The house was getting too damned crowded.
First came Spike, taking up sullen, reluctant residence in the basement. Then, as a direct result of his presence there, Xander went from staying over a couple of nights a week to practically moving in, under the pretense of "keeping an eye on things." Willow returned from her magic-control training in England all understated and delicate and pensive, having regained something of her old sweet demeanor—though softer now, more timid, less brass. Much less veiny. And as if the house weren't full to bursting with just these additions, the recently un-demonized Anya sought sanctuary under their roof as D'Hoffryn's minions showed no sign of weakening in their resolve to kill her.
And then. And then! Giles, dear wonderful surrogate-father Giles, had shown up at the front door unannounced one day with alarming if sketchy news of the so-called First Evil—and three teenage girls in tow. Three had blossomed into seven, then nine, then twelve, until the assortment of nameless chattering masses of adolescence had finally seized control of the Summers home. According to Giles, who knew these things, they all possessed some abstract link to the Slayer lineage, which put them in danger, and they would be safe here. Potentials. Potential victims of Dawn's murderous rampage, she asserted every time one of them crossed her path—which happened no fewer than seventeen thousand times a day. Safe, hell.
Buffy, of course, no longer had time to log complaints from mere family members. She had an apocalypse to prevent, a gaggle of frightened girls to transform into soldiers, basement-dwelling souled vampires to—well, whatever.
One Saturday morning amid the chaos of the breakfast-time kitchen, Dawn caught her sister's arm as Buffy cut a path toward the toaster among loitering rumpled-looking Potentials, wielding two slices of bread and wearing the preoccupied expression that was becoming her trademark.
"Buffy. One of the Potentials puked on my bed," Dawn said tightly.
"Oh—ew."
"Ew? Ew doesn't even begin to cover it. This is getting out of hand, don't you think? This house was not built to accommodate the population of a small country. Especially not when that population consists of a bunch of squealing, giggling, arguing, puking little girls."
Buffy's brow furrowed. "Most of them are older than you," she said, perplexed, then seemed to realize that wasn't the point. "Dawnie, I know it's cramped. Believe me, I'm not thrilled with the living arrangements either. Xander's going back to his apartment starting tonight, and he's agreed to take some of them with him. That'll at least thin the herd a little. It's the best I can do right now."
"What. About. The vomit?" Dawn demanded through clenched teeth.
Buffy shrugged, half-apologetically. "Clean it up?"
She glanced toward the now-free toaster and pounced on it, leaving Dawn standing there glaring after her. There was a piercing whine from the peanut gallery: "Hey, I was next! You can't just—oh. Sorry, Buffy." Well.
After sundown, the whole massive group would gather in the backyard for drills. This went on for a week or so, until Buffy decided they were ready to take their newfound "skills" out on the streets. (Dawn had watched the ragtag bunch from the sidelines enough to know that even she could take out just about any one of them single-handedly, Slayer lineage be damned—they were that bad.) Their first field trip was to the cemetery where Spike's old crypt was. Dawn tagged along because she could—no one would notice her among the masses of long-haired teens, and it might provide some entertainment. That was in short supply these days, especially since someone had actually managed to shoot out the TV with a renegade crossbow. (An incident which brought about the new "no weapons in the house except under supervision of Buffy, Spike, or Giles" rule.)
Spike brought up the rear on the way to the cemetery, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead and offering only monosyllabic grunts in response to the ceaseless chatter aimed at him from assorted members of his fan club. Half the Potentials had a crush on Spike; the other half regarded him with some measure of terror and awe. It was interesting to witness, knowing, as Dawn did, that he secretly relished his ability to strike fear in anyone, even if it was only a handful of hormonal adolescents.
"Didn't know you got an invite for this little outing."
She didn't even give him the satisfaction of a sideways glance as he silently fell in step beside her. "Didn't need one. I've been patroling longer than most of these girls have known vampires exist."
He snorted. "You've been patroling twice, tops. Always with big sis looking over your shoulder."
"I can handle myself. Besides, the odds are with me. Think a vamp's gonna go for me when there's thirty other tasty morsels wandering around looking like they'll pee their pants at the first sign of trouble?"
"Some vamps prefer the ones with attitude, the ones who think they can hold their own. Spices it up a bit, that bravado. Watching it dissolve in the time it takes for us to sink our teeth in."
Dawn rolled her eyes. "You can't scare me. You want to scare someone, take your pick of one of the Potentials. They're still naïve enough to fall for your schtick. Me, I outgrew it years ago."
He smirked. "You did at that," he said. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the cemetery. Buffy's voice rang out from the front, calling his name. Before he went up to join her, he glanced at Dawn. "Got my eye on you, Little Bit."
Perhaps it went without saying, but it was almost—almost—nice to hear it again.
xXxXx
My shortest chapter ever, but I wanted to get something going before the idea fades. Please review and let me know what you think. As always, many thanks!