*
The phone vibrated quietly, a low buzz that could've been mistaken for the central heating to one unused to it. The sound hummed from underneath the bed, just beyond the drape of the comforter, exactly where he put it every night in his own room.
He answered it before the second ring.
"Xander?"
"Yes." He hadn't been asleep - not really. But the last traces of sleep were chased off by Dawn's voice as it echoed down the line. She sounded somehow smaller, and his mind's eye immediately threw up an image of her, curled up in a corner, blackened eyes wide and frightened. He slipped off of the bed quickly, leaving Willow still curled and sleeping, speaking low.
"Dawn - are you okay? It's..." he caught a glimpse of the kitchen clock as he went into the living room, "...late. Where's Buffy?"
"She and Spike are out on patrol, and they're not the problem." She got the words out quickly, but could hear Xander's breath catch anyways. "Giles called."
The thought of Buffy patrolling with Spike was one thing; but news from Giles? Sounded like a time for action. "Oh! Uh, okay... Does he know what's going on?" It was hard to find his keys in the darkness - he decided to put on his shoes, worry about the keys later.
Dawn sighed. "Not exactly - but he has found someone to help! Two people, actually, and they're coming in the morning, and I'm really, really sorry to call you while you're at Willow's, but I'd kind of like you around, if that's all right?"
Her matter-of-fact tone stopped him in his tracks, one boot half-laced. "You - you know where I am?"
"Yeah, and I think it's good. Being alone is..." Suddenly, Xander heard Dawn gasp; somewhere in the background there was noise, a thudding, a shuffling sound - then quiet.
"...creepy," Dawn finished. But now her voice was hushed and hollow, watchful.
Xander froze where sat on the couch, staring at the carpet fixedly. "Where are you, Dawn." His mind raced, the blueprints of the Summers house flashing through his head.
"Basement." Hardly more than a breath, hardly escaping her mouth. And frightened.
Logically, he knew it was the safest place for her to be. He'd built it himself, a veritable fortress - but those sounds. They made him think of the small windows at ground level through which someone could peer, and that was enough to throw him into a panic. Imagining someone looking at Dawn, watching her, cataloguing her injuries. Planning...
"Dawn, there's a corner." His mind raced. "It's over near the punching bag. Go sit in that corner, as wedged tight as you can against the wall. Bring a blanket or something, pile it up on top of you. Are you hearing me? Dawn?"
"Yes." Again, the shortest answer possible, barely audible. But he could hear her moving, the rustle of her clothes as they rasped against the rough futon cover.
"Dawn - I'm on my way right now, I can be there..." He would break every law he had to. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
More rustling, then the sleek sound of cotton on cement as she began to crawl across the floor. "Yeah."
"I'm getting my keys now, honey - just keep moving, stay low..." Xander turned, eyes wildly raking every surface, every cushion, until a sharp glittering in the bedroom doorway caught his eye.
Willow. Xander felt as though he had suddenly been plunged into cold water, a chill that ran through his very veins. In the moonlight her face was drawn and pale, a frightening alabaster shade eerily reminiscent of Drucilla's tone. She was fully dressed - a brown corduroy skirt that brushed the ground, a pink sweater that clung tight to her too-thin form. Both were crumpled, as though snatched from the floor in haste, and her hair was matted and wild.
But from her fingers dangled his keys, catching the light from the streetlamp as they swayed. In her hands. Not in his.
For a moment, he dreaded her. Only for a moment, but he had never been good at masking his emotions - and in the instant he glanced at her face, she recognized his expression. Her inquisitive, worried look vanished, replaced by a grief so deep... It hurt him to look at her, hurt to even imagine how she could feel that much anguish and still live. But somehow she did, and somehow she forgave him for his suspicion, accepted it as her due. And even as her oldest, dearest friend tried to chase away his mistrust and fear, she hid her hurt deep inside and understood.
"Here," she whispered, unconsciously mimicking his volume. She padded over to him and pressed the keys into his hand gently, then withdrew again. Xander's stomach lurched - she tried so hard, never asked for anything, and how did he repay that kind of loyalty?
"Willow..." he said, hoarsely. She was only a couple of feet away, but she didn't step closer at the sound of her name. Her hand came up in a warding- off gesture, palm pushing the nothingness away, trying to forget.
"Willow?" Dawn's whisper startled him; he'd totally forgotten about the phone, distracted by his own betrayal. And then another word, tagged onto the last with a plaintive twist: "Willow... please?"
"It's Dawn." She'd turned back to her bedroom, probably hoping to sleep it away, to count this moment as just another nightmare; but at this she stopped still. She didn't turn. She waited.
"Willow, Dawn's alone in the house, in the basement... there's something going on, I need to get back there." He stood, brought the phone to her, touched her back. "Dawn wants to talk to you, Will."
Willow tried to remember the last time she'd had this dream; the one where her friends called her, needed her, talked to her and said her name. It must've been months ago - she remembered waking up slowly one morning, the leisurely consciousness of someone only just rising from an excellent sleep. She remembered thinking that she must start that research immediately, must work on that project that she and Buffy had talked about so long yesterday, the long conversation that had flowed from business to pleasure, when Buffy had told her "I can't think of anyone else I'd trust with this, Will." And then the red and gold leaves outside the window had parted, letting in a brilliant, blinding flash of sunlight - and she'd realized that it had never happened at all.
She'd felt hollowed-out for days, as though the hope had puffed her up and filled in places she'd managed to forget. And they were now empty, or missing. Just phantom limbs belonging to a half-lived life.
But Xander had brought the phone closer to her ear, and the sounds at the other end shattered through the protective, defensive wall she'd built up. Dawn was breathing too fast, in quick snatches, the kind of breathing that made Willow light-headed even listening to her. And then, in the background.... a horrible, dragging noise. A laugh, quickly stifled. All too close for comfort, and Dawn was all alone.
"Please..." Dawn's pleading whisper made Willow snatch for the phone like a lifeline. Yes, it might just be another dream. But if she could help her friends, even in dreams, she would.
Xander watched as Willow's posture changed; he'd hesitated a moment, wondering if this pressure would be too much. But having taken the chance, he was thrilled to see the way she straightened up, spoke soothingly and quietly, kept up a steady stream of reassurance to the frightened girl cowering in the basement.
"Dawnie, I'll keep talking to you, don't worry. You don't have to say anything, I'll just tell you stories, just listen to me talking, don't pay any attention to anything else, sweetie. Dawn, Xander'll be there soon..." Melodic, hypnotizing, her words chained together in a smooth patter that belied the difficulty Willow now had with stuttering her speech. Reluctantly but urgently, Xander stood and went to the door; the night air shocked a little as the door opened, and he turned to wave goodbye.
Willow fully intended to wave him on, to urge him away. But then a word trickled down the line, hopeful and fearful all at once, a word that fully expected rejection and yet risked the sound anyhow.
"Come?" A pause, ominous in its lack of thudding or scraping. Then, quieter, trembling: "Will - please, Willow, come?"
A mixture of emotions warred on Willow's face as she spoke, but determination ran through them all. Xander saw the change and paused, waiting.
She spoke calmly, promise inherent in her voice.
"We're coming now, Dawn. And we won't let you go, the whole way."
The attacks just wouldn't stop coming.
What had started as a quiet fight - just Buffy, Spike, and a couple of fledglings - had long since escalated into an all-out brawl. Spike blinked away the blood gushing into his eye from a scalp wound and focused on his most threatening opponent, whose parents could very well have been a porcupine and armadillo. The beast's armor was impressive, and he'd been gashed too many times by its quills for his own comfort.
It would've been all right, he reasoned, had it only been the fledges. But he hadn't reckoned on these reserves hiding around the corner, just aching to spring on a weakened Slayer and her out-of-practice sidekick. Because he did have to admit that he was out of practice - two years ago, he might've been able to bowl enough of them over to make an opening for himself and the Slayer, to make for the alcove where Kane had stood and make a night of it. But tonight he was struggling, and after almost an hour, the challengers were still coming in waves.
Buffy was faring no better. If Spike'd been in a chatting mood, he'd've been able to give her the full history of her current opponent: Faceless Eddie leered at her lewdly as he spouted an ongoing commentary of what he planned to do with her body - preferably deceased. The demon may once have been a man, but Buffy couldn't tell what type; his face had long since been ruined by the acidic secretions in his skin, eating raw holes and ulcers all over his form. His eyes were especially gruesome; the acid had chewed away the skin of his eyelids and run deep rivulets into his cheeks, leaving his pale blue corneas glistening at her rimmed with bloodshot veins.
"Buffy - spit!" Spike's shout was roughened from too much exertion, but she wasn't sure that she'd've made much sense of it anyhow.
"What?" she called back in irritation, and then she saw Faceless Eddie do the strangest thing. He reared his head back, made a deep, guttural sound, and...
"EUGH!" A huge gobbet of phlegm landed on her jacket and stuck there, a churning mass of yellowish green that bubbled fiercely. Spike's shout suddenly made sense. She looked to Eddie, outraged. "Did you just hock a loogie at me?"
But the demon only smiled. That strange, slow smile, she thought with dawning realization... And then she was stripping the jacket off frantically, the mucus having already eaten away an enormous patch and not showing any sign of stopping. In her haste, her wrist grazed across one of the bubbles, and pain immediately flashed up her arm, making her catch her breath harshly.
Eddie laughed, and reared back again.
Spike heaved the armadillo over the railing of the dock, the water splashing up to dash against his boots. The demon vanished beneath the waves in seconds. "See how your sodding armor fares in the water, then," Spike spat, and turned to face the alley again. For once, it seemed, the odds were going to work in his favor - his next opponent was one of the fledglings, gawky and awkward in the shadowed light, and not looking completely thrilled to be facing Spike.
Spike roared a laugh, relief and fury making his voice boom. "Boss sent you to get blooded? Hadn't got anything better to offer, Kane?" The alley offered no response, only gloomy shapes shifting in the dark.
Irked, Spike lunged at the boy - but something was wrong. It took a moment for him to realize that the boy wasn't in gameface, and for one split second he panicked. Was it some sort of trick? He pushed the boy from him and stared, dread and fear straining against the undeniable knowledge, deep in his bones, that this creature was not human anymore. But to harm another human... He couldn't risk it. And in those few seconds of doubt, the boy made his move.
"Spike, I helped you! It's Rick! The keys?" The boy wasn't totally stupid - he kept his voice low, tried to catch Spike's eye to impart the full weight of his words. Spike paused, confused. "No, punch me or something."
Catching on, though still slightly addled by the previous hour's fighting, Spike obeyed, laying the other vampire out on the dock with an eased punch. But he wasn't a fool, either; when the boy's eyes opened moments later, he found Spike kneeling above him, stake poised over his chest.
"What." Spike didn't have the time or the energy for games, and Rick could tell. His words tumbled out quickly.
"Decoy - this is a decoy. Kane got a bunch of demons together, waited for you, but he's gone! He left almost as soon as the fight started - he's not here for you."
Spike grabbed the boy harshly, one eye on the alleyway. "What? Who?"
"It's how he works, breaking you down! He has - projects!" Rick grasped at Spike's shoulder, and an odd expression came over his face. "It's the Slayer's sister he's after, your girl - Dawn."
TBC
The phone vibrated quietly, a low buzz that could've been mistaken for the central heating to one unused to it. The sound hummed from underneath the bed, just beyond the drape of the comforter, exactly where he put it every night in his own room.
He answered it before the second ring.
"Xander?"
"Yes." He hadn't been asleep - not really. But the last traces of sleep were chased off by Dawn's voice as it echoed down the line. She sounded somehow smaller, and his mind's eye immediately threw up an image of her, curled up in a corner, blackened eyes wide and frightened. He slipped off of the bed quickly, leaving Willow still curled and sleeping, speaking low.
"Dawn - are you okay? It's..." he caught a glimpse of the kitchen clock as he went into the living room, "...late. Where's Buffy?"
"She and Spike are out on patrol, and they're not the problem." She got the words out quickly, but could hear Xander's breath catch anyways. "Giles called."
The thought of Buffy patrolling with Spike was one thing; but news from Giles? Sounded like a time for action. "Oh! Uh, okay... Does he know what's going on?" It was hard to find his keys in the darkness - he decided to put on his shoes, worry about the keys later.
Dawn sighed. "Not exactly - but he has found someone to help! Two people, actually, and they're coming in the morning, and I'm really, really sorry to call you while you're at Willow's, but I'd kind of like you around, if that's all right?"
Her matter-of-fact tone stopped him in his tracks, one boot half-laced. "You - you know where I am?"
"Yeah, and I think it's good. Being alone is..." Suddenly, Xander heard Dawn gasp; somewhere in the background there was noise, a thudding, a shuffling sound - then quiet.
"...creepy," Dawn finished. But now her voice was hushed and hollow, watchful.
Xander froze where sat on the couch, staring at the carpet fixedly. "Where are you, Dawn." His mind raced, the blueprints of the Summers house flashing through his head.
"Basement." Hardly more than a breath, hardly escaping her mouth. And frightened.
Logically, he knew it was the safest place for her to be. He'd built it himself, a veritable fortress - but those sounds. They made him think of the small windows at ground level through which someone could peer, and that was enough to throw him into a panic. Imagining someone looking at Dawn, watching her, cataloguing her injuries. Planning...
"Dawn, there's a corner." His mind raced. "It's over near the punching bag. Go sit in that corner, as wedged tight as you can against the wall. Bring a blanket or something, pile it up on top of you. Are you hearing me? Dawn?"
"Yes." Again, the shortest answer possible, barely audible. But he could hear her moving, the rustle of her clothes as they rasped against the rough futon cover.
"Dawn - I'm on my way right now, I can be there..." He would break every law he had to. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
More rustling, then the sleek sound of cotton on cement as she began to crawl across the floor. "Yeah."
"I'm getting my keys now, honey - just keep moving, stay low..." Xander turned, eyes wildly raking every surface, every cushion, until a sharp glittering in the bedroom doorway caught his eye.
Willow. Xander felt as though he had suddenly been plunged into cold water, a chill that ran through his very veins. In the moonlight her face was drawn and pale, a frightening alabaster shade eerily reminiscent of Drucilla's tone. She was fully dressed - a brown corduroy skirt that brushed the ground, a pink sweater that clung tight to her too-thin form. Both were crumpled, as though snatched from the floor in haste, and her hair was matted and wild.
But from her fingers dangled his keys, catching the light from the streetlamp as they swayed. In her hands. Not in his.
For a moment, he dreaded her. Only for a moment, but he had never been good at masking his emotions - and in the instant he glanced at her face, she recognized his expression. Her inquisitive, worried look vanished, replaced by a grief so deep... It hurt him to look at her, hurt to even imagine how she could feel that much anguish and still live. But somehow she did, and somehow she forgave him for his suspicion, accepted it as her due. And even as her oldest, dearest friend tried to chase away his mistrust and fear, she hid her hurt deep inside and understood.
"Here," she whispered, unconsciously mimicking his volume. She padded over to him and pressed the keys into his hand gently, then withdrew again. Xander's stomach lurched - she tried so hard, never asked for anything, and how did he repay that kind of loyalty?
"Willow..." he said, hoarsely. She was only a couple of feet away, but she didn't step closer at the sound of her name. Her hand came up in a warding- off gesture, palm pushing the nothingness away, trying to forget.
"Willow?" Dawn's whisper startled him; he'd totally forgotten about the phone, distracted by his own betrayal. And then another word, tagged onto the last with a plaintive twist: "Willow... please?"
"It's Dawn." She'd turned back to her bedroom, probably hoping to sleep it away, to count this moment as just another nightmare; but at this she stopped still. She didn't turn. She waited.
"Willow, Dawn's alone in the house, in the basement... there's something going on, I need to get back there." He stood, brought the phone to her, touched her back. "Dawn wants to talk to you, Will."
Willow tried to remember the last time she'd had this dream; the one where her friends called her, needed her, talked to her and said her name. It must've been months ago - she remembered waking up slowly one morning, the leisurely consciousness of someone only just rising from an excellent sleep. She remembered thinking that she must start that research immediately, must work on that project that she and Buffy had talked about so long yesterday, the long conversation that had flowed from business to pleasure, when Buffy had told her "I can't think of anyone else I'd trust with this, Will." And then the red and gold leaves outside the window had parted, letting in a brilliant, blinding flash of sunlight - and she'd realized that it had never happened at all.
She'd felt hollowed-out for days, as though the hope had puffed her up and filled in places she'd managed to forget. And they were now empty, or missing. Just phantom limbs belonging to a half-lived life.
But Xander had brought the phone closer to her ear, and the sounds at the other end shattered through the protective, defensive wall she'd built up. Dawn was breathing too fast, in quick snatches, the kind of breathing that made Willow light-headed even listening to her. And then, in the background.... a horrible, dragging noise. A laugh, quickly stifled. All too close for comfort, and Dawn was all alone.
"Please..." Dawn's pleading whisper made Willow snatch for the phone like a lifeline. Yes, it might just be another dream. But if she could help her friends, even in dreams, she would.
Xander watched as Willow's posture changed; he'd hesitated a moment, wondering if this pressure would be too much. But having taken the chance, he was thrilled to see the way she straightened up, spoke soothingly and quietly, kept up a steady stream of reassurance to the frightened girl cowering in the basement.
"Dawnie, I'll keep talking to you, don't worry. You don't have to say anything, I'll just tell you stories, just listen to me talking, don't pay any attention to anything else, sweetie. Dawn, Xander'll be there soon..." Melodic, hypnotizing, her words chained together in a smooth patter that belied the difficulty Willow now had with stuttering her speech. Reluctantly but urgently, Xander stood and went to the door; the night air shocked a little as the door opened, and he turned to wave goodbye.
Willow fully intended to wave him on, to urge him away. But then a word trickled down the line, hopeful and fearful all at once, a word that fully expected rejection and yet risked the sound anyhow.
"Come?" A pause, ominous in its lack of thudding or scraping. Then, quieter, trembling: "Will - please, Willow, come?"
A mixture of emotions warred on Willow's face as she spoke, but determination ran through them all. Xander saw the change and paused, waiting.
She spoke calmly, promise inherent in her voice.
"We're coming now, Dawn. And we won't let you go, the whole way."
The attacks just wouldn't stop coming.
What had started as a quiet fight - just Buffy, Spike, and a couple of fledglings - had long since escalated into an all-out brawl. Spike blinked away the blood gushing into his eye from a scalp wound and focused on his most threatening opponent, whose parents could very well have been a porcupine and armadillo. The beast's armor was impressive, and he'd been gashed too many times by its quills for his own comfort.
It would've been all right, he reasoned, had it only been the fledges. But he hadn't reckoned on these reserves hiding around the corner, just aching to spring on a weakened Slayer and her out-of-practice sidekick. Because he did have to admit that he was out of practice - two years ago, he might've been able to bowl enough of them over to make an opening for himself and the Slayer, to make for the alcove where Kane had stood and make a night of it. But tonight he was struggling, and after almost an hour, the challengers were still coming in waves.
Buffy was faring no better. If Spike'd been in a chatting mood, he'd've been able to give her the full history of her current opponent: Faceless Eddie leered at her lewdly as he spouted an ongoing commentary of what he planned to do with her body - preferably deceased. The demon may once have been a man, but Buffy couldn't tell what type; his face had long since been ruined by the acidic secretions in his skin, eating raw holes and ulcers all over his form. His eyes were especially gruesome; the acid had chewed away the skin of his eyelids and run deep rivulets into his cheeks, leaving his pale blue corneas glistening at her rimmed with bloodshot veins.
"Buffy - spit!" Spike's shout was roughened from too much exertion, but she wasn't sure that she'd've made much sense of it anyhow.
"What?" she called back in irritation, and then she saw Faceless Eddie do the strangest thing. He reared his head back, made a deep, guttural sound, and...
"EUGH!" A huge gobbet of phlegm landed on her jacket and stuck there, a churning mass of yellowish green that bubbled fiercely. Spike's shout suddenly made sense. She looked to Eddie, outraged. "Did you just hock a loogie at me?"
But the demon only smiled. That strange, slow smile, she thought with dawning realization... And then she was stripping the jacket off frantically, the mucus having already eaten away an enormous patch and not showing any sign of stopping. In her haste, her wrist grazed across one of the bubbles, and pain immediately flashed up her arm, making her catch her breath harshly.
Eddie laughed, and reared back again.
Spike heaved the armadillo over the railing of the dock, the water splashing up to dash against his boots. The demon vanished beneath the waves in seconds. "See how your sodding armor fares in the water, then," Spike spat, and turned to face the alley again. For once, it seemed, the odds were going to work in his favor - his next opponent was one of the fledglings, gawky and awkward in the shadowed light, and not looking completely thrilled to be facing Spike.
Spike roared a laugh, relief and fury making his voice boom. "Boss sent you to get blooded? Hadn't got anything better to offer, Kane?" The alley offered no response, only gloomy shapes shifting in the dark.
Irked, Spike lunged at the boy - but something was wrong. It took a moment for him to realize that the boy wasn't in gameface, and for one split second he panicked. Was it some sort of trick? He pushed the boy from him and stared, dread and fear straining against the undeniable knowledge, deep in his bones, that this creature was not human anymore. But to harm another human... He couldn't risk it. And in those few seconds of doubt, the boy made his move.
"Spike, I helped you! It's Rick! The keys?" The boy wasn't totally stupid - he kept his voice low, tried to catch Spike's eye to impart the full weight of his words. Spike paused, confused. "No, punch me or something."
Catching on, though still slightly addled by the previous hour's fighting, Spike obeyed, laying the other vampire out on the dock with an eased punch. But he wasn't a fool, either; when the boy's eyes opened moments later, he found Spike kneeling above him, stake poised over his chest.
"What." Spike didn't have the time or the energy for games, and Rick could tell. His words tumbled out quickly.
"Decoy - this is a decoy. Kane got a bunch of demons together, waited for you, but he's gone! He left almost as soon as the fight started - he's not here for you."
Spike grabbed the boy harshly, one eye on the alleyway. "What? Who?"
"It's how he works, breaking you down! He has - projects!" Rick grasped at Spike's shoulder, and an odd expression came over his face. "It's the Slayer's sister he's after, your girl - Dawn."
TBC
