Title: She’s So Lucky
Author: Doublethink (Cosmicfish at ff.net)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Wow! I go through the trouble of planning out this entire fic only to learn that Buffy and (sob) Spike are not mine! They’ve belonged to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and Fox this entire time! I feel so incredibly betrayed by my own mind ...
Summary: Complete fantasy, response to the billion-and-one ‘Spike as a rock star fics’. Pop diva Buffy Summers comes home after suffering a nervous breakdown. And no - this is not a fluff piece.
A/N: I do not mean to insult anybody who has written a ‘Spike as a rock star fic’ - really, they can be very good and I generally enjoy reading them. Any satire/humor/insult is not directed at any one person or story, but at society in general, and at pop stars, divas, and the media in particular.

**

Prologue

**

Her left shoulder was in the photograph.

Her left shoulder was in all the photographs.

Blatant and glaring. Ugly. So very, very different from her right shoulder.

Her right shoulder was gorgeous, perfect. It was firm and golden, the bone delicately shaped, the muscles exquisitely toned. Should she have been born into Ancient Greece, Aphrodite would have envied it, Cupid would have forgotten all about his simple Psyche, and the self-indulgent Narcissus would have fallen in love with it, completely forgetting his own beauty. It was a shoulder that dreams were no doubt made on, that primitive cultures worshiped, that a billion-and-one preteen-aged females wanted with a feverish desperation.

She liked her right shoulder.

It was the left shoulder that was the problem. It was a hideous mutant mountain of a shoulder, the kind of grotesque obscenity that people would face on “Fear Factor”. The muscles were oh so flabby while the skin was oh so dry, and neither Tai Bo nor the priciest moisturizer could compensate for such a horrific slander to what would have been an exercise in feminine perfection.

She hated her left shoulder.

That’s why she never, ever allowed it to be photographed. Ever. That’s why she almost always had it covered it up, less some nasty tabloid photographer catch her unawares. That’s why not one of her 3.5 billion-and-growing fans worldwide had ever seen anything but her right shoulder, her perfect shoulder.

And yet, here she was, faced with hundreds upon hundreds of photographs exclusively focused on her abhorrent left shoulder.

Buffy started to scream, and she couldn’t make herself stop.

**

Reporter 1: Here we are at world-renowned pop artist Buffy’s Florida resort where, apparently, an ambulance was seen taking the VH1 diva to a local hospital for treatment. Doctors and nurses have refused to comment on the reasons behind Ms. Buffy’s hospital admission, but actress Cordelia Chase, a close friend of Ms. Buffy’s, has her own opinions.

:video clip:

Cordelia Chase: Buffy’s lost it. The stress she’s under - you have nooo idea. She’s been running herself ragged for the past two years. I knew it was only a matter of time before she’s just ... :pauses to wipe tears from her eyes: ... implode, y’know? She’s only human ...”

:end video clip:

Reporter 1: When asked if she thought Ms. Buffy may have attempted suicide, an emotional Ms. Chase responded in no uncertain terms, ‘Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.’ Now, back to John at the studio ...

**

One year later ...

**

Dawn clicked off the television in disgust and stuffed another handful of popcorn in her mouth, glaring ominously at the blank screen as if it were responsible for the hormonal mess that was her so-called life. She sucked off the greasy combination of butter, salt, and sugar from her fingers, mentally noting to herself that she was never again to invent any single munchie that involved both garlic salt and cinnamon sugar in every bite. The combination was the single most disgusting thing she had ever tasted, but to admit her revulsion would be to admit defeat, and Dawn never admitted defeat.

“Honey,” Her mother pleaded from the doorway, her purse clutched tightly within her small, neat hands. Her hands had become progressively smaller and neater throughout the years until they no longer resembled human hands at all, but the minuscule digits of a delicate porcelain doll.

Joyce’s hands had once been strong and capable, the nails short from being constantly broken on the various art works she housed in her gallery. The gallery was gone now; sold to a man in LA, and the fingernails were perfectly trimmed and painted, their edges long and smooth. Joyce moved them around a lot - her hands - but she never actually did anything with them anymore. Well, she did chain-smoke cigarettes. The nicotine had given the edges of her increasingly delicate fingertips a yellow tinge; it made her skin look like ancient lace.

“I don’t want her here.” Dawn growled softly, her cold eyes blazing a vicious blue as she craned her head over her shoulder. She pointedly ignored the pained look that settled across her mother’s already strained features. “She’s crazy! She’s a mean, selfish, crazy bitch and I can’t stand her! She always ruins everything ...”

“Dawnie,” Joyce sighed softly. “You know Buffy had nothing to do with -”

“Nothing to do with it? What do you mean she had nothing to do with it?! She had everything to do with it!”

Joyce bit her lower lip,“I mean that it wasn’t her fault, sweetie. She’s your sister and she’s been sick for a very long time ...”

Dawn snorted and turned around once more, fixing her furious stare on the television and wishing that she had the ability to blow it up with her mind. “Like she ever gave a damn about us? It’s only fair that she ended up all looney in a straight jacket and everything. She deserves it.”

“Honey,” her mother fluttered her broken hands helplessly as if she couldn’t figure out where exactly to put them. She finally seemed to settle with wrapping them around her waist in a protective gesture. “Buffy is your sister ...”

When Dawn responded, her voice was softer than it had been; subdued. “No she’s not, Mom. She’s not my sister and she’s not your daughter. Give up on the damn Nile and move on already, for both our sakes. ”

Joyce walked out the door alone; she didn’t like admitting defeat either.

**

Five minutes after Joyce had walked out of the door alone, Dawn was standing outside of 1637 Revello Drive. It was across the road and down the street from her own home, and it looked a lot like her house too. Same boxy style, same tree within easy access of the bedroom window.

Sometimes Dawn found the similarity confusing - at which house had she been with this or that happened with so and so? - but lately she had found it more comforting than anything else. 1637 could be her home if she forgot about the whole family aspect - something Dawn had been wishing she could do more and more often.

Snatching the conveniently ill-hidden key from under the door mat, Dawn hurriedly unlocked the door. Spike never locked his door unless he didn’t want Dawn over, which was only when he had company of the female persuasion. It was some weird habit he had - always leaving himself completely open, whether it be to robbery or to heartbreak - and he had paid for it many times.

Spike had never been robbed in his life.

Dawn rolled her eyes as she heard girlish giggles coming from upstairs. Normally she wouldn’t have come in when Spike was busy - she never liked to think of him as having actual sex, so she always thought of it as him being busy - but she was just way too upset to deal with things by herself at the moment. Besides, Spike’s current girlfriend was just a rebound girl, so it wasn’t like she was interrupting important business. Business was only important if you were in love when you did it - or at least that’s what Dawn had always been taught.

Spike’s current girlfriend knew that she was just a rebound girl, but she didn’t care because she was just using Spike as her rebound guy. Dawn found the whole mess extremely icky and confusing and scarily adult. It was enough to make her long for eternal childhood, or at least eternal virginity. She never wanted to be as messed up as the adults in her life all seemed to be, and the only difference between them and Dawn, as far she could see, was that they all had sex on the brains. Wasn’t it therefore logical to conclude that virginity, or at least celibacy, was the key to a long life of terrific happiness?

“SPIIIIIKE!!!!,” Dawn yelled loudly, wincing when she heard a heavy thud and loud curses. He was not going to be happy with her.

“DAWN,” she heard the roar from upstairs. “ANYA AND I ARE A BIT BUSY HERE!!!”

“YEAH,” Anya’s shrill voice added, contributing greatly to the formation of Dawn’s headache. “HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO SUCK MY -” Dawn covered her hands with her ears, successfully blocking out any information that might have proved gross and/or traumatizing. Dawn liked Anya - she really did - but some of the things the girl said could make Hugh Heftner blush. “That’s what Xander always used to say about Anya, anyway.” she half-muttered to herself as she passed through the foyer into the kitchen.

Opening the pantry, Dawn pulled out a bag of tortilla chips and an unopened jar of black bean salsa - she was depressed, she was allowed to fart - and put them on the counter top. She was just getting a bowl from one of the cupboards when she remembered that Buffy had always liked tortilla chips and black bean salsa, or at least she had before THE GREAT DIET had started.

THE GREAT DIET had only been the first of many ‘GREATS’. Shortly after Buffy had transformed her curvy body into that of a lucky Holocaust victim, she had embarked on THE GREAT MAKE OVER. Buffy had chopped her once-opulent golden mane into a chin-length , highlighted bob, had started applying her makeup with a house-painting brush, and had commenced in dressing herself like an expensive whore. People, naturally, had loved it and had said so. Hence THE GREAT DISCOVERY, THE GREAT OPPORTUNITY, THE GREAT CONTRACT, and the biggest ‘GREAT’ of all - THE GREAT HALF-MOVE TO LA.

Things really hadn’t been so great after that.

Tears blurred her vision, but Dawn didn’t let them fall. Tears were weakness - tears were stupid and childish and dumb. Tears never changed anything - if the world wanted to screw you over, it would, and the world didn’t care whether or not it made you cry while it was screwing you.

The only thing you could do was fart in the world’s face afterwards via black bean salsa and tortilla chips.

With this in mind, Dawn carried her bowl to the living room and settled on the couch. She turned on the television, but she knew its noise wasn’t necessary to drown out any lascivious noises from upstairs. Spike would never be busy when Dawn was in the house - whatever hanky panky she had interrupted would go on being interrupted until she was gone. That was one of the reasons Dawn loved 1637 so much - her almost-step-brother really and truly cared for her, unlike any other adult in her life.

Spike was her almost-step-brother because her mother had once been engaged to his father, Rupert Giles. Dawn had really liked Rupert. Sure he was stuffy and all British and stuff, but he knew a whole lot and was kinda cool once he stopped correcting your spoken double negatives and dangling clauses. Sometimes Dawn wondered how Rupert had ever managed to get along with his son - Spike stubbornly refused to speak anything but his own mutation of North London slang, even though “He never lived in North London! He was raised in Bath!”, as Rupert so often exclaimed.

Maybe the stress of living alongside such prolonged abuse of the English language had been the reason Rupert’s heart had started to fail the way it had. Maybe that’s why Rupert had died the day before Joyce was to become Rupert’s wife and Dawn was to become Spike’s step-sister. Dawn really didn’t like to think about it too much, how close she had once been to happiness; it always made her depressed.

“‘Bit,” Spike grumbled as he walked into the living room, completely if not neatly dressed. “The door was locked - I know it was. Don’t even bother tellin’ me it wasn’t - I know you used the spare key - I know you saw Anya’s car ...”

Dawn sighed and settled back into the couch cushions, biting her lips as her tears continued to not fall down her face. “Yeah?” she sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, “Well sex before marriage is wrong you asshole. I’m fucking saving your soul.” That was a load of crap - Dawn didn’t believe in God or Satan or Heaven or Hell - only in people. Dawn hated people.

Spike had frozen in the doorway and was now staring at her with his deep blue eyes, a frown furrowing his forehead as he cocked his head to the side. All traces of frustration and anger had passed from his harsh features and had been replaced by concern and love for his troubled almost-half-sister. “Dawn,” he mumbled softly as he walked forward, kneeling in front of her as she sat on his couch, “Niblet - what’s eatin’ at you, pet?”

His gentleness was enough to undo her, and Dawn let out a muted, dry sob as she fell into his waiting arms. She pressed her head to his chest and held onto him as tightly, the tears she wouldn’t cry dampening his rumpled T-shirt.

“She going to ruin everything.” Dawn whispered. “I just know it ...”

**

Joyce was mentally running through the list of rules the doctors had given her for Buffy. Although Buffy had been deemed ‘recovered’ enough to live ‘under supervision’, the twenty-two year old was hardly in a state of normal mental health.

Buffy was strangely terrified of sleeveless shirts, air conditioning, cars that did not seat at least eight passengers and a hot tub, Hershey products, cameras, and kittens. She disliked common household insects, jello, and musical instruments. The sight of any N’Sync album was enough to make her go into hysterics and she reacted with violence whenever she heard the name ‘Britney Spears’. All in all, Joyce knew that the next few months were going to prove a very bumpy road for everyone involved.

She walked down the corridor that led to Buffy’s room, her entire spirit cringing as she breathed in the sharp, bitter scent of antiseptic. Joyce closed her eyes briefly as she thought of the wonderful man she had once been so close to marrying.

She had both met and lost Rupert Giles in the hospital - and she had long ago accepted the painful reality that her memories of him, her recollections of smiles and sheets and sunlight, were to be forever tainted by images of putrid green hallways, bad coffee, and harsh fluorescent lighting.

This particular institution, however, was less of a hospital and more of a smelly five-star hotel with elevator boys in scrubs. It was where the elite, the wealthy, and the famous recuperated from the stress their lives of luxury had inevitably put upon them. Celebrity druggies, sociopaths, and neurotics could all find refuge behind the stucco walls of The Initiative - an organization that most definitely gave Joyce ‘the wiggins’.

Buffy was sitting in a wheelchair, tapping her pink, faux furry foot impatiently when Joyce walked into the room. She stared at her mother for several weighted seconds, almost as if she didn’t recognize the woman who had birthed her, her hazel eyes cold and narrow. When she spoke, her voice was haughty, nasal, and in an accent Joyce had never heard before - almost like a de-Britished version of Rupert-speak. “What are you doing here, Mother?” she snapped. “I thought that Daddy was going to be the one to retrieve me from this most dreadful institution!”

“Oh, honey,” Joyce smiled softly, trying desperately to see her bouncy, blonde baby girl of old somewhere within this young woman’s cold, snobbish and hostile exterior. “We discussed this last week, remember sweetie?” she said patiently,”Daddy’s on his honeymoon.”

Buffy shook her head, “Don’t patronize me!” she shrieked. “I know perfectly well that you were here last week - we discussed what I was to wear to that dinner engagement - the one for the children’s charity? What’s its name - The Hu ... The Hum ... oh yes! The Humane Society! I was to go to a benefit for the Humane Society!”

Joyce stared dumbly at her daughter, not quite sure how to respond to Buffy’s rather severe delusional state. Should she play along or should she attempt a tougher kind of love? The doctors had assured her that Buffy was better - if this was better Joyce was sure that she didn’t want to know what they would consider worse!

Buffy let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh don’t take me seriously, darling! I was just having a bit of fun with you. Please grab my bags so that we can be off, will you, dear? I’m quite afraid that they refuse to allow me out of this confounded wheelchair until I’m checked out ...”

“Oh Lisbeth,” Joyce breathed softly, using Buffy’s pre-stardom nickname. The urge to touch her daughter - to reassure herself that Buffy was real - was getting too strong for Joyce to resist. She reached out with a tentative, trembling hand to brush her fingers lightly against her daughter’s forehead and let out a sad sigh of relief when her daughter’s skin stayed solid beneath her extended digits. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned into her mother’s gentle contact, and it seemed to Joyce that everything wrong in the world had finally been righted ...

Buffy jerked her head roughly away from her mother’s outstretched fingers, and Joyce was shocked to see that her daughter was shaking almost uncontrollably, her skin blanched a pasty white. “Don’t touch me,” Buffy whispered as her eyes darted nervously around the room, all traces of her former accent gone from her syllables, “Please, just ... don’t.”

Joyce nodded numbly, her stomach clenching into a white-hot ball of dread as Buffy wrapped her arms around herself in a defensive gesture. She didn’t understand what had caused her first child to break down so completely - Joyce only knew that she had not been there to prevent it- and for that, she could only blame herself.

“Mommy?” Buffy breathed, her slim body trembling violently as she continued to struggle for emotional control. “Mommy are you ...”

“I’m here,” Joyce stated softly, firmly. “Mommy’s here, baby, and I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t think that Buffy believed her. Hell, Joyce wasn’t even sure that she believed herself. Why should she?

Not one of them had ever managed to stick around before.

**

Joyce eyed her daughter nervously through the rearview mirror as she pulled her SUV into 1630 Revello Drive, her heart beating out a furious staccato. Questions were racing through her mind like mice stuck in a maze - forever twisting and turning - and all to no avail.

What was she doing? How could she possibly cope with Buffy’s problems when she could hardly deal with her own? Would people recognize Buffy? They might - Buffy was still Buffy after all - but then again, they might not. Buffy did look a lot different when she was fully clothed and when her face was not covered by layer after layer of corrective cosmetics - but would it be enough? What if reporters had been lying in ambush outside of The Initiative, just waiting to steal a glimpse of a world-famous pop artist ...

No! She couldn’t let herself think like that, not anymore. She had picked Buffy up after dark - the hospital was located on private property. Surely no one had yet heard that Buffy had been released, surely no photographer had stalked them all the way back to Sunnydale!

But what if Buffy didn’t like Sunnydale? Joyce’s modest home was surely not as gloriously luxuriant as the accommodations Buffy was used to occupying; even the Initiative had been more lavish in decoration and design! How would Buffy feel going from fresh seafood and French pastries to Kraft Macaroni & Cheese (It’s the Cheesiest!) and Campbell’s Soup? How would she react to frozen dinners and Hamburger Helper after having her refrigerator stocked with lobster bisque and fine champagne?

“Buffy,” she whispered loudly, not wanting to startle her. Buffy had somehow managed to fall asleep - maybe she had been too tired to act on her fear of automobiles of the non-limo variety? - and was now snoring soundly in the backseat. She would’ve poked, tickled, or shaken her awake, but the incident at the hospital had been enough to make Joyce extremely wary of initiating any physical contact. The last thing she needed was to scare her daughter before she saw Dawn ...

Joyce knew that things would be rough between the two siblings. Dawn, in particular, would be especially stubborn about accepting her sister back into her life. The younger Summers, formerly known as the younger Springs daughter, blamed her older sister for a lot of things. The half-move to LA, the other half-move to Sunnydale, her father’s mistresses, the destruction of her parent’s marriage ...

“Buffy,” Joyce tried again, “Buffy, we’re home.”

Said Buffy opened her eyes slowly, her irises of hazel-green misty and clouded with interrupted sleep. “Mmmmmm,” she yawned slowly, spreading out her arms and arching her back in a manner distinctly feline. “Are we really, Mother? The drive seemed a bit short -”

“You fell asleep,” Joyce said, smiling warmly in spite of the worry currently chomping on the tract of her lower intestine. “You must have been more tired than you thought.”

Her daughter just gazed at her out of reptilian eyes, her face as hard and as cold as a gleaming Arctic glacier. “Whatever,” she snapped, waving her hand lightly toward the house. “But I’m afraid that you must be mistaken. That is most definitely not my home! I’ve never seen this place in my life!”

Joyce frowned, her headache starting to get the better of her. God, but did she ever need a smoke! “Sweetie,” she stated in the calmest, most patient tone of voice she was capable of, “This is where Dawn and I moved after the divorce. You’ve never been here, remember?”

“Of course I remember!” Buffy screeched loudly, “Do you think I’m stupid?! Do you think I’m some idiot crazy?! That I’m just some blonde bimbo who’s completely incapable of understanding anything?! I’m Buffy fuckin’ Springs for God’s sake - not some slutty Christina or Britney or Mandy! I’ve got brains, y’know! I know things! I know plenty of things ... ”

“Shhhh,” Joyce’s hands flew restlessly around her face as she attempted to placate the hysterical young woman without touching her. “I know Lisbeth - I know, I know, I know ...”

“Know you don’t!” Buffy continued to scream. “You don’t know anything! You don’t know a single fuckin’ thing at all! You think I’m some phony bitch and I’m not! My tits are the real deal, sister ... I’m the real deal ...”

Joyce fumbled in her purse, trying desperately to find the sedative Buffy had been prescribed for her hysterical outbursts. “Yes, yes -” she breathed, “You’re the real deal ...” Why hadn’t she been told that her daughter had multiple personalities before she picked her up ...

“Oooooh,” Buffy calmed down the very second that Joyce pulled the bottle of pills out of her purse. She flashed her mother her most dazzling smile - the one that she had used to charm the multitudes - and she held out her hand. “Pill, please?” she grinned sweetly. “I do feel so very awful ...”


**

Andrew grinned happily as he pulled out his cell phone, practically bouncing with happiness. “Stupid bitch,” he muttered quietly to himself, “I’ll teach her to forget my name ...”

Andrew was of that desperately unhappy brand of loser that cannot seem to manage living in the real world. He was a walking mess of insecurities and fragmented, feverish fantasies; forever attempting to fit himself into one odd category or another.

This mentality extended so far into his psyche that he even had managed to delude himself as to the true nature of his own dreams. It was not Spock who made sweet love to him at night - but that attractive Seven of Nine - or sometimes Scully, depending on whether or not he had eaten any chocolate before bed. Either way, his nighttime fantasies most definitely did not involve tangled male limbs, heavy cocks and the heady scent of sex and aftershave as Mulder and Krycek formed the bun to Andrew’s burger.

It had always bothered him that he could never truly belong to any of the groups he attempted to adhere himself to. Andrew was never quite sure why he was such a perpetual pariah - only that he was one. Sometimes, when he cried at night, he was sure that not even the Borg would bother to assimilate him should they ever come to Los Angeles - not even if he begged. No one would ever think that he was worth anything - not in this world nor in any other.

But now, he could have his revenge. He could finally settle the score with that stupid pop star that had made his life a living Hell from the moment she had come to The Initiative. Buffy. He made a face as the memory of her name created a sour taste on his tongue. Stupid, yucky, bratty, bitchy Buffy with her constant whining and her billion-and-one hourly demands!

He had tried so hard to be nice - he really had. He had devoted himself to her while she was under his care, fetching that pair of silk slippers with faux chinchilla trim and that gossamer shirt with the sand-blown denim tie. He had retrieved, gathered, and/or obtained every single little material wish that had popped into her dumb, blonde little head - and for what? So that she could call him every name but the one his mother had given him? So that she could falsely claim that he had attempted to ‘feel her up’ when she was half-asleep from her medication? So that she could get him fired from the one job he had not only not-minded, but enjoyed?

Andrew thought not.

He had spoken to Warren - a friend of his that was still very much employed at The Initiative -and had learned the truth. Buffy had been discharged. Furthermore, she had been picked up by one Joyce Summers in an SUV with California plates - a Joyce Summers that, Andrew was convinced, had formerly been known as one Mrs. Hank Springs.

“H-Hello?” he said quietly, half-stuttering in his nervousness. “Is this R-Riley F-Finn, photographer for the T-The Council?” He smiled a truly evil smile that would’ve made Batman’s Joker jealous as he heard the affirmative to his question.

“Cool. Now how would you like to hear some real news ...?”

**

Riley propped his feet up on his desk, rubbing his eyes wearily with his knuckles as he glared at his partner. “I’m telling you,” he said, “This sounds legit. I’ve already got an ID on this Andrew guy - he definitely worked at The Initiative.”

Liam ‘Angel’ O’ Reilly rolled his eyes as he folded his tabloid and set it on the desk. “Who gives a shit?” he smirked. “This guy of yours worked at this rehabilitation center - so what? I don’t care if Buffy spent every night there with her mouth around his cock and an eleven year old Hispanic kid’s penis up her ass.”

He happily ignored the disgusted expression monopolizing his partner’s features as he grabbed the tabloid back off the desk. He waved it in the air so that Riley would read the headlines, “See this, Dipshit? Jon Benet appears to Haley Joel Osment as a ghostly apparition, Cher secretly gives birth to a reincarnation of The Elephant Man, and Britney Spears has a hymen. If you think any of this crap has even a grain of truth in it, you must be doping it up more than I thought.”

Riley shuddered in irritation, wishing to God that his partner would please oh please stop being such a jackass. “So what’s your point?” he said with as much forced joviality as he could muster. They had been working together for five years now - almost as long as they had been out of college - and they still hated each other with everything that they were worth. If Riley and Reilly - as they were commonly called - had not made such an instantaneous reputation for themselves in the world of tabloid journalism ...

Angel shrugged as he moved behind the desk to pour himself a bit of scotch from their combined stash. “We don’t do real news, Riley. We don’t do ‘legit’. Personally, I don’t give a fuck if your source is her fuckin’ half-brother and the sounding board for all of her little pop princess problems. We’re just going to make up a load of bullshit and throw it on the front page for laughs, anyway.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Riley said in a louder voice, shaking his head in exasperation. “Don’t you get it? We’re part freelance! We aren’t committed to the stupid little joke papers of the world!”

He removed his legs from his desk, decided to ignore the heavy glass paperweight he broke in the process, and swiveled around in his chair so that he was facing Angel once more. “This is our golden ticket, Man. We get a real, legit, honest-to-God story, a couple choice photographs of the new Mariah Carey and Boom! We’re writing for ‘People’ instead of ‘Council’!”

Angel threw back his shot, wiping his mouth as he considered what Riley was saying. It did make sense - even if Riley was a complete bastard shit for brains - but he wasn’t sure if he was willing to chance it. They still had to get their ‘Justin Timberlake as a coke addict’ cover ready for the next biweekly issue ...

Ah, what the Hell. Angel had always hated ‘The Council’ anyway. He was sure that if he had to come up with another headline involving Elvis, Jon Benet, or Jo-Jo The Dog Faced Boy, he would have to kill himself out of pure self-pity. ‘People’ would be a huge step up from the sheer stupidity of his current occupation and completely worth the risk of wasting his time.

“Sure,” he grinned, baring his incisors like the dog that he was, “Get your source back on the other line. Buffy Springs isn’t going to stand a chance.”

**

“Spike?” Anya whispered loudly, poking her index finger into his ribs. “Spike?” She frowned as he rolled over, effectively defending his ribs from her digit’s assault. “Are you sleeping?” she pouted pathetically, digging her finger into the small of his back.

“Not anymore.” he groaned in response, rolling over so that he was facing his psuedo-girlfriend once more. He propped his head up on his elbow and smiled, trying desperately to keep himself from settling back into sleep. “What is it, Pet?” he questioned, hoping to God the Almighty that he wasn’t opening himself up to yet another rant on the evils of Communism and Xander’s penis, two subjects that were no doubt very closely intertwined in the mind of Anya.

Anya brought her head slightly forward so that her mouth was just barely brushing against Spike’s. Delicately, she started to nibble on his lower lip, occasionally pausing to pass her tongue lightly over the sharp contours of his chin.

Smiling happily at his pleased (albeit slightly tired) response, Anya settled her hand against his stomach and began to tiptoe her fingers slowly across the lines of his torso, gradually making her way up to his chest. She grinned wickedly against his mouth as the pads of her finger rolled gently against his flat, male nipple, teasing it into a peak. Any second now ...

She waited patiently until he started to relax and nuzzle into her, practically half-purring like a big ole kitty cat, and then she attacked.

“Ah!” he yelped as she pushed him roughly onto his back and straddled him, grinding her pelvis hard against his. Her hands pressed into his chest, keeping him pinned beneath her as she teased his already stiff stiffy, “I want your penis!” she hissed excitedly as she bounced on top of his hips, her short blonde hair flying around her face. “If I don’t orgasm soon I swear I’m going to die.”

Spike moaned, his mind and conscience torn between the promise of immediate sex and the knowledge that Dawn was currently fast asleep in the neighboring bedroom. “Oh, fuck,” he swore as he realized he was going to have to settle for not-so-immediate sex. Joyce had almost castrated him after Dawn had caught him and Dru in the middle of a heated snog - Spike didn’t even want to know what she would do to him if he exposed Dawn to sex !

“Exactly!” Anya agreed, nodding her head emphatically. “Let’s fornicate!”

He brought his hands to her waist, halting her rather amorous movements over him. “Ahn -” he panted, knowing full well that he was about to break little Spike’s rapidly pulsing ... uh ... heart. “I’m sorry, Ducks, but you know we can’t be doing this now.”

Anya completely stilled then, crossing her arms over her chest and concealing her rather enticing if not quite naked bosom. “Why not?” she demanded, her dark eyes glittering like black ice in her anger and indignation. “Is there another woman? Huh? Am I not desirable enough for you anymore?” She paused in her small tirade to regard him steadily, her jaw slightly tilted as she contemplated all of the possible reasons any male would not want to achieve coitus with a lithe, beautiful, and extremely willing young woman such as herself. “You’re not homosexual are you?” she asked him seriously.

“What? No!” Spike exclaimed. “It’s Dawn ...”

Anya glowered over him. “You can’t have sex with Dawn. It’s illegal and very, very gross.”

Spike screwed up his face in disgust, “Anya! Dawn’s like a sister to me!”

“There are many places, usually surrounded by mountains or extensive farmland, where having sexual intercourse with one’s sister is considered normal and/or highly fashionable.” Anya argued. “You’re from West Virginia, aren’t you! You never told me!”

Spike squinted up at his furious girlfriend, completely confused. “One,” he said slowly, hoping to increase the likelihood of comprehension ala Anya by reducing the speed of his vocalizations. “West Virginia is in the United States, not Great Britain. I’m English. Therefore, I am not from West Virginia. Secondly, the reason we can’t do this right now is because Dawn is lurkin’ outside of the door tryin’ to figure out why her name and sex were just mentioned in the same sentence.”

“Am not!” Dawn yelled from just outside of the door as she desperately tried to figure out why sex and her name had just been mentioned in the same sentence. She finally decided to label it as one of those things she soooo didn’t want to know about and filed it into the back of her brain as something to be forgotten ASAP.

Spike raised his scarred eyebrow as he glanced pointedly at Anya, “See?”

Anya stuck her lip out in a petulant pout. “Can we just have sex anyway?”

“Ewwwwwww!” Dawn cried in horror, hoping that she would soon be able to forget that too.

Spike rolled his eyes at the both of them. “GO DOWNSTAIRS, DAWN!” Dawn was apparently all too eager to go downstairs as evidenced by the rapid pounding of her bare feet against the carpet. Spike waited until the sound of her footsteps had died down to a practically nonexistant pitter-patter, and then he turned back to Anya, who was glaring at him with a rather miffed expression on her pretty face.

“Now, Anya,” he said sweetly, “Do you happen to like my penis where it is? Good. Because I happen to like it there, too ...”

**

Buffy stared hard at the wall of her bedroom. That’s what her mom had called it anyway - her bedroom, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. Buffy was fairly totally positive that her bedroom would not be so plain as this - so boring and drab and old feeling - and that she had merely been stuffed in the spare guest bedroom. - a fact that made her just slightly less than pleased.

How dare they do this to her! How dare they force her to live with them in this disgusting, cheap, rodent-filled dung heap of a dwelling! She wasn’t some nutcase that needed to be locked up! She was Buffy fuckin’ Springs - the most beautiful, wondrous, talented pop sensation the world had ever seen! Men wanted her and women wanted to be her - and she most certainly did not have to stand for any of this shit! She was her own woman ...

‘No you’re not.’, a teeny little voice shouted up from the depths of her mind. “You’re a hideous wench and you know it. Talent? Ha! Even Christina’s crap could sing the shit out of you!’

“Nuh-uh.” Buffy muttered, only allowing the voice to half-distract her from the mystery that was the wall of her supposed bedroom. The wall was a some shade of periwinkle blue with cream borders - or at least that’s the way it seemed. You never really could tell with these sorts of things, after all. Walls could always shift around on a girl ...

Oh God! Who the hell was she trying to kid? Joyce and Dawn both hated her, and Hank was too busy fucking his newest secretary to give a damn about the children he had left behind. None of her so-called friends wanted anything to do with her ...

Buffy raised her fist to her mouth and bit down on it hard, fighting against the tears building up within her eyes. She was a nobody, now. A drifter with no family, no friends, no lovers. She was utterly, hopelessly alone in the world, and Buffy knew that there was nothing she could do to change things ...

Her only destiny, it seemed, was to die young and unhappy.

She fondled her jacket, feeling the many, many pills she had sewed into its inner lining, tears coursing down her thin cheeks. What was left for her now? Why couldn’t she gather up the few thin strands of willpower she had left and end it? Why couldn’t she take back just a little bit of control ...

She laid down on the bed and looked at the ceiling. It had a water stain on it.

Buffy knew exactly how that felt.

**
 

**
Dawn was coming to regret her stubborn tactics in the War Against Buffy.

While Joyce had remained meek in the onset of Dawn’s hormonal wrath, she had hardly lost any ground. Buffy was still at 1630 and Dawn would still have to see her if she wished to move around her own home, a fact that vexed the former Springs to no end.

What was with Buffy, anyway? What made her so fucking appealing? Did the anorexic hooker look hold an allure Dawn was simply not aware of? Were people somehow driven to protect the oldest Springs daughter? Did some secret Siren song bespell the rest of the world, leaving Dawn to cover her ears from an unholy screech only she could hear?

“Red peppers or green?” Dawn shook her head as she realized that Spike was trying to talk to her, putting her thoughts in a deep and secret part of her mind. She had barely been paying any attention to her almost-step-brother’s ramblings throughout the course of their shopping trip, choosing instead to focus on her own personal jihad.

‘My name is Dawn. You killed my family. Prepare to die.’ she thought with a malicious sort of mirth, her inner anger bubbling noisily within her chest. Dawn almost wondered why no one had yet bothered to aim a fire extinguisher her way - couldn’t they see the smoke rising from her skin? Couldn’t they see the rage burning within her, boiling throughout her veins, just waiting for the chance to burst forth in a wide river of molten fury?

“Red,” Dawn answered finally. “Red is good.” Red was the color of passion - courage, love, and anger, and it was the anger that Dawn was focusing on now. Anger was good, pure bravery in the face of vengeance, and she knew that she could take it, claim it, and bend it to her will.

Justice, the blind judge of the scales, had kept her eyes closed for far too long. Buffy would suffer for the wrongs she had committed to her family. It was only fair, after all. And when - it was not a matter of if - Dawn finally brought down that insufferable bitch, her so-called sister, the nonexistent Heavens would no doubt bow down before her in blissful servitude. ‘The wicked witch!’ the Angels would cry, their trumpets and their melodic voices spilling forth in utmost joy, ‘High ho, the wicked witch is deeead!’

Why was is that Angels and Munchkins looked virtually identical in all of Dawn’s imaginings, anyway? Was she just totally disturbed or what!?

Spike was looking at her strangely, and she could tell that he was biting at the inner lining of his cheek, a sure sign that he wanted to know something but wasn’t quite sure how to ask her about it. “Dawn,” he sounded hesitant, which made her roll her eyes. Why couldn’t he just spit out whatever happened to be on his mind?

“What?” she snapped, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Something on your mind, English Patient?”

Spike’s face instantly closed up at that, his features somehow transcending flesh in favor of pure, cold marble. The already sharp angles of his cheeks tightened, giving the illusion that his bones were about to break through his skin at any given second, and his eyes - they froze. His gaze had been dipped in liquid nitrogen, but it was Dawn that shattered at its first throw.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in the space of a hummingbird’s heartbeat, “I didn’t mean to ...” She allowed her voice to trail off. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Don’t know if I do.” Spike muttered, his rigid stance unrelenting in the face of her apology. He laid a seemingly gentle hand against her shoulder, but his touch felt heavy, somehow. Leaden. “Why are you bein’ like this, Bit?” he queried softly, the tone of his voice in sharp contradiction with his expression. “I’ve never see you ...”

Dawn shrugged away from his touch, “It’s Buffy, alright? I just can’t stand that she’s here. She’s so -” She realized that she couldn’t come up with a word that would truly encompass the wicked, hateful, spiteful, slutty, insane mess of a girl that was her biological sister, so she found herself making an adjective out of the bitch’s name, “Buffy-ish.”

Spike crossed his arms over his chest, “Oh, and that tells me so much, Pet. Buffy-ish.” He repeated her made-up word in sarcastic disdain, “What is it with that bint anyway? What’s her story?” He squinted at Dawn, his lips pursed, “And more importantly, why is it that you hate ‘er so bloody much?”

“Does it really have to be explained?” Dawn hissed hatefully, her sapphire eyes glittering diamond with malice. Why couldn’t he just let it go? Why did he have to press and press against her inner walls - did he want to see her break?

“Yeah, Bit, it does.” he responded heatedly. “I don’t know a single thing ‘bout the bird. Hell, I don’t even know her full name! Nobody ever tells me anythin’ ‘round ‘ere! Why not? Do you think ‘m goin’ to fall down and break?” He was pacing now, his hands flying around his face as he ranted. “What’s she done that’s so ‘orrible you can’t tell me ‘bout it!?”

Spike’s hands were always flying, jerking up and about when he was excited or upset, like twin falcons diving in a show of avian acrobatics. They were large, strong hands, calloused, scratched and sore, but long-fingered and lithe in a predatory sort of way.

His hands had been one of the first things Dawn had noticed upon meeting the younger Giles - the strength inherit in those pale fingers and wide palms was prominently apparent, even to the inexperienced eye. There was just something Atlas-ian about Spike, something that told you he had strength enough to carry the world on his shoulders. Dawn still wasn’t convinced that this was entirely true, but she certainly could not fault Spike for lack of trying.

“Did you even tell Dad?” Spike had stopped moving and was now standing stock-still. His face had lost its inhuman immobility in favor of a strange sort of firm vulnerability, and the insecurity in his eyes was almost enough to make Dawn cave in. Almost, but not quite.

The War against Buffy was not a single war against one opponent, but a crusade that had to be carried out on a million different fronts. The slightest show of weakness could mean the end to what little life Dawn had left. She should not, could not, would not concede defeat. Not in anything, and most certainly not on Buffy.

But there was a large and rather severe difference between losing a battle and employing a bit of strategy, now wasn’t there? Spike was not yet for Buffy nor for Dawn; he was a fresh slate, a canvas, ready for the mark of an artist’s knife. He could still be swayed.

“I don’t know,” Dawn responded sullenly. “I think Giles knew. You’d have to ask Joyce for sure.” She lowered her eyes to the floor, ‘Think shame! Think shame! He’ll forgive you if he thinks you’re full of repent-whatever!’

“Dawn,” There was a gentleness in Spike’s voice now. Good. That meant everything was going according to plan. Time for the lead-in, then.

“Have you heard of Britney Spears?”

If incredulous looks had a rating scale, Spike’s would have broken it. “Yeah,” he drawled out his answer, extending its syllables to Mississippi proportions. “And that has what to do with Elizabeth?”

Dawn shook her head, “Just hear me out, ‘kay?” She waited until he nodded in agreement before continuing, “Mandy Moore? Shakira? Christina? Big pop stars galore?”

“Again, yes.” Spike glared at her, his patience clearly running at ‘E’, “Hell, yes.”

Dawn took a deep breath, “Buffy Springs?”

Spike stared at her in shock, a short, sharp staccato of a laugh falling from his lips to spread outward, hovering in the air like the best of California smog.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me ...”

**

Joyce knocked against the door to Buffy’s room, biting her lip as she gathered the shredded remains of her had-been courage around her like a cloak.

What unspeakable horror waited behind that door, what vengeful harpy or broken child? Would Buffy greet her offering of grilled cheese and tomato with hatred and rejection, or would she accept it with a smile? Would she scream, would she hide her face in her hands in an attempt to shield herself from Joyce’s gaze?

These questions were spinning widely in the darkest recesses of Joyce’s mind, and it took her a few minutes to realize that her hands were trembling, that the plate she held was in severe danger of falling to the floor. ‘She’s only your daughter,” she told herself in desperation, ‘She’s still your Lisbeth.’ Somehow, she could not seem to convince herself.

She knocked again anyway, “Lisbeth? Buffy? Sweetie?” The lack of response from the other side of the door caused a certain sort of creepy crawly worry to work its way up her spine, and Joyce took several deep breaths in order to calm herself. Nothing was wrong. Buffy was fine, quiet, but fine. There was absolutely no reason to panic ...

She turned the doorknob after a second more of hesitation, her heart in her throat. What if ...

Buffy was asleep on the bed, her golden hair fanning out across the pillow, her lashes resting gently on her velvet cheeks, her mouth half-open in slumber. Joyce’s eyes filled with tears as she took in the sight of her beautiful, beautiful baby girl. She just looked- and she was here- and it was all so ...

Quietly, she set down the sandwich on Buffy’s dresser and left the room, her heart feeling considerably lighter. Maybe hope was worth clinging to, after all.

**

Spike was pissed off. That much was obvious.

His cheeks were sucked in, his jaws were clenched too tight for even a crowbar to pry open. His whole body seemed tight, coiled, like his sympathetic nervous system was telling him to be prepared to kick ass at any given second.

“I can’t believe you don’t believe me!” Well, Dawn never had been good at heeding ‘Danger’ signs.

His eyes flashed molten ice, and his DeSoto jerked violently as his hands spasmed against the wheel. “Right,” he snarked bitterly, “’Cuz it’s so bloody easy to believe that your sis is a bloody celebrity, and that I’ve never heard so much as a whisper ‘bout it!”

Dawn slouched against her seat, her expression hurt but defiant. On one hand, she liked that Spike was getting angry, because at least arguing with him would allow her to vent some of her frustration. On the other hand, she hated that he wouldn’t just trust her word. When had she ever lied to him about anything?

“Believe it or not, we don’t have to tell you everything! We don’t have to fucking tell you anything!” Unbidden tears stung at her eyes, and Dawn realized with horror that she was coming extremely close to losing every ounce of her considerable emotional control.

She started to half-screech, unable to hold herself back. “You don’t have to know that Dad is some rich asshole, or that he cheated on Mom with all kinds of people! You don’t have to know that I went to a private school, that I used to hang out with the Osbournes, that I had my own fucking sailboat and twelve fucking horses! You don’t have to know that Buffy used to bring all kinds of people into the house, and some of them had drugs and others tried to-to ...”

She clammed up as Spike slammed his foot down on the break, making the DeSoto scream and jerk as it banged to a stop in the driveway of 1630. He whipped is head around to stare at her, “What!” Surely she couldn’t be implying that ... why would she say ...? She was trying to lead him to conclusions, that much was obvious. But still -

He took in her shaky demeanor, the hardened expression on her face, the pain she was so obviously attempting to hide, and he knew. Something Dawn wasn’t saying (or implying, for that matter) had most certainly, really and truly, happened, and regardless of what it had actually been, it had hurt her terribly.

He reached out a hand to stroke her hair, “Dawn, Pet? You alright?” It seemed a terribly stupid thing to say, but he was dealing with his own hurt here as well. Why hadn’t he been told about whatever it was that was going on, whatever it was that had happened to the Summers pre-Sunnydale? His father had almost been Joyce’s husband for Hell’s sake! He had come so close to being a legal part of their family ...

And. They. Hadn’t. Told. Him. Something.

Something important.

“No,” she snarled, her mouth curled up and around as if she had tasted something sour. “But who of us is?” The question didn’t come out half as rhetorical as she had surely meant it to, and Spike swallowed hard against the growing lump in his throat.

Dawn moved to get out of the car, but he grabbed her arm, stilling her escapist movements. “If this is true, why didn’t I know any of this before?” he challenged, his voice cool but hard, like metal. He obviously didn’t think Joyce or Dawn would keep something big from him, which was almost unforgivably stupid. Hadn’t he ever read Camel or Ca-moose or whatever that Stranger book’s author was? You can never truly know another person, not really.

“Did you think it would matter to me who you were? Were you afraid I’d ...”

“No,” Dawn smirked hatefully, her eyes practically spitting with spite. “It’s just that we ‘Summers’ like to keep things in the family, y’know?” She tossed her hair back, practically whipping it into Spike’s face, “You don’t actually qualify; you’re dad died before the wedding, remember?”

She almost regretted her words the moment she saw the look on his face. “Spike I-”

“Get out.” he whispered hoarsely. “As you so nicely put it, ‘m not real family. ‘M under no obligation to put up with this.” Spike knew that Dawn was lashing out, that she was taking out her anger on him, but that didn’t change the fact that her words had cut him deeply. He needed to leave to think and to lick his figurative wounds.

“Can’t,” Dawn pointed out snidely, not really knowing why she felt so compelled to be such a bitch. Spike had never been anything but supportive of her, kind and sweet and caring. He loved her, he understood her, he never failed to make her feel like she mattered in the big scheme of things ... So why was she being so stupendously awful to him? He didn’t deserve even a fraction of the shit she was dishing out! And yet - she couldn’t quite seem to help it.

“The chicken’s still in the trunk,” she reminded him, “That’s kinda why we went out in the first place, remember?”

Spike glared at her, “Yeah, I do. So get the bloody food and then get out!”

“Dawnie?”

He turned towards his window at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, tentative and feminine.

The girl standing there was thin, bony even, and she leaned slightly to the side, almost as if she was trying to resist an especially strong summer breeze. Her clothing was tightly tailored but stylish, and it molded itself against her hips and her (small, but noticeable) bosom, leaving just enough to the imagination.

Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, but thin strands had escaped from their bonds, and had come to fall over her face a sheer curtain. She might’ve been attractive, but for her eyes. They were large, dark, and red-rimmed, almost haunted by the looks of them. Greasy shadows lined them like natural kohl, and combined with the sallowness of her skin, they gave her a fragile, almost inhuman appearance.

She looked like a corpse.

“Dawnie?” she said again, shaking her head, “I meant Dawn. You go by Dawn now, right? Right?” The girl’s eyes widened, “You are Dawn, aren’t you?” she babbled, “I mean, I know it’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I can still recognize my own sister, right?Am I right?” She blinked, her eyes focusing in on Spike,“Mom didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!” The girl - Spike assumed she was Elizabeth - seemed taken aback for a few seconds. “Isn’t he, uh, kinda old for you, Dawni- Dawn! I mean, you’re, like, thirteen ...”

Spike decided to intervene before Dawn could open her mouth; knowing the mood the teenager was in, things could only get ugly. “’M a ...” What was he exactly, anyway? “... A family friend,” he decided. “Known Dawn ‘n’ Joyce for a few.”

The girl smiled with something that appeared to be relief, “Oh, okay, then. I guess if you’re a family friend, you’re supposed to be mine too, huh?” She extended out her hand, shaking his firmly,“I’m Buffy. Say ... would you like to come to dinner? I’m sure Mom won’t mind.”

“He’s got a girlfriend,” Dawn snapped before he could reply in the negative, “And unlike every other guy you’ve ever dated, and ooh! you yourself, he actually has morals. You won’t get to fuck him, so you might as well stop the whole ‘I’m actually human’ routine. It doesn’t suit you.” She stomped to the door, grocery supplies in hand.

Buffy bit her lip and looked at Spike nervously, “Sorry - I think I better go ...,” she shook her head. “You can still come to dinner, y’know, if you’re not too troubled by danger to life and limb.” She offered up a small half-smile, “I don’t think I caught your name. Who -”

“Spike,” he replied quickly. “Spike Giles. I live right down the street here.”

“Oh,” Buffy intoned, obviously distracted. “That’s nice. See ya around, Pike.”

“Spike,” he went to correct her, but she was already gone, the door swinging as it slammed shut behind her. Spike pressed his fingertips against his temples, and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

**

A/N:

Hello all! First of all, I would like to thank all of you who have given me feedback so far, I love you all! I don’t always have time to respond to people personally, but I do want all of you to know exactly how much your feedback means to me. (P.S, F-B, if you are still reading this fic, please know that it’s perfectly alright if you hate this version of Buffy. She’s going to change for better or for worse - that part’s kinda up to your opinion.) Now, I want some honest feed back on ...

1) Chapter length. I can do 40+ pages per chappie (If you don’t believe me, read “Shadow to Self”). I can also do extremely short chappies (please see “Recidivism”). People complain about slow updates - but they also complain about having to read really short chapters. I was planning on chapters between 5-10 pages for this one, is that alright? I’ll do whatever, just know that the longer the chapters, the longer the time between updates will be.

2) BETA! Do I need one? Are my constant typos interfering with your ability to read my ficcy? If so, I’ll stop posting until I can secure one. Which brings me to my last note-thing here ...

One person may or may not have offered to Beta this mess, I’m not really sure. I had just started to read said person’s e-mail when my computer crashed, and the damn thing was lost. It wasn’t in my old mail box, so I had no way of contacting you. If you’re still interested - e-mail me again, and we’ll see if Roger II behaves himself.

Thanks -

Karyn