She. Was evil.
No. Really. Screw the clothes 'borrowing', diary reading, and occasional store item liberated.
She was evil because she missed when Buffy was dead. There. She said it. Not 'gone'. Not 'missing'. Buffy had been dead. And she missed that.
She missed Spike, most of all. Missed him threatening to eviscerate her if she tried to watch the news instead of Friends, rolling his eyes derisively when she cranked her music. The way he yanked her back in the house by her hair the time she had tried to sneak out in spiked heels and leather. But most of all, she missed the way he sat on the couch.
Yeah, it sounded stupid. But it wasn't, not really. He didn't always stay with her. Sometimes, sometimes he'd leave for two days in a row, and Dawn wouldn't tell anyone, and she'd sit, waiting for him to come home, and feel alone. He'd come home, a little drunk, a little worse for wear, and while she patched him up, he'd croon promises at her, fingers gliding through her hair. While it hindered her bandaging him, it lent a safety, a comfort that she missed.
'Never leave you, Bitty. You're my girl. Just needed a day, baby... Give us a kiss, petal.'
Sometimes, even when he was there, she felt alone. And he always knew. He'd make this huge production of stomping through the house, collapse on the couch next to her, tousling her hair, and yanking her by the shoulder to rest against his chest, usually making some kind of obscene comment at the television, thumping his dirty boots on the coffee table, no matter how many times she told him not to. And then, he'd begin.
It was nothing drastic, nothing... to make a big deal of. His hand would be curled oh-so-casually around her shoulder, "the better to keep you in line, Snack Pack", he'd tell her, but then, his fingers would slide over her shoulder, over and over. Slowly, he'd start to play with her hair, petting it gently, turning his nose to nuzzle into it.
He was always sniffing her hair. He'd deny it forever, but he did it. Just little sniffs, here and there, usually on the couch. He'd roll his eyes when she called him on it, declare her mad as a hatter, ruffle her hair and playfully shove her away.
Of course, those were good days. There were bad days, too. When he would walk around the house, looking so tired, so lost. Evening always found him engrossed in his own mind, in his own grief while the television blared unnoticed. When she approached him, his eyes would snap, glisten with gold, then soften as he saw her. He'd draw her down to the couch, sitting next to him, a pouting frown on his face, considering her.
"You're my girl, aren't you, Dawn? My baby bit, won't leave me, will you? Won't break your Spike?" A hand would lightly touch her cheek, brush across her skin. "Take care of you, baby. Do right by you. Do a good job, just like I promised. Know you're mine, right? You're my girl. Always."
Of course she wouldn't break him. Of course she was his girl. Of course he'd take care of her. She'd tell him, over and over, till he'd finally nod, press a kiss to her forehead, and send her off to bed, 'cause it was time for him to kill some baddies. When he was finished, he'd sleep in her doorway, watching, guarding, till she'd move him in the morning, to the basement, where the sun wouldn't hurt him.
Of course, always isn't an exceptionally long time.
Not on the Hellmouth. Not with Buffy.
Sometimes, Dawn wondered if it was better to miss her sister and have her really gone, than have Buffy standing two feet from her, and still be in her grave.
As soon as she'd come back, focus had switched automatically to Buffy. Which was fine, good, even. Buffy needed people. Well, she was pretty sure, anyway. But Dawn wasn't used to being alone all the time. Buffy was vacant, Willow and Tara very much so on the rocks, Xander and Anya doing... well, what they did. And Spike.
Buffy was better. She was working, granted, not the best job, but she was working. And she was doing better. Of course, the all-night patrols had worn her out pretty well, and the demon population must have been rising, because Spike had some pretty nasty bruises when she'd see him at the Magic Box.
And only at the Magic Box. Well, except when he came by the house- To see Buffy.
Which, lets face it. Hurt.
Dawn froze, lipstick pausing in the middle of her lip, before hurrying on. But so what? It wasn't a big deal, not really. And she didn't have time to think about Spike tonight. She was on her own again tonight, and, like a good girl, had finished her homework, and decided to turn in for the night. When Xander had seen her tucked in bed, he had nodded and twenty minutes later, left.
Which gave Dawn plenty of time to get ready, go have a good time, and be back before Buffy was even done patrolling. She pressed her lips together, smoodging the lipstick just so, unlocked her window- just in case- and walked downstairs.
She pulled open the door, to the person on the other sides' surprise, hand poised to knock.
Well, shitdamnhell.
Spike.
She arched an eyebrow, one bared hip cocked out. "Buffy's not home."
Disappointment flashed over his features before he took her in. Disregarded her statement as his eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you wearin'?"
"Clothes. Buffy will be back later." She brushed past him, and his hand snaked out, grabbing a chunk of her hair, wrapping it around his fist.
She froze.
His voice was low, slightly menacing. Yeah, she'd heard that before. "Said, what the hell are you wearin'?"
"I tug my head, and you collapse on the porch in a ball of chipped Spike."
"I tear out your throat for back talkin' me, you'll be dead longer than my head'll hurt." But his hand released her hair, at the last minute stroking the tips as they fell through his fingers.
She jerked her head to the side, away from his trailing fingers, hair tossing over her shoulder. Glanced at him coolly. "I told you. Clothes. People wear them every day."
"To prostitute themselves. Get your narrow ass back in the house."
"Buffy's not here, Spike, and you're not getting brownie points. Just go wait in the kitchen. And my ass is not narrow."
"You're fifteen! Your ass is *supposed* to be narrow. S'not about Buffy. I don't give a damn where she is, and I never get points from her anyway!" His hand wrapped around her hair again. "S'about you. In the house. Now."
She jerked her hair, saw him flinch momentarily, then yank harder on her hair, and grit his teeth through the pain. But his grip didn't loosen.
"It's never about me, Spike. Not for you. Let. Go."
He did, but just cocked his head in puzzlement at her words. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She tossed her hands in the air, letting loose a word she'd just recently worked the nerve up to say out loud. "For fuck's sake, Spike. Go wait for Buffy and figure it out." Stomped down the porch.
She'd forgotten how fast he could be. Now her arm was in the vice of his hand, and he growled this time. "Mouth, kitten," he said in a tone that could have been playfully scolding if not for it's undertones. "Why don't you explain it to me?" His voice was deceptively light, however nothing masked his eyes flashing gold at her words, her tone, and her attitude.
"You're hurting me," Dawn mewled quietly.
"Good. Stop you from from being a bitch for five minutes. In the house, now." His hand left her arm, only to tangle his fingers in her hair, and haul her inside. He none too gently pulled her across the room and helped her to the couch.
"Stay. Put." His glare kept her in place, but didn't erase her malcontent mood or facial expression.
He walked out of the living room, and re-entered, a tank top and pajama pants clutched in one hand. He placed them with exaggerated care in her lap, and turned around.
"What the-"
"*Mouth*, kitten," he repeated. "I'm not looking at you in those clothes. And you're not going upstairs and changing. Think I'm stupid? You didn't pull that open window crap this summer? Not looking. Change. Now."
"I'm not-"
"Dawn." His voice was low, strained. He had often spoken like that to Giles and Xander the past summer, during arguments. The tone was very indicative to him about losing the very fragile grip he held on his temper, that he was dealing with too much to deal with her shit, and chip or no, she was going to get a good shaking.
So she settled for grumbling ominously while changing into pajamas, the pants under her skirt before it was taken off, tank top over the white sheer tank she had paired with the black leather. Settled in the jammas, she folded her arms, frowned, and waited.
It paid off.
Spike turned, arching an eyebrow at her. She looked more like the girl she was, rather than... his mind filled with words that should never be used in conjunction with her. He looked over her face slowly. Very carefully applied makeup. Eyes too smoky for his liking, lips too red. Damn it, he said what went, and he had said she didn't dress like that. Too many dangers on the Hellmouth, too many things would want to take and hurt her. He wouldn't have her hurt. If they hadn't lost her to a hell-god, he'd be damned if he'd lose her to a pack of demons, a vampire, or a sick human who'd damage his Bit.
His eyes caught a glint at her ears. A matching glint at her neck. He reached out, fingered the stone at her ear, not reacting when she jerked her head away.
"Pretty baubles, pet."
"Found them."
"Only place you'd find those is on a corpse, and rarely, that." He cocked his head to the side, settling on the coffee table across from her, their knees brushing. "The blue set you knicked from the Magic Box would have matched your eyes better."
He tallied a point for himself as she blanched. "Fast fingers, little one. But not fast enough. You need to stop that, it'll get you caught."
Saving face, she sniffed at him, nose in the air, such an inherent echo of Buffy the rage made his nostrils flare before clamping his jaw and reminding himself that this was Dawn. He and the Slayer were a different page, and right now... it wasn't the one he was reading.
Her next words reminded him, however, that both Summers' girls could piss him off in one of their sweet-smelling heartbeats. "This," she drawled, "From the general of the Seven Eleven Liberation Front?"
"This is not. About. Me. Or Buffy, or anyone, you little shit. We're talking about you."
"Fine," she said in a bored tone. "It's about me. Are we done now?"
That muscle in his jaw ticked at regular intervals, and Dawn knew that was a bad thing. "We aren't *done*," he bit off, "till you tell me what the hell is the matter with you. Stealing, sneaking out dressed like a very cheap little slut-"
"I am NOT a slut!! And how would YOU know what I've been doing ANYWAY!?" She stood, tried to walk away, but Spike's knees caged her, and with a little pressure on her waist, she was seated again.
"S'my business to know. 'Cause you're my Bit."
"Bull. Shit."
Before the words were completely out of her mouth he was snapping. "*Watch* your goddamn language."
"I've been on nine dates. Three of them I wasn't home till after two. There was a fight at one of the clubs. I got lucky, though, cause the barstool only hit my ribs and my arm. Only had to wear long sleeves for a couple weeks." She looked unflinchingly at him, blue clashing with blue. "You didn't know. You don't know anything anymore. The only thing you know is Buffy."
His mouth opened, lips curling, but her hand covered it. "That's fine, Spike," she spoke tonelessly. "But don't you dare storm in here pretending you still say what goes. That you've cared. That you've been there. Because you don't and you haven't."
"I care, baby... I do." His hand almost cupped her cheek, just hovering over the skin. "There's just... things, sweet bit, so many things... that... need me more than you do, right now. They're important, you just... don't know..."
"I'm more alone now than last summer. And I don't know because you won't tell me."
His hand connected with her cheek, and while she didn't turn her head away, neither did she invite the touch. "No, I won't." And he wouldn't, she realized.
His eyes were so intent, almost pleading as he took her in, his thumb stroking a familiar pattern on her cheek, eyes scanning over her face, always returning to her own. As if her answer was too important to miss a single inflection she might give. That something very important hinged on her answer.
"Do you love me, sweet bit?"
Her brow furrowed and lips drew in to a slight pout. Her head tilted, as his always did, but into his palm. "Yeah," she spoke quietly, "I'm your girl. I love you."
He nodded, kept watching her. "You remember, this summer... You took care of me, too. But what did I tell you?"
Blankly, she recited the words she had clung to so desperately only months ago. "I'm your girl. You'd take care of me. You'd never leave me. Always." Her bottom lip shook and she bit down on it. "You shouldn't have said that, Spike. There's no such thing as always."
"Dawn-"
"No. There is no such thing. Not for anyone. Not for Willow and Tara, not for Mom, God, Spike... Buffy can't even stay dead. There's no-"
His hand covered her mouth, gently. "Such thing as always. Guess what, kitten?" The smooth lines, sharp angles of his face melted away to reveal the curves and bumps and golden eyes of his demon. "This makes me forever..." He lifted one of her hands, pressed it where it his heart didn't beat. "This makes me for always. I haven't been there, Bitty. I haven't. I've been patrolling all night, trying to help big sis with-" His lips worked for a moment, finally settled on a word, "with everything, the work, and the patrolling. It's hard for her."
Quietly,"I wouldn't know."
He nodded. "She doesn't want you to. She loves you. You're not the reason it's hard. But there's..." He sighed, his hands leaving her to shove through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "Damnit, I don't do this. I'm not a fucking therapist. I'm not your family counsellor." His head lifted, blue eyes shining back at her. "I need you to stop, Bit. Stop the sneaking, and the stealing and the skipping. I can't worry about everything I am, and you on top of that. I'll drop something to catch you, and I can't afford to."
She looked at him, eyes so blue, and nodded, once.
He let out a shaky breath, and cupped the back of her head, their foreheads touching. "Don't give a damn how many of the Scoobies you lie to, but don't try with me. I'll know. Because Buffy's not the only thing I know. I know my girl." Leaning back, he regarded her.
Dawn peered back, looking hopeful, fragile.
Spike shook his head at her, fighting what was in her eyes. "I won't always do right by you, petal. But I'll do the best I can." Shook his head again. "I'm still a vampire."
Dawn leaned forward, pressed her lips to his forehead. "You'll do right by me, Spike. Just like you promised. Cause I'm your girl. I'm going to bed." She passed him, a hand smoothing over his shoulder.
He waited until he was sure she was in bed, then stood. "No," he mumbled to the room, "you wouldn't break me... But what happens if someone breaks you? What then?" Spike's jaw clenched, and try as he might, the thought wouldn't rid itself of his mind.
So he did what always calmed him, reassured him. He walked outside, and stood by the sidewalk, a cigarette burning in his fingers, and watched over her. Because she was wrong. He knew his girl.
He smirked around a soft drag as a curtain drifted back into place, and the pajama clad figure stepped away from the window.
Always would.
-~-
Okay guys. That's all. Umm... This is for you. *points* You know who you are, and I love you. Just not like that anymore. And, um... thanks for saying you were proud of me.*soft smile* Meant the world. Oh. I don't own any of this either, yadda blah. Sincere and friendly kisses.
Always. Tequila
No. Really. Screw the clothes 'borrowing', diary reading, and occasional store item liberated.
She was evil because she missed when Buffy was dead. There. She said it. Not 'gone'. Not 'missing'. Buffy had been dead. And she missed that.
She missed Spike, most of all. Missed him threatening to eviscerate her if she tried to watch the news instead of Friends, rolling his eyes derisively when she cranked her music. The way he yanked her back in the house by her hair the time she had tried to sneak out in spiked heels and leather. But most of all, she missed the way he sat on the couch.
Yeah, it sounded stupid. But it wasn't, not really. He didn't always stay with her. Sometimes, sometimes he'd leave for two days in a row, and Dawn wouldn't tell anyone, and she'd sit, waiting for him to come home, and feel alone. He'd come home, a little drunk, a little worse for wear, and while she patched him up, he'd croon promises at her, fingers gliding through her hair. While it hindered her bandaging him, it lent a safety, a comfort that she missed.
'Never leave you, Bitty. You're my girl. Just needed a day, baby... Give us a kiss, petal.'
Sometimes, even when he was there, she felt alone. And he always knew. He'd make this huge production of stomping through the house, collapse on the couch next to her, tousling her hair, and yanking her by the shoulder to rest against his chest, usually making some kind of obscene comment at the television, thumping his dirty boots on the coffee table, no matter how many times she told him not to. And then, he'd begin.
It was nothing drastic, nothing... to make a big deal of. His hand would be curled oh-so-casually around her shoulder, "the better to keep you in line, Snack Pack", he'd tell her, but then, his fingers would slide over her shoulder, over and over. Slowly, he'd start to play with her hair, petting it gently, turning his nose to nuzzle into it.
He was always sniffing her hair. He'd deny it forever, but he did it. Just little sniffs, here and there, usually on the couch. He'd roll his eyes when she called him on it, declare her mad as a hatter, ruffle her hair and playfully shove her away.
Of course, those were good days. There were bad days, too. When he would walk around the house, looking so tired, so lost. Evening always found him engrossed in his own mind, in his own grief while the television blared unnoticed. When she approached him, his eyes would snap, glisten with gold, then soften as he saw her. He'd draw her down to the couch, sitting next to him, a pouting frown on his face, considering her.
"You're my girl, aren't you, Dawn? My baby bit, won't leave me, will you? Won't break your Spike?" A hand would lightly touch her cheek, brush across her skin. "Take care of you, baby. Do right by you. Do a good job, just like I promised. Know you're mine, right? You're my girl. Always."
Of course she wouldn't break him. Of course she was his girl. Of course he'd take care of her. She'd tell him, over and over, till he'd finally nod, press a kiss to her forehead, and send her off to bed, 'cause it was time for him to kill some baddies. When he was finished, he'd sleep in her doorway, watching, guarding, till she'd move him in the morning, to the basement, where the sun wouldn't hurt him.
Of course, always isn't an exceptionally long time.
Not on the Hellmouth. Not with Buffy.
Sometimes, Dawn wondered if it was better to miss her sister and have her really gone, than have Buffy standing two feet from her, and still be in her grave.
As soon as she'd come back, focus had switched automatically to Buffy. Which was fine, good, even. Buffy needed people. Well, she was pretty sure, anyway. But Dawn wasn't used to being alone all the time. Buffy was vacant, Willow and Tara very much so on the rocks, Xander and Anya doing... well, what they did. And Spike.
Buffy was better. She was working, granted, not the best job, but she was working. And she was doing better. Of course, the all-night patrols had worn her out pretty well, and the demon population must have been rising, because Spike had some pretty nasty bruises when she'd see him at the Magic Box.
And only at the Magic Box. Well, except when he came by the house- To see Buffy.
Which, lets face it. Hurt.
Dawn froze, lipstick pausing in the middle of her lip, before hurrying on. But so what? It wasn't a big deal, not really. And she didn't have time to think about Spike tonight. She was on her own again tonight, and, like a good girl, had finished her homework, and decided to turn in for the night. When Xander had seen her tucked in bed, he had nodded and twenty minutes later, left.
Which gave Dawn plenty of time to get ready, go have a good time, and be back before Buffy was even done patrolling. She pressed her lips together, smoodging the lipstick just so, unlocked her window- just in case- and walked downstairs.
She pulled open the door, to the person on the other sides' surprise, hand poised to knock.
Well, shitdamnhell.
Spike.
She arched an eyebrow, one bared hip cocked out. "Buffy's not home."
Disappointment flashed over his features before he took her in. Disregarded her statement as his eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you wearin'?"
"Clothes. Buffy will be back later." She brushed past him, and his hand snaked out, grabbing a chunk of her hair, wrapping it around his fist.
She froze.
His voice was low, slightly menacing. Yeah, she'd heard that before. "Said, what the hell are you wearin'?"
"I tug my head, and you collapse on the porch in a ball of chipped Spike."
"I tear out your throat for back talkin' me, you'll be dead longer than my head'll hurt." But his hand released her hair, at the last minute stroking the tips as they fell through his fingers.
She jerked her head to the side, away from his trailing fingers, hair tossing over her shoulder. Glanced at him coolly. "I told you. Clothes. People wear them every day."
"To prostitute themselves. Get your narrow ass back in the house."
"Buffy's not here, Spike, and you're not getting brownie points. Just go wait in the kitchen. And my ass is not narrow."
"You're fifteen! Your ass is *supposed* to be narrow. S'not about Buffy. I don't give a damn where she is, and I never get points from her anyway!" His hand wrapped around her hair again. "S'about you. In the house. Now."
She jerked her hair, saw him flinch momentarily, then yank harder on her hair, and grit his teeth through the pain. But his grip didn't loosen.
"It's never about me, Spike. Not for you. Let. Go."
He did, but just cocked his head in puzzlement at her words. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She tossed her hands in the air, letting loose a word she'd just recently worked the nerve up to say out loud. "For fuck's sake, Spike. Go wait for Buffy and figure it out." Stomped down the porch.
She'd forgotten how fast he could be. Now her arm was in the vice of his hand, and he growled this time. "Mouth, kitten," he said in a tone that could have been playfully scolding if not for it's undertones. "Why don't you explain it to me?" His voice was deceptively light, however nothing masked his eyes flashing gold at her words, her tone, and her attitude.
"You're hurting me," Dawn mewled quietly.
"Good. Stop you from from being a bitch for five minutes. In the house, now." His hand left her arm, only to tangle his fingers in her hair, and haul her inside. He none too gently pulled her across the room and helped her to the couch.
"Stay. Put." His glare kept her in place, but didn't erase her malcontent mood or facial expression.
He walked out of the living room, and re-entered, a tank top and pajama pants clutched in one hand. He placed them with exaggerated care in her lap, and turned around.
"What the-"
"*Mouth*, kitten," he repeated. "I'm not looking at you in those clothes. And you're not going upstairs and changing. Think I'm stupid? You didn't pull that open window crap this summer? Not looking. Change. Now."
"I'm not-"
"Dawn." His voice was low, strained. He had often spoken like that to Giles and Xander the past summer, during arguments. The tone was very indicative to him about losing the very fragile grip he held on his temper, that he was dealing with too much to deal with her shit, and chip or no, she was going to get a good shaking.
So she settled for grumbling ominously while changing into pajamas, the pants under her skirt before it was taken off, tank top over the white sheer tank she had paired with the black leather. Settled in the jammas, she folded her arms, frowned, and waited.
It paid off.
Spike turned, arching an eyebrow at her. She looked more like the girl she was, rather than... his mind filled with words that should never be used in conjunction with her. He looked over her face slowly. Very carefully applied makeup. Eyes too smoky for his liking, lips too red. Damn it, he said what went, and he had said she didn't dress like that. Too many dangers on the Hellmouth, too many things would want to take and hurt her. He wouldn't have her hurt. If they hadn't lost her to a hell-god, he'd be damned if he'd lose her to a pack of demons, a vampire, or a sick human who'd damage his Bit.
His eyes caught a glint at her ears. A matching glint at her neck. He reached out, fingered the stone at her ear, not reacting when she jerked her head away.
"Pretty baubles, pet."
"Found them."
"Only place you'd find those is on a corpse, and rarely, that." He cocked his head to the side, settling on the coffee table across from her, their knees brushing. "The blue set you knicked from the Magic Box would have matched your eyes better."
He tallied a point for himself as she blanched. "Fast fingers, little one. But not fast enough. You need to stop that, it'll get you caught."
Saving face, she sniffed at him, nose in the air, such an inherent echo of Buffy the rage made his nostrils flare before clamping his jaw and reminding himself that this was Dawn. He and the Slayer were a different page, and right now... it wasn't the one he was reading.
Her next words reminded him, however, that both Summers' girls could piss him off in one of their sweet-smelling heartbeats. "This," she drawled, "From the general of the Seven Eleven Liberation Front?"
"This is not. About. Me. Or Buffy, or anyone, you little shit. We're talking about you."
"Fine," she said in a bored tone. "It's about me. Are we done now?"
That muscle in his jaw ticked at regular intervals, and Dawn knew that was a bad thing. "We aren't *done*," he bit off, "till you tell me what the hell is the matter with you. Stealing, sneaking out dressed like a very cheap little slut-"
"I am NOT a slut!! And how would YOU know what I've been doing ANYWAY!?" She stood, tried to walk away, but Spike's knees caged her, and with a little pressure on her waist, she was seated again.
"S'my business to know. 'Cause you're my Bit."
"Bull. Shit."
Before the words were completely out of her mouth he was snapping. "*Watch* your goddamn language."
"I've been on nine dates. Three of them I wasn't home till after two. There was a fight at one of the clubs. I got lucky, though, cause the barstool only hit my ribs and my arm. Only had to wear long sleeves for a couple weeks." She looked unflinchingly at him, blue clashing with blue. "You didn't know. You don't know anything anymore. The only thing you know is Buffy."
His mouth opened, lips curling, but her hand covered it. "That's fine, Spike," she spoke tonelessly. "But don't you dare storm in here pretending you still say what goes. That you've cared. That you've been there. Because you don't and you haven't."
"I care, baby... I do." His hand almost cupped her cheek, just hovering over the skin. "There's just... things, sweet bit, so many things... that... need me more than you do, right now. They're important, you just... don't know..."
"I'm more alone now than last summer. And I don't know because you won't tell me."
His hand connected with her cheek, and while she didn't turn her head away, neither did she invite the touch. "No, I won't." And he wouldn't, she realized.
His eyes were so intent, almost pleading as he took her in, his thumb stroking a familiar pattern on her cheek, eyes scanning over her face, always returning to her own. As if her answer was too important to miss a single inflection she might give. That something very important hinged on her answer.
"Do you love me, sweet bit?"
Her brow furrowed and lips drew in to a slight pout. Her head tilted, as his always did, but into his palm. "Yeah," she spoke quietly, "I'm your girl. I love you."
He nodded, kept watching her. "You remember, this summer... You took care of me, too. But what did I tell you?"
Blankly, she recited the words she had clung to so desperately only months ago. "I'm your girl. You'd take care of me. You'd never leave me. Always." Her bottom lip shook and she bit down on it. "You shouldn't have said that, Spike. There's no such thing as always."
"Dawn-"
"No. There is no such thing. Not for anyone. Not for Willow and Tara, not for Mom, God, Spike... Buffy can't even stay dead. There's no-"
His hand covered her mouth, gently. "Such thing as always. Guess what, kitten?" The smooth lines, sharp angles of his face melted away to reveal the curves and bumps and golden eyes of his demon. "This makes me forever..." He lifted one of her hands, pressed it where it his heart didn't beat. "This makes me for always. I haven't been there, Bitty. I haven't. I've been patrolling all night, trying to help big sis with-" His lips worked for a moment, finally settled on a word, "with everything, the work, and the patrolling. It's hard for her."
Quietly,"I wouldn't know."
He nodded. "She doesn't want you to. She loves you. You're not the reason it's hard. But there's..." He sighed, his hands leaving her to shove through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "Damnit, I don't do this. I'm not a fucking therapist. I'm not your family counsellor." His head lifted, blue eyes shining back at her. "I need you to stop, Bit. Stop the sneaking, and the stealing and the skipping. I can't worry about everything I am, and you on top of that. I'll drop something to catch you, and I can't afford to."
She looked at him, eyes so blue, and nodded, once.
He let out a shaky breath, and cupped the back of her head, their foreheads touching. "Don't give a damn how many of the Scoobies you lie to, but don't try with me. I'll know. Because Buffy's not the only thing I know. I know my girl." Leaning back, he regarded her.
Dawn peered back, looking hopeful, fragile.
Spike shook his head at her, fighting what was in her eyes. "I won't always do right by you, petal. But I'll do the best I can." Shook his head again. "I'm still a vampire."
Dawn leaned forward, pressed her lips to his forehead. "You'll do right by me, Spike. Just like you promised. Cause I'm your girl. I'm going to bed." She passed him, a hand smoothing over his shoulder.
He waited until he was sure she was in bed, then stood. "No," he mumbled to the room, "you wouldn't break me... But what happens if someone breaks you? What then?" Spike's jaw clenched, and try as he might, the thought wouldn't rid itself of his mind.
So he did what always calmed him, reassured him. He walked outside, and stood by the sidewalk, a cigarette burning in his fingers, and watched over her. Because she was wrong. He knew his girl.
He smirked around a soft drag as a curtain drifted back into place, and the pajama clad figure stepped away from the window.
Always would.
-~-
Okay guys. That's all. Umm... This is for you. *points* You know who you are, and I love you. Just not like that anymore. And, um... thanks for saying you were proud of me.*soft smile* Meant the world. Oh. I don't own any of this either, yadda blah. Sincere and friendly kisses.
Always. Tequila