The End of the Line
by
Minx Trinket
Rating: R (mostly, but not entirely, for Spike's language)
Spoilers: If you haven't seen "The Gift" and just
about everything before it, don't read this. Specific references are only to
Season 5.
Disclaimer Haiku: Beloved puppets / We dance for fun, no profit / Joss Whedon is God
Summary and warningy stuff: I'm not quite sure where this
came from. Probably insomnia and a minor (okay, major) Spike obsession. This is a sort of Season 6 opener, taking
place 39 days after "The Gift." (Yes, 39. Yes, there's a reason. No,
I won't tell you. You'll have to figure it out.) You-Know-Who has gone kaput
and Spike is trying his best to take her place. But grief and too much
togetherness force uncomfortable feelings to the surface for Spike and Dawn
both.
This is not the first fic I've ever written, but it's the
first (that I know of!) to be read outside a small circle of friends. Be gentle
with me.
When Dawn
woke from the dream again, she knew that her sister was dead. She was grateful,
at least, that this time the dream had ended the way things really
happened, that it wasn't the version with the parachute or with Spike and Giles
catching Buffy at the bottom, because when she had those dreams she would wake
up thinking her sister was alive and then be hit with the cold truth all over
again.
She looked
at the clock. It was 5:30, which meant the sun was about to rise and her
babysitter was about to fall asleep. Hoping he hadn't passed out just yet, Dawn
slid out of bed and padded quietly down the hall in her bare feet.
Halfway
down the stairs she could see him sprawled face down across the pulled-out
couch. He didn't snore (of course he didn't snore), and when he lay like
that, so still and silent, a tiny fear would clutch at her heart, telling her
that he had left her too. But she got hold of herself quickly, shaking the fear
away, reminding herself that if he were dead he would be dust already. Spike
was as undead as ever.
She tiptoed
down into the living room and over to the edge of the couch. So still,
quiet, cold she thought, but banished that thought and grabbed a corner of
the flowered, beige sheets that covered him.
"Spike?"
she whispered. He didn't move. Slowly, gently, she crawled onto the mattress,
cringing at the sound of each disused spring's creak. She lay down next to him,
as close as she dared, and reached out, gingerly, to touch his shoulder. He
snorted, making her jump, and shifted his head a little, then was still again.
When she could breathe once more she slid her hand down to the small of his
back and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He was so cold, but so solid and so real.
She closed her eves. Even his stony closeness was a comfort, a reassurance that
she was not alone. She began to drift back into dreaming.
Spike
moved.
Suddenly,
Dawn's heart was in her throat as the vampire turned toward her and threw an
arm across her shoulders, yanking her roughly up against him. She cringed,
expecting a fang in her neck. Then nothing. Spike settled again with a sigh and
was still. Dawn's heart was back in her chest, but it pounded like a hammer
against her ribs. He'd never hurt me, she reminded herself. He couldn't
hurt me, but he'd never even try.
She
assessed her new position. They were facing each other now, his chin butted up
against her forehead. One of her hands was still on his back, the other now
pressed to his chest as if to push him away, and her head rested not entirely
comfortably on his hard, lean bicep. What if--- she thought, and then
tried to stop it dead before it could finish, but it was too late. What if I
just slid this hand up and put my arms around him?
It was
crazy. It was like one of those cheap, smutty novels her mom used to read at
the beach. In those books the hero was always muscular and had dramatic
cheekbones and a dark past, and there was always damsel in distress who was
younger, innocent, falling helplessly into his arms. Dawn had always thought it
was a load of See Are Ay Pee, but here she was and here he was, with the past
and the cheekbones, and everything was exactly like one of those books.
Except
I'm sick of being helpless, she thought.
Dawn slid
her hand across his chest, surprised to find that, in touching him, she felt
like she was being touched, sympathetic thrills racing though her in tandem
with the movement.
Spike
moaned a little, like a purring tiger. The hand on her back pulled tighter, and
he pressed one of his legs between hers. She opened her knees and let his thigh
slide against her own, then she felt something else. Is that--Oh God, is
that his--? Spike kissed her forehead, so lightly she wasn't sure at first
that he'd done it at all. The hand on her back slid inside her camisole and
cooly up her spine, and his other hand wound its fingers into the hair at the
nape of her neck, forcing her head to tilt back and her face to point toward
his. Dawn wondered at how good that roughness felt.
Spike's
lips were trailing softly over her face, kissing her eyelashes, winding their
inevitable way toward her mouth. His lips brushed hers, tauntingly, and she
breathed, "Spike." Smiling, the vampire opened one sleepy eye
and looked at her.
Both his
eyes shot open.
"Bloody,
buggering, bleeding, jeez--" he swore loudly, arms windmilling as he
shot to the other side of the bed. "Whatthefuckdyathinkyerdoing?!"
Dawn sat
up. "I wasn't doing anything. You were the one doing."
"Fucking
well was not!" he shouted, clutching the sheets to himself in an attempt
to cover what Dawn was now certain was nothing but Spike underneath.
"What're you bloody doing crawling into me bed?!"
"I--"
she stuttered, "I was h-having the dreams again."
Spike's
wild-eyed horror softened suddenly. "Aw, Li'l Bit…."
"Even
when I'm asleep I'm all alone," she said bitterly. "I didn't want to
be alone."
Spike sighed
and pushed a hand through his hair. "Alright, but you shouldn't be
sneaking into someone's bed like that. 'Least not 'til university. You
should've woken me up."
"I
thought-- I just wanted you to hold me."
Spike
covered his eyes. "Christ on a crumpet, Dawn, d'you have any
idea---"
"You
were dreaming it was Her, weren't you? You thought I was Buffy."
Spike
looked up at her slowly, and she knew that it was true. The jealously was like
a stone in her throat. "I know," she hissed, "that I'll never be
her. I'll never be as strong, or as brave, or as beautiful as--"
"Dawn,
stop it," Spike said.
"--as
she was, but she's gone Spike, she's dead--"
"STOP
IT!" He hollered, and Dawn shut her mouth with an audible snap.
"Shut up and listen for a bloody second."
Slowly, as
if she were a wild animal, he reached one hand out toward her. "Take
it," he said, and she complied. "Do you feel that, feel me shaking? You
did that, Nibblet. Your skin, your…body, your touch. Not your sister and
not some dream. You. No, you're not Buffy, but Buffy wasn't you either.
Don't ever think, for a second, that you are anything less than what she
was."
"But
you don't--"
"Just listen
to me." Spike's still-trembling hand squeezed hers. He swayed a little,
his lips parting and closing a few times before he could force the words out.
"I love you, Dawn, as much as I've ever loved any human. I didn't
let the Hellbitch cut me up or climb that fucking tower just because of Buffy,
and I'm not here now because of her. I'm here because of you, to take
care of you. And that's why I won't, I can't let this happen
between us. I don't want to cross that line, not now, when it's the wrong time
and for all the wrong reasons. Can you understand that?"
"You
think I'm too young."
He sighed,
"That's part of it, yeah, but--"
"You
think I should meet boys my own age. Well, gee, Spike? Do you know any cute
guys who are just slightly younger than the universe? Met any nice energy blobs
lately? There's nobody my age, there's nobody like me, and there's nobody who gets
that, Spike, except you. Nobody understands me like you do. Nobody.
And I don't think anyone else knows you like I do. The new you.
The real you."
"You
seem," Spike said, through gritted teeth, "to keep forgetting that
the real me is a demon."
"Oh,
right, the no soul thing. Lemmie tell you, Spike, I could name about a zillion
guys with souls who will never be as good a man as you."
They stared
at each other, silently. Dawn lifted her quivering chin in defiance. The tears
pooled at the corners of her eyes. Spike swallowed hard, forcing himself not to
sweep her up, to savagely kiss every tear from her face, from her life, to keep
from pouring his sorrow into her. He was aching to hold her, she was aching to
be held, but he knew that it was still about Buffy, for both of them. He pulled
his hand away.
"Go
put some clothes on," he said, turning his back to her. "I'll make
you some breakfast." There was a pause, and then with a creak of
bedsprings Dawn laid a tiny, warm hand on his back. "Go!" he said
harshly, and the hand withdrew. The mattress shifted, and he heard Dawn's
footsteps as she headed for the stairs.
It can't
go on like this, he thought. Night after night, nothing in this world
but each other to cling to. It's not right. She needs more than me. After
she goes to school I'll call Red's girlfriend. Maybe she'd understand. At least
she won't drive a stake through me before I can explain. And she can talk Red
into staying here for a while. They can give Dawn some company and keep her
away from me, keep me away from her…
He waited,
still listening. Up the steps, one, two, three, she went, then--
"Spike,"
she said softly.
"What?"
"You
said 'not now.' That's not the same thing as saying 'never.'"
Spike
squeezed his eyes shut, grasping at the invisible line, feeling it slip from
his hands, trailing into nothingness. "Go get dressed," he repeated,
gathering the sheet around his waist, and he stormed from the room.