*
"What?" She couldn't process the words at first - Spike's fingers were digging sharply into the back of her arms as he shook her, and the pressure of each fingertip on already-battered skin was excruciating. He was almost too much to deal with right now, too intense, trying to take all of her attention... From somewhere bitter and small inside her, the word "typical" came to mind. And then she did look past him, saw the ruined heap of Faceless Eddie beginning to lurch to its feet. Would that thing never die?!?
"Dawn! Buffy, we have to leave. NOW." Under any other circumstances, he'd slap at someone's face to get their attention - but not her, not now.
He tried another tack, speaking in a low rumble that charged the air between them, catching her attention by vibration alone. "Kane's gone after Dawn - been gone well on an hour now." Behind him, he could feel the restless energy of the mob, churning, waiting.
Buffy looked at him, irritated and confused. And suddenly, realization kicked in.
"Oh my god." He let go of her immediately and stepped back, never leaving her eyes. Shock, anguish, panic, horror - and then a deep, burning anger that he could practically see as it diffused through her body, finally erupting from her throat, shocking even her.
A raw, wordless, strangled shriek of fury that sounded more animal than human. It echoed around the harbor, bouncing off siding and water and rattling about in the darkest corners. Spike felt, rather than saw the crowd of demons hang back; something about that uncontrolled rage made them reconsider, made them think that this might not be their night.
They seemed to draw away from her as she sprinted past them, a knife sliding through water. Spike followed in her wake, for a moment marveling at the power she could unconsciously wield. But as they ran, not speaking, past houses and storefronts and cemeteries, his mind began to anticipate the scene ahead.
He'd been away from this so long, these midnight panics; the sinking dread in the pit of his stomach felt ungainly and strange, dragging him down as he tried to keep up with the girl. And worse, now - so much worse. Because now he not only feared what might have happened, but he imagined what he might find. Every death he'd ever caused, looped through his head in a hellish marathon. And in every one, Dawn had the starring role, the dramatic death scene, the strangled plea or shuddered breath or moment of terror that made the kill worthwhile....
And a few steps in front of him, Buffy pushed her strained legs to run faster, the wind whipping tears from her eyes.
Xander's truck screeched into the driveway; Willow could hear the echo of the sound through the phone she kept cradled to her ear.
"Dawn, that was us - we're right outside." Willow went to jump out of the truck, but Xander grabbed onto her arm tight. "What? What's wrong with you?" she hissed angrily. How could he leave Dawn down there another minute, alone and frightened?
Xander held a finger to his lips and gestured to the phone, then pointed out the windshield. Irritated, Willow followed his gaze.
"Oh."
Some of the windows were broken, at the very least. The front door had been badly gouged, long ugly gashes that dug deep into the wood and looked like wounds in the glare of the headlights. And there was a... basket, or something?
"What? What's wrong?" Dawn's voice shrilled, though she kept her volume low. Willow paused for a moment, considering the situation.
"It's nothing, Dawn - we'll be in in a couple of seconds." Xander was busily fishing around at her feet; finally, he came up with a sort of compacted crossbow.
"Do you want me to come to the basement door, meet you?" Dawn asked, hopeful. It was the first time she'd uttered more than three words at once in the past forty-five minutes. Willow could hear her shifting on the other end of the line, ready to move.
"No, Dawn - you stay right where you are, we're coming to you," Willow replied, then carefully covered the receiver with her palm. "Xander - the sun's almost up, can't we just - go in?"
The withering look she got in return was a new one for her. "Yeah, 'cause we know so many vampires who obey that rule." She recoiled a little at the harshness of his tone, and he sighed. Worse, she flinched when he leaned towards her - he slowly leaned away again, berating himself for being so callous.
"I'll take the bow so you can stay on the phone; take your pick from there, though." He gestured towards the glove compartment briefly before carefully opening his door.
The drawer opened at a touch, and the amount of weaponry packed into one tiny space... "Gosh," Willow breathed, touching the carefully-arranged knives and stakes. Her fingers briefly found a row of small, shiny nubs; she snatched her hand away when she realized they were silver bullets.
Xander watched her, saw her smooth her reaction away. Unerringly, she reached back in and picked up one of the ridged stakes that had always been her standby. She didn't mention the bullets at all, her eyes slid over them as she closed the compartment and slid out of the truck.
It felt... okay, she realized. The balance of the stake in her hand was familiar, almost comfortable. She let out a tiny laugh as Xander came up beside her and faced the damaged house. He looked back through the windshield, and she saw him.
Really saw him. Not the vulnerable kid she'd loved, not the sentimental man who's saved her. He'd changed in the time she'd been gone, and it showed in every line of him. He'd become harder, crueler, more assured. "Older," she whispered to herself.
And he didn't need the twitchy nerd or the lovesick witch. When he looked at her, she felt the faith he had in her was tinged heavily with doubt. He would never say so to her, and that almost made it worse. He needed something from her, badly, and he wasn't sure if she could give it. But he waited for her anyhow, always willing to give her the chance.
Willow opened the door, stepped onto the tarmac, and decided to grow up.
They were taking so LONG.
Did they realize how much scarier it was to have them approach slowly, creaking the floorboards above her head with every step? Dawn understood the need for caution, but she'd been curled up on the cement floor for almost an hour. Every time she moved some joint cracked or muscle twinged, and the chill was seeping into her back where it was pressed against the wall. And even though Willow kept saying reassuring things, that didn't make it better. She wanted them here, now - she was done being alone and frightened.
She'd had the time to think of all the possibilities for the laughter, the crashing, the scraping sounds: though the wards and construction may have prevented vampires, what about regular human criminals? Buffy had always assured her that most Sunnydale human criminals were kind of eaten by the non-humans before they could get much experience, but... What if one of them knew how to open the door?
"Dawn?" She heard Xander's voice at the same time as his knock, a rapping that resounded in the reinforced door frame. She began to lurch towards the stairs as she heard his keys rattling on that enormous keychain he always carried around. She staggered to her feet, all her body cramping and straining at the effort. "Dawn, I'm unlocking the door, okay?"
"Hurry!" The word slipped out, and then she felt oddly ashamed for the desperation in her voice; her friends were here, they'd take care of it, there was no reason for her to rush them now. But relief overrode all other thought and she edged closer to the foot of the steps, eagerly staring at the deadbolt as it turned in the lock.
And then they were there. Even later, Dawn wouldn't be able to remember the moments between that turning lock and the sensation of Willow folded around her. The corduroy of Willow's skirt felt soothing against her cheek, and the fingers that so carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. She could hear Xander barring the door behind them, then pausing for only a second before taking off his jacket and tucking it around her shaking shoulders. The relief was chasing tension from her in humiliating jitters, making her feel embarrassed, weak.
"I've got you," Willow murmured into her hair, and Dawn sagged. She buried her head in the folds of Willow's sweater, her eyes smarting with tears. Faintly, she heard Willow say something about a basket, about Buffy, and she realized that she was drifting off. She grumbled a little and tried to sit up, but Willow laughed quietly above her and whispered. "It's all right, shhh - rest a little now, we're taking care of everything."
The woman's slim fingers gently drew Dawn's hair back from her brow and smoothed it down, then again, then again, and Dawn was asleep.
Slayer strength only did so much.
She was able to run miles without stopping. She could tear through walls, kick down metal doors, throw bodies for yards without breaking a sweat. It was ordained. It was a gift. The Slayer was designed to withstand almost anything.
But Slayers were also designed to be tools, human weapons. Cold and calculated, something a Watcher could point and fire and manipulate without qualm. And when she'd broken those rules, Buffy hadn't seen what that could mean.
Dawn. They couldn't understand, the others. She'd surrounded herself with single children, people whose lives were uncluttered by sibling rivalries and loyalties. She could go on forever trying to explain, and they'd never know. They couldn't.
Her heart was trying to leap out of her chest. The thought of Dawn in danger, in pain, in anything... Her blood ran cold, cramping those famous Slayer muscles, fatiguing her, so all she wanted to do was collapse and scream. She wasn't fast enough, she wasn't smart enough, and Dawn could be hurt, could be calling for her...
Her breath came in shattered gasps, furious shudders that racked through her. Her mind was on fire, a burning and dizzying heat that jarred with every step. She would die for her sister, had done and would do again, there was no question. Her ally, her charge, the only person in her world. The one person who meant she wasn't alone. To have Kane close to Dawn, to have Kane even think of her - Buffy's breaths began to sound in her ears as her throat narrowed, the panic rising with every step.
Being a Slayer was nothing. They all thought it should mean something, this mystical gift. But it meant nothing, not at all. She had no immunity from life, and if her sister was gone - Kane might as well rip her heart out.
TBC
"What?" She couldn't process the words at first - Spike's fingers were digging sharply into the back of her arms as he shook her, and the pressure of each fingertip on already-battered skin was excruciating. He was almost too much to deal with right now, too intense, trying to take all of her attention... From somewhere bitter and small inside her, the word "typical" came to mind. And then she did look past him, saw the ruined heap of Faceless Eddie beginning to lurch to its feet. Would that thing never die?!?
"Dawn! Buffy, we have to leave. NOW." Under any other circumstances, he'd slap at someone's face to get their attention - but not her, not now.
He tried another tack, speaking in a low rumble that charged the air between them, catching her attention by vibration alone. "Kane's gone after Dawn - been gone well on an hour now." Behind him, he could feel the restless energy of the mob, churning, waiting.
Buffy looked at him, irritated and confused. And suddenly, realization kicked in.
"Oh my god." He let go of her immediately and stepped back, never leaving her eyes. Shock, anguish, panic, horror - and then a deep, burning anger that he could practically see as it diffused through her body, finally erupting from her throat, shocking even her.
A raw, wordless, strangled shriek of fury that sounded more animal than human. It echoed around the harbor, bouncing off siding and water and rattling about in the darkest corners. Spike felt, rather than saw the crowd of demons hang back; something about that uncontrolled rage made them reconsider, made them think that this might not be their night.
They seemed to draw away from her as she sprinted past them, a knife sliding through water. Spike followed in her wake, for a moment marveling at the power she could unconsciously wield. But as they ran, not speaking, past houses and storefronts and cemeteries, his mind began to anticipate the scene ahead.
He'd been away from this so long, these midnight panics; the sinking dread in the pit of his stomach felt ungainly and strange, dragging him down as he tried to keep up with the girl. And worse, now - so much worse. Because now he not only feared what might have happened, but he imagined what he might find. Every death he'd ever caused, looped through his head in a hellish marathon. And in every one, Dawn had the starring role, the dramatic death scene, the strangled plea or shuddered breath or moment of terror that made the kill worthwhile....
And a few steps in front of him, Buffy pushed her strained legs to run faster, the wind whipping tears from her eyes.
Xander's truck screeched into the driveway; Willow could hear the echo of the sound through the phone she kept cradled to her ear.
"Dawn, that was us - we're right outside." Willow went to jump out of the truck, but Xander grabbed onto her arm tight. "What? What's wrong with you?" she hissed angrily. How could he leave Dawn down there another minute, alone and frightened?
Xander held a finger to his lips and gestured to the phone, then pointed out the windshield. Irritated, Willow followed his gaze.
"Oh."
Some of the windows were broken, at the very least. The front door had been badly gouged, long ugly gashes that dug deep into the wood and looked like wounds in the glare of the headlights. And there was a... basket, or something?
"What? What's wrong?" Dawn's voice shrilled, though she kept her volume low. Willow paused for a moment, considering the situation.
"It's nothing, Dawn - we'll be in in a couple of seconds." Xander was busily fishing around at her feet; finally, he came up with a sort of compacted crossbow.
"Do you want me to come to the basement door, meet you?" Dawn asked, hopeful. It was the first time she'd uttered more than three words at once in the past forty-five minutes. Willow could hear her shifting on the other end of the line, ready to move.
"No, Dawn - you stay right where you are, we're coming to you," Willow replied, then carefully covered the receiver with her palm. "Xander - the sun's almost up, can't we just - go in?"
The withering look she got in return was a new one for her. "Yeah, 'cause we know so many vampires who obey that rule." She recoiled a little at the harshness of his tone, and he sighed. Worse, she flinched when he leaned towards her - he slowly leaned away again, berating himself for being so callous.
"I'll take the bow so you can stay on the phone; take your pick from there, though." He gestured towards the glove compartment briefly before carefully opening his door.
The drawer opened at a touch, and the amount of weaponry packed into one tiny space... "Gosh," Willow breathed, touching the carefully-arranged knives and stakes. Her fingers briefly found a row of small, shiny nubs; she snatched her hand away when she realized they were silver bullets.
Xander watched her, saw her smooth her reaction away. Unerringly, she reached back in and picked up one of the ridged stakes that had always been her standby. She didn't mention the bullets at all, her eyes slid over them as she closed the compartment and slid out of the truck.
It felt... okay, she realized. The balance of the stake in her hand was familiar, almost comfortable. She let out a tiny laugh as Xander came up beside her and faced the damaged house. He looked back through the windshield, and she saw him.
Really saw him. Not the vulnerable kid she'd loved, not the sentimental man who's saved her. He'd changed in the time she'd been gone, and it showed in every line of him. He'd become harder, crueler, more assured. "Older," she whispered to herself.
And he didn't need the twitchy nerd or the lovesick witch. When he looked at her, she felt the faith he had in her was tinged heavily with doubt. He would never say so to her, and that almost made it worse. He needed something from her, badly, and he wasn't sure if she could give it. But he waited for her anyhow, always willing to give her the chance.
Willow opened the door, stepped onto the tarmac, and decided to grow up.
They were taking so LONG.
Did they realize how much scarier it was to have them approach slowly, creaking the floorboards above her head with every step? Dawn understood the need for caution, but she'd been curled up on the cement floor for almost an hour. Every time she moved some joint cracked or muscle twinged, and the chill was seeping into her back where it was pressed against the wall. And even though Willow kept saying reassuring things, that didn't make it better. She wanted them here, now - she was done being alone and frightened.
She'd had the time to think of all the possibilities for the laughter, the crashing, the scraping sounds: though the wards and construction may have prevented vampires, what about regular human criminals? Buffy had always assured her that most Sunnydale human criminals were kind of eaten by the non-humans before they could get much experience, but... What if one of them knew how to open the door?
"Dawn?" She heard Xander's voice at the same time as his knock, a rapping that resounded in the reinforced door frame. She began to lurch towards the stairs as she heard his keys rattling on that enormous keychain he always carried around. She staggered to her feet, all her body cramping and straining at the effort. "Dawn, I'm unlocking the door, okay?"
"Hurry!" The word slipped out, and then she felt oddly ashamed for the desperation in her voice; her friends were here, they'd take care of it, there was no reason for her to rush them now. But relief overrode all other thought and she edged closer to the foot of the steps, eagerly staring at the deadbolt as it turned in the lock.
And then they were there. Even later, Dawn wouldn't be able to remember the moments between that turning lock and the sensation of Willow folded around her. The corduroy of Willow's skirt felt soothing against her cheek, and the fingers that so carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. She could hear Xander barring the door behind them, then pausing for only a second before taking off his jacket and tucking it around her shaking shoulders. The relief was chasing tension from her in humiliating jitters, making her feel embarrassed, weak.
"I've got you," Willow murmured into her hair, and Dawn sagged. She buried her head in the folds of Willow's sweater, her eyes smarting with tears. Faintly, she heard Willow say something about a basket, about Buffy, and she realized that she was drifting off. She grumbled a little and tried to sit up, but Willow laughed quietly above her and whispered. "It's all right, shhh - rest a little now, we're taking care of everything."
The woman's slim fingers gently drew Dawn's hair back from her brow and smoothed it down, then again, then again, and Dawn was asleep.
Slayer strength only did so much.
She was able to run miles without stopping. She could tear through walls, kick down metal doors, throw bodies for yards without breaking a sweat. It was ordained. It was a gift. The Slayer was designed to withstand almost anything.
But Slayers were also designed to be tools, human weapons. Cold and calculated, something a Watcher could point and fire and manipulate without qualm. And when she'd broken those rules, Buffy hadn't seen what that could mean.
Dawn. They couldn't understand, the others. She'd surrounded herself with single children, people whose lives were uncluttered by sibling rivalries and loyalties. She could go on forever trying to explain, and they'd never know. They couldn't.
Her heart was trying to leap out of her chest. The thought of Dawn in danger, in pain, in anything... Her blood ran cold, cramping those famous Slayer muscles, fatiguing her, so all she wanted to do was collapse and scream. She wasn't fast enough, she wasn't smart enough, and Dawn could be hurt, could be calling for her...
Her breath came in shattered gasps, furious shudders that racked through her. Her mind was on fire, a burning and dizzying heat that jarred with every step. She would die for her sister, had done and would do again, there was no question. Her ally, her charge, the only person in her world. The one person who meant she wasn't alone. To have Kane close to Dawn, to have Kane even think of her - Buffy's breaths began to sound in her ears as her throat narrowed, the panic rising with every step.
Being a Slayer was nothing. They all thought it should mean something, this mystical gift. But it meant nothing, not at all. She had no immunity from life, and if her sister was gone - Kane might as well rip her heart out.
TBC
