller round circles – darker than the others, showing up almost black against the lighter purple bruises and pale cream of her normal coloring.

Her hand raised itself to brush across the bruises, almost of its own accord. Dawn flinched at a particularly sore spot, the movement shuddering through her body, eliciting an answering series of sharp flashes of pain in her chest.

Panting heavily, Dawn fought the pain, fought the dizziness and nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Her head dropped and her hands gripped the sides of the sink, knuckles white and bloodless.

C’mon girl, hold it together, you can get through this. Salty tears plopped heavily onto the white porcelain, disappearing against the stark white surface.

The pain has to stop. All this destruction has to stop.

I can’t do this anymore. All this is because of me. . . . All of this.

Glory.

Buffy.

Casey.

Dawn reached into the medicine cabinet, grabbing the bottle of pills the hospital had sent home with them earlier in the morning. Slowly uncapping the bottle Dawn shook out a handful of pills onto her palm.

She stared down at them, her mind blank of everything.

They’re so small.

Chewing them slowly, Dawn stared into the mirror, her own eyes glazed and blank. Is this really me? Nothing’s left. . . .

Very slowly she slid back the mirror on the medicine cabinet.

Finding what she wanted took only a moment and Dawn stared at the small sliver of steel nestled in her hand. Without blinking or further thought, she pressed the cool metal deep, idly watching as the red blood welled up against the thin lines and dark bruises.

Dropping slowly down to her knees, Dawn draped her bleeding wrist over the tub, counting the drops as they splattered wetly.

The thicker, heavier plop of blood droplets countered against the lighter, quicker splat of teardrops, the two mixing together at her fingertips. Dawn gazed steadily as the drops joined with the pitter-patter of tap water as they pooled together before sliding down into the dark drain.

Laying her head down on the edge, Dawn closed her eyes and waited.


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Faith was pacing the confines of the small kitchen restlessly banging one fist against the outside of her thigh. Wesley, busying himself with setting up breakfast foods, ignored her pacing as best he could.

“What’s taking him so long?” Faith stared out the back door, her ears attuned to any noise from the basement behind her.

Wesley sighed, growing exasperated with her. “He was barely awake when I went downstairs. Give him a minute.”

Just as she was about to complain further, the basement door opened and Giles stepped into the kitchen. “Good morning.” He paused, peering at the clock, “it is still morning?”

“Barely, but yes.” Wesley handed Giles a coffee cup, then motioned toward the pot.

“So Wesley says you’ve had a Slayer dream.” Giles addressed his comments to Faith as he fixed his coffee.

“Yeah. Listen, Watcher-man, we got more vamps than just Angel, but I’m not sure they’re all buddy-buddy with hm.” Faith relayed her dream, leaving out no detail while both Watchers listened carefully.

When she was done, Giles asked her if she recognized the disembodied voice and when she shook her head negatively, he frowned, trying to make sense of it. His next question caught her attention though and she thought for a moment, then blurted out the one outstanding feature of the other unknown. “The other dude was short, really short, like shorter than Buffy short.”

Giles sipped his coffee, something he normally didn’t drink, and he nodded his head. “I believe I know who you saw.”

He paused once more, thinking over the cryptic words of his Slayer. “As for the other, I believe once we’ve broken the spell, Buffy’s statements will make some sense, or at least more than they do at the moment.”

There was silence in the kitchen, the three of them lost in their own thoughts, all of them, ironically enough, thinking roughly along the same lines. Faith glanced at the two Englishmen, her suspicions about Willow dancing about on the tip of her tongue, but wariness held her back. She was the outsider, the one they’d banished, untrusted and unwanted – okay, so it was my own freakin’ fault – and Willow was the trusted one. Faith seriously doubted if they’d believe her at all.

The matched pair of former watchers also were concentrating on particular parts of Faith’s dream, although each of them focused on a different phrase. Giles kept dwelling on “the hardest thing to face is when your friends betray you”. He had a niggling feeling he knew exactly what this meant, but because of the spell blocking his memories, he couldn’t make sense of it.

Wesley was looking at all of the information Faith had imparted, and was typically analyzing it, turning it over and over, trying to fit it in with the information he already knew. Using his limited knowledge of the facts, he kept returning to “sometimes the monsters are a bit closer, sometimes they don’t wear a different face”. Taken at face value, that statement eliminated Spike, because “wear a different face” meant what Buffy referred to as ‘game face’. Adding up the facts again, Wesley’s conclusion figured on the one person he thought would have been in the thick of things. Willow’s absence was glaring. He was beginning to wonder if it was perhaps by design. . . . which had him seriously contemplating voicing his suspicions, but without any solid evidence, Wesley was convinced none of the others would believe him.

“In the meantime, what do you suggest?” Wesley dumped his cup into the sink, fixing a hard look at Rupert.

“Two things. I believe Faith would appreciate a change of clothes and we need to head for the Magic Box. I need to find Jonathan Levinson’s current whereabouts.”


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He woke alone, the bright sunlight still shrouded by the dark curtains and for long moments Sam contemplated just why he’d answered his sire’s call. His sire hadn’t acted much like a sire at all, turning him to suit his own purposes, then shoving him out into the cold ocean, without any thought or care for his understanding of the change Angel had inflicted upon him.

In fact, he had learned more in the swim to shore – the long hours spent in the company of Spike, than anything he’d learned from Angel. William had taught him the basics of survival – of the limits of his strength and endurance, and strangely enough, that he could control the thirst.

His first days as a vampire had been chaotic, swimming for his life – abandoned by his sire twenty miles from shore with the threat of daybreak looming. He and Spike had swum side by side, more for the companionship than any real sense of comradery or care for the other’s welfare. And yet, by the end of their trek, Sam had felt closer to Spike then he did to his sire.

To his further surprise, when they reached shore, Spike hadn’t abandoned him right away. They’d crawled ashore on the ass end of Long Island, hiding from the sunlight in a rickety fisherman’s shack, setting out at dusk for the nearest town.

It had taken them almost three days to make it into New York City, another two for Spike to find a ship heading back across the Atlantic for Spain – and not once in that time had Spike thought to ditch him.

No, instead Spike had taught him the finer points of breaking and entering, picking pockets and, most importantly, how to hunt and survive. Sam had realized then there was something refreshingly honest about Spike, finding himself oddly grateful for his tutelage.

Right now, though, he had to admit the real reason he’d answered the sire’s call. Once or twice during their week together, Spike had mentioned Angel; the mentions hadn’t been anything resembling complimentary, but they had indicated a closer connection than Sam had originally thought. The possibility of finding Spike again had been more than enough to tip the scales.

Sam wanted to – needed to understand – why. No answers seemed to be forthcoming from either Angel or Drusilla. Perhaps Spike had some.

With the memory of Drusilla’s cryptic words and actions running through his head, Sam thought it might be time to let Spike know he was around.


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Anya followed Giles into the store, her lips drawn together in a thin line, lines of fatigue and temper bracketing her mouth. She’d been tight-lipped and silent since they’d woken her, her mind firmly convinced they were going about this all wrongly.

Giles had listened to her objections, which mainly consisted of not trusting Faith and promptly ignored them. When he couldn’t quite explain why he refused to disturb either Buffy or Spike, Anya had thrown up her hands and merely exclaimed, “on your head be it.”

Her disapproval was loud and clear, for all that it remained quiet past that single outburst and Giles was at a loss as to why it affected him so. Anya was generally a cheerful person, rarely allowing her real concerns to shine through, especially whenever Xander was around – why should her disapproval bother him at all?

Forcing aside his confusion about her mood and feelings, Giles focused on what she was saying. He had to admit – Anya did have a point about trusting Faith, but he also knew if they didn’t start somewhere, Faith’s presence would at the least be a distraction.

Sooner or later, if they didn’t trust Faith now, Giles was certain she would betray them. If he’d learned anything from dealing with Spike, he’d learned trust had to start somewhere. It was easier to trust initially and let the other person grow into that trust. Firming his resolve to trust Faith, Giles turned to face Anya and hesitated at the look on her face.

She was grim-faced, her arms crossed, one small foot tapping with barely suppressed temper and he realized, as he gaped open-mouthed at her, he was madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with her.


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Leaving Tara with a kiss, Willow headed down the stairs, thinking of how she could surprise her girlfriend. Breakfast in bed would be a good thing.

Passing by the bathroom, Willow thought she heard a noise, but when she paused and listened, there was no further sound from within. Willow shrugged and kept walking.

There were odd things about, like blankets and pillows on the couch and numerous coffee cups piled in the sink, but Willow couldn’t figure out what any of those things meant, except for one.

The black leather duster draped over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs was a dead give-away for the unwanted presence of a certain vampire. Willow couldn’t make sense of him still being around, since part the spell had been designed specifically to get rid of the vampire. To keep him away from Buffy and the rest of them.

But especially Buffy.

Spike wasn’t a good person, wasn’t even a person. He was an evil soul-less vampire whose continued presence in Sunnydale distracted Buffy and kept her away from her real friends.

Friends like herself and Xander, who’d been with her since Buffy’s arrival in Sunnydale. They’d been the ones to be there for her, done everything they could to help the Slayer with her duty. He’d just been trying to kill her since the first time he’d arrived in Sunnydale. Supposedly he was one of them now, but she knew better – Spike wasn’t a good guy.

And he was still hanging around.

Willow pursed her lips, making a face at the thought of the vampire. What does it take to get rid of him? Am I gonna have to permanently disinvite him from this house?

So caught up in her musings, Willow didn’t notice Tara coming down the stairs until she was practically nose to nose with the redhead. “Hey you. What’re you thinking?”

“Huh?” Willow jumped a bit, then smiled brightly at her girlfriend. “What? Nothing. Was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Tara nervously played with her hands, blushing furiously whenever she peaked at Willow. “Can we. . . maybe go out for a while?” For some reason the memory of the conversation with the others during the night kept nagging at her and she suddenly didn’t want anyone else near Willow. And she wasn’t at all sure if it was Willow she wanted to protect.

“Um. Sure. I was gonna fix you breakfast though.” Willow let a little disappointment creep into her voice, moving Tara to hastily add, “how about I take you out instead?”

Tugging Willow by the hand, Tara grabbed her purse and headed for the front door.


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It was the cessation of all the noise that finally woke him, the quiet settling over the house alerting his senses all was not right.

He woke, no transition between slumber and wakefulness, every nerve strumming with tension. Buffy was curled in his arms and he was unsurprised to find the sprog nestled in between them.

Untangling his arms and legs from hers, Spike slowly sat up, ears tuned to the silence, focusing on the various heatbeats around him. Buffy’s and the baby’s were strong beside him and two others. . . . one wasn’t as strong as it should be.

Pushing back the covers, Spike grabbed his jeans from the floor, then turned back to look down at Buffy. He didn’t want to wake her until he knew something was wrong, but his intuition was telling him he’d better.

“Kitten? Buffy, c’mon, wake up.” He shook her shoulder, brushing a gentle hand down her side. “Wake up sunshine.”

She grumbled something groggily at him, swiping at his hand ineffectually.

“Buffy wake up. Somethin’s wrong.” His voice was low, laced with concern.

“All right. I’m awake.” She groused at him from behind closed eyes, her voice a bare whisper.

“No. You’re not. C’mon sunshine, open up.” The baby stirred at the sound of their voices, adding his own protest to Buffy’s. “‘m gonna check on the girls.”

“Kay.” Buffy murmured at him, tucking the blankets closer around herself and Connor.

Breathing out a slightly exasperated sigh, Spike got to his feet, intending to head straight for Dawn’s room.

The smell hit him at the door and Spike didn’t hesitate. Whirling back to the bed, he yanked the covers up and off.

“Slayer.” He ground out. “Get up now.”

The urgency of his tone, coupled with his actions, finally reached her and she sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“Blood.”

He waited for her to get up, then lifted the baby from the bed and dumped him in the crib while Buffy grabbed a pair of loose sleep pants from the drawer. “Okay, let’s go.”

Together they walked into the hallway, Spike in the lead by a couple of steps. He paused outside the bathroom door, with a nod to Buffy, he stepped back and pushed heavily on the door.

It was a sight out of his worst imaginings and he knew, at Buffy’s horrified sobbing gasp from behind him, a scene right out of her nightmares.

Dawn was slouched over the tub, water running silently down her arm, mixing with her blood as both flowed steadily from her wrist.

“Fucking Christ.”

“Oh my god.”

She was ghostly pale, her lashes and bruises strikingly dark against her skin.

“Spike?” Buffy was frozen behind him and the fear gripping her transmitted itself to him and he was barely able to choke out, “she’s breathin’.”

Almost mechanically, Spike stepped further into the bathroom, leaned down, turned off the taps, then oh, so softly, he said, “get the bandages, sweetheart.”

She hesitated, unable to move because of the fear clutching at her heart, and he growled out her name. “Buffy. Kit. Now.”

Spike had Dawn cradled in his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder and Buffy couldn’t remember when he’d moved. “Now, Slayer.”

Woodenly she reached under the sink, groping around for the first-aid kit. Vaguely she was aware of his voice, the rough timbre of it soothing her, but part of her was detached from the whole moment, her mind unable to process what was happening.

“Buffy. Buffy, hold it together. You gotta stay with me, sunshine. Open the kit, baby.”

Blankly she stared at him, not hearing his words for long minutes, until he repeated himself more than once. Her fingers fumbled with the catches, finally wrenching the top off, breaking it at the hinges.

Spike was trying to stop the blood, his hands slipping around Dawn’s torso, holding her cool body flush against him. “C’mon Niblet, wake up. Open your eyes for me, baby girl. . . C’mon.”

Dawn was completely unresponsive.

He lifted her still bleeding wrist to his mouth, sealing the cuts closed. Buffy turned, the roll of gauze in her hands and she sobbed, seeing the look on his face. “Spike?”

“Open her eyes. Tell me what you see.”

Buffy pried open Dawn’s eyelid with shaking hands. “She’s. . . she’s blank.”

“Call an ambulance. She’s overdosed too.”




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