Spike and Dawn ficlet #4, in the same reality as "Always Been Bad," "Safe With Evil," and "Petty Theft," all found in my bio. This one borrows a little dialogue from the Buffy episode "Beneath You." There might be a Chapter 2 here if not a separate ficlet—I'm not sure how I'm going to work that out. Please read and review. Many thanks!
ETA: BeerGood, thank you for your thoughtful review. I'm sorry I had to delete and repost this story because there was something I needed to change, so your review got lost in the process. But I really appreciated it, as always, especially from such a great writer.
xxx
Hate.
Hate wasn't even a strong enough word. Revile. Detest. Loathe. Abhor. Despise.
Those were better, maybe. Less simplistic, anyway. Less overused and underwhelming. Because when she looked at him, this man—this monster—recently roused from the depths of insanity, who was now standing in her living room as if he had a place there anymore or ever would again, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to underestimate her feelings.
She tried to kill him with her eyes, but he wouldn't look at her. And wasn't that just like a coward. The kind of coward who tries to rape your injured sister on the floor of the bathroom and then disappears into the night without a word. The kind of coward who comes back, inexplicably crazy, and takes up residence in the basement of your high school, and who, when you sneak down to confront him begins spouting terrifying nonsense (with tears rolling down his cheeks for the love of God, as if he's even a fraction as sorry for what he's done as he should be) until you want to just beat him back into coherence.
She'd attempted to do just that, in fact, to no avail. And he hadn't pushed her away or knocked her down with a single punch (and hadn't part of her expected him to do that, this person she once would have sworn would never ever hurt her or Buffy?). He hadn't even tried to catch her small, battering fists; hadn't said, "Bloody hell, Bit, what's got into you?" or "Violence is more big sister's m.o., innit?" or laughed at her as he easily absorbed her blows and waited for her to wear herself out. No. He'd stood still, barely blinking as she pounded away at his solid chest, at the hard, unyielding muscle of his stomach, his dangling, motionless arms. Only his eyes revealed any reaction, their ice blue depths hinting at more sanity and understanding and—sadness?—than she was willing to analyze.
"I hate you," she'd told him as he pierced her with that haunting gaze. "Do you get that? I hate you, and I don't care what made you this way. You deserve it for what you did to her. You deserve everything you get." She had to ignore the distinct tremble in her voice, had to chalk it up to anger. That must be why she was crying, too. Because of the anger. The hate. Why else? "I should kill you now," she spat. "No one would care. I was the only one who ever did, and now I don't, so there's no one else to stand up for you. Buffy might be mad for a minute because she's got some sick sense of responsibility for the way you are now, but she'd get over it pretty fast when she thought about what you did to her. The rest of them? Would probably throw a party in my honor when I tell them I dusted you. We'd all be better off. Are you listening to me, you worthless demon? Can you even hear me, or are you too much of a psycho now to understand me?"
He cocked his head and studied her intently for several long moments, and Dawn shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. And a chill went up her spine as she sensed the real Spike, the decidedly less crazy Spike, the Spike that was her friend, her protector, before he'd committed that unforgivable act, just beneath the surface of this silent, emaciated, unnerving Spike-ghost. He suddenly retreated to an especially dark, shadowy corner of the dark, shadowy basement and then came back and stood before her. He reached out his hand and held something toward her, his eyes merciless now, challenging. She looked down at his offering with a kind of slow, creeping horror, and a sour taste rose at the back of her throat when she saw what it was. Spike had always been the one to call her bluffs.
Her hand darted out and smacked the stake from his grasp. It hit the cement floor with an echoing clack and rolled noisily away into the shadows. Dawn began backing away from him, toward the stairwell that would lead to the brightly lit and comfortingly mundane high school hallway. "Too easy," she managed, her voice shaking harder now, uncontrollably. "You don't get off easy." With that, she turned and ran as if she were being chased, and she didn't stop until the basement door was at her back, safely enclosing him in the darkness.
And now, scarcely a week later, here he stood in her living room, all whole and clean and not babbling psychotic obscenities at imaginary offenders. Xander was poised to attack; Dawn could feel the tension that thrummed through his body as he stood protectively at her side as if expecting the vampire to fling himself across the room and sink his fangs into her at any moment. Xander, she knew, just wanted an excuse.
"What is he doing here, Buffy?" he demanded icily, his eyes not leaving Spike as he addressed his friend with barely suppressed rage in his voice. Spike seemed to be the only person who could bring that out in Xander, Dawn mused distractedly.
Buffy, to her credit, had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "Xander, calm down. It's not what you—he needs help."
"And you're going to give it to him. You're going to help him. You're okay with letting Dawnie sleep under the same roof with the guy who tried to rape you."
Buffy took a deep breath. "We need his help too."
"Okay, but I don't think that's necessarily true, Buff. In fact, I think we're better off just taking our chances without the help of this evil insane vampire rapist, thanks anyway."
Buffy winced at Xander's flinty tone. "Please. Stop. Please just stop."
"Is that what you said to him that night?"
"Xander!" Buffy's eyes flashed.
Spike flinched, and then he spoke in a soft, gentle tone so unlike his usual one that Dawn was momentarily taken aback. "'S'all right," he murmured gruffly. "Just leave it. I'll go."
This seemed to fan the flames of Xander's anger. "Don't you dare play the martyr," he hissed, and the hatred in his voice was almost palpable. Dawn placed a hand on his elbow in a half-hearted attempt to still the shudders of rage that were coursing through him. The gesture worked, at any rate; Xander glanced down at Dawn and, with what seemed a great effort, swallowed whatever he was going to say or do next. "Dawnie, why don't you go upstairs now?" he suggested, deceptively calm.
"No," she said instantly, accustomed to defending her right to take part in "grown-up" conversations. "I want to know too, Buffy. Why did you bring him here?"
"Dawn, really, maybe you should—" Buffy began.
"No!"
"All right, listen up. Everyone needs to press pause on the Spike hate for a minute and focus on the problem at hand," Buffy said, and her tone changed from pleading and sisterly to stony and authoritative without a hitch, as she slipped easily into full Slayer mode. "We've got a big bad we haven't been able to put a dent in, and in case you've failed to notice, we're several soldiers shy of an army these days. I can't afford not to use any help I can get, in whatever form it takes. Now, both of you have a right to be angry, I understand that and I'm not asking for group hugs here. I'm asking for cooperation. At least until we've put this thing away." Buffy's eyes were unyielding as she looked back and forth between her sister and Xander. "If you can't put aside the other crap and help me fight it, then you can't help me. End of discussion."
There was a long silence. When dealing with Buffy the Sister, wheedling for a later curfew or to borrow a favorite skirt, Dawn's persuasion skills were unmatched. But with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, arguing was useless. She would shut them out if they didn't agree to work alongside Spike, no question about it. Fair or not fair, reasonable or irrational, Buffy was in charge, and Buffy wanted compliance.
Xander gave in first, his tone gruff and bitter, but his words sincere. "You know I'm behind you, Buffy. Always."
"Are we sure he's uncrazy enough to be wandering around outside the basement?" As soon as she had spoken, Dawn realized her mistake.
Buffy looked up sharply. "And how, exactly, would you know anything about that?"
Dawn's eyes flicked to Spike, who finally met her gaze steadily, waiting to hear how she would dig her way out of this.
"I must have overheard something," she muttered lamely.
"Mmm-hmm." Buffy's gaze didn't waver. "We're going to discuss that some more later, you better believe it. But tell me now, Dawn. In or out?"
Dawn had to force herself not to look in his direction. "In," she said firmly. "But I think I speak for Xander too when I say, for the record, we hate this."
"I know you do," Buffy acknowledged softly. Then she went on as if the rift in her ranks didn't exist. "Okay, Spike and I need to get going. We just came by for weapons; we've got a lead to check out. You guys stay here and get on—"
"You're kidding," Xander snapped, taken off guard. "You're going off alone with him?"
"Xander." Buffy said warningly. "Not so much the helpless little woman, okay? I need you and Dawn to stay here and keep researching. Without—without Willow, who knows how long the book work might take? We haven't gotten very far yet. Please. This is what I need from you."
They stared at each other for a long moment in a silent battle of wills, and finally Xander took a deep breath and walked out of the room. Buffy closed her eyes briefly, then glanced at Spike. "Load up," she said, nodding toward the weapons chest in the corner. "I'll be right back."
Dawn stood rooted to the spot as she found herself alone in the room with Spike. The silence was deafening. Emotions fought for control within her. At last, she couldn't hold her tongue any longer.
"Spike."
His head jerked up from the chest he was digging around in and he looked at her, his Bit, with a bizarre expression of equal parts curiosity, hope, and suspicion, with a twist of dread.
"You sleep, right?" When he looked puzzled, she clarified. "You. Vampires. You sleep."
"Yeah. What's your point, Niblet?" His manner remained intentionally off-hand, casual, as he steeled himself for another attack.
"Well, I can't take you in a fight or anything. Even with the chip in your head. But you do sleep. If you hurt my sister at all—touch her—you're gonna wake up on fire."
Strange how it pierced his unbeating heart, hearing such a threat (and not really a threat at all, was it? No, she meant business, his girl) from the child who'd not long since hugged him freely and trusted him absolutely and teased him fearlessly and shed countless tears in his cold embrace. But he'd earned her hatred, every last bit of it. Trouble was, he could see something more than hatred in her wide blue eyes, something so much worse that it almost drove him to his knees. He had a sudden crazy urge to take her hands and beg her for a forgiveness he knew she could never offer.
The look in her eyes now, beneath the shield of her anger, mirrored Buffy's that night, when the crash of flesh and bone and shattering glass meeting cold tile had slammed him to his senses and he'd staggered to his feet with dawning shock and horror.
Ask me again why I could never love you.
Because I'm evil, his mind answered for him. Because I'm evil and you're clean and I've tarnished you with my devotion and my God, you should have killed me long ago, love.
"Did you hear me?" Dawn asked coldly, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "You don't want to test me this time."
His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly normal, taunting, indicating nothing of the struggle each word raised in him. "You weren't quite up to the challenge last time we met, as I recall. I gave you the means to make things right, pet, and you didn't do it. Not sure you've got what it takes."
"You're trying to piss me off enough to stake you. You're that desperate to have it over and done with. I told you, I won't let you take the easy way out. Besides," she added, glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen, where her sister and Xander were speaking in clipped, serious tones. "Besides. I promised Buffy."
"I wonder, what would Big Sis think of the little visit you paid me?" he asked, not sure exactly why he was suddenly so intent on provoking her. Perhaps it was to drive that look of betrayal from her eyes. To take that hatred she was trying so hard to cultivate and make it true.
Dawn almost flinched. "I didn't think you remembered," she said. "You were pretty out of your mind."
"That I was," he agreed. "But remember it, yeah. Bruises only just faded."
She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction, then resumed her stoic, challenging stance. "Don't tell her anything," she said. "I mean it. You tell her, I'll make you sorry."
"Already am, Bit. Plenty sorry, more than you'll ever know or believe."
"Don't call me that."
Xander came back in the room then, Buffy on his heels. They both seemed more agitated from their kitchen discussion, so Dawn figured it hadn't gone too smoothly. "Get away from him, Dawnie," Xander snapped, pulling her none too gently back a few paces, widening the already-large gap between her and Spike.
"Let's go," Buffy said shortly to Spike, grabbing up a few of her favorite weapons from the open chest. "You guys keep researching. I'll be in touch."
The door closed behind them. Without warning, Xander picked up a book that was lying on the much-abused coffee table and hurled it as hard as he could at the front door. The resounding bang was somehow satisfying in the stillness. Dawn bit her lip.
Without speaking, the two of them settled down in the dining room to begin their research.