She was floating.

In and out of consciousness, vaguely aware that she was somewhere cold, dark and enclosed.

Comfortable, she thought.

Her mind was hazy, and she knew there was something she should be worried about, but at the moment it slipped through her mind like sand would through fingers. Quickly, silently, and then it was gone.

So instead of worrying, she simply lay there, listening. Silence. She could hear no noise above or below her; to the left or right. Not even the sound of her breathing disrupted the pleasant quiet.

And that was when it hit.

She wasn't breathing.

With a jolt, she stiffened, before her hands, which had been laying on either side of her, lifted to press against the structure enclosing her small frame. She panicked when her fingers ran over the rough texture of wood, and it took her another second to realize that she was in a coffin. With that epiphany, her memories flooded back almost violently, causing her to bang her head against the wood she lay on.

James' condescending voice, his dark, amused gaze and the way his eyes had shone silver before he'd bit her.

The bite, she thought, lifting a hand to her neck. She grew more perplexed when her fingers slipped over the smooth, cold skin without interruption from scabbing or scars.

Am I dead? She thought, lifting her gaze to the coffin's lid. She squirmed, her previous comfort turning into something similar to claustrophobia, coupled with the assumption that if this was a coffin, that meant she had to be underground. It was the only way to explain the silence.

Pressing her hands against the wood, she pushed—and was surprised when it cracked easily. Peeling away the shards of wood, she ignored the splinters as they slid into her fingertips and along her forearms. She screamed when dirt began to pour in from the hole she'd made, and squirmed and clawed at the wood, struggling to sit up into a seated position. She gasped for air—a mouthful of dirt, and clawed through the mud. It was still soft, which meant she couldn't have been dead for too long. What did that make her? A zombie?

These thoughts fluttered through her brain until she managed to push her hand through the dirt and feel cool air on her fingertips. She was tired now though, and struggled to pull the rest of herself up. Unexpectedly, a hand closed around hers and with a swift, sudden yank, pulled her up through to the surface

.

She let out a soft grunt as she pulled her legs from the hole, and crawled squeamishly away from it as it closed in on itself. Brushing a strand of dirty hair from her face, she stared down at the large patch of dirt where she had just come from.

Beyond the patch, were rows upon rows of tombstones. Up ahead was an old, gnarled Willow tree, and several stone pillars scattered along the layout. A granite crypt was perhaps twenty feet to her left, and to her right, more tombstones. Jerking her head to the left, she made an effort to fastidiously brush the dirt from her bare arms. Her thoughts were still clouded, but things were slowly growing clearer.

"I died," she bit out, looking over her shoulder. Spike stood behind her, shovel in one hand, his free hand hanging awkwardly at his side. It was covered in dirt, and she made the connection. He had pulled her from her grave. Spike's own expression was a carefully constructed mask of stoicism. She saw the tic in his jaw though, and the way he swallowed gave away he was nervous.

"Dawn," he said quietly, before letting the shovel drop to the ground. Sinking to his knees, he sat back on his heels, before running his clean hand over his face. "Dawn," he said again, more severely.

"I'm right here," she whispered nervously, turning more to face him. Glancing down at herself, she realized she had been dressed in a dark blue sundress. She had always hated it, but when their mother had been alive, she had been quite fond of it and would often try and get her to wear it. Shivering, she pulled her dirty hair to one side, before she leaned closer. He was staring at her, expression soft but wary at the same time.

"What happened?" she questioned, her voice trembling. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Oh, Nibblet," he began, shaking his head. His voice broke, and he said nothing more but simply opened his arms. She hesitated a second—not wanting to soil his clothes, before diving into them, and pressing herself against his chest. Before she knew it, she was crying into him, inhaling deeply the comforting scent of cigarettes and leather. His arms closed around her tight, holding her to him as she did. "Nibblet, I'm so sorry," he pressed into her ear. "I'm going to get that bastard for this, you have my word."

"What happened to me?" she sniffed, her fingers curling into his shirt. Now that she was outside, she had taken in more things. About their surroundings, and about herself. How she was feeling. There was no sun in the sky, and yet she could see as clear as day all around them. An owl drew her attention to the west, and when her gaze fixed onto the bird perhaps fifty feet away, she was in awe. She had hear it with such clarity, as if it had been right next to her.

Not only that, but once she had calmed down a fraction, she could feel the energy running through her body. She wanted to get up and run, jump, do something. And then, there was the hunger. Gnawing inside her, as if she hadn't eaten for weeks. Her throat was parched, and there was an unpleasant ache in her teeth.

Realization hit her.

"I did die," she murmured, pulling away from him. Spike did not try to hold her back, and he looked almost guilty, as she met his gaze. "I did die, didn't I, Spike?" The tremble in her voice returned. "He killed me," she continued, piecing the slivers of memories together, "and I remember being cold. I just wanted it to stop. He left me there. But how?"

"I found you," Spike explained, his voice raw. "You were on someones driveway, he'd just left you there." His voice grew angrier. "You weren't gone," he began, "he'd left you alive...just barely."

"And then?" Dawn pushed, her fingertips digging into her thighs through the fabric of her flimsy dress.

"You were dying, Dawny," Spike began quickly, apologetically. With a helpless sweep of his hand, he continued. "I didn't know what to do. Buffy couldn't lose you." A long pause. "I couldn't lose you."

"So...you..."

"I turned you," he finished, his tone empty, resigned. "And here we are," he continued bitterly, looking towards her gave with thinly veiled disgust. "He took you from one world, and I forced you into another."

Her mind worked slowly, processing the information he had just shared. Yes, that explained a lot. Everything, almost. What it didn't explain now was how...relieved she felt. How completely and utterly happy she felt. A weight lifted from her shoulders, and she felt as if she could breathe again. She frowned when she did; her lungs expanded, but the need for oxygen was no longer there. One of the most peculiar feelings she'd ever experienced.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she was surprised to see how easy it was to get distracted.

How long had it been since he'd spoken? Leaning forward again, she placed her hands on his. She was pleasantly surprised to find his skin was no longer like ice, but it felt almost...warm, to touch.

"Spike," she said quietly, "Thank you."

His eyebrows raised, his expression changed from hopeless to incredulous.

"You're thanking me?"

"Mhmn," she responded with an easy nod.

"I gave you no choice," he spat, the anger in his tone directed towards himself.

"I wanted to die," Dawn admitted, silencing him. A long pause, before she continued. "But now that I'm here, and feeling all these feelings..." a pause, "with you, I'm glad you did. This means that...that people won't have to worry about me all of the time," she continued. "I'll learn. I'll beable to take care of myself from now on."

"You're a vampire, for chrissakes," he pleaded, as if trying to reason with her. "I made you into a vampire, Dawn. You'll never be able to see the sun again; your friends, you might as well forget about them, too. You'll stay young forever, and have to watch those around you die."

She did admit the last thought worried her, but pushing it to the side for the moment, she shook her head.

"You can't make me hate you, stupid," she smiled awkwardly. "I could never hate you."

"And why not?" Spike asked defensively, almost as if he were offended.

Looking away, Dawn mumbled, "Because I love you."

After she had had her fill of blood, and Spike had been satisfied it would be enough to change her, Buffy had helped carry her back to the Summers' home. Willow was frantic and nearly fainted when she found out what had happened. They had spent most of the night crying and comforting one another, discussing plans for the drastically changed future, while Spike sat up in Dawn's room with her, freshly cleaned and changed courtesy of Tara, staring. Thinking.

Her body was lifeless; she looked dead, indeed. Her heartbeat stuttered stubbornly, before finally fading. The temperature in the air changed, and he heard a small commotion in the kitchen. Leaving her for only seconds to investigate, he hadn't been shocked to find that Buffy was once again The Slayer. He didn't need to test her strength; the power and attention she demanded from creatures like him gave it away. She looked from Willow to him, unsteadily almost, before nodding and sliding her hands into her pockets. She'd noticed it, too. Her eyes were red from crying; hair a mess, and clothes covered in blood and dirt.

This entire thing had been very hard on all of them.

And even though it was going to be difficult, the only thing keeping Spike from going completely mad was the fact that Dawn was going to be alright. One way or another.

They had made arrangements, and several hours before sunrise, carried her back out to the graveyard. The hole that they dug was 9 feet deep, "for good measure," Buffy had said, close to Spike's crypt. So that in the three days time it would take for the change to complete, he could keep a watch on her. She was enclosed in a make-shift coffin, and lowered into the dirt.

When she had been buried, and the others had left, Buffy had hung around. Spike had sat on his couch, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He stared at the blank television, and didn't stir when the couch sank under new weight.

"You did the right thing," she whispered, joining his gaze at the T.V. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he responded dryly.

"You've been such a help," she began awkwardly. "I mean...you have no idea."

He looked at her then, an eyebrow lifted. She met his gaze and inched closed. Put a hand on his thigh. His gaze dropped promptly to where her warm fingers rested, before back up to her face, questioningly.

"I just want you to know I noticed," she continued. "And I'm sorry that I haven't done a good job of showing my appreciation for all the things you do."

"If you're talking about the Bit," he began almost angrily, "I didn't do it for you. I did it for her. She's not just an annoying little ponce to me, you know," he continued. "she's far brighter than you lot give her credit for, and she just needs somebody to see that."

Buffy nodded, and her hand slipped from his thigh. He didn't regret it.

"And tonight?" she asked, after a shared moment of silence. "Who did you do it for?"

Another moment of silence. With trembling fingers, Spike fished inside his pockets for a lighter, and lit his smoke. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled a plume of dark grey toxins, before tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"I haven't quite figured that one out yet," he admitted. Although he knew it wasn't entirely selfless.

The way she had said "I love you" was shy, innocent, and she had avoided eye contact. His chest tightened at the words however, and he realized that it was something he'd been waiting to hear for a while.

"I love you too, Bit," he responded, reaching a hand out. Drawing her closer, he kissed her forehead before her nose, his hands holding either side of her face. "You know that, don't you?"

He clung to her as if she might slip away.

Dawn's smile was watery, and she nodded. "I know."

"You mean the world to me, Pet," he continued fiercely, "I'd do anything for you."

She nodded again, and her eyes dropped from his, to her lap.

"It's okay, though," she whispered quietly, "I know about you and Buffy."

His grip on her face slackened, before he tilted her head up so she had to look him in the eye.

"What about me and Buffy?"

"I know you still love her," she responded automatically. Hopelessly. "I know you lied."

It took Spike a moment to make the connection, before his eyes widened.

"You've got it wrong, love," he said as gently as he could, to hide the raw emotion inside of himself. The anger at himself, for letting her think that way. Slowly rising to his knees, he helped her to her feet. She stood unsteadily, and his hands held hers securely so she wouldn't fall.

"I've done a lot of thinking these past days," he began, glancing around the graveyard. "Truth is, yeah, I was a little confused. I don't want to feel anything for your sister," he laughed bitterly, "she'll never feel the same way I did. But the thing is I understand her, I know how she feels. And that's the only reason she was ever with me in the first place."

Dawn was silent as he spoke, her eyes down, and small body trembling. "I know."

"Now a part of me will always feel something for Buffy," he continued sternly, drawing her closer. She tripped forward, and he held her against him. Her hands unsure, remained near his torso, fingers pulling loosely at the sides of his shirt, "But that goes the same for... Dru," he mused, "I'll always feel something for her, too. Not because I'm in love with her. Just because of what we had."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dawn asked uncertainly, lifting her eyes. They were sparkling under the moonlight, and Spike ignored the regret he felt with the realization that she would never feel the warmth of the sun again. "Why do I have to know all of this?"

"You want to know, don't you?" he asked slyly, cocking his head.

She turned away, hiding her face, and he tilted her chin upwards. Leaning down he pressed a small but very deliberate kiss to her lips.

"You're my girl," he whispered against her mouth, "and we've got a long time to figure out what's what, now. You're still young," he paused, "and who knows? This could all be just one of those silly little infatuations you teenagers get."

"I don't think every girl falls for a vampire," she countered, meekly.

"True enough," he agreed with the faintest hint of a smile.

After she'd fed—Spike had given her some of the stuff he drank, and she suddenly had a new appreciation for him—Spike had walked Dawn home, hand in hand. His fingers were strong and firm in her grip, and if she fell silent for too long he would give her fingers a reassuring squeeze. He walked slowly beside her, his usual cocky swagger nowhere present. A serious, solemn side of Spike Dawn rarely got the privilege of seeing.

Licking her lips, she remembered the taste of blood. Pigs blood or not, it hadn't tasted that bad.

So many things were racing through her mind.

Her hunger.

What had happened between her and Spike; where did it leave them? And what did that kiss mean, exactly?

Her sister, and herself. What were they going to do? Dawn was a Vampire now; and there was no going back. How could she face her sister, knowing that she was granted supernatural powers to aid in the killing of creatures like her? Unease churned inside her gut, and she coughed to hide a grimace as they came up onto her street.

"You'll have a shower and get washed up," Spike said with false cheerfulness, "and then you'll come back with me."

"For the...erm, day?" Dawn questioned, her brows furrowing.

"Well, you'll be staying with me," Spike responded easily as they marched up the sidewalk, to her front porch. "You need someone to show you the ropes, don't you?"

"You mean, to being a vampire?"

"Yes," Spike nodded, "and you should feel so lucky," he continued, with mock arrogance, "to have the Big Bad showing you the ways of the Vampire."

Dawn smiled humorlessly.

Before Spike even had a chance to knock, the door flew open and Buffy stood between them and the house. Her eyes were wide, panicked—but hopeful, and when she laid her sights on Dawn, she broke out into tears. Lurching forward, she wrapped her arms around her sister before pulling her to her in a near bone-crushing hug. Dawn squeaked and made a feeble attempt to hug her back.

"Oh my god," Buffy cried into her neck. She leaned back, patted her eyes, and then brushed away some dirt from Dawn's face. "Thank God," she whispered, "I was so scared that you wouldn't..."

"Well, I'm here," Dawn smiled sheepishly. "Alive." a pause. "ish."

Buffy nodded, and turned inside the house. Spike stepped forward, before looking back to Dawn, who clearly hesitated. It was the weirdest feeling. She could step up to the door, but she could feel the force keeping her from entering. Confused, she tilted her head and lifted a hand to the barrier. Her fingers rested alongside it, and her eyes drifted from her fingers beyond, to where Spike stood awkwardly just inside the house.

"Uhm, Buffy," he cleared his throat. She turned around, and her eyes widened when she saw Dawn standing at the door.

"Come in," she insisted, and just like the, Dawn's fingers fell across the threshold. Buffy reached for her hands, and she was surprised by the temperature. Buffy's skin was burning. It was almost painful.

"Come shower," she urged, pulling her up the stairs, "get cleaned up," she continued. Dawn nodded, throwing a glance over her shoulder to where Spike stood at the base of the stairway. His eyes were narrowed, jaw set, and so very blue. They burned into her memory and stayed with her while she scrubbed away the dirt.

"She has to feed on human blood," Spike commented, as soon as Dawn was out of ear shot. "I gave her some pigs blood, but you know as well as I do that in order to solidify the change, it has to be human's blood."

"I know," Buffy snapped, her tone agitated, as she paced the kitchen. She hadn't invited the rest of the Scooby Gang over, Spike had noted with mild thankfulness. He didn't feel like putting up with the obnoxious comments from that damned ex-demon, or having to squirm under the stare of that stupid old git. Xander was nothing but an annoyance—his sarcasm, on most occasions, unwelcome, and an utter waste of space. The witch, he didn't mind so much. The red head was shy, quiet on most occasions, and gave a harmless impression albeit the powers she could wield. She had gotten the hint, and left, despite her obvious eagerness to make sure Dawn was alright.

"I should call Giles," Buffy started, her tone business-like. "He can help us figure out what to do."

"Bloody hell," Spike responded, his tone exasperated, "there is nothin' to figure out, Buffy! An' the more time you decide to take sittin' on your ass thinking about options that aren't there, the less the Bit has to survive."

Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a lift of his hand.

"Just because she's up there now all well and fine, doesn't mean she'll stay that way. I've seen it, Buffy," he added, "You don't think I'd forget something like that."

"Like you cared," Buffy responded angrily.

"It was my mother," Spike shot back, his tone venomous. "so you best shut your trap about things you don't damn well know about."

He caught himself—swallowed, and stood.

"She doesn't need a lot," he continued, fighting to hide the emotion ins his voice. Fingers splaying out on the counter, he leaned forward. Buffy had stopped her pacing, and they stood there staring at one another.

"Just a little nick," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "not even half a cup. Don't let this go to waste."

Dawn had stayed under the shower far longer than she normally would have. Granted she was a girl, and loved having long showers as well as the next, but the sensations had fascinated her. She could feel each miniscule water droplet on her skin, and the water gathering from her hair, dripping down the small of her back. The soap felt exquisite, and as the dirt washed away, she marvelled at how pale and smooth her skin was.

Stepping out of the shower, she wrung her hair into the sink, before wrapping it in a towel. Grabbing another, she tucked it around her small frame, and leaned forward on the sink. Rubbing away the steam gathered on the mirror, she squinted before stepping back in shock. A surprised scream slid past her lips, and she dropped onto the floor, adjacent the sink. The water continued to fall in the shower, and it wasn't long before heavy footstops sounded through the house. A loud bang, and the door gave way, swinging open awkwardly on a broken hinge. Spike stood in the doorway, fist near the frame, eyes sharp and searching. Buffy was behind him.

"What is it?" he bellowed almost angrily, "What happened?"

Dawn sat there stupidly a moment, and a long silence filled the room. After a moment, she adjusted the fallen towel on her shoulders and looked up through dripping hair to the pair.

Spike's expression went from protective to shocked and then to incredulous as their gaze met.

"I don't have a reflection," Dawn offered meekly, her voice barely above a whisper. She smiled sheepishly, before Buffy let out a soft groan of relief behind Spike, who in turn looked ready to drop to his ass himself. Clearing his throat, he gave a curt nod. "Right then," he began, averting his gaze. "Well, we heard you scream," he continued. "and thought maybe something had—"

"Come on," Buffy interrupted, grabbing him by his sleeve. With a firm yank, she dragged him away from the door and down the hall.

"She just needs time to adjust," Buffy whispered, and Dawn scoweled, looking down at her fingers. Feeling foolish, she scrambled to her feet before hastily wrapping her hair again. Poking her head out the door—she blushed when she realized she'd hoped Spike was still there-0before scurrying back to her room to get changed. She dressed carelessly in a pair of jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, before letting her hair fall down along the fabric. Taking another deep, unecessary breath, she smoothed the creases in her shirt before nodding to herself.

"It's okay," she whispered to no-one in particular. "You can do this."

"Well she could have been hurt," Spike tried to reason, sinking back into the couch. "I mean, she screamed and all that. How was I supposed to know?"

"You're right," Buffy replied, rubbing her temples. Spike noticed that her fingers trembled as she massaged the skin, and he ignored the urge to say something comforting. She had smacked him upside the head when they'd come downstairs, and the damned spot was still a little tender.

"It'll just take some getting used to," she repeated, dropping down into the large chair adjacent the couch. She looked dazed, and her knuckles were white as she set her hands in her lap. "What am I going to do, Spike?" she continued. "I mean...I got her killed."

"Come on now," Spike responded lamely, leaning into the couch. "it couldn't be helped, it was out of your power, really."

"If I hadn't dropped that stupid...thing," she answered, almost as if to herself, "She never would have been put in this position. She is where she is now because of me."

"That's a load of bollocks, and you know it," Spike snapped, leaning forward. Resting his elbows on his knees, he stared at his interlaced fingers before lifting his gaze. "I mean, regardless of the who Slayer-switching bit. James still would've been here."

"How do you know?" Buffy asked, meeting his gaze. "And if he had, he would have come after me, not...not Dawn."

"You don't know that," Spike cut in. "James isn't an idiot. He'd have figured out sooner or later what your weakness was. He would have gone after her anyway."

"I wouldn't have let him near her," she seethed angrily. "He would have been dust the second he threatened any of my friends."

"Don't you worry," Spike answered, his voice deep, promising, "I've got something in mind for him."

"Don't do it fast," she growled, twisting the fabric of her jeans between her fingers. She stopped when the cloth tore, and grew still. "Make him suffer," she continued, "make him sorry."

They shared a moment of silence, before a soft cough drew their attention to the stairway. Dawn stood there awkwardly, hands in the pockets of her hoodie. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and she looked between the two, guiltily.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked quietly, and Buffy and Spike spoke at the same time.

"No."

They exchanged a quick glance, before Buffy cleared her throat and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Actually, Dawny," she began slowly, "we were just..talking about your condition."

"Condition?" she asked, sending a look to Spike. He glanced at Buffy questioningly.

"Well, you're a vampire now," Buffy responded, awkwardly. "And you need to...feed."

"I did already," Dawn answered brightly, "Spike gave me some of his blood."

"That won't do it," Spike interrupted, "It was meant to tide you over until..."

"Until what?"

"Until you could get some human blood," Buffy finished. "You need it in order to complete the change."

"Oh."

Spike swallowed thickly. The tension in the air was suddenly stifling, and noone said a word, until Dawn finally broke the silence.

"Where am I going to get it?"

Buffy took a deep breath, and Spike frowned. He hadn't thought of that one.

Parting his lips, he was shocked into silence when Buffy interrupted him.

"From me."