Spoilers: Season 5. This story takes place directly after "Crush"
Rating: PG
Content: Spike/Buffy
Dedication: This one goes out to Pandora for all the marvellous support and encouragement. Ooo. And the visuals. *PURR* You are AWESOME!
Disclaimer: They are Joss's! All Joss's! I'm just *cough* "borrowing" them for a bit.
Note: Please ignore grammar and spelling errors. I'm afraid I've been burning the midnight oil in order to get this one done, which definitely cuts down on my ability to construct a coherent sentence. :-)
Feedback: Your words are literally keeping me writing on this one. I need all the help I can get! Thanks!



Chapter Eight


He stood quietly outside, the moonlight reflecting off his pale hair as he contemplated the house before him. With a shrug, Samson knelt beside the meticulously trimmed bushes as his hands foraged through the dirt.

Grinning triumphantly, he pulled the small, rubber frog from its hiding spot behind the branches. Samson swung the tiny, metal plate on its hinge and withdrew the key, pausing only to toss the frog back into the foliage.

It didn't bother him as much as he thought it would that in just a matter of a few hours, he would be directly responsible for the deaths of a mother and her two daughters.

"Those who align themselves with evil do not deserve to be mourned," Samson quoted blithely as he opened the front door to the Summers' home.

Dusting his shoes off on the welcome mat, the assassin peered into the darkened house. With a small smile, he stepped into the hallway, shutting the oaken door behind him.

The man whistled softly as he wandered around the house, his dirtied hands tracing the wallpaper as he walked by.

It wouldn't take much to arrange an accident, he thought as he stepped into the restroom.

"Hail the Creator!" Samson grumbled as he looked into the mirror, aghast at the sight of the torn, filthy man staring back. Quickly, he turned the hot water on and began to briskly wash his hands. He needed a shower, he sighed as his eyes fell upon the dirt-streaked hair and the bloodied face. And his clothes! they needed to be dry-cleaned desperately.

He raised his eyes to the ceiling as he wondered if the mother had a spare men's suit in her room. After all, a woman who had spawned the children she did undoubtedly got around.

"Evil doesn't spawn from the Void," Samson mumbled as he examined his face in the mirror. A shave. What he wouldn't give for a shave. And a change of clothes.

Suddenly, he darted out of the bathroom and rushed up the stairs. Cleanliness, after all, *was* next to godliness. And considering the night he had ahead of him, he needed to be as close to godliness as he could get. Smiling pleasantly, the assassin stepped into the upstairs bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him.





"It's not there, Mom," Dawn sighed as she leaned against the door frame.

With a snort, Joyce pulled her daughter into a tight hug. "Utterly helpless, aren't you."

Dawn giggled as she wrapped her arms around her mother tenderly.

"Love you, Mommy."

"Love you more, baby," Joyce whispered into her daughter's hair. She closed her eyes a moment as she breathed in the soft scents of her baby girl.

Joyce frowned.

"Come on. We better get the first aid kit, Dawn," Joyce shot a furious look towards the vampire as she started pushing her daughter out of the room.

"Joyce," Spike called out, his face getting more pale by the moment. "I don't think..."

"Spike. You stay there. Don't move. We'll be back in a second," Joyce commanded firmly, a fire lighting up her amber eyes.

"But Joyce... Really. I don't think it's that safe..."

"It's not up to you to make that decision, is it?" she responded softly as she turned away from the vampire. "Stay here, Spike. And I mean it."

Spike nodded curtly as he focused on the desk, but not before a look of bewildered hurt flashed in his eyes.

Her lips pressed in a tight line, Joyce followed her daughter out.

"Mom?"

"Storage room. There is a spare kit in there," she explained, her voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"Mom?"

"Don't 'Mom' me, young lady," Joyce growled. "How much did you drink?"

"Drink?" Dawn winced, her cheeks flushing as she looked away from her mother.

"Have you suddenly become a parrot? Or perhaps a broken recorder? I'm waiting for an explanation, Dawn."

"But the..."

Joyce shook her head sternly as she glared at her youngest.

"No buts. I want to know *right now* what happened. Why my 14 year-old daughter never called to check in, even though she was more than 3 hours late. Why her breath reeks of alcohol. And why she's currently in the company of a creature she was told in no uncertain terms to stay away from," the older woman snapped off, her arms folded across her chest.

"It's not what you think," Dawn muttered as she opened the door to the storage room.

"Then *tell* me. Where am I mistaken? What exactly did I get wrong? You mean you weren't late? You weren't drinking? And that's not really Spike in my office?"

"You aren't *listening*!" the girl complained as she stormed through the room.

"Then give me something worth listening to, Dawn."

Dawn closed her eyes as she fell into a small, wooden chair.

"I don't know what to tell you."

Joyce huffed as she pulled the first aid kit out of its cubby hole. "Try starting with the truth."

"I haven't lied!"

"You have, Dawn. By omission," Joyce sighed helplessly as she looked down on her trembling daughter. "How do you expect me to treat you like an adult when you act like a child?"

"You haven't heard a single word I said, Mom. How can I possibly explain if you are standing there shooting down everything I say?"

Joyce pursed her lips as she considered her daughter.

"Fine. Tell me. Tell me why I should possibly trust you after this."

Dawn sat up in the chair, her brown eyes settling on her mother in disbelief.

"Have any clue how it feels to be alone, Mom? To know that no matter what you do, no matter what you say, everyone, including your own mother, will compare you to your perfect older sister? I'm not Buffy. I'm *Dawn*. Key or not. I'm still Dawn. I've never lied to you, I have never burnt down a single gym in my life, and I've never disobeyed you. I'm a good girl. But it feels like you expect me to, at any second, pull a Buffy. Which shows me you have *no* clue who am I. If you did, you'd know. You have any idea how much it hurts that my own *mother* doesn't even know that much about me?"

The girl sighed as she looked her mother in the eye.

"Go on. Ground me for running away from home. Punish me for drinking. But *please*. Don't tell me not to hang out with Spike. Don't take away the only person who knows exactly what I am and cares about me anyway. Don't you see? Don't you understand? He's *my* Scooby. Mine."

Dawn stood silently, her eyes filled with tears as she faced her mother.

"He saved my life tonight, Mom. Nearly got himself dusted doing it, but Spike's the only reason I'm here right now. Why can't you see it?" Dawn's voice trailed off as the tears began to fall freely.

Joyce sighed as she pulled her daughter into her arms and hugged her fiercely.

"Dawn, I love you. More than anything. God, what am I doing so wrong that makes you doubt it?"

Dawn shook her head as she relaxed in her mother's arms.

"You aren't, Mommy. Things are just weird right now."

Joyce nodded as she pulled away from her daughter, only to hold the girl firmly by her shoulders.

"Listen to me. Whether things are weird or not, just know I love you. With all my soul, I *love* you."

Dawn smiled tearfully as she hung onto her mother's arm.

"Love you more."

Joyce patted her daughter's hand lovingly as they walked out of the storage room, arm in arm. Slowly, they made their way back to the small office.

"So..." Joyce started quietly. "What's this about you running away?"



Samson closed his eyes as he inhaled the soft fragarance of the pink terrycloth. Almost like bottled sunshine, he thought in wonder as he brought the slightly damp towel to his wet skin. Silently, he dried himself off as he stepped out of the shower.

It didn't bother him that the towel was still moist from its owner's last use no more than it bothered him to use the silver Lady Gilette razor to shave off his 5 o'clock shadow.

They were just items to be used in his adventure. Nothing more than that.

He pursed his lips together as he whistled a merry tune, turning this way and that as he considered his reflection in the mirror.

With a sudden sigh, he tossed the towel over the shower rod, only to turn his gaze back to his naked reflection.

The battle with the vampire had caused some serious damage, Samson realised in disgust as he carefully examined the rounded lines of his face. Bruises. So many bruises. How could he possibly head the Creator's army when the mortal masses would recoil from his unseemly looks?

Quickly, he offered a prayer to the Creator as he reached in the medicine cabinet and pulled out a toothbrush. At least, He had given his devout follower the opportunity to clean himself up before the final battle.

He moved the toothbrush in slow, deliberate circles over his teeth as he considered his reflection in the mirror. He had the kind of face meant to lead. Strong, yet handsome. Charismatic. He had been blessed by the Creator above and was destined for greater things. He had known it his entire life.

And it all started here with the destruction of this earthbound evil.

Samson frowned as he wiped his lips free of the white, minty foam. He supposed all he had to do was set a bomb in the basement by the waterheater. Or perhaps inject some poison into the milk. Maybe cut the gas line. Girls like *that* undoubtedly smoked, after all. It would take practically no effort on his part to arrange their deaths.

But for some reason, the idea of executing the evil in such a roundabout way struck him as just *wrong*. The Hand of the Creator shouldn't hide behind a mask, either of material or ignorance. It was imperative that the Evil know the face of the man who had singlehandedly caused its destruction.

The time was at hand for Samson to claim his place in history as the saviour of mankind.

He flashed a demure smile at the mirror, his ego bursting at the attractive visage staring back at him. Samson had always known that his handsome face reflected the purity of his soul. And the Order would see it. Soon. He was certain of it. When he went to make the phonecall to his brethren tomorrow to inform them of the destruction of the Key, *they* would know it. They would know his destiny.

No. He would no longer be an Initiate of the Order. Sir Samson Gulliver was born to be its King.