Lines Get Crossed
by
Minx Trinket
Disclaimer, à la Spike: "No, they're not bloody mine.
They belong to that ponce Whedon. An' I'm not making a profit off 'em, so sod
off!"
Rating: R, though outside of the language, this is tamer
than the last installment. (That Spike! Such a foul mouth. And Dawn's picking
up his bad habits.)
Spoilers and continuity: This is a sequel to my short-short
"The End of the Line." It picks up some time (actually, 39 days)
after "The Gift." So if you haven't seen 'em all, don't read this!
Question: Am I dating myself by mentioning Drakkar, or is it
still what the nancy boys wear?
Summary: I never really thought of "The End of the
Line" as part of a series, but when I got feedback asking for more, I
asked myself, "What would happen next?" So here it is. After a
disturbingly adult encounter, Spike tries to push Dawn away, and boy is
she mad. This was inspired, in part, by a conversation I had with a friend
about how often, in the Jossiverse, evil looks a heck of a lot like immaturity.
Dedication: To all those who asked for more, and, as ever,
to my muse Insomnia.
"Thanks
for coming."
"S-sure,"
Tara nodded, hovering near the door to the Summers' place, shifting her weight
from foot to foot.
"Can I
get you a cup of tea or something?"
"No,
thanks."
"Why
don't you, er, have a seat?" Spike backed into the dim living room and
gestured at the couch. Not looking at him, she sidled over to the sofa and
perched herself on the corner nearest the door. Tara knew the others trusted
Spike, and knew she owed him one or two or eight herself, and he'd been so good
to Dawn, and all of that should make a difference somehow. But when she looked
at him, she still thought VAMPIRE! And now she was alone with him.
Spike
fussed a little with the coffee table, keeping out of Tara's personal space.
"I'm sorry you had to come all this way, but, well, you know.
Sunlight."
"Yeah,"
Tara replied, a bit too brightly. She forced herself to look at him. The
vampire was staring at his own toes. "You- you said it's about Dawn."
"Yeah."
He fell silent again, and started rocking back and forth, heel to toe, heel to
toe, his hands crammed deep in the pockets of his black jeans. Just as Tara
thought he'd forgotten her altogether, he said, "It's like this, y'see. I
think maybe I'm needing some help with her."
Tara
blinked, surprised. A month ago Spike had snarled like a mother lion at the
thought that anyone would take care of Dawn but him. Calling Xander and
Giles "ponce" and "nancy" and all those other British words
for wimp, he'd argued convincingly, if rudely, that he was the best-qualified
person for the job, that she'd be safest with him, that Buffy would've wanted
it that way. Dawn, surprising everyone, had agreed. Tara could still picture
her, huddled on a stool in a corner of the Magic Box, saying: "Spike. I
want Spike with me." Giles, too hollow with grief to protest, had given in
to her. Xander had left in a huff. Spike had taken the little girl home.
As gently
as she could, Tara asked, "What happened?"
"Nothing!
Nothing!" Wild-eyed, Spike backed away, waving his hands in denial. He
bumped into a chair, jumped, turned to punch it, stopped, looked like he might
clobber it anyway, then dropped his hands, sighing. He sat on the offending
furniture and clasped his hands, leaning forward over his knees. For the first
time since she'd arrived, he looked her in the eyes. "Truth is, I think
maybe she's getting too attached to me and all."
Confused,
Tara cocked her head at him, and was about to ask him what he meant, when he
blurted: "It's understandable, I mean, she being at that age and all. But
it's getting out of hand. I think maybe having other people around, maybe,
she'd not be so…." He faltered, frowning.
As his
words sank in, Tara's mouth fell open. "Spike, are you saying something,
something physical happened?"
Looking
pained, he muttered, "This morning, Li'l Bit tried to crawl into bed with
me, literally and metaphorically."
"You
didn't!"
"NO! I
didn't! I swear to you I didn't!"
Tara leapt
to her feet. "You swear?"
"By
all that's bloody unholy I swear that nothing, nothing, happened."
"Good!"
"But
if I hadn't've woken up when I did Ol' Fang might've gone ahead without
me."
"Spike!"
"I
know you're playing on the other team, love, but you know it's a fact of nature
that the brain is not in charge when it comes to us blokes."
Tara
covered her ears. "I am not hearing this."
"Tara,
please, please!" Spike stumbled off the chair onto his knees and
held his hands out, pleading. "I'd never hurt her, you know that. What she
needs, what we need is other people around. She needs a family. You of
all people should understand that. Couldn't you and Will come to stay for a
while? A little while, just 'til she gets this crazy notion out of her
head?"
Slowly,
Tara let her hands fall to her sides. She looked at Spike, pursing her lips. He
raised his eyebrows imploringly.
"I'll
talk to Willow," she said.
Spike's
shoulders drooped with relief. "Thank you, thank you," he sighed,
then switched tracks suddenly. "But don't tell--"
"Anyone
else?" she asked. "Don't worry. I wouldn't want the Summers' vacuum
to have to deal with what would happen if Xander found out."
As soon as
Dawn closed the front door behind her, she was nearly bowled over by a blinding
flash of orange.
"Dawnieeeeeeee!"
Willow cried, hugging her and hopping in place at the same time. "Dawnie
Dawnie Dawnie Dawnie!"
"Willie!'
Dawn cried back, "Willie snorting coffee!"
Willow
laughed and held Dawn by the shoulders at arm's length. "No, I haven't
but, ooo, sounds fun."
Giggling,
Dawn asked, "What are you doing here?"
Spike
appeared over Willow's shoulder. "The Wicca are moving in for a
while."
Dawn's
smile faded. "What?"
"Yeah,
y'see, it's like this," Willow burbled, in that high-pitched, rapid-fire
way that meant she was lying like a cheap rug. "It's like middle of the
summer semester and the dorms are supposed to be like empty but in fact they're
full of exchange students and high school debate teams running around and
having water balloon fights and I'm taking organic chemistry over the summer
'cause I thought hey peace and quiet right but boy was I wrong cause hello
craziness and so I thought maybe Tara 'n me'd stay with you for a couple of
weeks and whadd'ya think?"
Dawn fixed
Spike with a narrow-eyed stare. Silently, she accused him. He swallowed and
looked away. "Sure," she said flatly. "Sounds great."
"Oh,
awesome!" Willow spouted, "It'll be so much fun I mean I've gotta
study a lot and stuff but I'll take lots of breaks and we'll braid your hair
and make popcorn and watch every John Cusack movie ever!"
Dawn forced
a smile. "Cool. 'Scuse me." She pulled herself from Willow's grip,
feeling only a little guilty as the witch's face fell, and stomped up the
stairs. She went to her room, made a point of not slamming the door,
threw her bookbag on the floor and threw open her closet. She started rooting
among the hangers for anything black, slinky, tiny. There wasn't much, but she
started throwing things on the bed.
She noticed
Spike when he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed high across his chest,
but ignored him and continued with her foraging.
"How
was school?" he asked.
"It's
summer school. It's full of morons."
"Yeah,
well," he said, trying to sound both stern and casual and miserably failing
at both, "you missed a lot this year. Important to make it all up."
"So
they say."
He paused,
watching her hold experimental outfits up to herself and look at the effect in
the mirror, frowning, tilting her head this way and that, flipping her hair.
"What's all this then?" he asked.
Without
turning to look at him, she said lightly, "Got a date tonight."
"With
who?"
"Guy
from school."
"Thought
you said they were all morons."
She
shrugged, tossed aside a filmy pink skirt, picked up a teeny black one.
"Has
he got a name?" Spike asked.
Dawn threw
all of the clothes back on the bed and stalked straight for him. Just as he
thought she would crash into him, she stopped, grabbing the door handle.
"Got to change," she said, and used the door to bulldoze him out into
the hallway. She paused on her side of the shut door, listening. She heard him
mutter, "For fuck's sake!" and stomp away. Satisfied, Dawn returned
to her primping.
At 8:05 PM,
Trent Gillingham strutted up the path to Dawn Summers' house, unaware of the
terror that awaited him. At the door, he tried to arrange himself into an
appropriately cool slouch and to adopt an expression that said, "Yeah,
you're cool, I guess, whatever." He rang the doorbell. He waited.
The door
burst open and Billy Idol's Evil Twin shouted: "Who the fuck are you?"
Trent lost
his cool, and nearly lost his lunch.
"I… I…
I…" he stuttered, blinking at the bleached, black-clad menace whose eyes
were burning holes into his head. This must be the wrong place, he
thought, gotta be the wrong place.
"Oh,"
the menace said. "You must be the moron. DAWN!"
"Coming!"
Dawn shouted, from deep inside the house, and the man in the doorway continued
to glare at him. Is he, Trent wondered, watching his nostrils flare, is
he sniffing me?
Dawn, a
little breathless, appeared in the doorway and shoved the monster aside.
"Hey Trent. Cool shirt! Don't mind him, it's just my Uncle William.
William the Bloody Pain in the Ass. Ready to go?"
"Uh,
sure," Trent said, very, very sure.
"Hold
on a moment, Trent," Uncle William said, and, grabbing Dawn by the
arm, slammed the door in his face.
"What
is your problem?" Dawn snapped, yanking her arm from Spike's grip.
"That's
your date?"
"Yes,
Einstein, that's my date."
"I
don't like him."
"I
don't think I care."
"He
smells like breath mints and hormones and bloody Drakkar Noir."
"You smelled
him? You are so gross sometimes."
"Look,
we were supposed to--"
"No, you
look," Dawn growled, sticking a finger in his face. "I'm a normal,
fifteen year old girl and I'm going on a date with a normal fifteen year old
boy just like everybody wants me to so BACK OFF!" And with
that, she yanked the door open and stormed out of the house, leaving Spike
clutching helplessly at thin air. He stuck his head out the door and watched
her as she bounced down the path, flipped her hair, and laughed flirtatiously
at the pathetic pup she called a date.
"I
want you home at eleven!" he shouted after her.
Her answer
drifted back to him on the cool evening breeze: "Whatever…."
At 1:15,
Dawn slipped quietly into the house, shut the door carefully behind her, and
turned to find Willow staring at her from the couch.
"Hey,"
Willow said.
"Hey,"
Dawn replied. "Didn't think you'd be up."
"All
nighter," Willow said, gesturing to the book in her lap.
"Oh."
"Dawn."
Dawn
cringed despite herself at the sound of his voice. She turned and saw him in
the dining room, arms crossed, leaning way, way back in his chair and scowling.
"Yeah?"
she said, hoping she sounded mean.
"We
were supposed to patrol tonight," he said.
"Oh. I
forgot," she shrugged, and breezed past him into the kitchen. She could
feel his dark eyes on her as she went to the refrigerator and took out a carton
of milk. She hadn't forgotten. How could she forget? Every night since Buffy
had…gone, Spike had been taking her through the moves, teaching her what she
needed to know to defend herself and then some, teaching her the things Buffy
had always kept her from. Gotta be able to take care of yourself, Spike
told her, and here, standing in the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk and
shaking with fury, she couldn't agree more.
"You're
never going to get any better at slaying if you don't practice," he said
quietly.
"Y'know,
I've been thinking," Dawn said brightly. "Maybe it would help if I
dyed my hair blonde and bought some halter tops, hm? Maybe then I'd be a better
slayer. Whadd'ya think?"
Spike
flinched, but said insistently, "It's important, Nibblet."
Dawn put
the milk away calmly and, raising her glass, turned a blank face on him.
"Fuck patrolling, Spike," she said easily, "and fuck you."
She
thought, for a split second, that chip or no chip he would tear her throat out.
Instead, he leapt out of the chair, grabbed his coat off the rack by the door
and stomped out of the house, slamming the door. She closed her eyes and sipped
at the cool milk wondering why, if this was victory, she suddenly felt so
hollow.
Spike
crashed through the bushes, not caring if he woke the dead themselves and
muttering under his breath all the while. When he finally reached the grave he
sought, he stomped up to the tombstone, shoved his hands into his coat pockets
and scowled.
"Well,
Slayer," he said to the stone. "Looks like you've managed to bugger
me again."
Buffy's
headstone did not reply, just like it didn't reply the dozen other times he'd
come to yell at it, just like her pictures and her mannequin had never answered
him in all those desperate nights of longing. "Is it some secret Slayer
power I've never heard of before, the ability to turn a man into a sodding
ninny? 'Cause you seem to be quite good at it. Does it feel good to know I'm on
your list of conquests? Have you nailed my bollocks to your wall next to Ponce
Number One and Ponce Number Two? I'll bet you have, bloody bitch." Spike
stomped viciously at the ground above her body a few times, then, realizing he
felt no better, knelt and regarded the flattened grass.
"Why
me?" he asked it. He plucked futilely at the broken blades, trying to
restore them. "Why'd she pick me?"
He turned
to the stone again and said quietly, "You turn a man's life fucking upside
down and then you leave him. Tell me, is that supposed to be romantic or
something?"
He shuffled
on his knees right up to the silent stone. "Is it supposed to be clever? Like
bloody Socrates or something, giving me questions instead of answers? Alright,
here's a bloody question for you: what do I do with her now? Now that
you've drawn me into the web, made me protect her, made me love her like she's
my own, how the hell do I take care of her? There's a reason my kind doesn't
have babies, Summers. We're no good at this sort of thing. We're not
equipped."
With a
ragged sigh, he put his hands on the top of the stone, then leaned forward,
slowly, and let his forehead press the rough granite. He saw his own tear fall
away and sink into the earth below and whispered, "I'm just a kid meself,
Summers. I'm still just a bloody kid."