*
It all proved too much. The rush of air from Spike's sudden movement hit her like a brick wall, and Dawn collapsed before he reached her, crumbling into a boneless heap on the cement floor of the basement. Her head smacked the solid floor sharply, but she was already out, the combination of stress and lack of sleep having finally overcome her self-control.
The metallic tang of her blood hung heavily around her, and for a moment Spike wondered if she hadn't cracked her skull as well. He knelt down next to her for a closer examination, but there didn't seem to be any blood pooling. So, he marveled, all of that scent must be coming from the gouges at her throat. Sharp nails on the kid. He leaned closer. The angry crimson stripes welled up at him eagerly, taking advantage of Dawn's horizontal state to begin trickling in new directions. Her neck was beginning to look like a topographical map; deep rivers forming streams, pooling unexpectedly here and there, dividing into ever-thinner rivulets as they progressed. Fascinated, he studied the way it caught at some of the tendons in her throat, needing enough momentum to continue its journey. He sighed in relief as one dammed trickle overcame its obstacle and sped freely to the ground.
Oh, fuck. Spike shook himself, snapping out of his trance. He couldn't tell how long he'd been staring at her. She looked so awkward, stretched out on the floor like that, her left leg bent double under her. He went to lift her, but shied away. No, there was something else he'd have to do first.
He strode over to Dawn's belongings; the sunlight from the door had shifted considerably, which made Spike wonder again about how much time had passed. He hovered over the collection, examining it, before carefully reaching down and picking up one of the perfume bottles of water. Something else, though. He picked up a stake and began to separate all of the items, searching for something in particular…
Ah! Here we go, he thought, and gingerly grasped Dawn's crucifix by its silver chain. He squinted at it; beautifully done, he realized. Not exactly like her sister's, either – there was a Celtic sense about it. Something inherently classic, and more than a little mythical. He smiled to himself. This necklace definitely said "Dawn" more than it said "Buffy".
He held it well away from himself as he peered back at Dawn's body. Spike winced; the scent of blood was getting stronger now, and the wound on her leg seemed to have opened up again as well. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to block out the iron taste of the air. The perfume spritzer wouldn't be enough anymore; he tossed it onto Dawn's discarded fleece and picked up the Poland Springs bottle instead. The plastic crackled warningly in his hand. "You'd better be what I think you are," he muttered to it under his breath, and walked back to Dawn.
Hmmm. He looked from the necklace and water to the form of the unconscious girl. "No two ways about this, I suppose," he breathed, and shrugged. He quickly grasped the top of the squirt-bottle between his front teeth and popped the spout up, choking a little as a few unexpected drops of moisture sprayed into his mouth. He spit violently – forgot about that little side-effect of squirt-bottles, he thought in irritation. His eyes were tearing up, but he strode over to Dawn's head, taking advantage of the distracting pain to take the next step.
He pointed the bottle straight down at her and squeezed. His aim was perfect, the stream of water striking Dawn's wound precisely. He watched impassively as the water sluiced through the rips in her skin, diluting the maroon of her blood until it faded to a watery pink. The excess water spread out beneath her on the floor, a growing puddle that began to soak into her t-shirt as well as creep through her hair. Spike hefted the water bottle, tilting it upright. About half-full, he guessed. He absently turned to her right leg and doused it as well, causing the sodden cotton to cling to her shin. Better safe than sorry. Spike backed up against the pillar again, affording himself a clear view of the entire situation. Namely, Dawn stretched out and bleeding in a pool of water. Bloody hell. He set the bottle on the ground beside him, and reconsidered the crucifix dangling from his fingers.
Spike looked at Dawn, paused, and then looked back at the necklace. "Shit," he sighed, staring at the mess he had made. The blood was already overcoming his attempt to dilute it; as he watched, a single droplet made a track down Dawn's neck. More would follow soon, and he knew he should just get it over with now, while he still could. Spike quickly strode over and crouched beside the teenager, carefully avoiding any splashes of holy water his boots might kick up. Not that it would really matter, considering what he was about to do. He chuckled grimly, carefully arranging the ends of the necklace in his left hand, his right hand twitching nervously. He stared at the delicate fastener grasped between his thumb and forefinger and gritted his teeth.
Bugger, this was going to hurt.
He quickly jammed his left hand under Dawn's neck, grimacing as the droplets of water clinging to Dawn's hair and neck scorched his palm. It was simpler to focus on the sensations on his palm; the pain on the back of his hand was almost unbearable, given that it was practically submerged in the puddle of water he'd created under her. His fingers snagged in her ponytail and he cursed, desperately trying to get the chain into a position from which he could fasten it. The crucifix rattled, slipping silkily along the chain, and Spike flinched as it came to rest on the inside of his wrist.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Spike saw the glint of silver on the other side of Dawn's neck. He darted his right hand around, plucking the end of the chain from the numb, raw fingers of his left hand. He yanked his left hand sharply from under Dawn's head, jostling her slightly, and winced at the bubbled flesh the emerged. This was worse than he'd expected, he thought as he determinedly bent to his task, ignoring the spectacular appearance of his hands.
She was bleeding freely again, and it was torture for him to have to crouch so close over her, urgently forcing his burned and blistered fingers to maneuver the dainty mechanism that held her necklace together. His hands were almost as red as her neck, he noted absently as he heard the fastener click into place.
Gasping, he scuttled away from her, retreating back to the pillar and leaning against it weakly. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Poland Springs bottle. Grunting, he pulled it to him and pointed it in Dawn's direction. His aim was off, but after a couple of tries he managed to strike her neck again. The splash of red disappeared, and he collapsed back against the pillar, exhausted.
He wanted nothing more than to sleep, recuperate, heal his self-inflicted wounds and get the fuck out of this town. But Dawn was still laying there, helpless, and he kept his eyes open, watching her. The sun had set, and the square of sky visible through the basement door glowed an eerie cornflower blue. Spike buried his head in his hands and tried to think.
Holy FUCK, that hurts, Dawn thought as she slowly came to. Her head throbbed warningly and she stayed very still, wary of inviting more pain. "If you're hurting, it means you're not dead," Buffy often reminded her, and Dawn winced. Definitely not dead, then.
She tried to analyze her situation, keeping her eyes closed. Well, she was cold, that was definite. And wet. Had he dumped her in a sewer somewhere? Or a swamp? But the ground under her felt way too solid to be natural, and besides, her ears told her that she was in an enclosed space. A cellar? Oh my god, he'd left her in the cellar.
But back to the wetness… he must have dropped her in a puddle, because she could feel the water at the back of her scalp, barely. And her shin was cold, but she wasn't quite sure if it was wet or just another side-effect of the glass she'd fallen on the night before. She dismissed it and moved on in her examination.
Her neck. Suddenly she shocked rigid, and a jolt of pain throbbed through her skull. It was unbelievably sore, and COLD. She moved her head experimentally… she couldn't feel a scab or crust on her throat. Oh, shit, she was still functioning, freezing cold and her wound wasn't scabbed over… Panic welled in her chest, and she frantically wetted her mouth. Was that blood she tasted?
A groaning, wailing sound ripped from her involuntarily. She'd been turned. The only possibility she hadn't thought of. How long did she have until the demon took over? Her eyes flew open – her stakes. She might still have her stakes, or even the holy water… Buffy had killed a vamp when it swallowed holy water, right? God, it would hurt, but it would be worth it.
She groggily dragged herself up on one elbow and tried to find the light from the doorway, but it was gone. She winced as her head throbbed again, but gamely began to crawl to where she thought her weapons might still lay.
"Awake, I see."
Dawn whirled at the humorless voice, and her vision exploded. Bursts of light peppered her and she clung onto consciousness grimly, vowing not to pass out and lose control again. She wasn't totally surprised when she felt Spike lift her, ignoring her protestations, and carry her into another room.
He'd set himself up in the manager's office, it seemed. The cement room was small, but Mr. Bruckert apparently kept long hours; in the corner of the room behind an old set of filing cabinets he'd set up a low cot, and a comfortable-looking easy chair was shoved into a corner near a rickety-looking 13-inch television. It still had rabbit-ear transmission aerials, Dawn noted fuzzily. The room lurched and swayed, and Dawn shut her eyes tightly. She was determined not to faint.
Spike set her on the bed unceremoniously, then turned and began to pull things out of a cupboard, ignoring her completely. Dawn reached up to her throat gingerly, wondering if she'd have scars. Buffy never got permanent scars, she'd noticed. Bitten – what, three times was it now? And no scars. She started as her fingers caught on something unexpected. Something metallic. She grasped the chain, peering down until she saw her cross dangling. She touched it wonderingly, then pressed it hard against her breastbone. Nothing happened.
"So – I'm not a vampire?" she breathed, more to herself than anything. But Spike whirled to look at her, his expression angry. Very angry.
"Not for lack of trying, you're not," he spit out.
"My head hurts…" she breathed, not realizing she'd spoken aloud.
"You fainted, you silly chit – probably bit your tongue when you hit the ground, I wouldn't wonder." That would be the taste in her mouth, then… Spike grabbed a blanket off a shelf and chucked it at her violently. Dawn caught it, shrinking back against the cold wall of the room. "What the hell are you playing at, Dawn? What the fuck was that back there?" He was tearing the inside of the cabinet apart, Dawn thought. She swallowed nervously.
"I – I needed to know," she stuttered, watching him carefully. He stopped, still with his back to her, and braced his forearms on the edges of the open cabinet.
"Know what, exactly?" The words rumbled deep in his chest, and he directed the words at the floor, head bowed. Dawn bit her lip.
"I needed to know what you'd be like, without the chip." She twisted the cross around her neck and pulled the blanket tighter. "I had to be sure."
"Sure." Spike turned to her, and she was surprised to see how anguished he looked. And hurt. Her heart dropped. "So why the game of dress-up? Why march in here, only to put on your little show and make your little speech?" He dropped his head again, shaking it gently. "Dawn… why didn't you just ask?"
The simplicity of it seemed almost laughable. She leaned forward earnestly.
"Spike, I had to know! And I wanted you to be off your guard, I wanted to do it my way." She suddenly realized how petulant she sounded, and rephrased.
"I didn't want to do this armed, but what if you'd attacked me the moment I'd stepped in here?" Spike glared at her, but she looked at him frankly. "Don't look at me as though it hasn't happened before." He sighed.
"But the sacrificial-lamb bit, Dawn?"
She flushed. "I didn't plan it that way," she admitted. "If you'd attacked me when I came in here, I'd've tried to get away." He nodded. "And then I would've moved back to Sunnydale tomorrow. No questions asked." She shrugged. "That way there'd be no reason to go after my friends here."
"But I didn't attack you," he reminded her, and she sagged against the wall.
"Yeah, that was the more complicated part," she muttered. "If you didn't attack me immediately, that still meant that you could just be biding your time. Spike, I remember you before you had the chip. You weren't nice."
Spike nodded. He didn't have anything to add to that particular argument. Dawn hurried on.
"But if you wanted me, I was going to let you have me. I mean," she amended, "I thought I'd make you an offer that Evil Spike couldn't refuse." She reached up to touch her throbbing neck. "If you killed me, you wouldn't have to go after my friends. And if you didn't…" She shrugged, a little grin on her face.
"Not so simple, Nibblet." Spike still wasn't looking at her, his stare fixed on the ground. He was leaning against the desk, his arms folded loosely across his chest, and Dawn dreamily realized that his sweater was one of the army-regulation styles, like the ones that Riley used to wear, the ones with those weird cloth patches… she decided not to mention the similarity. He startled her by glancing up sharply, and she jumped.
"Dawn, I don't want you ever, EVER to take a risk like that again," he gritted out, his words evenly spaced but his stare intense. Dawn started to object,; he talked right over her.
"NEVER go into a situation alone, thinking you've got all the answers." He pushed off the desk and pulled a folding chair out, settling himself only a foot away from where she was sitting. He leaned forward, and Dawn flashed back to the few times she could remember her father angry with her. The squirming feeling in her stomach was the same, she realized. Spike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limply. They looked kind of funny, she thought, but Spike's posture demanded eye contact, so she decided to ask later.
"I left last night because you were in danger," he said matter-of-factly. "You were bleeding, I was hungry, and I hadn't fed on human blood in about a week." Dawn's eyes widened, and he shook his head.
"That's where I had to go, Bit. I have a source over in the city, he's got a pretty regular supply of human blood. I've had to alternate with pig's blood since the chip came out, keeps everything steady. And no, I don't know where it comes from," he added irritably. "But I'd assume a hijacked hospital delivery or something of the sort, they come in the same kind of bags."
"So… that's why you had to get it before we met up?" she quavered, unsure of where this conversation was headed.
"Didn't want to get peckish with you around, love," he admitted, smiling a little. Then he regained his focus and glared at her sternly. "All of which would've made one hell of a mess if you'd come marching in here, gushing plasma, when I'd been on a steady ration of butcher's blood!" He jumped up again and began pacing.
"I didn't know…" Dawn breathed, twisting at her blanket.
"Of course you didn't! Been living with that ruddy sister of yours too long, gotten into her habits," he grumbled. "And what if I HAD turned you just now? Don't you remember ANYTHING about my kind? You'd've turned right around and killed all of your friends anyway, which would've been much more amusing and saved me a whole lot of trouble." He shook his head. "Sodding women."
He spun again, a new thought on the tip of his tongue. "The only reason I wanted to meet with you alone in the FIRST place was so that I could tell you about the chip calmly, so we could avoid all this!" He laughed sharply. "Somewhere neutral, with loads of people but no one else listening to our conversation; somewhere you would feel secure, just so this bloody well WOULDN'T happen! DAMN!" He kicked an empty plastic crate into the corner where it crashed into a mop.
"I'm sorry," Dawn whispered. She felt foolish and embarrassed, and the hiccups in her throat were slowly giving way to an entirely more pathetic series of sobs. She kept replaying it in her head, getting redder with every viewing – her marching in there, cutting herself, fainting like a little girl and then waking up and accusing Spike of turning her. What a fool. She tried to hide her face in the rough blanket, holding her breath to smother the sounds.
Spike stopped pacing and looked over at her. She looked miserable.
Good!
But she'd begun to sob like her heart was broken, ragged little gasps that she struggled to contain, and his rage began to subside. She's only seventeen, he reminded himself a little guiltily. And she's just trying to be like her big sister… He rolled his eyes and sat down next to her on the bed, pulling her against his chest and tucking her head under his chin.
"Ah, Bit, I'm sorry – I get worried about you sometimes. You were trying to protect your friends, it was all just a little," he paused. "Misguided?"
Dawn snuffled into his sweater. "It was STUPID, Spike! I thought it was such a good idea and it put you into such a horrible, horrible situation…" she screwed up her face. "And I looked so DUMB!" She curled up against him tighter, anguished. Spike held back a smile. Just like a teenager, he thought – be more worried about how they'd looked, rather than the fact that they could've died.
"Sweetling, don't worry, it's okay now," he soothed, and then pulled her away from him to look her in the eye. "As long as you promise never, ever, EVER to do it again. Right?"
"Right," she gulped, and cast her eyes down. That was when she got a full view of his burned hand resting in his lap. "Oh my GOD, Spike! What happened?"
Spike cleared his throat gruffly. "Well, you were unconscious for a while, and you were bleeding…" He pressed his lips into a thin line, then bowed his head. "I kept dousing you with your holy water bottle over there," he gestured to the almost-empty Poland Springs container standing on the desk. "And then I got your necklace on you. Just in case." He shrugged self-consciously.
"But you poured the water on yourself?" Dawn asked incredulously. She had taken both of his hands in hers and was gently examining them. She'd never seen such severe burns, and she'd guess they'd been healing for about an hour already.
"No," Spike hedged. But Dawn wouldn't let it rest, and he groaned. "I didn't want to touch you while you were bleeding," he explained. "So I got all your blood mixed with the water, and THEN put the necklace on."
Dawn stared at him. "And now your hands look like this."
"Worked, didn't it?" Spike grumbled. He took his hands out of Dawn's grasp and cradled the on his lap again. She looked at his bowed head and jumped off the bed, marching over to the cabinet Spike had ransacked.
"What are you doing?" He called after her.
"Looking for first aid stuff. This counts as a restaurant – they're required to have it by law." She knelt and reached back for a rusty green toolbox, dragging it out onto the floor. Spike made some protest in the background, but she ignored him completely.
"Gotcha!" She held up a package of bandages and an economy-sized tube of antiseptic. "Now, hold out your hands."
"Dawn, I don't need any of that stuff..." Spike grimaced as she spread the salve on his palms and then directed him to turn his hands over. He did so reluctantly; she sucked in her breath as she saw how deep the burns went. She gently began to wrap his wounds, and Spike noticed how expertly she managed the task. Exactly how injured had Buffy been getting, for Dawn to have had so much practice? He shook his head at the unwanted thought.
"There, all done, and I know that you don't think it will help, but it makes ME feel a whole lot better," Dawn chirped as she admired her handiwork.
Spike smirked at her. "And that's what matters, of course."
Dawn immediately looked contrite. "I'm really sorry, Spike."
He gazed at her. She'd grown up so much since he'd last seen her, but he could still recognize the little girl he'd become so fond of. Trying so hard to be an adult.
"Forgotten, Nibblet." She burrowed against him and he kissed her forehead, the two sitting in comfortable silence.
Suddenly, Dawn gasped. "Oh my GOD, what time is it?"
"Night?" Spike supplied. He didn't have a clock handy, and the sun had been down for quite a while. Dawn looked at him, frantic.
"I have to get home! Alicia will FREAK if I'm gone too long, and I've got two exams tomorrow and I haven't even LOOKED at the sample questions… Do you think the buses have stopped running yet?!?" She jumped to her feet, panicked.
"Van's out back," Spike sighed, struggling to his feet and clumsily scooping the keys off of the desk. Dawn gaped at him.
"Seriously? I would owe you sooooo much…"
"Oh, don't even," Spike snorted, slipping on his jacket. He handed Dawn a canvas rucksack as he strode out the door; she peered inside to find all of her carefully selected Slaying accessories nestled inside.
"Come on, Bit, don't want to keep Alicia waiting," his voice echoed back to her. She grinned and shouldered the pack, jogging up the stairs to join him.
TBC
*
