"He's staying in our basement? You're letting him stay in our basement?"
"Um, yeah. I thought I'd covered that with the whole 'Spike's gonna stay in the basement' thing. Weren't you there?" Buffy stood resolutely in front of the open hallway linen closet with a pile of bedsheets in her arms, frowning at the shelves so she didn't have to look at Dawn's angry, accusatory face. "Don't we have any extra pillows?"
"I'm not kidding, Buffy. There is like, not one single part of this scenario that I am okay with."
"Then it's a good thing you're not the decision maker."
"You don't need to remind me that my opinion counts for shit around here."
Buffy shot her sister a look and aimed for a careful, even tone. "First of all, watch your mouth. Secondly, Dawnie, I'm so tired of having to justify my decisions all the time. I just spent half an hour having this same conversation with Xander, and as soon as Giles gets the word, I'm fairly sure I'll have to sit through the long-distance British version, which is bound to be long and loud and emotionally draining. I'm not really up for another round in the meantime. Can't you just trust that I have valid reasons for what I'm doing?"
"What you're doing," Dawn spat, "is harboring an attempted rapist."
"Dawn…"
"You should have left him at the school. He belongs on the hellmouth."
"It was making him crazy."
"So freaking what?"
"You can stay at Xander's for a while if you want," Buffy said calmly. "If it'll make you feel better."
"Feel better? To be kicked out of my own home so you can move your sicko vampire boyfriend in? No thanks! I'm calling Giles. I'm sure he'll have a few things to say about this arrangement."
She turned her back on her sister and stormed off down the stairs.
"You're going to tattle on me? Dawn Summers, don't you dare—" Buffy began, then sighed wearily and returned to her pillow search. She'd known this wouldn't be easy. Dawn would have issues with Spike even if the incident in the bathroom had never taken place, even if she hadn't been slapped in the face with that knowledge by someone whose sole purpose in telling her had been to exact his own bit of passive revenge. Damn you for that, Xander, she thought, not for the first time.
Dawn had worshipped Spike once, not that long ago, and he had not only hurt her big sister but had become another loved one on a growing list of those who had abandoned her—the two crimes perhaps equally damning in her already ragged heart. And idols, when they fell, fell harder than ordinary people. The wounds they left went deeper and lasted longer and hurt more. This, Buffy knew, was what Dawn carried with her. It's not like Buffy could do anything to help patch things up between them, not when she was the wronged party in question. Not when she herself hadn't forgiven him, completely. Dawn, who always knew the right buttons to push, had driven her point home in one sharp blow soon after Spike had rejoined their ranks. Narrowed, knowing blue eyes fixed on Buffy: "Would you forgive him, if he had done that to me?"
Justification mode never let Buffy down. He has a soul now. The words had become like a mantra, the neat little go-to phrase she kept handy to shield herself from the censure of her family, to curb their verbal and nonverbal disapproval. And it's not as if he ever would have hurt Dawn, even before the soul. Quite possibly even before the chip, when he actually was the Big Bad, instead of just a caged vampire holding stubbornly to an empty claim on the title. He and Dawn had some bizarre, intangible connection, and the thought of him hurting her was—strange as it sounded even in her mind—laughable.
None of that made this situation any easier on Dawn. It also didn't make Buffy any less determined to take care of him, her mortal-enemy-blood-sucking-fiend-convenient-punching-bag-attacker. Her violent lover and compassionate disciple. Her Spike. Her—what?
Pillows. Why the hell didn't they have any spare pillows?
xXxXx
Spike sat up on his cot when the basement door opened. He moved to arrange the sheets better around his fully clothed waist, although he didn't know why he should be so bloody modest all of a sudden. Her footsteps were loud, purposeful on the rickety wooden stairs. She carried an armload of laundry and, he noted with a bitter twinge, a stake.
She didn't look at him, but he knew she could feel his eyes on her back as she began to unceremoniously stuff her clothes into the washing machine. "I told Buffy that if she insists on keeping you here, we need to get washer and dryer connections installed upstairs so I don't have to come down here," she said coldly. "I don't want to come down here. Ever. Xander suggested I bring this"—she waved the stake in his general direction, her back still to him—"to keep you in line, and you'd better believe I know how to use it."
"Know you do. Taught you myself," he acknowledged gruffly.
"Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear your voice. I just want to make sure that we're clear, that if you come near me—"
He snorted dismissively. "Dawn. I get it, you hate me, and you're entitled to it—but bugger-all if I believe for one second you think I'd hurt you."
"I'm not taking any chances. And didn't I tell you not to talk to me?"
"You did," he said agreeably. "Unfortunately for you, I don't take orders from bratty little Key-type creatures whose threats are bigger than their actions."
Taken aback by his suddenly unpenitent, Spike-ish demeanor, Dawn spun around to glare at him. "There's a way to shut you up."
Spike rolled his eyes dramatically. "Here we go. Do it then, girl, and stop yammering about it. Do us both a favor. I don't want to bloody be here any more than you want me here, but until I've got elsewhere to go, I'm stuck here. Deal with it, or kill me and deal with that. I'm fed up with your games, Bit."
She winced at the use of her nickname, and it was not lost on him. The vulnerability in that tiny gesture, seeping through her tough nothing-gets-to-me façade, made him want to cross the damp, shadowy space between them, grasp her thin shoulders, and draw her to him for comfort she not long ago would have sought in his arms. But she'd never allow it now. Those days had been destroyed by ripped terrycloth and protesting screams. And by her discovery that he was gone without a good-bye or a word of explanation.
"I'm just waiting for a reason," she said in a valiant attempt to regain the indifference that was quickly slipping away from her. "Give me a reason, Spike, and I'll gladly dust you."
The challenge in her eyes was undeniable. Spike scoffed. "Thought I'd given you plenty already. And yet you're still all talk."
They stared at one another in a battle of wills. At last Dawn turned away, which was odd, Spike thought, because she was the reigning staredown champion. He watched curiously as she walked the few paces back to the staircase, put her hand out, and grasped the underside of the splintered, knotty railing. In an instant he saw what she meant to do and shot forward to grab her, but with a quick, vicious motion she yanked her palm across the warped nail that stuck out from the bottom of the railing, the nail that Buffy kept forgetting to tell Xander to fix before someone got a nasty cut.
"Dawn, goddamn it!"
She drew her hand back with a gasp and looked down with detached curiosity at the blood as it started to flow from the superficial but ragged gash. Without thinking, Spike reached for her, his protective instincts telling him to check the damage, repair what he could, take care of her, but her blue eyes snapped up to his and he froze with his hands out. Something in her gaze sent a shiver up his spine. And then rage, as the pieces clicked into place.
Slowly, deliberately, she moved her injured hand in his direction, until it hovered mere inches from his pursed lips. He kept his eyes fixed on hers, horrified in spite of himself, fighting the urge to grasp that slender arm and twist it behind her, to hold her immobile and helpless as he berated her for this foolishness until she surrendered and obeyed like the good little girl she used to be.
Jaw set, teeth gritted tightly. "Stop. This."
"Why? I know you wouldn't hurt me, especially now that you're all soulful and good and repentant. Wouldn't hurt me or Buffy ever again, isn't that what you said?" She shifted her hand slightly closer, her tone taunting, cruel. "Come on, don't you want a little taste?"
It was as if his feet were nailed in place. He tried to move back away from her, away from the horrible sweet intoxicating scent of her blood, Buffy's blood, as his demon played threateningly just beneath the surface.
"You stupid little bitch, you have no idea what you're doing."
"Tempting, isn't it? Human blood's kind of a rare delicacy for you these days, isn't it? And here's a whole fountain of it right under your nose, and I'm offering, Spike. Take it."
"Dawn…"
"Come on, Spike, it's just a little—"
"Don't!"
"—blood." One more slight forward motion, and her hand pressed against his lips for just a moment, and that seemed to break the spell. He jerked his head back and grabbed her by the arms in one fluid motion, yanking her toward him until they were nose to nose.
The odd, cold glee in her eyes faded fast, replaced by something more akin to fear as she got an extreme close-up of the intensity of his fury.
"Get out of here. Now." The command was absolute. When he released her with a little shove that made her stumble, it seemed very unwise to argue. As tears flooded her eyes, she turned her back and ran up the basement stairs, leaving him there with his own rage, his own horror, his own unshed tears.
xXxXx
TBC—Please let me know what you think. Feedback is much appreciated.