AN: Buffy died and Spike and Dawn got closer. That's basically it. Warnings for self-destructive references, ie cutting. But it's not graphic.
Hope you like!
Dawn watched Spike morph into his demon facade as he bit into a pre-packaged blood bag. A look of disgust crosses over his face before he drank, but it was then covered up with slurping noise. Soon, the bag was drained dry and he threw it across the room, landing in a rather large pile of the empty bags. A grunt bellowed from his chest and he looks at her.
"Ever feel like you're itchin' to do somethin'?" he asked Dawn while fiddling for a fag.
"Like you've got ants crawling under your skin and you can't get them out?" she replied in a quiet voice. She waited a minute or too before saying, "Yeah. I've felt that way."
He nodded, as if her answer satisfied him, and deeply inhaled. Dawn up-turned the corners of her lips which resembled a smile. Ever since Buffy jumped, the duo had been spending much time together. Spike would roam around his crypt, walking back and forth while asking her questions that she felt obligated to answer. When not answering his uninterested, spoken-aloud thoughts, the former key would recline on his couch and think to herself. She didn't involve Spike with her notions, figuring he had enough on his own mind.
"I need," the bleached vampire started. "I need..."
"To kill something?" Dawn asked in a child-like voice.
He gave her a small smirk, but shook his head. Taking his cigarette, he threw it on the ground and smashed out the burning embers underneath his boot.
"Nah, I need a good chase and some soddin' human blood," he finally said after thinking it through. "Pig's blood really lacks thrill, besides that bloody awful taste."
He walked over to where Dawn was and slouched down beside her.
"Nothing like the excitement of the chase or the smell of fear from your victim. Makes the blood sweeter, it does. 'S not as glamorous either, drinkin' from a bag."
A sigh comes from his lips and an idea comes to Dawn's mind. She was the type of person who bought or made gifts just for the hell of it. If she saw something that reminded her of someone she cared about, she'd buy it and give it to them. The brunette thought it added a little extra to someone's day to know that they were loved enough for a random present. And by the looks of it, Dawn saw fit that Spike deserved one of her gifts.
"What's on your mind, pet?" he asked while running his calloused fingers through her hair. She dropped her heavy head upon Spike's shoulder and relaxed to his ministrations.
"Nothing really."
His hands found their way to her ratty shirt sleeve. Her heartbeat picked up as his fingers played with the frayed fabric. He could hear her whisper "Don't," but It was so soft that he almost didn't hear it; just a huff of air.
"Doesn't look like nothin'," he replied as his fingers reached his point. Her breathing got to a point where he was scared she was going to hyperventilate. After running his touch over the scars he knew he'd find there, he pulled away which returned Dawn's breathing back to normal, though her heart rate was still high.
"Ran into a door and fall or somethin'?" Spike questioned.
"Something like that."
Nodding, he knew it wasn't the time to bring it up. Dawn wasn't about exposing emotions anymore, but he wanted her to know that he was there-though he knows she wouldn't tell him anything.
"Too good to me, Spike," she mumbled as her eyelids began to feel heavy and soon closed.
Three days later, Dawn returned to Spike's crypt. When she knocked on his door, he anxiously answered it, praying it to be her.
"I was so worried," he tried to keep his voice from breaking.
He gives her a tight embrace and then takes her in. Dark circles contrasted against her unusually pale skin. Her breathing was shallow, just like her heartbeat. She looked positively dead. He was surprised she could even walk, being as weak as she looked. It took all he could muster, not to pick her up and just hold the weak little girl that was in front of him.
"I got you something." She tried to smile and it was then that he realized her hands were behind her back.
"Really?" he said, touched she even thought of him.
Her hands shakily hold out a wrapped gift and he idly wondered what it was. But when he looked up, he couldn't help but seeing a large, thick gash at each wrist. A bloody Band-Aid covered the cuts.
"Cor, love."
Giving him a lopsided grin, she excited his crypt. Right before she left, he softly could hear an "I love you." He tore off the blue wrapping paper and was shocked with what was in his hands. A red jar. He opened it and took a sniff and his eyes went wide.
He expected a bloody candle, not a fucking jar of Dawn's blood!
Almost dropping the jar from shock, he carefully set it on the ground and bravely opened the door. He backed away from the sunlight as it singed the tips of his fingers.
"Dawn," he called, looking towards the horizon, but frowned when he saw no one. He then looked down. There she was, face down on the grass. He could hear her faint heartbeat and he sighed when he realizing she just passed out.
So he sat as close to her as the shadows would allow and looked after her because when she woke up, they were going to have a little talk.
It was just a little drabble. See, it's what I want to give my father for father's day. A jar full of my blood. Ha. Sorry if this story is crazy. I thought of it at 3 in the morning. And wrote it around 6 in the morning. Anyway, R&R.