*

The steps slip away under her feet, but she barely notices.  Something in her body is alive and desperate, reaching for the twitching figure with all its might.  And Dawn lets it go, lets it flow, out from her tight chest and throat in a burst of soothing green.  As it flees her body, it leaves a euphoric feeling in its wake; an undertow that ripples through her, leaves her boneless.  Leaves her weak.

But she's too far gone to notice.  Like a switch has flipped in her mind, she feels her eyes lose focus, her consciousness begin to slip away.  But rather than slip down into blackness, she finds herself carried along in the tide – down her own arms, along her own fingers.  And then, away from her body in a lightening-quick leap that ends at Spike.

In Spike.  This Spike is not anyone one she knows – the jokes, the snarls, the leather and smoke.  All of the trappings have been stripped away.  This is a Spike of sinews and muscle, of calcium and blood.  His body is a whole new world, a universe to explore, and she marvels absently at its ingenuity.  But there is no time to sightsee; the coursing flow that has caught her up rushes on, intent on a task that she never knew she could do.

She scours every cell of him.  A diseased white coating, an oily sheen.  She rips them all off, one by one, hoping she hasn't gone too deep.  The routine gets easier as she goes along, marshalling his immune system as deputies.  Stripping toxins, consuming his death, cleaning as thoroughly as she can until the cool green energy has dulled so a murky algae gray.  Around her, his body convulses; but it is a good tightening, as his body recognizes all its parts again, regains the feeling of being whole and healthy and one.

It is a shock to be yanked from that body, cool and cleansed, and back into her own.

She has no energy left.  The swamp-colored energy eddies through her, transformed to a sickening poison.  Her body is her own again, but only for a moment; dimly, she feels the shattering pain as her ankle crumples in on itself, bones sliding together and grating so loud, she wonders that no one else can hear it.  But there's not enough time to think about it, as her knees hit the carpet – her skin rips neat and deep, a cut as precise as a surgeon's. 

Then the floor is rushing up to meet her, a glittering patch of stone and lacquer, and she finally registers fear.  She can feel herself sinking into unconsciousness, black and empty and welcoming, when something suddenly pulls her close. 


Something safe and solid, gently easing her to the ground.  Her body slackens and she lets it all go, abandoning the pain and confusion as the sound of two heartbeats thrum in her ears.

"Hospital."

Xander stumbled down the steps, moving all at once.  "We have to get her to the hospital, before anything else happens to her – what the hell DID happen to her?  She just fell!"

Buffy looked to Spike, but he was too wrapped up in Dawn to offer any solutions.  He was making quick, gentle adjustments to the unconscious girl's form, easing her against his chest in a position more natural to her body.  Dawn lolled against him, completely unconscious.

"Dawn, sweetie, can you open your eyes?" Buffy leaned close over her sister, surreptitiously checking her breath, her pulse.  Spike reluctantly edged back to give her space.

"She's out – don't know what did it, but I definitely heard her ankle go before she fell."  He peeled Dawn's hair off her sweat-dampened forehead, tucking it behind her ear expertly.

Buffy looked at him.  "And you – you're fine now."  The question was flat and hard, leached of all emotion.  Spike swallowed.

"Yeah, fine.  You're heading to the hospital?"  There were more important things to talk about.

For once, Xander agreed with Spike.  "Yeah, Buff, we gotta get her help," he affirmed.  There was a time to explore Spike's miraculous healing, and that time was later.  "I'll go pull the car up."  He spun and darted out the door, kicking a path through the debris as he went.

"Knees, ankle – did she hit her head?" 

"No, I got her," Spike replied.  "But she might have some bruises, I don't know how much pressure I put on her when I grabbed her."

"Okay, okay," Buffy breathed.  Her hands danced over Dawn, first along her face, then her shoulder, her shin.  Long sweeping gestures that checked for any injuries, but ended as worried caresses.  She looked up at Spike.  "Do you think she can move?"

"On her own?  No," Spike said, shifting gradually.  Wordlessly, Buffy reached out to take some of Dawn's weight.  Between them, they managed to cradle her sideways against Spike's chest as he sat upright, her head pinned delicately between his jaw and shoulder, her arms folded up against her chest.  Working together in perfect harmony, all their attention focused on the fragile girl.

Xander reappeared, panting.  "Okay, I'm on the sidewalk – should we put her in the bed, or in the cab?" 

"Bed'll jolt her," Spike snapped, more in concern than irritation.  Buffy nodded, turning to face Xander.

"I'll sit in the cab, put her on my lap – you drive slow, and I'll be able to hold her still," she explained.  There was a rustling noise behind her, and she spun back around.

"Let's go, then."  Spike was on his feet, Dawn still in his arms.  He was speaking to her, something low and murmured that Buffy couldn't quite make out, and his expression was… complicated.  Intensity, trust, hope, anger, fear; he nodded shortly to Xander and swept up the stairs, his way clear along the path that the man had made.

Then he did something odd. 

He stopped where the sunlight streamed in through the door, his head tilted to the side quizzically.  Dawn shifted a little in his arms, and he looked down at her, his throat closing up.  He wasn't sure what she had done, and he didn't know why she had done it.  But whatever it was, it had left him whole and her in pieces, so he would accept it and be grateful. 

No matter what she had done, he told himself firmly, he would accept it.  Gently, deliberately, he took one step into the broad daylight.

Buffy saw the result immediately.  Every covered part of Spike began to smoke, that strange misty-smoke that filtered through cotton and wool and smelled like dead leaves.  Spike stepped back into the shadows of the store as soon as it happened, turning away from the light as though pained by the sight of it.  As he twisted, she could see the raised blisters on his hands, the red sheen to his face. 

Something in her heart lurched as he turned, his back to the world once more.  His entire being was visibly closing up, hiding away the emotions that had raged in him only moments earlier.  It was a stern reaction, lips pressed together tight, his head shaking minutely as though he was arguing with himself.  She looked out the door again, to where Xander's truck gleamed bluely.  What had that been about?

"You have to take her," Spike gritted out.  He turned to Xander, still standing at the bottom of the stairs. 

"Oh – okay." Xander was taken aback for a moment; since when would Spike relinquish Dawn to HIM?  A part of him gloated.  Finally, something Spike had to hand over.  But the vampire was so serious, so tense… And honestly, Xander didn't really want to gloat.  Dawn was hurt, they had to help her.  Any way they could.

The transfer was quick, a delicate tipping of Dawn's weight from Spike's body to Xander's.  Buffy hovered anxiously, keenly aware that she had to wait for her turn until they reached the car.  She picked up one of Dawn's flip-flops from the ground and carefully slipped the other shoe from her right foot, desperately looking for something to do.

"Okay, we're ready," Xander said.  Spike stepped back, a strangely formal gesture, his shoulders stiff and eyes glittering.

It wasn't fair to leave him like this, Buffy thought.  Her sister murmured in Xander's arms, and Spike made an arrested movement towards her.  It was hardly noticeable, but combined with the way his eyes followed her, how every muscle in his body was forced to stay still?  She couldn't leave him like this.

"Go back to the house," she murmured, laying a hand on his arm.  He blinked, dragging his eyes away from Dawn, his intense stare resting on Buffy heavily.  She caught her breath.

"What?"  He heard her, of course – this was a different question, and she heard all it encompassed.  She also knew how important her response would be.

"Please go back to the house; we'll bring her back there, she'll want to see you."  Because Dawn would want to see him, that was true.  But he smiled; she hadn't revoked his invitation; she wanted him close.

"Right, pet."  He grew serious again.  "Be very careful with her joints – it might not just be bones, it could be ligaments."  He was nervous and overcompensating, and he knew it.  He stepped back again, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  "Go.  She'll hurt when she wakes up."

Buffy turned to Xander.  "Ready?"

"Set."  He gently hoisted Dawn in his arms, waiting for Buffy to lead the way.

Spike didn't watch as they went into the glaring sunlight, still scuffing his boots in the papers at his feet.  He couldn't follow them into that harsh brightness; he wasn't sure if he was anguished, or relieved.

The butcher didn't recognize him at first, but it didn't last long.  A request for two pints and a quick flash of fang not only got him the old discount, but a remarkably affectionate welcome.  Spike smiled to himself – he, or at least his business, had been missed.

He entered the house with little problem; Buffy hadn't thought to give him the key, and he hadn't thought to ask.  But those girls never really caught on to the fact that open windows on the ground floor were just as accessible as doors to him, and it was a moment's work to scramble into the kitchen.  Lacking in grace, maybe, but got the job done.

He'd managed to scrounge an old storage blanket from the Magic Box; he left it on the porch, letting it smolder in solitude.  It would be best to get any hunger-pains out of the way now, while the girls were out, he supposed.  It would also give him the chance to test his theory further. 

He warmed a cup of blood, braced himself and then gulped it down in hurried swallows.  It tasted the same, tinny and thick, slightly textured, nourishing.  No difference at all.  He washed the mug briskly, setting it back exactly where he'd found it.  Hopefully, the blood scent would be gone when the girls got home.

Which could take hours, come to think of it.  It could take hours for her to clear through the hospital, considering their experience in Massachusetts, and in the meanwhile….

He was alone, and invited, in Buffy's house.  

He tucked the brown-bagged blood in the back of the fridge, snagged a couple of stale pretzels from a bowl in the middle of the kitchen counter, and began to roam. 

The house was much as he remembered, with a few purely Harris touches.  Foolish little racks here and there, well-made but generally unnecessary.  The coffee table was entirely new – he wondered what had brought that change about. 

Most of the photos were old, featuring Buffy, Dawn, Joyce.  Some newer ones had Xander, grinning wide.  Spike studied those shots carefully, trying to judge the boy's expression.  He looked proud, arrogant, confidant – and, Spike hated to admit, devoted.  Perhaps not devoted in the same way he himself was, but emotions ran deep.  He sighed, propped the frame upright again.  Harris now came as part of the Summers package, it seemed.  He turned away from the living room and wandered back into the kitchen.

The basement was completely new.  Obviously, Harris had spent a lot of time down here; the space had become a training room, well-ventilated and well-lit.  Buffy's arsenal adorned the walls, old favorites hanging near the stairs within easy reach.  He paced around slowly, careful not to touch anything.  Some of the weapons were completely unrecognizable, random twists of wood and metal that made Spike vaguely uncomfortable.  He made his way up the stairs warily – a lot of things had changed.

And there was upstairs.  Oh, he didn't want to go there – it was off-limits, he knew, somewhere he shouldn't wander.  But another, masochistic part of him insisted that he climb the stairs, ignore Buffy's room, ignore Dawn's.  He headed straight for the white-tiled room that featured so prominently in his memory.

It was so small.  That was the first thought that struck him; in his memory, it was vast and unforgiving, a huge arena in which he'd lost a horrible battle.  The room was lit by filtered sunlight, a hazy glow that made edges softer, took away the stark sheen.  Stepping inside, his senses flared – smells of Buffy, yes, but also the more astringent smell of Xander.  Cologne, shaving cream, antiperspirant; a thoroughly masculine thread overlaid Buffy's florals, sullied them.  He absently wondered if Buffy would smell Harris-like, purely from sharing a bathroom. 

No, the room was different now.  Before, it had been her room, a private room, an inner sanctum.  She would never have let him in, he guessed, much as she had locked away other parts of her.  And the drive to convince her, to show her that he belonged…

He stepped out of the room and quickly ran down the stairs.  That drive had gotten him to where he was today.  Sitting on a chair in the Summers' living room, an interloper, waiting for his damaged girls to come home.  He'd never meant to hurt either of them, they meant more to him than the world - but he'd broken them both, just the same.

The door slammed open much earlier than he expected, startling him out of a much-needed doze.  He sprang to his feet, remembering all at once that he had no weapon, wondering if he could get to the basement in time.

"Oh.  You're here."  Xander looked at him dispassionately; Spike instinctively slouched into a nonchalant pose.

"Buffy told me to wait," he drawled.  Xander shrugged, turned around.

"Buff, Spike's inside – that okay?"

"Yeah!"  Buffy appeared in the doorway, Dawn in her arms.  Again, Spike noticed the incongruity of Buffy carrying a taller girl.  But then Dawn lifted her head and met his eyes, and nothing else mattered.

"Love, you all right?"  He crossed the room quickly and Dawn reached for him, an unexpected move that nearly set Buffy off-balance.  She swiftly decamped to the couch, setting her sister down in the center with infinite care.  Spike followed, his gaze never leaving Dawn. 

The intensity between them was electric, and it made Buffy a little nervous.  The timbre in his voice changed as he spoke to her, and Dawn responded in kind.  They were speaking lowly, half-muttered phrases incomprehensible to Buffy.  She shifted a little.  They were so close.  This was weird.

"You what?"  Spike said loudly to Dawn, turning to Buffy.  "You didn't take her to the hospital?  Where were you?"

Buffy stifled her irritation.  "We kind of realized that it might not be a good thing, bringing her to an emergency room full of injured people."

"Yeah, I could get worse, it would suck."  Dawn smiled up at him wanly.  Her black eyes were back, and she truly looked as though she'd been drained.  Pale and sickly, hollow.  His heart double-beat again, erratically, and he winced.

"She was fine in Massachusetts," Spike rumbled.  They'd put ace bandages here and there, but what if there was something deeper wrong, something they couldn't see…

Xander stepped in.  "Yeah, and suburban Mass has SO much in common with Sunnydale, Spike."  Spike glowered.  "We're talking the difference between bagel-cutting incidents and demonic attacks.  So no, we thought we'd make it a home job."

"It's okay, really!"  Dawn soothed, and Spike immediately felt guilty.  She was the one hurt, he should be putting her at ease – certainly not the other way around.  He swiftly schooled his features, nodded, shrugging apologetically at Buffy.

Buffy understood; she'd been just as furious when Xander had brought up the problem in the first place.  More furious because it was a good point.  She rolled her eyes a little and shrugged, still miffed, but relenting.

Dawn fidgeted a little; all three heads snapped around to look at her, and she laughed. 

"Guys, I'm fine – tired again, which is totally annoying, and I've got a monster headache," she stopped in mid eye-roll as the movement made her head twinge, "and ow, but honestly?"  She slumped suddenly, and Spike moved closer, sliding his arm around her caving shoulders.  "I just want to go to sleep for a while."

"Then you will."  Gracefully, Spike swept her up, a move that somehow managed to catch her up without jarring her body or her headache.  Dawn sighed happily, and Buffy reluctantly waved her consent to Spike's querying glance. 

"I'll call Giles," she said wearily.  "He might know what's going on here."  She rose to her feet as Dawn smiled.  She leaned over; one of Dawn's eyebrows was sticking up awkwardly, an angular peak.  She smoothed it down with her thumb, and Dawn leaned into the touch.  For a moment she was thrown by the contact, the way her sister drifted towards her, letting her eyes close, looking so peaceful. 

"You rest, sweetie, I'll bring something up later," she whispered.  Dawn nodded drowsily, her head falling back on Spike's chest.  Buffy smiled helplessly, an expression that lingered when she looked up to Spike's face – and saw the same smile.  It was a giddy feeling; Dawn was safe and loved, and here.

"No no, don't go," Dawn mumbled from the bed as Spike tried to slip from the room.  He returned to her bedside, kneeling close, but she scooted backwards and gestured for him to climb up on the covers beside her.

"Dawn, love, I don't think…"

She snorted.  Unfortunately, that made her head hurt; she pressed a hand to her temple and grimaced.  "Not like that, dork, you're like my brother.  Oh, and ick much?  No, it's something else."

Hesitantly, one eye on the door, he lay down on the bed.  "One sound from those stairs, nibblet…"

"Shhh."  Dawn pressed her ear to his chest, listening hard.

There it was.  Not a regular heartbeat by any means; a deep thumping, like the beat of a drum.  She reached up to her neck and took her own pulse, timing it with his.  In comparison, she thrummed like a hummingbird, about four beats to every one of his.  She lifted her head.

"I thought so." Her voice was hushed, but her eyes glittered with excitement.

"Don't get all worked up, it's slowing down."  Spike didn't need to press his ear to Dawn's chest to hear her heart – it pounded in his ears whenever she was close, a slightly faster beat than Buffy's, light and sweet where Buffy's pounded deep and rich.  Unchanging, always.

"But it's there," she breathed.  "And that might mean…"

"No."  He stopped her.  "No, Dawn – I still burn in the sun, I still drink blood.  Nothing changed for me at all."

She looked at him, her expression thoughtful.  "So… you thought so, too?"

He closed his eyes; she was too bright to look at.  "Yeah, bit.  Maybe," he said tightly.

That was answer enough.  She burrowed further under the covers until she was flat on her stomach – an ungainly pose, but it was Spike, so it didn't matter.  She turned her face towards him; he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with an unfathomable expression.  Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder.  A show of understanding, sympathy – there was no way to put it into words.

It didn't take long for Dawn's breaths to even and steady.  It was only then that he reached to cover her hand in his, let himself envy and pity the pulse at her wrist, and fall into a troubled sleep.

TBC