Spike could hear the strumming of a guitar upstairs. He looked up at the ceiling and strained to hear what Dawn was playing, but the sound was too muffled to make out. So, he crept up the stairs and leaned against the wall outside her room. He didn't recognize the song, and realized she must have written it. Then, her voice joined the gentle sound of the guitar.

There is nothing that competes with heaven

And I know it's neither deep nor tragic

It's simply that you have to have it

So you can make a killing

Oh you can make a killing

Oh you can make a killing

I wish I was both young and stupid

Then I too could have the fun that you did

Till it was time to pony up what you bid

So you could make a killing

Oh you could make a killing

Oh you could make a killing

Spike moved closer to her door, pushing it open a crack, watching her silently. Her eyes were shut, her fingers playing from memory as she sang. She was hypnotizing, with her hair all swept up in a messy ponytail, looking all at once young, fragile, strong, and beautiful. And she was wearing the duster, sitting cross-legged so the coat spread around her, making her all the more irresistible.

I could follow you and search the rubble

Or stay right here and save myself some trouble

Or try to keep myself from seeing double

Or I could make a killing

Or I could make a killing

Oh I could make a killing

Spike tried to open the door a little further, but it creaked no matter how gently he pushed it. Dawn's eyes snapped open and she stopped playing.

"Hi." She said, startled, "How long have you been there."

"Uh...sorry. I just...heard from the...and I, uh..."

"You decided to listen in." She finished, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Yeah." He said sheepishly, "Sorry. I know how you like to keep your writing private and all."

"It's ok."

"That was brilliant, though."

"Thanks."

Awkward silence.

"Hey, Dawn?"

"Yeah?"

He shoved his hands in his pockets, and his courage and what he was about to say just trickled slowly away, "Er...Did I leave a pack of cigarettes in the pocket?"

Spike gestured to the jacket, feeling like an idiot. Since when did HE get all worked up and nervous about talking to a teenager? He was William the Bloody for God's--

"Nope." Dawn replied, and Spike ended his inner-tirade.

"Oh. OK, then." He turned to leave, and paused, "The song was really great, luv."

"Thanks." She said softly, and he walked away, hearing the light strumming of a guitar resuming as his foot hit the stairs.

NOTE! I said in this chapter that Dawn wrote the song she was singing. Actually, it's You Could Make a Killing by Aimee Mann from Driving Sideways. It's a great song!