Had to be an abandoned building, of course, Dawn thought bitterly as she approached Bruckert’s Ice Cream Stand.  Probably due to a complete lack of atmospheric warehouses in suburban New Hampshire.  Then again, maybe she should be happy that they weren’t in a cemetery.  Whatever. 

The outside of the stand looked just like Dawn remembered it from August – a little run-down, but in that “we’re historic” way that buildings in New England had.  Alicia and Flick had brought her here with Buffy, ironically – Dawn was sure that Spike didn’t know that bit of information.  But now the windows were boarded up, and she would bet that the electricity wasn’t on, either.  She scowled at the sun, which was setting far too quickly for her tastes.  Six fifteen; that left her about an hour, she’d guess, before all direct sunlight was gone.  An hour to get in and, if she was lucky, get the hell out.

Dawn trotted around the building, partly for speed, partly to keep her courage up.  She came across the broken padlock quickly, and paused.  He’d gotten in through one of the heavy storm doors leading down to the basement, and Dawn cursed quietly.  That meant far too many things, none of them boding well for her:  firstly, the door would be damn heavy; it was also covered in rust, and likely to make a lot of noise; and, most importantly, it led directly to the basement.  She darted a glance to one of the narrow basement windows that peeked out of the building’s foundation: covered.  Shit. 

She closed her eyes and considered just leaving.  She wasn’t Buffy, and she didn’t have Buffy’s friends with her.  If Spike was waiting for her on the other side of that door, she wouldn’t have a chance. 

But there were other things to consider, she reminded herself.  She opened her eyes again, steeling herself mentally, and grasped the handle of the storm door tightly.  With her other hand she pulled a stake from her pocket.  If she went down immediately, at least Buffy could know that she went down fighting.  She readjusted her grip on the handle and pulled.

The door wasn’t as heavy as she’d feared, but it made noise enough to wake the dead.  Dawn gave up on any hope of stealth and threw the door back, lunging into the dark basement.  She blinked a little as she realized that a couple of electric lights were glowing in the shadows; she fluttered her eyelids quickly, trying to adjust to the darker room.  Suddenly, a voice floated out to her.

“Dawn?  What in hell are you doing?”

Dawn spun, picking out the slightly darker shape of Spike out from the general gloom.  She darted back a few paces, deliberately placing the sunlight pouring through the open basement door between herself and the vampire.  He had sounded more bewildered than anything, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.  Not until he’d heard what she had to say.

“Spike?”  She straightened up, and he caught the shimmer of her crucifix.  His mouth twisted bitterly.

“Sporting new neckware, I see,” he drawled.  He paced over to one of the basement pillars and casually leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest.  “My, my – I wonder what this could mean.”  Dawn shivered a little as his tone turned more sinister.

“Spike, does the chip still work?”  Her eyes had adjusted completely now, and Dawn looked right at Spike, straightforward in words and posture.  True, she still had a stake in her hand and what looked like a bottle of water under her arm, but her directness was slightly disarming to Spike.  He sneered, buying a little time.  Old habits die hard.

“Dunno, Bit.  It could.”  He leaned forward a little, eyes shining.  “I wouldn’t know, given that I last saw it – well, about the same time as I last saw you.” 

Shit.  “Okay,” said Dawn, watching him closely.  “And how do you feel?”

Spike laughed bitterly.  “What is this, pop psychology from a teenager?”  He snarled.  “How do you think it feels?  Bloody chip’s OUT, and it feels fucking brilliant.”  He began to prowl towards her, a rolling gait that made Dawn uneasy.  “’Course,” he amended, “might make others a tiny bit wary.”

“Should have figured you’d react just like big sis – ‘Spike’s got the chip out, let’s all go fucking kill him.’  Same blood and all.”  He bit the words out harshly, still advancing.  “But sweet little bit – you’re NOT big sis, and there’s no way that you can take me on your own, even with that pointy piece of wood you’ve got there.”  She watched him come, holding her ground.

“Spike, stay there.”  Dawn spoke forcefully and quietly, but didn’t move.  She stood straight-backed, seemingly fearless.  Surprisingly, Spike halted mid-stride.  Then, suddenly, he slumped a little.

“Dawn, what do you want.” It was as though he’d abruptly gone hollow.  For a moment there, he’d been the Spike she’d learned to fear, all sinew and sinister intent.  But the way he looked at her now?  He seemed… tired.  And as she watched, he lifted his hands towards her appealingly, spread wide as he shrugged.  As though there was nothing he could say.  He was right, she realized.

“Spike, you know how bad this seems to be for me, right?”  She tried to make her voice amicable, but the tenseness came out with her words.  Spike withdrew into himself again, recrossing his arms, all signs of apology wiped away.  She tried again. 

“Look at it from my perspective: I move to a different part of the country, away from my sister and anyone else who would watch out for me with this - kind of thing.” 

Spike raised an eyebrow.  “You can say it, pet, it’s not like there’s anyone about to hear you.”  He smiled evilly at her as she caught the double meaning of his phrase, but she forged on. 

“So I’m settling in, and then you appear.  And I’m thrilled!  ‘Cause I like you, and I missed you, and you disappeared without telling anyone at all.”  Spike took in her words, but his expression didn’t change.  Dawn took another deep breath.

“And then you want to meet.  Alone.  You want to know if my room’s warded.  You took off in the WEIRDEST way when I cut myself in the parking lot, and then you go and pick ‘something’ mysterious at an appointment scheduled roughly at the same time I was supposed to meet you.  You’ve met my friends, you know their names, I introduced you to them as a friend and there’s no POSSIBLE way I could warn them about inviting you in without telling them that you’re… the way you are.”  She shook her head.  “And I can’t take that chance, Spike.  These people are my life, and if you’ve gone all un-chippy, then we have a problem.  Because I can’t deal with Sunnydale happening here, Spike.  I just can’t.” 

“So this is what we’re going to do.”

She tossed her stake into the patch of sunlight at her feet.  Spike watched, expressionless, as three more stakes followed, then all three containers of holy water.  He did raise his eyebrows a little as Dawn bent down to unstrap the wicked-looking switchblade from her right leg, but his face was impassive again as she straightened, lobbing the holster and blade onto the growing pile.  Her fingers trembled a bit as she fumbled to unclasp her bracelet one-handed, but she managed.  Lastly, she bent her head to remove her necklace.  Almost ceremoniously, she walked over and placed it carefully on the top of the rest.  She half-turned to him, then absently turned back, quickly stripping off her fleece.  As though he might suspect her of hiding one last weapon, he supposed.  Clad only in a thin t-shirt and her pants, Dawn crossed the floor of the basement, stopping a few feet away from where Spike stood.

“Okay,” she breathed, a little shaky.  Spike could see the tears standing in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. 

“Spike, if you want to kill me – do it.  Now.  Because if the chip’s out and I’m what you’re after, I’m not going to go hiding in warded rooms.  I’m not going to let you kill my friends off one by one, and I’m NOT going to drag them into this world that they don’t need to know about – they don’t live in our world, with the vampires and werewolves and packs of wild dogs who savage seniors at the prom.  Their Wiccan friends?  Dance in circles in the woods and go to Renaissance Faires, instead of brewing dimension-altering potions.  And a stake is something you eat, it’s made out of cows, of which New Hampshire has many.”  She was losing control of her speech as it went on, and without her fleece the cold was beginning to get to her.

“Buffy won’t tell me anything about Sunnydale, Spike.  It’s like it doesn’t exist anymore.  She’ll tell me about working at the bank and how Xander’s doing at the construction site, but if there’s an apocalypse coming I won’t know any sooner than the rest of the doomed population.” 

“She wants me to be NORMAL, Spike.”  Dawn was beginning to cry now, though involuntarily.  Her voice remained steady, her expression fierce, her brave front marred only by the streaks running down her face.  “And I can’t call her and tell her that you’re here, lurking.  She’ll just lose it.  I can’t do that to her.  So,” she sniffed, scrubbing angrily at her eyes with the heel of her palm, “This is it.”

“I have a date tomorrow night, Spike.  With a real boy – like last time, but without fangs,” she laughed, a little hysterically.  “He’s nice and he’s sweet and he has no fucking CLUE who my sister is, other than meeting her once on Moving-In Day.  And my other friends are all wonderful and I love them.  But I won’t let you have them.  And I KNOW I’m repeating myself a lot, but I’m trying to make it VERY CLEAR how important this is to me!”  Dawn blazed at him, face burning.  She took another step towards him, arms out, and tilted her head back in challenge.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it.  I like you, Spike - but I can’t risk that you’ll lie to me, that this is all some elaborate plot to get back at Buffy.  And if I’ve got the chip-less you right, this should do it.”  She reached up to her neck and savagely clawed at it sideways with her fingernails, ripping the skin and encouraging a slow trickle of blood to the surface.  She winced a little, but let the blood flow.

“So do it, before I totally lose my nerve and do something stupid like faint.”  She closed her eyes, and Spike realized that the head-tilt hadn’t been a challenge so much as an act of submission.  Devoid of the high-necked fleece jacket, her neck glowed luminously in the cellar, the single crimson track lengthening.  Her jawline trembled a little, but Dawn stood still, waiting.

She was brave, he thought, watching as she stood shivering.  He noted the way she’d prepared herself so immaculately, her hair, her clothes, the humble arsenal. 

Then, quick as lightening, he lunged.

TBC

It all proved too much.  The rush of air from Spike’s sudden movement hit her like a brick wall, and Dawn collapsed before he reached her, crumbling into a boneless heap on the cement floor of the basement.  Her head smacked the solid floor sharply, but she was already out, the combination of stress and lack of sleep having finally overcome her self-control. 

The metallic tang of her blood hung heavily around her, and for a moment Spike wondered if she hadn’t cracked her skull as well.  He knelt down next to her for a closer examination, but there didn’t seem to be any blood pooling.  So, he marveled, all of that scent must be coming from the gouges at her throat.  Sharp nails on the kid.  He leaned closer.  The angry crimson stripes welled up at him eagerly, taking advantage of Dawn’s horizontal state to begin trickling in new directions.  Her neck was beginning to look like a topographical map; deep rivers forming streams, pooling unexpectedly here and there, dividing into ever-thinner rivulets as they progressed.  Fascinated, he studied the way it caught at some of the tendons in her throat, needing enough momentum to continue its journey.  He sighed in relief as one dammed trickle overcame its obstacle and sped freely to the ground.

Oh, fuck.  Spike shook himself, snapping out of his trance.  He couldn’t tell how long he’d been staring at her.  She looked so awkward, stretched out on the floor like that, her left leg bent double under her.  He went to lift her, but shied away.  No, there was something else he’d have to do first.

He strode over to Dawn’s belongings; the sunlight from the door had shifted considerably, which made Spike wonder again about how much time had passed.  He hovered over the collection, examining it, before carefully reaching down and picking up one of the perfume bottles of water.  Something else, though.  He picked up a stake and began to separate all of the items, searching for something in particular…

Ah!  Here we go, he thought, and gingerly grasped Dawn’s crucifix by its silver chain.  He squinted at it; beautifully done, he realized.  Not exactly like her sister’s, either – there was a Celtic sense about it.  Something inherently classic, and more than a little mythical.  He smiled to himself. This necklace definitely said “Dawn” more than it said “Buffy”.

He held it well away from himself as he peered back at Dawn’s body.  Spike winced; the scent of blood was getting stronger now, and the wound on her leg seemed to have opened up again as well.  He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to block out the iron taste of the air.  The perfume spritzer wouldn’t be enough anymore; he tossed it onto Dawn’s discarded fleece and picked up the Poland Springs bottle instead.  The plastic crackled warningly in his hand.  “You’d better be what I think you are,” he muttered to it under his breath, and walked back to Dawn.

Hmmm.  He looked from the necklace and water to the form of the unconscious girl.  “No two ways about this, I suppose,” he breathed, and shrugged.  He quickly grasped the top of the squirt-bottle between his front teeth and popped the spout up, choking a little as a few unexpected drops of moisture sprayed into his mouth.  He spit violently – forgot about that little side-effect of squirt-bottles, he thought in irritation.  His eyes were tearing up, but he strode over to Dawn’s head, taking advantage of the distracting pain to take the next step.

He pointed the bottle straight down at her and squeezed.  His aim was perfect, the stream of water striking Dawn’s wound precisely.  He watched impassively as the water sluiced through the rips in her skin, diluting the maroon of her blood until it faded to a watery pink.  The excess water spread out beneath her on the floor, a growing puddle that began to soak into her t-shirt as well as creep through her hair.  Spike hefted the water bottle, tilting it upright.  About half-full, he guessed.  He absently turned to her right leg and doused it as well, causing the sodden cotton to cling to her shin.  Better safe than sorry.  Spike backed up against the pillar again, affording himself a clear view of the entire situation.  Namely, Dawn stretched out and bleeding in a pool of water.  Bloody hell.  He set the bottle on the ground beside him, and reconsidered the crucifix dangling from his fingers.

Spike looked at Dawn, paused, and then looked back at the necklace.  “Shit,” he sighed, staring at the mess he had made.  The blood was already overcoming his attempt to dilute it; as he watched, a single droplet made a track down Dawn’s neck.  More would follow soon, and he knew he should just get it over with now, while he still could.  Spike quickly strode over and crouched beside the teenager, carefully avoiding any splashes of holy water his boots might kick up.  Not that it would really matter, considering what he was about to do.  He chuckled grimly, carefully arranging the ends of the necklace in his left hand, his right hand twitching nervously.  He stared at the delicate fastener grasped between his thumb and forefinger and gritted his teeth.

Bugger, this was going to hurt.

He quickly jammed his left hand under Dawn’s neck, grimacing as the droplets of water clinging to Dawn’s hair and neck scorched his palm.  It was simpler to focus on the sensations on his palm; the pain on the back of his hand was almost unbearable, given that it was practically submerged in the puddle of water he’d created under her.  His fingers snagged in her ponytail and he cursed, desperately trying to get the chain into a position from which he could fasten it.  The crucifix rattled, slipping silkily along the chain, and Spike flinched as it came to rest on the inside of his wrist. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Spike saw the glint of silver on the other side of Dawn’s neck.  He darted his right hand around, plucking the end of the chain from the numb, raw fingers of his left hand.  He yanked his left hand sharply from under Dawn’s head, jostling her slightly, and winced at the bubbled flesh the emerged.  This was worse than he’d expected, he thought as he determinedly bent to his task, ignoring the spectacular appearance of his hands.

She was bleeding freely again, and it was torture for him to have to crouch so close over her, urgently forcing his burned and blistered fingers to maneuver the dainty mechanism that held her necklace together.  His hands were almost as red as her neck, he noted absently as he heard the fastener click into place.    

Gasping, he scuttled away from her, retreating back to the pillar and leaning against it weakly.  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the Poland Springs bottle.  Grunting, he pulled it to him and pointed it in Dawn’s direction.  His aim was off, but after a couple of tries he managed to strike her neck again.  The splash of red disappeared, and he collapsed back against the pillar, exhausted. 

He wanted nothing more than to sleep, recuperate, heal his self-inflicted wounds and get the fuck out of this town.  But Dawn was still laying there, helpless, and he kept his eyes open, watching her.  The sun had set, and the square of sky visible through the basement door glowed an eerie cornflower blue.  Spike buried his head in his hands and tried to think.

Holy FUCK, that hurts, Dawn thought as she slowly came to.  Her head throbbed warningly and she stayed very still, wary of inviting more pain.  “If you’re hurting, it means you’re not dead,” Buffy often reminded her, and Dawn winced.  Definitely not dead, then. 

She tried to analyze her situation, keeping her eyes closed.  Well, she was cold, that was definite.  And wet.  Had he dumped her in a sewer somewhere?  Or a swamp?  But the ground under her felt way too solid to be natural, and besides, her ears told her that she was in an enclosed space.  A cellar?  Oh my god, he’d left her in the cellar. 

But back to the wetness… he must have dropped her in a puddle, because she could feel the water at the back of her scalp, barely.  And her shin was cold, but she wasn’t quite sure if it was wet or just another side-effect of the glass she’d fallen on the night before.  She dismissed it and moved on in her examination.

Her neck.  Suddenly she shocked rigid, and a jolt of pain throbbed through her skull.  It was unbelievably sore, and COLD.  She moved her head experimentally… she couldn’t feel a scab or crust on her throat.  Oh, shit, she was still functioning, freezing cold and her wound wasn’t scabbed over… Panic welled in her chest, and she frantically wetted her mouth.  Was that blood she tasted? 

A groaning, wailing sound ripped from her involuntarily.  She’d been turned.  The only possibility she hadn’t thought of.  How long did she have until the demon took over?  Her eyes flew open – her stakes.  She might still have her stakes, or even the holy water… Buffy had killed a vamp when it swallowed holy water, right?  God, it would hurt, but it would be worth it.

She groggily dragged herself up on one elbow and tried to find the light from the doorway, but it was gone.  She winced as her head throbbed again, but gamely began to crawl to where she thought her weapons might still lay.

“Awake, I see.”

Dawn whirled at the humorless voice, and her vision exploded.  Bursts of light peppered her and she clung onto consciousness grimly, vowing not to pass out and lose control again. She wasn’t totally surprised when she felt Spike lift her, ignoring her protestations, and carry her into another room.

He’d set himself up in the manager’s office, it seemed.  The cement room was small, but Mr. Bruckert apparently kept long hours; in the corner of the room behind an old set of filing cabinets he’d set up a low cot, and a comfortable-looking easy chair was shoved into a corner near a rickety-looking 13-inch television.  It still had rabbit-ear transmission aerials, Dawn noted fuzzily.  The room lurched and swayed, and Dawn shut her eyes tightly.  She was determined not to faint. 

Spike set her on the bed unceremoniously, then turned and began to pull things out of a cupboard, ignoring her completely.  Dawn reached up to her throat gingerly, wondering if she’d have scars.  Buffy never got permanent scars, she’d noticed.  Bitten – what, three times was it now?  And no scars.  She started as her fingers caught on something unexpected.  Something metallic.  She grasped the chain, peering down until she saw her cross dangling.  She touched it wonderingly, then pressed it hard against her breastbone.  Nothing happened.

“So – I’m not a vampire?” she breathed, more to herself than anything.  But Spike whirled to look at her, his expression angry.  Very angry.

“Not for lack of trying, you’re not,” he spit out. 

“My head hurts…” she breathed, not realizing she’d spoken aloud.

“You fainted, you silly chit – probably bit your tongue when you hit the ground, I wouldn’t wonder.”  That would be the taste in her mouth, then… Spike grabbed a blanket off a shelf and chucked it at her violently.  Dawn caught it, shrinking back against the cold wall of the room.  “What the hell are you playing at, Dawn?  What the fuck was that back there?” He was tearing the inside of the cabinet apart, Dawn thought.  She swallowed nervously.

“I – I needed to know,” she stuttered, watching him carefully.  He stopped, still with his back to her, and braced his forearms on the edges of the open cabinet.

“Know what, exactly?” The words rumbled deep in his chest, and he directed the words at the floor, head bowed.  Dawn bit her lip.

“I needed to know what you’d be like, without the chip.”  She twisted the cross around her neck and pulled the blanket tighter.  “I had to be sure.”

“Sure.”  Spike turned to her, and she was surprised to see how anguished he looked.  And hurt.  Her heart dropped.  “So why the game of dress-up?  Why march in here, only to put on your little show and make your little speech?”  He dropped his head again, shaking it gently.  “Dawn… why didn’t you just ask?”

The simplicity of it seemed almost laughable.  She leaned forward earnestly. 

“Spike, I had to know!  And I wanted you to be off your guard, I wanted to do it my way.”  She suddenly realized how petulant she sounded, and rephrased. 

“I didn’t want to do this armed, but what if you’d attacked me the moment I’d stepped in here?”  Spike glared at her, but she looked at him frankly.  “Don’t look at me as though it hasn’t happened before.”  He sighed.

“But the sacrificial-lamb bit, Dawn?”

She flushed.  “I didn’t plan it that way,” she admitted.  “If you’d attacked me when I came in here, I’d’ve tried to get away.”  He nodded.  “And then I would’ve moved back to Sunnydale tomorrow.  No questions asked.”  She shrugged.  “That way there’d be no reason to go after my friends here.”

“But I didn’t attack you,” he reminded her, and she sagged against the wall.

“Yeah, that was the more complicated part,” she muttered.  “If you didn’t attack me immediately, that still meant that you could just be biding your time.  Spike, I remember you before you had the chip.  You weren’t nice.”

Spike nodded.  He didn’t have anything to add to that particular argument.  Dawn hurried on.

“But if you wanted me, I was going to let you have me.  I mean,” she amended, “I thought I’d make you an offer that Evil Spike couldn’t refuse.”  She reached up to touch her throbbing neck.  “If you killed me, you wouldn’t have to go after my friends.  And if you didn’t…”  She shrugged, a little grin on her face.

“Not so simple, Nibblet.”  Spike still wasn’t looking at her, his stare fixed on the ground.  He was leaning against the desk, his arms folded loosely across his chest, and Dawn dreamily realized that his sweater was one of the army-regulation styles, like the ones that Riley used to wear, the ones with those weird cloth patches… she decided not to mention the similarity.  He startled her by glancing up sharply, and she jumped.

“Dawn, I don’t want you ever, EVER to take a risk like that again,” he gritted out, his words evenly spaced but his stare intense.  Dawn started to object,; he talked right over her. 

“NEVER go into a situation alone, thinking you’ve got all the answers.”  He pushed off the desk and pulled a folding chair out, settling himself only a foot away from where she was sitting.  He leaned forward, and Dawn flashed back to the few times she could remember her father angry with her.  The squirming feeling in her stomach was the same, she realized.  Spike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limply.  They looked kind of funny, she thought, but Spike’s posture demanded eye contact, so she decided to ask later.

“I left last night because you were in danger,” he said matter-of-factly.  “You were bleeding, I was hungry, and I hadn’t fed on human blood in about a week.”  Dawn’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. 

“That’s where I had to go, Bit.  I have a source over in the city, he’s got a pretty regular supply of human blood.  I’ve had to alternate with pig’s blood since the chip came out, keeps everything steady.  And no, I don’t know where it comes from,” he added irritably.  “But I’d assume a hijacked hospital delivery or something of the sort, they come in the same kind of bags.” 

“So… that’s why you had to get it before we met up?” she quavered, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

“Didn’t want to get peckish with you around, love,” he admitted, smiling a little.  Then he regained his focus and glared at her sternly.  “All of which would’ve made one hell of a mess if you’d come marching in here, gushing plasma, when I’d been on a steady ration of butcher’s blood!”  He jumped up again and began pacing. 

“I didn’t know…” Dawn breathed, twisting at her blanket. 

“Of course you didn’t!  Been living with that ruddy sister of yours too long, gotten into her habits,” he grumbled.  “And what if I HAD turned you just now?  Don’t you remember ANYTHING about my kind?  You’d’ve turned right around and killed all of your friends anyway, which would’ve been much more amusing and saved me a whole lot of trouble.”  He shook his head.  “Sodding women.” 

He spun again, a new thought on the tip of his tongue.  “The only reason I wanted to meet with you alone in the FIRST place was so that I could tell you about the chip calmly, so we could avoid all this!”  He laughed sharply.  “Somewhere neutral, with loads of people but no one else listening to our conversation; somewhere you would feel secure, just so this bloody well WOULDN’T happen!  DAMN!”  He kicked an empty plastic crate into the corner where it crashed into a mop. 

“I’m sorry,” Dawn whispered.  She felt foolish and embarrassed, and the hiccups in her throat were slowly giving way to an entirely more pathetic series of sobs.  She kept replaying it in her head, getting redder with every viewing – her marching in there, cutting herself, fainting like a little girl and then waking up and accusing Spike of turning her.  What a fool.  She tried to hide her face in the rough blanket, holding her breath to smother the sounds. 

Spike stopped pacing and looked over at her.  She looked miserable. 

Good!

But she’d begun to sob like her heart was broken, ragged little gasps that she struggled to contain, and his rage began to subside.  She’s only seventeen, he reminded himself a little guiltily.  And she’s just trying to be like her big sister… He rolled his eyes and sat down next to her on the bed, pulling her against his chest and tucking her head under his chin.

“Ah, Bit, I’m sorry – I get worried about you sometimes.  You were trying to protect your friends, it was all just a little,” he paused.  “Misguided?”

Dawn snuffled into his sweater.  “It was STUPID, Spike!  I thought it was such a good idea and it put you into such a horrible, horrible situation…” she screwed up her face.  “And I looked so DUMB!”  She curled up against him tighter, anguished.  Spike held back a smile.  Just like a teenager, he thought – be more worried about how they’d looked, rather than the fact that they could’ve died.

“Sweetling, don’t worry, it’s okay now,” he soothed, and then pulled her away from him to look her in the eye.  “As long as you promise never, ever, EVER to do it again.  Right?”

“Right,” she gulped, and cast her eyes down.  That was when she got a full view of his burned hand resting in his lap.  “Oh my GOD, Spike!  What happened?”

Spike cleared his throat gruffly.  “Well, you were unconscious for a while, and you were bleeding…”  He pressed his lips into a thin line, then bowed his head.  “I kept dousing you with your holy water bottle over there,” he gestured to the almost-empty Poland Springs container standing on the desk.  “And then I got your necklace on you.  Just in case.”  He shrugged self-consciously. 

“But you poured the water on yourself?” Dawn asked incredulously.  She had taken both of his hands in hers and was gently examining them.  She’d never seen such severe burns, and she’d guess they’d been healing for about an hour already.

“No,” Spike hedged. But Dawn wouldn’t let it rest, and he groaned.  “I didn’t want to touch you while you were bleeding,” he explained.  “So I got all your blood mixed with the water, and THEN put the necklace on.” 

Dawn stared at him.  “And now your hands look like this.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Spike grumbled.  He took his hands out of Dawn’s grasp and cradled the on his lap again.  She looked at his bowed head and jumped off the bed, marching over to the cabinet Spike had ransacked.

“What are you doing?”  He called after her.

“Looking for first aid stuff.  This counts as a restaurant – they’re required to have it by law.”  She knelt and reached back for a rusty green toolbox, dragging it out onto the floor.  Spike made some protest in the background, but she ignored him completely.

“Gotcha!”  She held up a package of bandages and an economy-sized tube of antiseptic.  “Now, hold out your hands.”

“Dawn, I don’t need any of that stuff...” Spike grimaced as she spread the salve on his palms and then directed him to turn his hands over.  He did so reluctantly; she sucked in her breath as she saw how deep the burns went.  She gently began to wrap his wounds, and Spike noticed how expertly she managed the task.  Exactly how injured had Buffy been getting, for Dawn to have had so much practice?  He shook his head at the unwanted thought.

“There, all done, and I know that you don’t think it will help, but it makes ME feel a whole lot better,” Dawn chirped as she admired her handiwork. 

Spike smirked at her.  “And that’s what matters, of course.”

Dawn immediately looked contrite.  “I’m really sorry, Spike.”

He gazed at her.  She’d grown up so much since he’d last seen her, but he could still recognize the little girl he’d become so fond of.  Trying so hard to be an adult.

“Forgotten, Nibblet.”  She burrowed against him and he kissed her forehead, the two sitting in comfortable silence.

Suddenly, Dawn gasped.  “Oh my GOD, what time is it?”

“Night?”  Spike supplied.  He didn’t have a clock handy, and the sun had been down for quite a while.  Dawn looked at him, frantic.

“I have to get home!  Alicia will FREAK if I’m gone too long, and I’ve got two exams tomorrow and I haven’t even LOOKED at the sample questions… Do you think the buses have stopped running yet?!?”  She jumped to her feet, panicked.

“Van’s out back,” Spike sighed, struggling to his feet and clumsily scooping the keys off of the desk.  Dawn gaped at him.

“Seriously?  I would owe you sooooo much…”

“Oh, don’t even,” Spike snorted, slipping on his jacket.  He handed Dawn a canvas rucksack as he strode out the door; she peered inside to find all of her carefully selected Slaying accessories nestled inside. 

“Come on, Bit, don’t want to keep Alicia waiting,” his voice echoed back to her.  She grinned and shouldered the pack, jogging up the stairs to join him.

TBC

“Dawn, I’m not sure I can take much more of this,” Spike’s voice was anguished and kind of echo-y, as though he was speaking into the phone with his head buried in his arms.  Which it probably was, Dawn supposed. 

“No no no, you have to listen to this part!” she shrieked, bouncing on the bed excitedly.  Alicia and Kirsten giggled at her from across the room, waving their spoons at her and making kissy-noises through their Ben & Jerry’s. 

All three girls had piled into Dawn’s bed on Saturday at noon, or as Alicia referred to it, “early”.  The rest of the day had been dedicated to an excruciating, detail-by-detail breakdown of Dawn’s date with Sean the night before.  With the exception of a single pilgrimage to the dining hall for supplies, consisting mostly of ice cream and Doritos, they hadn’t budged since.  Eight hours on they were still in their pajamas, about to start watching “Empire Records”, when Spike had made the huge mistake of calling.  The full magnitude of his error was beginning to sink in, though…

“Bit.  We’ve been on the phone for almost half an hour.  I now know Sean’s middle name, the history of his hometown in Oregon, the brand of aftershave he wears and, repulsively, the way he kisses goodnight.” 

Dawn shrieked in outrage.  “He’s GORGEOUS!” She turned to Alicia and Kirsten.  “Spike says Sean’s kissing is repulsive!”

“Right on, Spike!” shouted Kirsten, nearly losing control of her mouthful of ice cream.  Dawn growled at her playfully. 

“Spike!  Ask her about the sex!” Alicia crowed.

“What?!?”  Spike was suddenly all ears, and Dawn heard his chair squeak as he bolted upright. 

“Ask what they did in the caaaaaaaaar!” Alicia sang, Kirsten joining in on the last word.  Both girls collapsed on Alicia’s bed laughing as Dawn shushed them frantically.

“No, they’re kidding!  They’re kidding, they’re drunk, they’re completely high on sugar.”  Dawn scowled at her friends, but they were laughing too hard to notice.

“Dawn…”  Spike’s voice had a warning tone to it, and she hurried to repair the damage.

“All we did was kiss in the car, NOT IN THE BACK,” she hollered at Kirsten and Alicia, who were practically falling off the bed by this time.  “And he was a perfect gentleman.”

“Hmm.”  Spike didn’t sound convinced.  “And you were a perfect lady, of course.”  Oh.

“You might say that…” Dawn trailed off coyly, and Spike groaned on the other end of the line.

“No, no, don’t want to bloody hear it.  Call your sister, she’ll take it from here,” he said, and Dawn’s stomach lurched a little.  Call Buffy? 

“Well, she usually calls me, something to do with the rates,” Dawn hedged, but Spike caught the unusual tone in her voice. He hesitated .

“She DOES know that you were out on a date last night?”

Dawn bit her lip.  “Uh, no.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.  “Oh.”  Then, suddenly, it all came out in a rush.

“That’s the kind of thing that sisters like hearing about.  And knowing your sister?  She’d want you to call.”  Spike said it quickly; it sounded awfully formal coming from him, Dawn thought.  Then again, she realized, Spike didn’t talk about Buffy much at all if he didn’t have to.

“I guess,” Dawn said glumly.  She fiddled with the fringe of her blanket.  He was right, of course. Buffy wouldn’t just want to know - she’d be really hurt if she found out later from someone else.  But her phone calls home always made her feel a little bad afterwards...  She sighed.  “Okay, I will.”

“Good.”  Spike abruptly sounded businesslike.  “Right, love, I’m off.  You’ll give a call before you go back to Sunnydale, right?”

“Oh!”  Dawn exclaimed, suddenly remembering.  She darted a look across to Alicia.  “Spike, Alicia’s boyfriend’s coming to pick her up on Thursday… can I come over to your place for the afternoon and early evening?  I don’t want to interrupt the loooooooove-fest!”

“You skank!”  Alicia screeched, giggling madly.  “Now Spike’s going to think I’m a total ho!”

“Alicia’s a HO!” sang Kirsten.

“Good on you, Alicia!” Spike called through the phone.

“Spike says good for y – HEY!” Dawn suddenly registered the double-standard.  “So it’s okay for Lise to get the lovin’, but not me?”

“Yes.”

“Biased judge,” Dawn groused.  “That’s it, you’ve insulted my boyfriend and now you’re ganging up against me.  This phone call is so over.”

“That’s all it took?” Spike exclaimed.  “Let me write that down…”

“Shut UP!”  Dawn tossed the DVD over to Kirsten, who scrambled to start the movie.  “So I’ll see you on Thursday, right?”

“Whenever you get sexiled, Bit.”  His tone changed a little, becoming more serious.  “And Dawn?”

“Yeah?”

“Call your sister.”

“Hey, Buffy?”  Dawn sat in the hallway outside her room, pulled up tight against the wall.  The dorm was pretty empty, what with it being a Saturday night.  As nasty as it had been, Dawn was glad that she and Spike had worked everything out on Thursday; he’d been the one to suggest she spend the rest of the weekend with her friends, brushing off her offer to keep her promise and meet him on Saturday night. 

She could hear Kirsten and Alicia inside the room, singing along to the movie, and sighed to herself.  Totally separate lives.  Alicia and Kirsten on the other side of the door, Buffy and Sunnydale on the other end of the line.  And then Spike, who half-existed in both.  Like living in overlapping dimensions – how could he do it so easily, while she struggled so much?

“Dawn!”  Buffy sounded surprised.  “Is everything okay?”

Suspicious as ever, Dawn thought.  “Yeah, everything’s good.”  Pause. “I thought I’d let you know I had a date last night.”

“Oh, sweetie!  That’s great!”  Buffy squealed excitedly into the phone.  “What’s his name?  What’s he look like?  Tell all, kid.”

“He’s about six feet tall, really sweet, really smart – he’s got kinda sandy-blonde hair, but it’s cut really well,”  Dawn sighed happily.  “He brought me ginger ale because he thought I was sick… He’s gorgeous, Buffy.”  She settled comfortably against the wall and began to ramble, listening to the delighted exclamations of her sister echo down the line.

Dawn never knew how Buffy would be on one of these phone calls.  Sometimes she seemed to strain to be like their mother, the tone Dawn privately labeled ‘Stepford Mom’.  She’d use the same phrases, ask the same questions, and Dawn always hung up feeling kind of sick. It was like her sister was on autopilot, set for ‘Dawn’. But at other times, Buffy was her usual giggly self.  It was the strangest thing. 

“So, will Sean be staying at school for Spring Break, too?”  Buffy asked in a confidential tone, and Dawn winced guiltily.

“Uh, no!  He’s going back to Seattle.”

Buffy was silent for a moment.  “Dawn, I’m sorry.  I wish I could come out there for the week, but I’ve got work.”

“Yeah.”  Dawn stared at the brickwork across from her.  Buffy hadn’t even asked if Dawn might like to come home for the week; once she’d decided to get her sister out of Sunnydale, Buffy hadn’t turned back.

“Xander!”  Dawn could hear the door slam shut on Buffy’s end of the line.  “Dawn’s got a boyfriend!”

“Hey, hey!”  Xander came on the line, all brotherly insinuation and goofiness.  “Will I need to be breaking any legs?”

“No, Xander, he’s really nice.”  Dawn rolled her eyes.  As much as Xander hated Spike, they sure acted alike sometimes.  She switched the phone to her other ear.  “How’s construction?”

“Ah, constructing.”  Xander brushed off the question, as he always did. 

“And is everything okay at home?  Nothing earth-shattering?”  She knew that was coming dangerously close to taboo vocabulary, but Xander was usually more lenient with that sort of thing than Buffy.

He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully.  “Nope, the crew’s working fine, everything coming in well under schedule, no sick days – all-around goodness.”  Dawn let her breath out as she decoded: there had been no close calls, and Buffy hadn’t been injured recently. She and Xander had been using the same method of passing information for months - she was pretty sure that Buffy knew what she and Xander were really talking about, but they hadn’t gotten into any trouble.  Yet. 

Then again, the reports had all been the same, so maybe Xander wasn’t as reliable a source as Dawn thought.  This sudden realization stunned her, and she automatically replied, “Good, good,” the paranoia in her mind running a million miles an hour.  She didn’t even notice the awkward silence she’d caused until Xander cleared his throat loudly.

“So.  Dawn, nice to talk to you, only go out with the boyfriend with a crusty old chaperone, and I’m going to go grab a shower before dinner.”  He paused.  “Back to you, Buff.”  Dawn heard Xander pass her off, and she mentally geared up for the final stretch, closing off the suspicions that had suddenly cropped up in her brain.

“So Dawn – you’ll be okay at school for the week, right?  There will be faculty there, and other kids around…”  Buffy asked worriedly.

“Oh, yeah,” breezed Dawn – this part was straightforward at least.  “JP’s here for most of the holidays, and I think there are some Chinese kids who live in the next building.”  She scanned the hallway.  “Oh, and there’s some girl from Maine who’ll be here most of the time, but I think she’ll be in her room with her boyfriend.  Busy.”

“And I’m suddenly glad that YOUR boyfriend will be a continent away,” Buffy commented wryly, making Dawn smile. 

“Any more tough exams?”

“Uh, not really, it’s just the easy stuff now.  Smooth sailing.  As JP would say, ‘easy as cake’.” 

“Well, good luck.”  A metallic rattling noise on the other end of the line caught Dawn’s attention, and she suddenly hazarded a question.

“Going out on patrol tonight?”  She couldn’t hang up without trying for a little news, she thought desperately.  The rattle ceased abruptly, and Dawn held her breath, waiting.

Buffy paused.  “Yeah, Dawn.  Aiming for an early night, though.”  She had a hint of warning in her tone; Dawn was lucky to get that much out of her sister, she knew.

“All right.  Be careful.”  Dawn chewed at her lip, imagining Buffy packing up for a night out on the town.  Coat, makeup, purse, flamethrower…

“Always am.  Don’t worry about us.  Love you.”  And she was gone. 

Dawn stared at the phone.  Alicia and Kirsten had stopped singing inside, and were talking over the movie in excited voices.  The rest of the hallway was quiet.  Dawn stood up and looked at her door. 

Then she turned, walking quickly down the hall, through the two sets of double doors, past the elevators, and stopped in front of room 418.  She knocked gently on the door and waited.

But no one answered. 

The phone began to beep insistently in her hand, and Dawn stared at it for a moment before realizing: she hadn’t hung it up.  She suddenly seemed to realize where she was standing and flushed red.  She spun about and darted down the hallway, skidding across the tiled floors as she ran back to her own room, where her normal, ordinary friends were waiting. 

Brian opened his door just as she ran past his room.  “Dude, was that Dawn?” he asked, looking behind him to where Kofi and Sean sat, playing video games.

“Where?” Sean jumped to his feet, but by the time he looked out the door, there was no one there at all.

“And I was totally going to tell Sean everything, Spike!”  Dawn lay on the bed in Mr. Bruckert’s office, gesticulating madly at the ceiling.  She’d been desperate to talk to Spike since Saturday night, but it never felt right, talking about Hellmouthy-stuff on the phone.  Maybe she’d been watching too many CIA movies.

“Insane!  I didn’t even know what I was doing until I was knocking on his door.”  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at the vampire, both eyebrows raised high.  “I think it’s a side effect of repression.”

Spike groaned at her.  “What did I tell you about applying high school psychology to real life?”  He fished another maraschino cherry out of the container at the side of his chair.  “It’s a rotten habit, might as well leave it to the so-called professionals.”  He tossed the candy-red fruit into his mouth nonchalantly, one eye on the television.

Dawn grimaced.  “Spike, how many jars of those have you eaten your way through so far?”

He looked down at the plastic tub ruefully.  “I have no idea, pet, didn’t count when I found them in storage.”  He snatched the lid off the desk and screwed the container firmly shut, giving it a final tap before shoving it into one of the filing cabinets.  “They’re addictive, though.”

“Guess we’re lucky that vampires don’t get fat,” she mused, smiling brightly at his snort of disgust. 

“But you didn’t tell him, right?”  Spike’s response was a little delayed, but they’d been conversing like this all afternoon – jumps and starts, overlapping topics and distracted replies.  Time didn’t really seem to matter today.  Dawn sighed.

“No – he didn’t answer and I booked it.”  She shifted a little, pulling herself further upright.  “But isn’t it kind of unfair that everyone else gets to share with someone, and I’m the only one stuck with all the secrets?”  She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins.  Spike turned and looked at her.

“You think the others don’t have it rough?”  He seemed serious, and Dawn listened carefully as he continued.  “I’m not even talking about the Scoobs – I mean EVERYONE.  Sure, most people wouldn’t get institutionalized as quickly as you and your friends,” he smiled a bit to lessen the sting, “but everyone’s got problems.  Everyone, Bit.”  He turned back to the television.

“Now who’s Mr. Pop Psychology?” Dawn muttered.  Spike made as if to throw one of the cherries at her, but then realized he’d put the container away and settled for snarling.  On the television, Oprah and Dr. Phil agreed with each other about something.  Dawn fidgeted. 

“Buffy doesn’t know I’m flying back tomorrow.”  She said it all at once, nearly shouting in her effort to get the whole sentence out.

That caught his attention.  “What?”

“Buffy thinks I’m staying here for Spring Break, at school.  But I found a really good fare and got the ticket ages ago, it’s for the whole week…” she trailed off weakly.  “I thought I’d just show up.”

Spike considered her for a moment.  Then he shut off the television.  Dawn sucked in her breath, ready for a lecture, but Spike was just looking at her. 

“Okay.”  He said it simply, like there wasn’t much else to be done about it.  “What’s the problem, then?”

Dawn exhaled in one big whoosh.  “Well… she never said I COULDN’T come home, but…” 

Spike nodded.  “You’re not supposed to be anywhere near Sunnydale.  She’s decided.”

“Yeah!”  Dawn’s forehead wrinkled, and she stared at her hands.  “She didn’t even ask me.  It was like, ‘Hey Dawn!  Dad and I figured out a way for you to finish high school in New Hampshire!  Isn’t that great?’” 

Dawn slumped further down.  “And I wasn’t exactly having the easiest time at school, some of the girls were being REALLY bitchy, so I thought sure, why not.”  She looked up at Spike helplessly.  “I didn’t know that she wouldn’t let me come home.”

“Ah.”  Spike shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whom to champion.  He understood Buffy’s intent, but she did tend to act a little heavy-handedly…

Dawn was picking at the lining of the cot, teasing the cotton fibers from the material in sharp yanks.  “Spike,” she started, and then stopped suddenly, focused again on her petty vandalism.  Spike waited.

“Spike, I don’t think they’re telling me when bad things go down at home.”  Dawn’s voice was rough, and she kept her head down as she spoke.  “I thought Xander would tell me if Buffy got hurt, or if something went wrong, but…”  She stopped pulling at the cot and instead, brought both hands to her lap.  She looked lost, thought Spike.

“Xander’s been telling me that everything’s fine for almost nine months now,” she said dully.  “Can you EVER remember Sunnydale being fine for that long, Spike?  I can’t.” She sighed deeply, and Spike realized that she felt betrayed.  True, in a way – if Buffy and Xander really were keeping things from Dawn, they were effectively cutting her out of the family. 

He scratched his jaw with his thumb.  “Dunno what to tell you, Bit.”

But Dawn was done with being emotional. “Nothing to tell, really,” she replied coolly, straightening her shoulders.  “I’m flying out tomorrow, I’ll land in daylight, get a taxi back to the house and wait, I guess…  They’ll just have to deal.” They both looked at the blank TV screen out of habit for a couple of minutes, neither speaking. 

Then Dawn suddenly twisted towards Spike, looking at him pensively. 

“Spike, are you ever going to go back to Sunnydale?” 

Spike leaned back grimacing, as though he’d been waiting for the question.  He pulled one booted foot onto the edge of the bed and rested his arm on it, staring at his hands.

“Don’t think so, love.”  He answered quietly and seriously, and Dawn leaned against the wall, watching his profile.

“No offense, but it’s a huge coincidence that I even ran into you.”  He picked at his hands absently.  The worst of the burns had healed well, and now only white calluses remained.  Spike turned to look at her. 

“If I’d seen you first, I’d’ve left town,” he told her honestly.  “New England’s about as far from Sunnydale as I could get, if I wanted to keep my U.S. contacts up.  And I needed those,” he chuckled.  Dawn didn’t quite follow, but nodded mutely anyway.  Spike gave his head a shake, then grinned at her.

“So, plain answer?  No.  I’m not going back.”

Dawn processed this, then reached out and pulled at the sleeve of his sweater almost shyly.  “But you’ll be here when I get back from Sunnydale, right?”  She cleared her throat.  “I mean, you won’t sneak away while I’m gone.”

Spike watched her, but she didn’t want to make eye contact.  He smiled. 

“No, love.  I’ll not leave without telling you.”  He rumbled the words low in his throat, letting them resonate, and Dawn grinned up at him brilliantly. 

“Thanks,” she whispered, curling up on the bed beside him, head pillowed on the bunched-up blanket she’d wrapped herself in only a week before.  Spike hesitantly reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips lightly through her bangs, delicately pulling the shorter wisps away from her face, tracing her hairline.  She murmured happily and edged closer to him, making his throat catch.

She seemed so tiny, too young to worry about everyone else’s problems. And he would try to prevent her from shattering under the pressure, no matter how long she needed him to be there for her.

Hell.  He had all the time in the world.

TBC

“My job has a lot of perks – I mean, flying around the world gets old real fast, there’s only so many times you can go to Paris or Tokyo and not think, ‘Damn, this old place again’,” the thirty-something businessman across the aisle breezed, smirking.  He leaned heavily against the armrest and winked at Dawn. “But the conferences are short, and if I bring someone with me, it’s not so much work as vacation.” 

Dawn smiled tightly, looking out the plane window as they slowly climbed away from the airport.  Swatches of clouds whipped past the glass, and she tried to appear fascinated by the view.  Maybe then her self-appointed traveling companion would shut up.

“So, you in med school?  Law school?  Bet you’re at one of those big Boston colleges - you look like a smart woman, and I can tell!” he chortled behind her.  Ugh.  No such luck. 

Dawn plastered a smile on her face and turned, once again noting the man’s appearance.  Wet, she decided.  It was one of the only things that instinctively repelled her – wetness.  And this fine specimen had it all: shiny, watery blue eyes, beads of sweat around his brow… As she watched, a tiny sliver of pink tongue darted out to moisten his lips.  Dawn fought back her revulsion, trying to remain civil.  Thank god he hadn’t taken off his suit jacket yet – the mere thought of the sweat stains made her squirm.  She covered, beaming at him widely.

“Actually, I’m a sophomore in high school in Maine.” The lies were spun easily; over the years she’d become a master of the thin deceit.  Veneering, she termed it in her head.  Simple, really: take the truth, shift it ever-so-slightly to the left.  No need for elaborate webs…easier to remember this way, too.

“I’m going to visit my Dad – I haven’t seen him in AGES, like, since fall!” she chirped, widening her eyes and pitching her voice a little higher than usual.  Like any other American teenager, Dawn knew her range: with a little effort, she could stretch from a mature 14-year old to a slighty naïve 22-year old woman.  Unfortunately, she’d misread the cues for this trip.  In her efforts to thwart well-meaning flight staff, she’d aimed too old and now had this letch on her case.  Dammit.

Dawn leaned conspiratorially across the aisle and whispered to her stunned-looking target.  “Dad’s really protective - he didn’t want me to take the plane on my own, but I’m almost a legal adult, like, you know?”  She pouted for good measure, but the businessman was retreating back to his side of the aisle hastily, his elbow connecting sharply with the stowed tray-table.  Sounded painful, Dawn thought.  Heh.

“Well, kiddo, I’m sure the stewardess will take good care of you.  Enjoy the movie, have a good time with your Dad,” he nodded at her, quickly turning to ruffle through the briefcase on the seat beside him, shutting her out completely.  Dawn rolled her eyes and twisted back towards her window.  She swallowed once, hard, popping the pressure in her ears.  Long flight ahead, then.

Departing from Boston was weird, she thought.  The way the plane was almost in the Boston Bay by the time it left the tarmac, the amount of Atlantic that stretched out to the horizon.  The plane itself was practically empty at this time of day; not many wanted to head to California in the early afternoon, it seemed, and Dawn had found herself the sole passenger in her entire row.  Maybe she’d stretch out a little later, she mused.  Some of the other passengers had already done so, flipping up the intervening armrests and pulling little sleep-masks from their bags.  Many of them looked like corporate people, on their way to meetings.  Too jaded to enjoy the flight, thought Dawn.  Pity. 

The ride down to Boston with Sean had been fantastic.  Music blasting, singing along at the top of their lungs, Dawn suddenly understood the thrall of the Road Trip.  The four-hour drive had gone by in a flash.  Dawn smiled to herself a little; getting a kiss at every red light had been quite the incentive to make the stretches in between to go by faster.  She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to remember the feeling of being around him, how he made her entire body electric.  Too bad they hadn’t been on the same flight out to the coast, but she’d see him again in a week.

The screen in the headrest of the seat in front of Dawn flickered to life and began to count down to the first movie screening.  Dawn groaned inwardly, remembering her promise to Lise.  Anything but ‘Corelli’s Mandolin’, she prayed silently.  This flight was annoying enough already.

Outside the window, the plane had finally made it through the heavy cloud-cover and Dawn could see the sun beaming brightly.  Bizarre, she thought.  It was so dark and rainy below, but once you got past that layer…  It looked like a painting of heaven, all sunlight and white puffy clouds that seemed dense as a layer of cotton wool.  Two different worlds. She felt the plane lurch a little as it leveled off a little and sensed the pressure building up in her ears again. 

She was bending down, fishing a stick of gum out of her backpack when she felt the first shudder.  She paused, still crouched, her seatbelt biting into her hips.  Turbulence?  The other passengers had felt it, too, lifting their blindfolds and looking around warily.  Dawn sat up in her seat and peered out the window curiously.

A stewardess trotted by towards the cockpit, whispering assurances as she went.  Everything looked pretty level, Dawn guessed… the clouds on the horizon were flat, the sun partially blocked by the left wing of the plane.  Maybe a thermal had jostled them or something.  Not that she knew what a thermal was, actually…

And then, as though in a movie, Dawn saw one of the left engines burst into flame.  It exploded, literally.  Sheets of metal whipped off of the wing as the orange glow of the blast subsided, and she could see right down into the guts of the engine, the turbines rattling uselessly in the wind.  Dimly, she was aware that some of the other passengers were screaming.  Her stomach was thrust violently into her throat as the plane began to lose altitude, but Dawn was motionless, transfixed by the view out her window.  The cabin suddenly felt cold, and yellow cones tumbled from the overhead lockers – oxygen, she registered dimly.  The plane lurched; Dawn felt the belt pressing down across her thighs, as though her seat was dropping out from under her.  Clouds streamed past the window and her eyes darted, trying to track them, making her head ache and her eyes burn. 

She could just recognize that the moist man from across the aisle was leaning across towards her, trying to fit a mask to her face, when everything went white, then black, then out.

Spike burst through the doors of the hospital at a run, startling the few people in the waiting room.  He quickly picked out the registration desk and marched over to it purposefully, causing the candy striper behind the desk to gasp and scoot out of arm’s reach.

“Sheila!” the girl’s voice was slightly panicked, but Spike wasn’t in the mood to take his time.

“Dawn Summers, car accident, I got a call,” he gritted out, and the girl scrambled to enter the information into her computer.

“Yes, sir,” she stammered, fixing her eyes on her screen rather than the man in front of her.  He was practically crackling, and obviously none too patient.  The girl exhaled in relief as she found the file number easily and jumped up to rifle through some clipboards behind the desk.

“Yes, sir, she’s just been admitted to the main hospital from the ER, so she might not even be in her room yet, we’ve only just gotten the paperwork here.”  The stuttering girl took a closer look at the clipboard she was holding, looking confused.  “Did you say car accident?  Because I think…”

“Evie, put that down.”  Spike turned to see another volunteer marching towards reception, her face set in irritation.  Sheila was a solid woman of 65, and didn’t appreciate being rushed.  Her pink volunteer smock stretched tightly across her chest and hips, giving her the air of a well-caulked battleship. Even as she looked at Spike, the resentment was clear on her face – another pushy punk, she thought.  She tugged at her smock, eyes narrowing.  She knew how to deal with this type; take him down a peg, make him respect the hospital’s authority.  She would let him know that punks had no privileges here.  But first, she’d have to set that teenager straight about a couple of things… Evie quailed at her approach and set the clipboard down on the desk, one hand gingerly resting across the paper.

As Sheila passed by him, Spike scented fresh cigarette smoke trailing behind her.  Interrupted her break, had he?  He leaned a little further over the counter, trying to get a better look at the clipboard, but Evie had unintentionally obscured the entire chart with her hand.  He ground his teeth as Sheila made a show of ignoring him, advancing on the young volunteer.

“Now what did I tell you?”  Sheila shoved a couple of chairs out of her way, wedging herself through the small space with some difficulty.  “I don’t know why they keep sending you young kids up here – know how to use the computers, sure, but pay no attention to the regulations!” Evie began to sputter apologies, but Sheila wasn’t in the mood to hear them.  “No, don’t bother saying anything now.  Never give out ANY information without identification,” Sheila snapped bitterly, waving Evie aside and going for the clipboard.

But Spike had assessed the situation and taken his opportunity.  In one sharp movement he twitched the top sheet out from under Evie’s hesitant fingers and stepped well back from the desk.  Sheila shouted angrily from the other side of the long counter, but couldn’t possibly make her way back through the maze of chairs at any speed, and her bulk already had Evie backed in a corner.  Spike ignored both women as he began to jog along the hallway towards the Pediatrics ward, scanning the sheet.  Room 15b, Cressiden Wing.  He could do that.

She looked so frail.

Spike stood outside of the door, all his pent-up energy gone.  Through the tiny plexiglass window, he could just make out Dawn’s form on the hospital gurney, her hair contrasting starkly with the sterile white surroundings.  An IV tower obscured his view, but at the same time, Spike was reluctant to step through the door and get a better look.

He glanced down at the chart crumpled in his hand.  It bore Dawn’s name, her age, a few other details that could be assessed on sight… and, Spike noted, his phone number.  He twisted the paper in his hands, cursing Sheila from afar.  The rest of the chart would’ve told him what was wrong with his girl.  The rest of the damn chart would’ve given him a little warning, let him know what to expect.  He shut his eyes tightly, one hand on the door.  No use wishing now.  The door opened with a sucking sound, and the scent of ammonia and antiseptic assaulted his nose.

“You need, like, fake tan or something.”  The voice was weak and strained - but definitely conscious.  Dawn blinked up at him dazedly, but with a wry smile tugging at her lips.  The sight of Spike in the brightly-lit hospital was oddly amusing to Dawn.  It probably had something to do with all of the painkillers she’d been given over the last three hours, but she couldn’t help giggling.  She’d never seen him in such bright light… .actually, he looked kind of ashen, she mused.  Then again, everyone looks a little funny under fluorescent lights.

Spike didn’t respond, too busy looking over every inch of her.  The most obvious injury was the cast on her arm, bound tightly across her chest in a sling – he had seen that as soon as he stepped into the room.  An IV needle fed into her right hand, the entry point hidden under layers of bandages.  A starched sheet was pulled up to her waist, but he could see an unusual lump down by her right ankle.  An aircast, maybe?  Someone had pulled her hair back into a vaguely controlled ponytail, which only emphasized the shiner on her left eye.  Spike squinted; both eyes, on second thought.  But other than that, she was in one piece.  He let go of all the awful images he’d concocted on the long drive down to Concord and looked up at the laughing girl.

“Well, you’re pretty damned chipper for someone who looks like hell.”

Dawn snorted, then winced.  “Yeah, well, look who’s talking.”  She struggled to sit up further in her bed, but Spike pinned her shoulder to the mattress with one hand and waved a remote in her face.  She grimaced and pushed the button that would tilt the backrest further forward. “Spike, I’m okay.  Seriously, I’m just a little rattled.”

He nodded, but kept looking at her, as though waiting for a more honest admission.  Too bad, she thought.  Feeling high as a kite right now, not a care in the world – nothing more to tell.  She grinned at him toothily; Spike wasn’t in the mood for laughing. 

“I should never have let you drive down here with him – should’ve done the damn thing myself.”  He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his left fist bunched in the blanket.  “That boyfriend of yours around?”

“What?”  Dawn stared at him, then shook her head.  “No, no – he’s probably in Seattle.  He lives there.”  She leaned back, her earlier energy expended. 

“Oh, well that’s nice,” he growled.  “At least Red stuck around last time.”  Dawn’s eyes widened at the rumble in his voice, her forehead creased.  She looked a little wary, and extremely confused.  But exhaustion overcame her curiosity - she groaned and closed her eyes again, turning her head away from Spike.

“Oh, whatever - don’t talk about Sean anymore, I don’t want to talk about any of this anymore,” she grunted, scowling.  Fine, thought Spike.  She didn’t want to talk about the sod who crashed the car, fine.  He could always move onto other matters.

“I notice that my phone number’s on here – and no one else’s.”  Spike brandished his stolen paperwork at Dawn, and she shrugged.  Her moods changed at an alarming rate, Spike noticed.  Fast on the heels of that observation he saw the way she was trembling slightly, as though tired beyond endurance, and he suddenly realized that now might not be the time.

“Later, love,” he added softly, reaching down and brushing the center of her palm with his fingertips.  She reflexively curled her fist around his fingers and held tight.  Like an infant, Spike thought absently.  He swallowed tightly and stroked the back of her wrist with his thumb.

Dawn noticed his change in attitude and relented; she wasn’t really understanding half of what he said through the drugs, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t making much sense, but she weakly gave it a try.  She struggled to keep her eyes open. 

“Sorry about the phone call - I wasn’t really thinking at that point,” she admitted.  “Concussion, something like that.”  She pouted.  “I’m woozy…”

“That’s because you should be asleep.”  A voice from the door caused Spike to spin about quickly.  “And your friend might be providing a little more excitement than you need at the moment.”  The white-clad doctor raised an eyebrow at Spike, obliquely referring to the performance at the front desk.  Spike straightened up defensively, stepping a little closer to Dawn. 

“Oh, Dr. Prescott!  Don’t worry, Spike’s British,” Dawn tried to explain, but her mouth was no longer cooperating with her mind and the sentence earned her blank stares from both men.  She topped the statement off by waving her arm a little too energetically and nearly toppling the IV pole.  Spike lunged to grab it, righting it with a glance at the doctor. 

“Bloody hell – how hard did she hit her head?” he muttered as he tucked Dawn back in.  She snorted at his words, then pouted and scooted further down in the bed. 

Across the room, Dr. Prescott’s posture was deceptively relaxed, leaning against the doorframe leading to the hallway.  If Spike hadn’t been so preoccupied, he might have noticed how closely the doctor was observing the ongoing scene.

Dr. Prescott noted the way the young man contained his patient’s movements efficiently, familiar motions that signified a long acquaintance. Dawn grumbled a little at her confinement, but one quick look from Spike silenced her. The way his hands swept down her arms, drawing them back onto the bed while surreptitiously checking for scrapes or bumps.  When he reached her wrists, Spike gently brushed the IV bandage with his thumb to see it was secure.  

He was an interesting conflict, thought Dr. Prescott – at first glance, Spike seemed to be all angular sharpness.  But now, with this girl, he had softened.  His movements belied his appearance, smooth and graceful, boneless. The tough-guy act that Sheila had reported (shrilly, as usual) was barely notable in the presence of Dawn; Dr. Prescott silently watched their interaction, trying to puzzle out the relationship between the two.

Spike didn’t seem violent, which was a relief – Sheila’s histrionics had caused Dr. Prescott to head for Dawn’s room at a sprint, his stethoscope trailing behind him, expecting the worst.  When he’d peered through the tiny window and seen the look of delight on his patient’s face, he’d decided to catch his breath before confronting the young intruder.  But after his interruption, the situation had gotten even more confusing.  Spike’s accent ruled him out as an older brother, and he was far too young to be Dawn’s father.  He also didn’t seem to be a boyfriend, for all his protective instincts.  The level of comfort between them, the way Spike hovered, the way Dawn trusted him completely… Dr. Prescott mulled.  A mystery, indeed.

Dawn murmured happily as Spike neatly folded her arms under the covers and reached up to her brow, clearing the wispy fly-away hairs from her eyes.  The practical movement turned into a repetitive caress, running across her temple and down to her jawline.  Dawn leaned into his hand and sighed, closing her eyes.  And only then did Dr. Prescott see the young man’s shoulders relax, the tension easing perceptibly.  Only then did Dr. Prescott feel that he could interrupt again.

“Would you like to discuss this outside?” he asked, opening the door and discreetly waving away the security team lurking by the elevator bay.  Spike’s head jerked up suspiciously, his hand covering Dawn’s again.  Protective, fatherly.  Dr. Prescott changed his approach.

“Dawn will be very tired for the next couple of hours,” he confided quietly.  “We gave her some pain medication while setting her break, and it really would be best to allow her to sleep it off.”  He watched Spike’s face as he weighed the options. Finally, the dark head bowed to take one last searching look at Dawn, then nodded. 

He gestured to Dr. Prescott formally.  “After you, doc.” 

“What’s wrong with her?”

Spike had managed to hold back until the door closed behind him, so as not to wake Dawn.  He turned on the doctor grimly, backing the smaller man against the concrete wall of the corridor and causing the spectacled doctor to gasp.  In the presence of a determined Spike, Dr. Prescott suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for Sheila - a sensation very alien to him. 

All signs of gentleness were gone.  The hands that had so carefully smoothed Dawn’s hair were now balled into tight fists, the knuckles bulging underneath the skin.  Dr. Prescott was vaguely reminded of the way a snake eyed its prey, coiled and deadly, but perfectly still.  Spike stared at him blankly, not blinking, seemingly not breathing.  It was as though he could simply WILL a positive prognosis.  Dr. Prescott cleared his throat and took a deep breath.  He was not easily shaken, but this encounter was unnerving.

“I promise, I WILL get to Dawn’s injuries, but first I’ll have to ask: who are you?”

“Oh.”  Spike’s eyes twitched to the right a little, and the doctor noted the movement carefully.  A move to the right often signified that the speaker was going to get a little “creative” with the truth – this should be interesting.

“I’m a family friend,” Spike decided.  Inside his head, he tried to reconcile that answer with the current Spike-Summers relationships. Joyce had liked him at the end; Dawn seemed happy to see him; Buffy… well, there wasn’t much he could do about that one, he guessed.  Still, two out of three wasn’t a horrible ratio.  He looked back to Dr. Prescott.  “Yeah – a friend from California.” 

That explanation didn’t have blood ties, though.  He saw the doctor’s forehead crease and began to elaborate.  “A family friend from California, and I’m the only one on the East Coast.  I can probably tell you anything you need to know about her history, and I also have Dawn’s routine down here pretty well.  She goes to school in New Hampshire, she was going to fly out to California this afternoon…” He tapered off, wary of saying too much.  Never a good idea, just giving away information.  He shot the doctor a sidelong look, wondering if his excuse had been enough.

Dr. Prescott sighed.  “Well, as you probably know, we don’t usually discuss patients’ condition with their friends, but Miss Summers did specifically say that you were to be kept informed.”  Spike nodded, relieved.  Good girl.

“Did she give you any other numbers or contacts?” Spike asked hesitantly.  Buffy.  There was really no way around it; he was going to stay with Dawn until he knew she was all right, and if that meant being around when Buffy arrived… Well, he decided, so be it.  She wouldn’t be overly pleased to see him, and he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a reunion right now, but Dawn – she was the important part of the equation.  And so he’d stay.  Until he got sent away, and only Buffy or Dawn herself could do that.

“Her sister, when will she be here?”

Dr. Prescott looked at him blankly.  “Miss Summers told us that you were her guardian while she was in school – she asked us not to contact her family.”  He looked at Spike suspiciously.  “Isn’t that true?  She didn’t give us her home contact information, but it won’t take us long…”

“No,” Spike hurriedly covered, shooting a look at the closed door.  Her guardian, eh?  An interesting twist.  “No, I’m her guardian.  It’s just never been stated that formally, I suppose.”  He ran a hand through his hair and bent his head to study the patterns on the tiled floor.  Guardian.  Buffy would love that one.  Oh, this was going to get complicated.

Dr. Prescott cleared his throat and started again, the wary look still on his face.  “Ah, yes.  Well.  To get back to your earlier question, I’d be happy to go through some of Miss Summers’ charts with you…?” 

“Sure, yes, good.”  Spike shoved his hands into his pockets, mind still racing at the implications of his new guardianship, but straining to focus on the litany of injuries the doctor was reading through.

“Well, she’s managed to break her right arm; it seems like a re-break, as there’s a calcium deposit around the site that would be consistent with a prior fracture…”

“Yeah, that happened in a car accident, uh, two years ago?”  Spike estimated.  “The girl’s got no luck with cars, really.”

The doctor shot him a strange look, but continued.  “Yes.  She’s come very close to fracturing her right ankle as well, but it seems she’ll get away with a severe sprain.  We’ve taken films from different angles, just to make sure, and we’ve also put an aircast on her – these are all precautionary measures, more than anything,” he confided.  “Then there’s the lacerations and bruising.”

At that, Dr. Prescott seemed stumped.  He took a deep breath, re-reading his charts, took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then settled for an eloquent shrug.  “Honestly, the injuries are completely inconsistent with the landing they endured, but she’s got enough injuries for all the other passengers combined.”

“Wait.”  Spike held up his hand, stopping the doctor mid-chart.  “She was only driving down with her boyfriend, and that little shit’s apparently on his way to Seattle.  Were there other cars involved?”

Dr. Prescott shook his head and adjusted his glasses, squinting up at Spike.  “I thought that we were crossing wires earlier,” he said, exasperated.  “What exactly did they tell you when they called?”

Spike blinked.  “They said that Dawn Summers had been in an accident and I’d been listed as a contact.  Why?” 

“Dammit.  They’re always too damn vague down there,” Dr. Prescott muttered irritably.  He held his charts closer to his chest and looked Spike in the eye.  “Dawn was involved in an aircraft incident.”

Spike was still.  He’d leaned forward to catch the doctor’s words, but seemed to have frozen in place.  Dr. Prescott wondered if he’d gone into shock, unusual as that would be.  Spike’s blue eyes were still focused on him, but he wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving  - it was like the man had suddenly turned to marble. 

Then the words sunk in.

“Fucking hell!” Spike exploded.  His entire body twitched as he instinctively moved back towards Dawn’s room, ready to burst in and... do what?  Reason returned; he’d already seen her, she was going to be okay.  Car accidents happen every day, but this?  “What happened?  Why haven’t I seen anything on the news, heard anything on the radio?”

“Well, Dawn was the only one injured to any extent,” Dr. Prescott said, spreading his hands in a gesture of confusion.  Apparently, he was just as stumped as Spike.

“What, she drew the short straw?  How the hell does that happen?”  Spike was pacing now, every fiber in him wanting to go back to Dawn and reexamine her, but also kicking himself for being so casual.  What had he said to her?  That she looked like hell?  Oh, god.

Dr. Prescott ventured closer to Spike, wanting to soothe him but unwilling to step into his path.  “I don’t know, no one really knows.  An engine blew…”

Spike let out a sharp blast of air; words failed him.

“One engine out of four!” Dr. Prescott hastened to add, clipboard held up defensively against his chest.  He caught himself and tried to relax his posture.  “It’s fine, though – planes can land safely with that kind of damage, it’s just a rougher flight.  Usually, there are some minor injuries to all involved.”  He took a breath and creased his forehead again.  “Usually.”

Spike motioned helplessly.  He leaned back against the wall of the corridor across from Dawn’s room, staring in through the window.  The sound of Dr. Prescott’s voice droned on in the background; Spike vaguely registered the man’s earnest gestures, his kind face.  None of it helped. 

Inside, Dawn slept on. 

“Eugh.” Dawn propped herself up hesitantly, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.  “I feel disgusting.”

Spike spoke up from the chair in the corner.  “You haven’t slept enough, Bit.  But I was going to have to wake you soon anyhow.”  He was stretched out in one of the hospital chairs, but he hadn’t been sleeping.  His eyes were fixed on the lights of the parking lot outside, his fingers laced tightly and resting on his chest.  He looked… angry, actually.

“Spike?  Are you mad at me?”

“What?”  That caught his attention.  “No, no – sorry, love.”  Spike rose gracefully from his seat and padded silently over to her bed.  And that really put Dawn on edge.  Grace from Spike usually meant that he was plotting something sly; it was like the plans in his head unconsciously translated into his movements.  She looked up at him doubtfully, waiting for him to continue.

“So, not a bloody car accident.” Spike grimaced.

“No.  Plane.  Not fun.” Dawn scowled and drew the covers closer to her chest.  She jolted suddenly.  “Oh my god – did anyone die?  What happened to the others?”  How could she have been so selfish, not to have asked?

“No injuries.  At all.”  Spike said quickly, perching on the edge of the bed.  His shoulders dropped and he sighed audibly.  “Only you, and damned if I know why.”

“Oh.”  Dawn wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad.  Then she recognized the root of her conflicted feelings – Summers girls weren’t supposed to be the only ones hurt.  They were supposed to be the ones to survive against all odds, survive apocalypses with barely a scratch… and she’d been done in by a mundane accident, the most fragile of all the passengers?  It wasn’t just upsetting; it was vaguely embarrassing.

“What happened, then?”

Spike cleared his throat.  “Well, I got this all from the doctor, so you’ll have to ask him as well, but you lost an engine on the plane.”

Dawn gasped.  “Oh my god – I remember that.  Fuck!”

“Dawn!”

“Sorry!”

They both blinked a little, confused by the exchange.  Dawn quirked her eyebrow at him, wondering if he really cared about the swearing.  In response he snorted and shrugged, then looked away, embarrassed.

“Whatever.  You lot had a hell of a lot of turbulence on the way down, and the pilot had to make an emergency landing at a closed military base in Massachusetts.  But you were unconscious long before that, according to another passenger.”  Spike watched Dawn carefully as he spoke, but she seemed to be accepting the information analytically rather than emotionally.  She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“And all of this?”  She gestured at her cuts and bruises, including a long slice right under her jaw that made Spike flinch.  Damn, he hadn’t noticed that one earlier.  Any closer to her jugular and that injury alone could have finished her.  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus.

“Bit, that’s the problem.  You shouldn’t have gotten anywhere near that many injuries.  There was a guy sitting right across the aisle from you, was real concerned, had his eye on you the entire time.”  Spike’s tone was exasperated.  “He put the mask on you when the cabin lost pressure, got you into the crash position and even got you out afterwards.  Nothing touched either of you, and he didn’t even have to come into the hospital – the paramedics cleared him on site.  You shouldn’t have been able to get ANY of those.”  He gestured widely at her, the irritation clear on his face.

“Good to know,” Dawn said wryly.  She winced as her IV drip caught on the sheets and readjusted herself.  “And yet, I’m the only one in the hospital right now.  Excellent.  The weirdness follows me.”

Spike’s eyes widened marginally.  “You think there was something funny going on.”  His tone was dead and flat; Dawn was startled.

“No!  No, I was looking right at the engine when it blew, I don’t think there was anything mystical happening,” Dawn said, almost ruefully.  “It really came apart, but it looked like a movie effect – no gremlins crawling on it, no blue-flashy-energy stuff.”  She’d take magical intervention over human error any day.

But Spike was still tense, still focused.  He leaned closer to Dawn, his eyes directed down at the bedspread.  She was glad he wasn’t looking right at her; sometimes, Spike could be a little too intense, and this looked like it was going to be one of those times.

“There’s another little problem, something that might be more trouble than it’s worth.”  He spoke quietly, and Dawn strained to hear him.  “You now qualify as a special case.”

“What, like a mental case?  Or are we talking about some sort of medical X-Files, like spontaneous human combustion?”  She snorted, but Spike shot her a look and she stopped.  “Oh, crap.”

Spike continued.  “First of all, you shouldn’t have been this banged-up by the landing.  There was nothing around you that might have caused cuts and bruises that match the patterns on you, and this,” he gently fingered the cut along her throat, feather-light, so it felt more ticklish than painful, “This is just impossible in every way, as you were in a crash position.”  He half-smiled, looking at her kindly.  “When the doctor told me about the slices, I figured you’d taken up the family tendency to travel with blades, but not even you would try to get a weapon through an airport security point.  Right?”  His tone carried a hint of warning, and Dawn nodded fervently. 

“You have no idea how long I was drilled in hand-to-hand before flying out here in the first place,” she groaned.  “I’ve got…” she stopped, correcting herself.  “I HAD a couple of pieces in my stowed luggage - nothing too showy, just functional – but the most deadly thing in my carry-on was a hairbrush.”

“Unless you were also carrying your lipgloss, which blinds enemies at a thousand meters.” Spike smirked a little at her.

“Ha bloody ha.”

Spike let her giggle for a moment before continuing.  “But nibblet, here’s the tough part – there’s no way you COULD have been injured to his extent, especially when all the other passengers got clean bills of health.  Some of them weren’t even wearing seat belts; a stewardess got chucked around like a tennis ball and still walked out unscathed.”  He roughly dragged one hand through his hair, making it stick up in odd directions.  Dawn absentmindedly reached out to smooth it back, her thoughts completely focused on the implications of Spike’s words.

“Basically, love, they want to keep you in here and study you for a bit.”  Dawn’s expression changed from thoughtful to suspicious, and Spike decided to plow ahead.  “To make it all the worse, you’ve got a new condition that interests them immensely.”

“What?  Am I sick?”  Her tone was slightly panicked, but determined.  Her face set in an expression that reminded Spike of something very familiar.  It was so odd; anxiety and panic and desperation that had all been schooled into something that resembled calmness.  As though she were trying to reassure him that she could handle what he was about to say… And then it came to him – Joyce.  She had learned that stoic expression from Joyce.  Spike reached out and grabbed her hand.

“No, Bit, you’re not sick.”  He tightened his grip on her hand; he would never let her get that ill, never let her slip away…  All at once he realized how close to breaking he was himself, and he snapped out of it.  The last thing Dawn needed was for him to dissolve on her.  The litany in his head went on, but he focused on Dawn, earnestly explaining all he knew.

“Remember that you’ve already broken that bone once?”  He gestured to her arm and she nodded, cradling it closer.  “It’s going to mend just fine, but when they took the x-rays they saw something.”

“Like…?  Just tell me!”  Spike’s drama-queen tendencies were not appreciated at times like these, thought Dawn bitterly.  Then again, he didn’t seem to be milking the situation; if anything, he was still figuring it all out himself.

“All right, sorry, it’s this: they think you might have some sort of brittle-bone syndrome.”  It all came out in a rush, and Spike winced at how harsh the phrase sounded.  He tried to explain.

“It’s got something to do with the calcium deposits in your bones, or something.  It wasn’t around two years ago, last time you broke your arm, but it’s something they’re worried about now.  It means that your bones are going to be very delicate, that they will break very easily, I don’t know the technical ways to describe it.  Dr. Prescott’s gone off to talk to some sort of specialist about study or treatment or something, and I’m DEFINITELY not supposed to be talking to you about this right now, but I do have a reason.”  He paused to see if anything was sinking in.  Dawn just sat there, massaging her arm in its cast.  “Dawn?  Love?  I’m sorry to be rushing you, pet, but there’s things we need to talk about.”

“Yeah.”  Dawn shook her head, still stunned.  “Yeah.  Talk.”

Spike looked at her doubtfully, but she just gestured for him to continue.  “Right, I don’t like this situation.  The engine I can go along with, but the fact that everyone else got away healthy while you look like you’ve been roughed up by a biker gang?  Especially with the guy sitting next to you…”  Spike suddenly turned to stare at her.  “Was he okay?  Could he have done anything to you?”

Dawn’s brow furrowed.  “No, I think he was okay, but I don’t know – he hit on me, but as soon as I told him I was 14 he left me alone.  And he helped me with the mask, I remember that.”  She turned the thought over in her head.  “No, I think he was kosher.”

Spike nodded.  “Fine, then.  Fourteen?” She rolled her eyes.  “Right.”  He cleared his throat.  “But Dawn – I’m also a little worried about something else…”

“My Key-deal.”

Spike nodded slowly, head down.  Dawn sighed deeply.  That was supposed to be left behind too, she thought bitterly.  No more Key-ness. 

“I don’t want them finding anything…unusual,” Spike said, “Especially when you’re so far away from home.  I mean, I don’t know what rights a 17-year old has in these matters, but the LAST thing I want to have happen is your sister has to bust you out of some government facility.”  He laced his fingers again, his eyes fixed on a thumbnail. 

“So what do you think we should do?”  Spike looked up at Dawn as she spoke, and noted again how strong she’d become.  She’d always had this quality, of course, but she’d truly grown into it since he’d last seen her.  It was something she’d gotten from her sister, he guessed, but lacked Buffy’s “my way or the highway” qualities.  Dawn listened, balanced, weighed.  And then decided, concretely and absolutely, on a negotiated plan.  He breathed in relief – she wouldn’t ignore his suggestions, and she wouldn’t insist on a foolhardy plan.  Dawn would simply negotiate the best approach, then adopt it with all her heart.  Probably a defense mechanism from growing up under Buffy’s iron rule, but it was a good one to have.  He smiled. 

“Spike?”

The smile disappeared.  “We’ve got to leave.”

Dawn nodded; she’d guessed as much.  She wasn’t sure what rules applied between the ages of 16 and 18 either, but she was pretty sure that she wouldn’t be counted as an adult.  And after any organization got hold of her… Besides, Spike seemed to have an idea of what to do.  “So first, we need to get out of here.”  She looked down at her hand.  “You have any idea if this would be attached to a monitor or alarm?”

“Your IV?  No, it’s not rigged…”  Spike pulled the IV tower closer to him, scrutinizing the leads.

“And you were talking like we need to do this quickly.”

Spike nodded sharply.  “The specialist was paged as soon as they took your x-rays; he should be here within the hour.  I’d like to be gone before then.”

Dawn pulled the neckline of her gown away from her body and peered down the front.  “Naked.  You know where they put my clothes?”

Spike jumped off the bed, scanning the room.  A part of him thrilled at Dawn’s speed – no hand-holding here, then.  As he rounded the corner of the bed, he caught sight of a backpack in the corner.  “Hey – that yours?”

Dawn looked up, wincing, and Spike saw her drop the needle of the IV to the floor, still attached to the tower.  Her thumb pressed the point of entry on the back of her hand hard.  “I can’t see from here.  You eat yet?”

Spike stumbled a little.  “Uh, yeah.  Full up.”  His heart sank a little.  Was she that worried?  He picked up the bag and brought it over to her bed, where Dawn had begun to shred the bottom of her thin cotton gown into strips.  “Are we planning to make it look like you’ve been kidnapped by wild dogs?”

Dawn snorted.  “Dork.  I’m going to use it to wrap my hand.”  And she was trying, true, but the cast hampered much of her movement.  Spike moved to help her, and then stopped.

“I’ll help, if you want…” he trailed off, and Dawn picked up on his hesitation.  She also suddenly realized why.

“I wasn’t worried you’d eat me,” she said bluntly, extending her hand to him.  She began to root through her backpack awkwardly with her casted arm, leaving him to tend the IV mark.  “But I didn’t want you to go all crazy because I was smelling bloody.”

“Not much of a choice,” he muttered, carefully twisting the cheap cotton around her fist.

“Tighter,” she ordered.  She stopped rummaging and looked at Spike as he bent close to her hand.  She pushed him slightly and he looked up.  “If it bothered you, I thought I could sew it up or wrap it in plastic – wouldn’t heal as fast, but wouldn’t be as noticeable for you.”

“Sew it?”

“I’m pretty good with a needle,” she said flippantly. 

“With no anesthetic.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”  Dawn lifted her half-bandaged hand again, pointedly drawing Spike’s attention back to his task.  He shook his head a little and went back to work.

“Ha!”  Dawn pulled a small bundle from her bag.  She shook it roughly, and the fabric unrolled to reveal a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a cotton tank top.  She grinned triumphantly.  “Escape clothes!”

“You always travel with those?” Spike swivled his head, darting a quick look at the plaid pants and floral top.  “Appalling fashion sense, by the way.”  He tucked the end of his makeshift bandage into place and smoothed the binding.

“Who wants to unpack before getting into bed?” Dawn shrugged, and pulled her hand away from Spike, flexing experimentally.  “Thanks.”

“Nah.”

They looked at each other for a moment, considering. 

“So – over the walls with knotted bedsheets, or do we dig a tunnel with pudding spoons?”

“Through the front door, and television has rotted your young mind.”  Spike stood up, shedding his jacket.  “Get dressed; I think I saw a pair of shoes in the corner.  Nike sneakers?” He deliberately turned his back to her as he went over to get the shoes, a signal for her to start changing.

“Yep, that’s them.”  Spike could hear the rasp of her gown as she stripped it off quickly, the creak of the gurney as she struggled out of bed.  “Turn and die, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Spike agreed.  It hadn’t even occurred to him, but he suddenly noticed the way he’d positioned himself between her bed and the door.  No peeping toms through the plexiglass, either.  They were both silent as Dawn changed into her clothes, but eventually Spike could hear her breath coming in short bursts, as though she were struggling with something.  “You all right?”

“NO!”  The vehement exclamation burst from Dawn, and she stared down at her top.  Miserable spandex, in everything now, and her STUPID cast getting in the way again…  She hopped impatiently, then made up her mind.  “Spike, help?  Help help help?”

“Are you decent?”  He still had his back turned toward her, her shoes dangling from one hand. 

“Am I ever?”

Spike chuckled and turned around.  Dawn had managed her flannels just fine, but the straps of her tank top had defeated her.  Currently, she had one strap dangling uselessly, the other hitched almost to her elbow.  Unfortunately, her cast was proving to be a major obstacle, and any motion threatened to bring the top sliding down.  Dawn grimaced at him, her hair wild and her face flushed from the effort.  “Helping?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Spike teased, approaching her.  “How about the side that’s almost on?” 

“That’d be good.”  Dawn twisted a little, and Spike easily slid the strap over her shoulder.  Dawn sighed dramatically.  “Oh, SO much better.  I think I was cutting off circulation in that position.”

“You’ll live,” he responded, but silently considered.  She should be careful, the ways she contorted herself.  She was so used to being flexible, she might unconsciously stress a bone that could shatter… “Right, Bit, stay perfectly still for this one.”  He began to maneuver the strap up over her cast as Dawn held the top of the shirt close to her chest.

“You know what this reminds me of?” mused Dawn.  Spike shook his head, concentrating.  “Those games at amusement parks.  The ones where you have to get a metal wand down to the base of a twisty metal sculpture, without touching the wand to the sculpture.”

Spike chuckled.  “The ones that made a horrible buzzing sound when the metals touched and you lost the game?  I saw those at seaside carnivals.” 

“Yeah!  Those!  I was totally addicted to those… never won, but Buffy could do them in a second.  Of course, I had no idea it all had to do with the Slayer hand-eye coordination at the time.  Don’t think she did, either.”  Dawn allowed Spike a little more slack to navigate the elbow of the cast.  “But next time I see one, I’m going to try it out.  I think I could do it now.”

“Think you’re probably right, love.”  Spike slid the strap into place and stepped back, looking perplexed.  “Since when did those things get so stretchy?”

“Since the invention of the built-in bra.”

“Ah.”

“Very functional.”  She smirked at him, and he rolled his eyes.  “And you get a prize, too!”

“I get to tie your shoes, right?”

Dawn laughed, but genuinely.  He was quick, always one step ahead of her when she teased him.  She perched on the bed and watched as he knelt down, his fingers deftly loosening the laces of her beat-up old sneakers.  Ready to help her, without a word.  Her protector.  Again.

Something began to rise up in her, a sensation that she could feel from the bottom of her ribcage, a feeling that spread through her limbs and made her shiver a little.  Something that would require a bit of courage to say aloud.  She took a deep breath.

“Spike?”

“Mmmm?”

“You shouldn’t be surprised when I try to do nice things for you.”  He paused in his lacing, then continued again, more slowly this time.  He was listening intently.  “Like the IV thing?  You shouldn’t be shocked that I would do something slightly uncomfortable for me so that you wouldn’t be very uncomfortable.  If that sentence made any sense at all.”  She tried a different tack.

“I know you’re not used to it, but it’s how I am, how lots of people are.  You’re my friend, and I’ll do things to make you happy, anything I can.”  She stumbled a bit on her words, the unexpected speech coming difficultly.  “Spike?”

He had finished tying her shoes and stood up.  The expression on his face, though, made Dawn even more convinced that she had to say the words bottled up in her throat. 

He wasn’t looking at her face-on, like he usually did.  The brave, fearless Spike look that she knew so well had been replaced by one she’d rarely seen before, and then only in fleeting moments.  His head was slightly turned, averted, and his blue eyes were peering at her at an angle.  His chin was tucked, she realized, and that was when she recognized the posture.  It was a flinch.  As though someone had freeze-framed him as he flinched, but with his eyes open and looking. 

Hoping, she corrected herself.  His eyes were hoping, but the rest of him was expecting a blow, expecting to be hurt and rejected and damaged.  And against all expectations, he was looking at her and hoping… what?  He looked so much like a little boy that Dawn wanted to reassure him, tell him anything to make him happy.

But he was also still Spike, and Spike could tell when she was lying.  So she spoke clearly and honestly, and tried to lay open her heart so he could see how much he meant to her.

“You’ve always treated me like I’m part of your family.  I don’t know how to explain it, and you probably don’t either, but it’s something that’s just happened.  And I want you to know, NEED you to know, that I think of you in the same way.”  Spike didn’t move, but he’d also stopped breathing entirely.  Breathing had become a bit of a habit with him, having spent so much time around humans, and to see him fall out of it – it meant she was getting to him.  She forged ahead. 

“You’re something different in my family – and I’ve thought a lot about this, actually.  You’re almost a brother, almost a close cousin, almost the cool young uncle.  You’re a mix of all of them, but you’re also something else that I can’t explain.  Buffy usually protects me from stuff, so I’ve never associated that with a parent, but you’re also kind of my protector, too. 

“From everything we know, you shouldn’t react to me the way you do.  From everything the books and Xander and Willow and Giles say, we should be able to define you neatly, like – oh, I don’t know, a panda.  Or something.  Likes, dislikes, habitat, routine.  But they all want you to be different than us, something they can classify and define, something ‘other’.  I don’t.”

Dawn reached out and took his hand.  He let her, and dropped his eyes to the ground, lips pressed tightly together. 

“You’re just Spike to me.  You come to my rescue no matter what, you talk to me, you joke with me, you’re interested in my life, you impress my friends - and those are all things that family do.  And,” she swallowed.  “You love me.”

He whispered so quietly that she barely heard it.  “Yeah.  I do.”

The knot in her throat thickened, but she spoke through it.  “Then you have to let me be your family.  Let me do the same kind of things for you, even if you think it’s silly.  Don’t be embarrassed about vampire-stuff, don’t hide it from me, just teach me about it so I won’t react ignorantly.  Let me help you, tell me when something’s hurting you, and then let me fix it.  Because I love you too.”

“Okay.”  And even though his head was still bent, and Dawn couldn’t see his expression, she knew there was one more thing to do. 

She gently slid herself off the bed, brushed her lips across the cool skin of his temple, and wrapped her good arm around the back of his neck, hugging him gently.  In a moment, his arms were tight around her, the heavy cotton of his sweater warming up the expanses of skin her tank top left open, his chin pressing into her shoulder.  And even though his face was calm and smiling when he let her go a minute later, Dawn could feel the tightness of dried saltwater on the bare skin of her neck.

Sheila wasn’t on duty when Spike and Dawn left the hospital that evening.  No one remarked on the couple who casually strolled across the foyer to the sliding doors, the girl’s flannel pants contrasting starkly with the brown leather jacket slung over her shoulders.  Her arm was only through one of the sleeves; other other arm of the jacket had been tucked into the pocket of the jacket, but a lump under the coat was obviously a cast.  Her companion fussed over her, drawing the front edges of the jacket closer together as he noticed the thick sleet coming down in the brightly-lit parking lot.  All night, the people coming in through the doors had been soaked through to the skin, and the volunteer at the desk wondered if the two would share the single jacket between them. Evie stopped and watched as Spike smoothed Dawn’s hair back in a fatherly gesture, at Dawn as she laughed and stuck her tongue out at him.  Spike slung a backpack up and over his shoulder, then held out his arm for Dawn to take.  She took it, hugged his arm close, and the two headed out into the snowy rain.  Evie smiled a little as Spike unobtrusively held his other hand above their heads, as though to ward off the sleet.  He was already drenched, but he seemed to be laughing.  She couldn’t help but notice that his hand shielded Dawn much more than it did Spike, hovering inches above her head.

And with that, she filed away her clipboard and took off her apron, her shift over.  She was never asked about the two runaways, even when an investigation was launched and the entire volunteer staff questioned.  She knew that she was passed over due to Sheila, who proclaimed her a “stupid, know-nothing girl” and deemed her too dim to question, and she even believed it a little.  But years later, when a boyfriend gave her his coat and shielded her from the snow with his hand, she smiled and remembered.

TBC