Title: If I should die before we wake

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or situations, or concepts, or anything, really.

Summary: After the events described in Deconstructing Hell Spike, Andrew and Dana are menaced by a shadowy threat to Spike's life. You should read DH first.

Rating: T, because Spike is violent, rude, crude, and the bad guys are worse. Well, that's a lie. The bad guys are never worse than Spike.

Note: Gentle Reader. No, that doesn't sound quite right. Dear friends; I took November off and wrote a novel. It was a big step, and unfortunately, it opened my eyes. As fun as Fanficing has been, it's unprofitable. Simply put, I can't sell these stories. And trust me, that becomes a consideration. So I must bid you adieu.

But, wait! you say. What about your unfinished stories? I looked at those myself with a grimace of regret. I couldn't abandon them—unfinished they would hang over my head like a sword. But I couldn't write them out to the original plans, either.

So I pulled out my plotting pad (yes, I have a plotting pad) and redesigned the stories. Well, I redesigned "die before we wake" and "a child shall lead them." The others, I'll do later. I kept the same essential plot, but I pared it down. I leaned it down. I cut the deadweight.

But once my current projects are finished, I going full-time back into writing novels I can sell. Sorry.

Chapter 5: lessons in living

--

The apartment Spike had they staying in was more than vaguely uncool. It was the opposite of hip, the definition of plain. It was ordinary.

Which was strange, considering how cool he was.

He was hanging out in the kitchen again, attempting to bake some large meal that was enough for everyone, with meat and potatoes and all the whole foods he insisted were healthier than processed when Dana found him.

"You wanna talk about it, Fruitloop?" he asked, not even looking up as she came in.

"Not really." She was far too busy sulking just now. It had definitely hurt her feelings when he'd turned on her in the dream, and he had been terrifying. She could still feel a tiny tremor running through her chest.

He opened the over door, danced back away from the rush of hot air, then darted in and slid a tray with potatoes on it into the oven. "Okay, then we're going to talk about something else. Hope you don't mind."

"Something else is nice. A little like running away, but not."

She sat down on the stool in the corner, and he leaned against the counter. There was a slightly flustered look on his face, which surprised her. Spike was never flustered.

"You remember we had that chat about selfishness?" he asked her softly, his rough voice slipping slightly.

"Yes."

"I've been thinking that it would be nice of me to do something for you. I mean, I don't have that long left to live—and I owe you one."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's not entirely unselfish, but… you know how you don't like guys to touch you?"

She squirmed in her seat. "It makes me uncomfortable."

"Yeah. Your life got all screwed up because of that guy, right?"

"I don't think I want to talk about this either."

"Hear me out, kiddo. Hear me out." He looked up, meeting her eyes. She could see nervousness in his gaze, and very little of the attitude that usually got him through difficult moments. "I've used that. I'm not proud of it."

"You mean that time we were all tied up and you tricked the guy into touching me so I would get angry and kick him in the face?"

"Yeah. You freaking out then was very convenient. Distracted them nicely while I got free and let Illyria out of the cage. And it was a good fight, right?" He stopped, trying to focus again. "It's a mental block, see? You want to keep the old memories out, so you won't let anything happen that might trigger them. And there's fear, of course. I've known that for a good long time, and I'm pretty sure I could help you get through that… but it was convenient."

"Convenient?"

"To have a weapon who goes off when you touch her. I shouldn't have thought that way, but I did."

"Oh."

"I'd like to help you now… if you'll promise not to punch me."

"Promise? Why?" She was nervous now.

He lifted a hand, keeping it high, palm turned towards her. "Bear with me," he said, somewhat nervously.

She was pretty sure he was nervous because she had moved her foot so that she could kick him between the legs if he touched her.

He moved his hand very slowly towards her. Her nostrils' flared, and her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

It was about level with her face, and he didn't say anything, just letting his hand hover in front of her face. "You said you trusted me. Do you?"

She didn't have a chance to reply before his hand moved forward slowly, shakily, and floated the inches towards her face. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

His hands were warm, and the faint smell of potatoes wafted off them. He simply rested his hand there against her cheek for a moment, a sheepish smile on his face. "Not freaking out?" he asked her.

"Not yet," she said, still biting her lip. It came out muffled, words she couldn't understand.

He smiled, and the hand on her cheek moved. She jumped a little bit, the foot aimed towards him bobbing downward in anticipation of a kick. He didn't flinch, just continuing to move his hand in tiny circle on her cheek. His fingertips smoothed her wild hair back.

Her heart was racing, and she was almost ready to punch him, kick him, anything to get him away from her.

There was something in his eyes, something very hesitant and wounded, and she didn't understand it. He leaned forward, his other hand staying down at his side, and moved towards her.

She sat there frozen, not understanding, as his face came closer to hers. He met her gaze, and there was some fear in his own eyes.

"And that's it, no more block?" she asked him.

"It worked here because you didn't want to hit me," he told her quietly. "Because you trusted me. But you used self control, wouldn't let yourself just do what you wanted. So that even if you are freaking out, you aren't going to let it control you. So that when someone else touches you, the same choice will be there. Hit them or not? Go wild or not? You can still freak out. But only if you want to."

She let out the breath she had been holding. She could feel a strange buzzing in her stomach. "Thank you."

He leaned in further, and his lips were on hers, very gently. It was a fast kiss, there and gone, and he backed up very slowly.

"That… that's the part that was a little selfish," he said, and his voice was very shaky now.

She stared at him, eyes as wide as saucers. "What?" she said faintly.

He kissed her again, holding it longer this time. His hand on her face shifted, moving back along her head, a gentle, questing touch.

She wasn't sure whether she wanted to grab him and hold him there or throw him through the wall. She wasn't sure there was a difference between the two desires. Her heart was now going faster than a speeding freight train, and her hands seemed to move of their own volition, grabbing at his shirt and just holding him there.

Then a throat was cleared, very loudly, in the doorway, and Spike slowly broke the kiss, backing away slowly with a sigh. Dana didn't let go of his shirt.

"I see," said Dawn slowly, her voice very cold. "I didn't before, but now I see it."

Dana stared at Spike. She wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, or what it meant, but she knew it was important.

He stared back, and he looked more afraid and miserable than she'd ever seen him look.

Illyria came stomping into the room, pushing Dawn aside to get in. "Alright, out!" she snapped, an angry tone in her voice that Dana had never heard.

Dana started to stand to rush out of the room, to let her have the chat with Spike she obviously wanted. Illyria moved forward, grabbing Spike by the shoulder and flinging him backwards in the general direction of the door with her right arm while pushing Dana back down into the chair with her left. "Out!" shouted the former God-King of the universe.

Spike spun like a cat, landing on his feet. "Watch the potatoes," he said, some nervousness still in his voice, and turned to Dawn, awkwardly leading her from the room.

"Spike is a complicated man," seethed Illyria, meeting Dana's gaze with an implacable, searing look of anger. "He carries with him much fear and buried weeping. He does not open himself up to pain very often, especially not with women, since he has never received anything but pain from them."

Dana just stared at the demon, unsure what she meant.

"That he has opened himself up to you for such pain and humiliation again is an extremely brave and foolhardy thing for him to do. And you have it in your power now to crush him like a tiny plastic child's plaything under your foot. Were you to do so, I would be forced to kill you." Illyria leaned in closer. "Let me be very clear with you; if you do not wish him to continue, you will tell him so in a friendly and amiable manner. If you hate him intensely for what he has done, you will tell him in a way that lets him keep his dignity. If you desire him to have pain, you will do the upright and moral thing and not cause that pain."

--

As Spike lead Dawn away from the room where his partner in crime was about to say whatever it was that she wanted to say to the crazy Slayer, he reflected that in some metaphysical way his life was completely beyond repair now.

He'd accused Dana on many occasions of being nothing but a metaphor for his relationship with Buffy. If that was the case, he was surely doomed now; the worst punishments always came after kisses. He knew that.

"You have no right to mess with her like that," said Dawn coldly, turning to face Spike with her arms crossed.

Spike knew what she meant instantly, and it shocked him just a little bit. Did she think he was so callous as to use the slayer, who had been through so much?

Of course she did. That was the image he presented to the world, wasn't it? Spike, the guy who doesn't care. Spike, the sneering insensitive jerk.

He sneered at her. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Give me a break, Spike. I'm sure it's a blast for you, a different girl every night of the week, but that girl in there wears her heart on her sleeve. You will break it, and that's a crime."

He wondered just what he owed it to his oldest friend to tell her. "Seen any girls lately?"

"What?"

"Wandering to and from the Spike-cave."

"The Spike-cave? God, Andrew's been here too long."

"No argument here. You can ask Andrew if you like."

"Ask him what?"

"If there are any girls."

"Oh, you've changed your womanizing ways?"

Spike retreated, glowering at her. "You know what I mean. Bloody woman!" He turned and stalked out of the room, heading up the stairs.

Dana tiptoed out of the kitchen, a slightly queasy look on her face. "Do you know, I think I liked her better when she was telling me if I hurt him she'd kill me," she said.

There was a knock at the door.

Dawn frowned, approaching it slowly. Illyria appeared out of the kitchen, moving fast, and jumped in front of her, opening the door and drawing back an arm to hit the person at the door. "Identify yourself!" she hissed.

The girl standing at the door responded with a quick front-kick that sent Illyria staggering back. "Demon!" she yelled, moving forward.

Illyria put a hand up, palm forward, in a stopping gesture. "You are a Slayer," she said. "Therefore I will give you warning, as is fair. Spike has said I am not to harm you. But if you are here to do harm to him, I will rend you limb from limb."

"Stand down!" said Dawn, moving forward. "Lucy? What are you doing here? Last I knew you were in Italy watching… Barclay."

The man behind Lucy grimaced. "I'm sorry, who's she?" he asked, pointing at Dawn. "And how does she know about Italy?"

The demon behind him frowned. "I believe that she is part of the Watcher's Council."

"You brought Barclay here?" demanded Dawn.

Illyria straightened up. "Who is this Barclay?" She stared at the demon. "And why does he travel with a demon of this nature?"

The tall scaly demon scowled. "Why does everyone ask that? I'm one of the good guys!"

"You brought Barclay here? There better be a good explanation," said Dawn.

"There's a great one, and it involves a huge conspiracy. I mean, a huge one. A conspiracy to kill all the Slayers."

Spike came running down the stairs. "I knew it!" he screamed. "Paranoid! Ha! They are out to get us!"

"Oh, crap!" said Lucy, staring at him.

"Oh, bugger," said the demon behind Barclay.

Spike paled, staring at him. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"What are you doing here, Spike?" replied the demon. "Are you one of the vampires following the Ex-vampire, part of his cult?"

Spike snorted. "You're only the third one to not make the connection, ninny. I'm the ex-vampire."

"No way!" snorted the demon. "I've heard about him. An epic warrior, a slayer of Slayers, a noble hero."

Spike sighed. "Look, those are all things I'd rather forget, okay?"

The demon stared at him. "You're serious? No flipping way!"

"You know the Ex-vampire?" asked Barclay, puffing on his cigarette and leaning in the door. Spike turned to him, pointing at him.

"Put it out," he said, his voice harsh and cold.

"What?"

"If you want to smoke you go down to the lamppost. You do not smoke in or near this house."

Barclay hesitated, clearly considering defying him.

"Well, look who's a smoking Nazi now," said Dawn, turning to face Spike and crossing her arms.

"Ms. Summers, I have a report. Almost all typed up. I have flowcharts, and… there are vampires! Part of this plot is the vampires. Somebody has a network of them."

"The warehouse full of them!" said Spike, making the mental connection. "Of course! They have a hierarchy—someone's getting them all riled up for this! Blast them!"

Barclay frowned. "You found a warehouse full of them?" He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. "That's bad. There's a prophecy that says—"

"No!" yelled Spike. "No prophecies! I've had my fill of them!"

"But—?"

"No!"

Dawn cleared her throat. "Is that in your report?" she asked Lucy, who nodded mutely. Illyria cleared her throat, glaring at Dawn.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked the group in the doorway, who exchanged sheepish glances and came in.

Andrew came running down the stairs. "Demon! Demon! The demon alarm went off! A strange demon is breaking into the Dark Avenger's Stronghold of Justice!"

"Relax," said Spike. "He's here on friendly terms."

Andrew stopped at the bottom of the stairs, tripped, fell headlong, and rolled on the floor. Spike ignored him, while Dana turned and helped him up.

The tall demon eyed Spike hostilely. "I really don't see how you could ever have become good."

"It's a long story. Good story. There's a girl—a Slayer—a soul, a long struggle against evil, my eventual death, my return from the dead, my next death, my return from that death as a human, and then my wonderful, wonderful battle against evil. Not to mention there's a little bit in there about kicking the butts of the most powerful transdimensional evil this world has ever seen."

Dawn scowled. "Now you're just showing off," she muttered.

"A bloke has to have some joy in life."

--

"Do you know what my name means?"

The vampires gathered around the tall dark human frowned, shaking their heads. In truth, none of them were the brightest bulbs, even for vampires. The smart vampires were having nothing to do with this.

Which was fine. There were plenty of dumb vampires.

"The name Boris means warrior. That's who I am, that's what I am. For too long have the forces of goodness multiplied and destroyed us! For too long have they turned the scales against us! Today we will even the scales! Tonight when the sun sets, we will destroy them!"

Boris had been born in 1532. His longevity was due to dark magic, stealing the souls of the innocent, and good clean exercise. At least, that was what he'd told Villains Weekly.

Back before Wolfram and Hart had been crushed and Villains Weekly had ceased publication.

Before the dark times. Before a new wave of Slayers world-wide with allies, a budget, and even… the worst of all… morals.

The old Watcher's Council had been amoral in many regards. The right palms greased, and your evil organization might unnoticed for centuries.

Boris was upset about the end to all of that. In fact, he was beyond upset. He'd always had issues with his temper, but now he couldn't seem to get through a day without going all Darth Vader and crushing one of his minions.

Which was a little weird, actually. The name Anakin also meant Warrior.

He shook off the thoughts. "Tonight we kill Slayers!" he hissed. "When they turn on their best ally and kill him, our victory will be complete!"