*
"My job has a lot of perks – I mean, flying around the world gets old real fast, there's only so many times you can go to Paris or Tokyo and not think, 'Damn, this old place again'," the thirty-something businessman across the aisle breezed, smirking. He leaned heavily against the armrest and winked at Dawn. "But the conferences are short, and if I bring someone with me, it's not so much work as vacation."
Dawn smiled tightly, looking out the plane window as they slowly climbed away from the airport. Swatches of clouds whipped past the glass, and she tried to appear fascinated by the view. Maybe then her self-appointed traveling companion would shut up.
"So, you in med school? Law school? Bet you're at one of those big Boston colleges - you look like a smart woman, and I can tell!" he chortled behind her. Ugh. No such luck.
Dawn plastered a smile on her face and turned, once again noting the man's appearance. Wet, she decided. It was one of the only things that instinctively repelled her – wetness. And this fine specimen had it all: shiny, watery blue eyes, beads of sweat around his brow… As she watched, a tiny sliver of pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips. Dawn fought back her revulsion, trying to remain civil. Thank god he hadn't taken off his suit jacket yet – the mere thought of the sweat stains made her squirm. She covered, beaming at him widely.
"Actually, I'm a sophomore in high school in Maine." The lies were spun easily; over the years she'd become a master of the thin deceit. Veneering, she termed it in her head. Simple, really: take the truth, shift it ever-so-slightly to the left. No need for elaborate webs…easier to remember this way, too.
"I'm going to visit my Dad – I haven't seen him in AGES, like, since fall!" she chirped, widening her eyes and pitching her voice a little higher than usual. Like any other American teenager, Dawn knew her range: with a little effort, she could stretch from a mature 14-year old to a slighty naïve 22-year old woman. Unfortunately, she'd misread the cues for this trip. In her efforts to thwart well-meaning flight staff, she'd aimed too old and now had this letch on her case. Dammit.
Dawn leaned conspiratorially across the aisle and whispered to her stunned-looking target. "Dad's really protective - he didn't want me to take the plane on my own, but I'm almost a legal adult, like, you know?" She pouted for good measure, but the businessman was retreating back to his side of the aisle hastily, his elbow connecting sharply with the stowed tray-table. Sounded painful, Dawn thought. Heh.
"Well, kiddo, I'm sure the stewardess will take good care of you. Enjoy the movie, have a good time with your Dad," he nodded at her, quickly turning to ruffle through the briefcase on the seat beside him, shutting her out completely. Dawn rolled her eyes and twisted back towards her window. She swallowed once, hard, popping the pressure in her ears. Long flight ahead, then.
Departing from Boston was weird, she thought. The way the plane was almost in the Boston Bay by the time it left the tarmac, the amount of Atlantic that stretched out to the horizon. The plane itself was practically empty at this time of day; not many wanted to head to California in the early afternoon, it seemed, and Dawn had found herself the sole passenger in her entire row. Maybe she'd stretch out a little later, she mused. Some of the other passengers had already done so, flipping up the intervening armrests and pulling little sleep-masks from their bags. Many of them looked like corporate people, on their way to meetings. Too jaded to enjoy the flight, thought Dawn. Pity.
The ride down to Boston with Sean had been fantastic. Music blasting, singing along at the top of their lungs, Dawn suddenly understood the thrall of the Road Trip. The four-hour drive had gone by in a flash. Dawn smiled to herself a little; getting a kiss at every red light had been quite the incentive to make the stretches in between to go by faster. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to remember the feeling of being around him, how he made her entire body electric. Too bad they hadn't been on the same flight out to the coast, but she'd see him again in a week.
The screen in the headrest of the seat in front of Dawn flickered to life and began to count down to the first movie screening. Dawn groaned inwardly, remembering her promise to Lise. Anything but 'Corelli's Mandolin', she prayed silently. This flight was annoying enough already.
Outside the window, the plane had finally made it through the heavy cloud-cover and Dawn could see the sun beaming brightly. Bizarre, she thought. It was so dark and rainy below, but once you got past that layer… It looked like a painting of heaven, all sunlight and white puffy clouds that seemed dense as a layer of cotton wool. Two different worlds. She felt the plane lurch a little as it leveled off a little and sensed the pressure building up in her ears again.
She was bending down, fishing a stick of gum out of her backpack when she felt the first shudder. She paused, still crouched, her seatbelt biting into her hips. Turbulence? The other passengers had felt it, too, lifting their blindfolds and looking around warily. Dawn sat up in her seat and peered out the window curiously.
A stewardess trotted by towards the cockpit, whispering assurances as she went. Everything looked pretty level, Dawn guessed… the clouds on the horizon were flat, the sun partially blocked by the left wing of the plane. Maybe a thermal had jostled them or something. Not that she knew what a thermal was, actually…
And then, as though in a movie, Dawn saw one of the left engines burst into flame. It exploded, literally. Sheets of metal whipped off of the wing as the orange glow of the blast subsided, and she could see right down into the guts of the engine, the turbines rattling uselessly in the wind. Dimly, she was aware that some of the other passengers were screaming. Her stomach was thrust violently into her throat as the plane began to lose altitude, but Dawn was motionless, transfixed by the view out her window. The cabin suddenly felt cold, and yellow cones tumbled from the overhead lockers – oxygen, she registered dimly. The plane lurched; Dawn felt the belt pressing down across her thighs, as though her seat was dropping out from under her. Clouds streamed past the window and her eyes darted, trying to track them, making her head ache and her eyes burn.
She could just recognize that the moist man from across the aisle was leaning across towards her, trying to fit a mask to her face, when everything went white, then black, then out.
Spike burst through the doors of the hospital at a run, startling the few people in the waiting room. He quickly picked out the registration desk and marched over to it purposefully, causing the candy striper behind the desk to gasp and scoot out of arm's reach.
"Sheila!" the girl's voice was slightly panicked, but Spike wasn't in the mood to take his time.
"Dawn Summers, car accident, I got a call," he gritted out, and the girl scrambled to enter the information into her computer.
"Yes, sir," she stammered, fixing her eyes on her screen rather than the man in front of her. He was practically crackling, and obviously none too patient. The girl exhaled in relief as she found the file number easily and jumped up to rifle through some clipboards behind the desk.
"Yes, sir, she's just been admitted to the main hospital from the ER, so she might not even be in her room yet, we've only just gotten the paperwork here." The stuttering girl took a closer look at the clipboard she was holding, looking confused. "Did you say car accident? Because I think…"
"Evie, put that down." Spike turned to see another volunteer marching towards reception, her face set in irritation. Sheila was a solid woman of 65, and didn't appreciate being rushed. Her pink volunteer smock stretched tightly across her chest and hips, giving her the air of a well-caulked battleship. Even as she looked at Spike, the resentment was clear on her face – another pushy punk, she thought. She tugged at her smock, eyes narrowing. She knew how to deal with this type; take him down a peg, make him respect the hospital's authority. She would let him know that punks had no privileges here. But first, she'd have to set that teenager straight about a couple of things… Evie quailed at her approach and set the clipboard down on the desk, one hand gingerly resting across the paper.
As Sheila passed by him, Spike scented fresh cigarette smoke trailing behind her. Interrupted her break, had he? He leaned a little further over the counter, trying to get a better look at the clipboard, but Evie had unintentionally obscured the entire chart with her hand. He ground his teeth as Sheila made a show of ignoring him, advancing on the young volunteer.
"Now what did I tell you?" Sheila shoved a couple of chairs out of her way, wedging herself through the small space with some difficulty. "I don't know why they keep sending you young kids up here – know how to use the computers, sure, but pay no attention to the regulations!" Evie began to sputter apologies, but Sheila wasn't in the mood to hear them. "No, don't bother saying anything now. Never give out ANY information without identification," Sheila snapped bitterly, waving Evie aside and going for the clipboard.
But Spike had assessed the situation and taken his opportunity. In one sharp movement he twitched the top sheet out from under Evie's hesitant fingers and stepped well back from the desk. Sheila shouted angrily from the other side of the long counter, but couldn't possibly make her way back through the maze of chairs at any speed, and her bulk already had Evie backed in a corner. Spike ignored both women as he began to jog along the hallway towards the Pediatrics ward, scanning the sheet. Room 15b, Cressiden Wing. He could do that.
She looked so frail.
Spike stood outside of the door, all his pent-up energy gone. Through the tiny plexiglass window, he could just make out Dawn's form on the hospital gurney, her hair contrasting starkly with the sterile white surroundings. An IV tower obscured his view, but at the same time, Spike was reluctant to step through the door and get a better look.
He glanced down at the chart crumpled in his hand. It bore Dawn's name, her age, a few other details that could be assessed on sight… and, Spike noted, his phone number. He twisted the paper in his hands, cursing Sheila from afar. The rest of the chart would've told him what was wrong with his girl. The rest of the damn chart would've given him a little warning, let him know what to expect. He shut his eyes tightly, one hand on the door. No use wishing now. The door opened with a sucking sound, and the scent of ammonia and antiseptic assaulted his nose.
"You need, like, fake tan or something." The voice was weak and strained - but definitely conscious. Dawn blinked up at him dazedly, but with a wry smile tugging at her lips. The sight of Spike in the brightly-lit hospital was oddly amusing to Dawn. It probably had something to do with all of the painkillers she'd been given over the last three hours, but she couldn't help giggling. She'd never seen him in such bright light… .actually, he looked kind of ashen, she mused. Then again, everyone looks a little funny under fluorescent lights.
Spike didn't respond, too busy looking over every inch of her. The most obvious injury was the cast on her arm, bound tightly across her chest in a sling – he had seen that as soon as he stepped into the room. An IV needle fed into her right hand, the entry point hidden under layers of bandages. A starched sheet was pulled up to her waist, but he could see an unusual lump down by her right ankle. An aircast, maybe? Someone had pulled her hair back into a vaguely controlled ponytail, which only emphasized the shiner on her left eye. Spike squinted; both eyes, on second thought. But other than that, she was in one piece. He let go of all the awful images he'd concocted on the long drive down to Concord and looked up at the laughing girl.
"Well, you're pretty damned chipper for someone who looks like hell."
Dawn snorted, then winced. "Yeah, well, look who's talking." She struggled to sit up further in her bed, but Spike pinned her shoulder to the mattress with one hand and waved a remote in her face. She grimaced and pushed the button that would tilt the backrest further forward. "Spike, I'm okay. Seriously, I'm just a little rattled."
He nodded, but kept looking at her, as though waiting for a more honest admission. Too bad, she thought. Feeling high as a kite right now, not a care in the world – nothing more to tell. She grinned at him toothily; Spike wasn't in the mood for laughing.
"I should never have let you drive down here with him – should've done the damn thing myself." He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his left fist bunched in the blanket. "That boyfriend of yours around?"
"What?" Dawn stared at him, then shook her head. "No, no – he's probably in Seattle. He lives there." She leaned back, her earlier energy expended.
"Oh, well that's nice," he growled. "At least Red stuck around last time." Dawn's eyes widened at the rumble in his voice, her forehead creased. She looked a little wary, and extremely confused. But exhaustion overcame her curiosity - she groaned and closed her eyes again, turning her head away from Spike.
"Oh, whatever - don't talk about Sean anymore, I don't want to talk about any of this anymore," she grunted, scowling. Fine, thought Spike. She didn't want to talk about the sod who crashed the car, fine. He could always move onto other matters.
"I notice that my phone number's on here – and no one else's." Spike brandished his stolen paperwork at Dawn, and she shrugged. Her moods changed at an alarming rate, Spike noticed. Fast on the heels of that observation he saw the way she was trembling slightly, as though tired beyond endurance, and he suddenly realized that now might not be the time.
"Later, love," he added softly, reaching down and brushing the center of her palm with his fingertips. She reflexively curled her fist around his fingers and held tight. Like an infant, Spike thought absently. He swallowed tightly and stroked the back of her wrist with his thumb.
Dawn noticed his change in attitude and relented; she wasn't really understanding half of what he said through the drugs, and she was pretty sure she wasn't making much sense, but she weakly gave it a try. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
"Sorry about the phone call - I wasn't really thinking at that point," she admitted. "Concussion, something like that." She pouted. "I'm woozy…"
"That's because you should be asleep." A voice from the door caused Spike to spin about quickly. "And your friend might be providing a little more excitement than you need at the moment." The white-clad doctor raised an eyebrow at Spike, obliquely referring to the performance at the front desk. Spike straightened up defensively, stepping a little closer to Dawn.
"Oh, Dr. Prescott! Don't worry, Spike's British," Dawn tried to explain, but her mouth was no longer cooperating with her mind and the sentence earned her blank stares from both men. She topped the statement off by waving her arm a little too energetically and nearly toppling the IV pole. Spike lunged to grab it, righting it with a glance at the doctor.
"Bloody hell – how hard did she hit her head?" he muttered as he tucked Dawn back in. She snorted at his words, then pouted and scooted further down in the bed.
Across the room, Dr. Prescott's posture was deceptively relaxed, leaning against the doorframe leading to the hallway. If Spike hadn't been so preoccupied, he might have noticed how closely the doctor was observing the ongoing scene.
Dr. Prescott noted the way the young man contained his patient's movements efficiently, familiar motions that signified a long acquaintance. Dawn grumbled a little at her confinement, but one quick look from Spike silenced her. The way his hands swept down her arms, drawing them back onto the bed while surreptitiously checking for scrapes or bumps. When he reached her wrists, Spike gently brushed the IV bandage with his thumb to see it was secure.
He was an interesting conflict, thought Dr. Prescott – at first glance, Spike seemed to be all angular sharpness. But now, with this girl, he had softened. His movements belied his appearance, smooth and graceful, boneless. The tough-guy act that Sheila had reported (shrilly, as usual) was barely notable in the presence of Dawn; Dr. Prescott silently watched their interaction, trying to puzzle out the relationship between the two.
Spike didn't seem violent, which was a relief – Sheila's histrionics had caused Dr. Prescott to head for Dawn's room at a sprint, his stethoscope trailing behind him, expecting the worst. When he'd peered through the tiny window and seen the look of delight on his patient's face, he'd decided to catch his breath before confronting the young intruder. But after his interruption, the situation had gotten even more confusing. Spike's accent ruled him out as an older brother, and he was far too young to be Dawn's father. He also didn't seem to be a boyfriend, for all his protective instincts. The level of comfort between them, the way Spike hovered, the way Dawn trusted him completely… Dr. Prescott mulled. A mystery, indeed.
Dawn murmured happily as Spike neatly folded her arms under the covers and reached up to her brow, clearing the wispy fly-away hairs from her eyes. The practical movement turned into a repetitive caress, running across her temple and down to her jawline. Dawn leaned into his hand and sighed, closing her eyes. And only then did Dr. Prescott see the young man's shoulders relax, the tension easing perceptibly. Only then did Dr. Prescott feel that he could interrupt again.
"Would you like to discuss this outside?" he asked, opening the door and discreetly waving away the security team lurking by the elevator bay. Spike's head jerked up suspiciously, his hand covering Dawn's again. Protective, fatherly. Dr. Prescott changed his approach.
"Dawn will be very tired for the next couple of hours," he confided quietly. "We gave her some pain medication while setting her break, and it really would be best to allow her to sleep it off." He watched Spike's face as he weighed the options. Finally, the dark head bowed to take one last searching look at Dawn, then nodded.
He gestured to Dr. Prescott formally. "After you, doc."
TBC
