TITLE: Surrender
AUTHOR: Remy (remytakesthestage@hotmail.com)
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Spike and Dawn, post-Gift; mourning makes people act all weird, do strange things.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yeah, I don't know... Just for the record, I'm aware that there is something closely bordering not-right with this pairing, but I believe it can be done tastefully. And this story isn't even meant to be a romantic story, the joining of a happy couple, or some shit like that. It's more of a strange friendship above anything else; more about reactions than actions. So no flames, please. :::grin:::
DISCLAIMER: I own Spike on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays from nine to five. Have him home before dark, please. (God loves Joss.)
FEEDBACK: Always a pleasure, even when it's not.
Surrender
He couldn't remember why he was crying. But Dawn was bleeding, shallow cuts, he couldn't let her go. *We should get you a doctor.* A shake of a head, whispy brown hair looking too pretty for the occassion, blowing, molding around her tiny frame, but there was no breeze and there was no shade. *You stay here, the sun is out.* But he couldn't stay and he couldn't quite remember why. He needed to fix her, she was bleeding.
Giles reached out at him with thin arms. "Give her to me, Spike. The sun." No no no, he couldn't let her go. "Spike, please."
"I want to go home," was all she said. And he knew that it hurt her to speak, to breath, to be. It hurt him, too. She reminded him of something, he couldn't remember what. Okay okay okay, he'd take her home. And he could fix her cuts, stop the bleeding, tuck her in bed, crawl in next to her, entangle himself around her like a vine, die. *Then let's get you home, Cricket.*
He held onto her, tighter tighter tighter, not gonna let go. He thinks he heard a rib crack/snap. It could've been her, could've been him. But he didn't care, and he suspected that she didn't, either, because he was looking for pain, now, and she was looking to make things better. "I...I can fix you, I think." That was the last thing she heard.
First, she noticed she was home. Second, she noticed she wasn't wearing the heavy, purple gown; in place was an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. Third, she noticed Spike was there, too, and he was still Spike-shaped.
"Closer," she said. He walked slowly; she could be the wolf, wearing a Dawn-costume. He sat on the couch next to her. She had green eyes (he thinks they might've been blue). That was important for some reason; he was still trying to remember. But it was okay, because she didn't want to talk/think about what had happened, what she had done, what he hadn't.
Fourth, she noticed she wasn't bleeding, anymore. "You fixed me."
"There were only thr...shallow...He, uh, He only cut you three times."
"He only cut you once."
*Spike...* He turned to her. *She's really dead, isn't she? This time.* Oh yeah, that. A barely existent nod, a small flash of white hair, she almost didn't see it. She didn't think he understood, yet. What that meant. It was okay, because she didn't, either. "Spike...Will you lay next to me?" She slowly slid over, leaving a tiny sliver of couch for him to lay on. He was too tired to deny her of comfort, he was too cold to deny himself of it. His body ached, he was broken.
He collapsed on the tan sofa, wrapped himself around her waist, holding her close, because she was it. All that was left. She nestled her head in the crook of his neck because he smelled good. Her tiny arm entwined itself around him, resting on his back, and he winced at the feel of her skin grazing his wound. "Sorry."
"S'okay. Go to sleep."
"How am I supposed to sleep?"
"I don't know. Just try, though. For now. We'll figure things out later."
"Okay." There was silence; then: "Spike..." He moaned his response; she continued. "It hurts."
He opened his eyes and found her staring up at him. "I know. S'gonna hurt for awhile."
"I feel hot. I think I'm sick. I think I'm going to puke."
"Don't bloody yack on me." He sighed. "You were sliced-n-diced, Lit'l Bit. Probably have a fever."
She had her head on his chest. "You're cold. Was she cold?"
He had gone to her, the body, after the fall...pawed at her, fixed her hair. Her hand was all bloody, so he had wiped it clean with the inside of her shirt. He threw her arms around her, he could feel her broken bones. And she had been cold.
"No."
He remembers now: Green/blue eyes, Buffy had green eyes, too. And as he laid there next to her, he found she smelled like Buffy, felt like Buffy, soft, and he knew how wrong it was that that was the reason he was holding her so close, as though he were using her. But part of him knew that wasn't it. He couldn't let her go, he'd die. And by the tension in her muscles, the tight sinew of her shoulders and back, strung out from clasping him so hard, so close, he figured she couldn't let him go, either. *If you stop, I'll die.* Was that a threat? No, he couldn't let her go, he'd die, too.
Then he had his lips on her forehead. "It'll be okay." And her eyebrow. "No, it won't." Then her cheek. "Someday." She dug her nails into the hollow of his hips, biting back tears and she knew he liked the feeling of her fingers jabbing him, scraping skin. "How can you be so sure?" He hugged her tighter, forgetting he could accidentally snap her in half. "I wouldn't lie to you. Go to sleep."
She knew he needed the pain for contact; she just needed contact, the feel of someone, of him. And there was suddenly something very different about the way she was holding him, a new form of urgency. She remembered when she wanted him, had a crush on him. But even that was different. This, she knew, was life or death. A new form of urgency.
And he felt it, too. Moments later. He loosened his grip; things were getting strange. Buffy had just died, not an hour ago, and he was snuggling on her couch with her little sister; her fifteen-year-old sister who was suddenly worming her hand under the edge of his shirt, wrapping her leg around his, whispering things into his chest (and he wasn't listening); a sister that was so much like Buffy he had often forgot where one ended and the other began, a sister that had soft hair (vanilla) and soft skin and pink lips (inviting, pleading, scared.)
And before he could remind himself of how wrong everything was, she had her mouth on his, and it felt too much like right.
Smooth lips and a bruised body. He'd been here once.
She had never kissed a boy, before; she had one coherent thought: a tinge of sadness that from this point on, any boy she ever kissed would be compared to Spike, hundred-and-twenty-something-year-old Spike, who was very much more than a boy, and it would never be (get) any better. No, she had two thoughts: the second being that this was probably illegal in like, a bunch of states.
It took a moment, but he realized what was happening, what he was letting happen, but not before letting her pry his lips open (how'd that happen?), their tongues barely grazing, before gliding a hand across her tiny belly, before pressing himself against her in a non-consoling fashion, before letting her slip body parts under his shirt. That was it; he wasn't kissing Buffy. He quickly pulled away from her, reeling from the shock, falling off the couch, landing on the hard floor. And (Fuck!) he cursed himself inwardly, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her, because he knew he had fucked up.
*Jus' forget it happened, okay...* *Spike...* He saw that glisten in her eye (he'd always seen it), she wanted more. In her mind, in a sultry voice, to him (wanting more, also): I can be Her, if you want; just don't stop.
"No." He was standing, now, pulling himself off the floor, too quickly to avoid pain, but it was okay, because he liked the pain, "Jus' forget it. You shou...I shouldn't have let that happen. Fuck, you're fourteen, girl."
"Don't talk to me like that, like I'm just a child. You never talked to me like that, even when the others did. Don't do that. I kisse...we kissed. I get it: big mistake. End of story. I'm sorry, Spike." She stood, too; but she did it slowly, because she didn't want to hurt anymore than she already was. Death and rejection, both in the same hour, toppling dominoes. She silently/quickly wondered where she could find a gun. And the tears came, again. "Spike, I'm sorry. Please, don't be mad. I need you. I'm sorry."
"S'okay. Everything's okay." He pulled her into a hug, a friendly, brotherly hug - or, what was (could be) left of one.
Damn, things were bad. It had only been an hour...sixty minutes...thirty-six-hundred seconds...
Things had never gotten so bad, so quickly.
And he knew: things would never be the same.