Title: Untitled

Pairing: Spawn

Spoilers: Early season six and The Gift

Warnings: The rating is subject to change.

Chapter One: Unbearable Hours

Thank you to Kurt Couper who's inspired me to write this and also happens to be my beta.

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Walking home from school, she played with the clasp of her purse, buttoning it and unbuttoning it. For some reason, she avoided stepping in the puddles.

Back when she'd been alive the two of them would make a game of it; trying to jump in and splash the other before the other could.

She could remember all the fights that had occurred because of their 'game'; the older blonde screaming over how the younger brunette had ruined her new suede boots or something.

It had always been so much fun – mainly because it was their thing and no one else's.

But now she wasn't even sure if she was worth playing that game anymore. Not after what she'd done…

"Puddles are for jumpin' in, you know." She jumped in surprise as the familiar voice broke into her thoughts. Spinning around, she took in his shriveled appearance.

His hair was longer now, almost curly and kind of honey-golden at the roots. She suspected he wasn't bleaching it peroxide white anymore. His once articulately painted black nails were now devoid of nail polish altogether and his ocean blue eyes were strained as if hadn't gotten minutes worth of sleep the night before.

There was silence as she turned and continued to walk home. She didn't bother to turn and check whether he was there anymore; she didn't have to.

He always followed her home whenever it was cloudy enough for him to be out. Sometimes she saw him, sometimes she didn't; but she could always feel him there.

The distinct sound of a lighter clicking and a cigarette being lighted reassured her to this and she began to talk.

"So, Janice wants me to sleepover tomorrow night. She says we can study for our biology test together. I'm not really sure if I wanna go – we never really study. Sometimes I think Janice has definition of studying mixed up with the definition of things like crank calling or talking about the new Backstreet Boys CD. I mean, not that we like, like them, or anything – they're like old now…" She was babbling now. She did it all the time nowadays.

It was her way of communicating with him: talking about absolutely nothing to let him know she was okay… No, to let him know she was going to be okay.

"…anyways have you ever noticed how everyone says that diet coke has this weird aftertaste but they still drink it anyways? I mean, it's like, why torture yourself? Janice says…"

She continued to talk about everything that was on her mind at the moment – everything except anything that actually mattered, of course.

They soon reached her house and she stopped talking, opening the door and turning to see if he'd be coming in this afternoon.

He was leaning against the tree, his usual haunt, an unlit cigarette between his teeth, a box of Marlboro Lights in his right hand and his usual silver Zippo in his left.

She remembered once asking what was so important about that particular lighter. He'd grown quiet and had then mumbled something about sentimental value.

She'd find out one day, she told herself. One day when she could convince him it was okay to talk to her again. One day when she could convince herself that it was okay to talk to him again.

He acknowledged his departure to her by turning more towards the tree and lighting his cigarette and she smiled sadly, realizing that someone was already home. He never came in when anyone other then her was home.

It was as if he didn't want anyone to know that he was still there; that he still cared.

"Dawn, honey, is that you?" Tara appeared in the living room and she smiled her smile. The fake one.

"Yeah." She turned back to wave good-bye to Spike, but he was already gone; the only tell tale signs he'd ever been there were the still burning cigarettes littering the grass beneath his tree.

Forcing the feelings of despair away, she turned back to the smiling brunette and summoned up another insincere smile, closing the door behind her and reminding herself that he'd be back soon.

He always came around at eight, claiming that his television was broken and that he couldn't miss his favorite soap operas. No one ever bothered to mention that his soaps were on at eight in the morning, rather than eight at night.

Lies were a necessity now, after all.

The other brunette began to chat away about some movie that she and her girlfriend had just rented. Dawn nodded along, the polished smile in place as she assured the woman that she too had been dying to see the Disney movie better suited for four-year-olds for weeks now.

Dawn checked the clock absently.

Four O' Clock. Four hours until he would come. Four hours of reminding herself that he'd be here soon. Four hours…

Noticing that Tara was now explaining the subtext of the movie, Dawn pried herself from her thoughts and back to the conversation.

Spike would be here in four hours.

Four hours.

Just four more hours….