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Title: Untitled Fic For mr. monkeybottoms Author: Devil Piglet Rating: PG Disclaimer: All characters of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ are used without permission. Author’s Notes: Post 'Angel' S5, 'Buffy' S7. Feedback: Reviews are welcome: devilpiglet@yahoo.com. *************************************** Part 1: Notorious She shows up at Spike’s doorstep, underfed and grubby after being on the run for weeks. She calls to him as he’s opening up his apartment door, and he turns to see her standing in the hallway, half-hidden by shadows. Funny that he didn’t sense her, didn’t recognize her own unique scent. He just stares at her, doesn’t even give her the courtesy of an incredulous ‘Dawn?’ He just stares, and waits. “I killed Buffy’s boyfriend,” she blurts out. He can see that her knuckles are white around the strap of a badly used backpack. He unlocks the door to his place, and ushers her inside. He goes straight to the kitchen and busies himself there while Dawn looks around the apartment, taking it all in. Spike’s place, finally. At long last for him and for her. Because he never really had one before, you see, and she’s just gotten here. There are paintings on the wall, and photographs, not the type she expects. There are phone numbers taped up next to the refrigerator of people she doesn’t know. Suddenly tired (suddenly? she’s been tired since she left Rome) she drops down into a chair at the kitchen table. “The Immortal,” she tells him, determined to get it out while she can. The adrenaline that propelled her here is gone. “I killed him. Buffy hates me.” The backpack slips off her shoulder. “When’s the last time you ate?” Spike asks. She doesn’t answer, and is startled when, minutes later, a plate clatters in front of her. Grilled cheese and ham. “Thank you.” She shifts uncomfortably. Has to keep it together; Spike can’t know how – crazy – she’s been since she left home. “But I’d really rather just wash up, if you don’t mind.” “I do mind. You give looking like death a bad name. Eat first, then get clean. Been sleeping in the gutter, have you?” “Yes,” she says. “Literally.” Without thinking she picks up the sandwich, takes a bite. He sits down across from her with his own plate, and they munch in silence for a while. In record time, it seems, Dawn’s finished her meal. She looks down at the empty dish in surprise, then clears her throat. “May I take a shower?” “Please do.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of what Dawn assumes to be the bathroom. She nods gratefully and disappears. Inside, she slumps against the bathroom door, drained and almost obscenely relieved. He didn’t send her away, didn’t – She throws the door open again, dashes out to find Spike still at the table with the remnants of his own sandwich. “Don’t call Buffy,” she gasps out. “Please, Spike –” He shrugs. “Okay.” “You – you promise?” “Yeah, I promise.” She backs out again. A few minutes later, she’s undressed and laid her dirty, frayed outfit out neatly across the toilet tank. The clothes are disgusting, but they’re hers. After her shower she’ll wash them in the sink. The hot water is like the embrace of an old friend. Or how Dawn imagines that would be. She luxuriates for long moments, letting it pound her skin and dampen her hair. She rouses herself long enough to scrub ruthlessly at weeks’ worth of dirt, and then washes her hair four times. When she’s satisfied that the water streaming off her is no longer a sickly grey, she inspects Spike’s shower. First of all, it’s big. Really big. If she took a bath she’d be able to stretch out completely, which is saying a lot. It’s clean, too. Well, it was before she got in, at least. She wonders if he has a maid – judging by his digs and his clothes, it’s not out of the question – or if he does it himself. No shaving cream, so she makes do with soap. Hallelujah; she was beginning to feel like a homeless yeti. Reluctantly she twists the faucet off and steps out of the shower and back to reality. There’s a large, fluffy towel hanging on the rack; Spike’s, probably, but that doesn’t bother Dawn. She buries her face in the thick fabric and inhales. Yep, Spike’s. Staring at herself in the mirror, she has to admit that Spike’s snarky observations about her appearance weren’t unwarranted. Her cheekbones stick out prominently, and she didn’t even realize she had cheekbones. The rest of her isn’t much better. She can practically see the outline of the grilled cheese sandwich beneath her count-‘em ribs. After washing her clothes as best she can, she hangs them carefully on the shower curtain rod and debates. They’re soaking wet. Would a hair dryer work on them? Maybe. Does Spike own a hair dryer? Possible. She’s about to guiltily scour the cabinets when a knock at the door makes her jump. “Got pants and a shirt here, if you want ‘em.” Spike’s voice is muffled through the wood. “I’ll leave them outside the door. I gotta go out for a bit.” “Don’t call Buffy!” “I won’t.” When she hears the front door open and then slam closed, Dawn gingerly peeks out of the bathroom. She looks down, expecting to see a comically oversized shirt and a pair of Spike’s black denims. Instead she finds a fuzzy pink sweater and – Miss Sixty jeans? So that’s how it is, she sniffs inwardly. She isn’t proud, though; not anymore. Even though she’s only been in his presence a few minutes, the apartment seems hollow without him. Spike always was larger than the space he took up. Dawn’s narrowed-eye suspicion at the trendy outfit laid at her feet has faded, and now she’s just happy to have clean clothes. The jeans hit just past her ankle; they were probably longer on their previous inhabitant but they look fine on her; slick and severe. The cardigan, too, was likely meant for someone…smaller than Dawn, but if she catches Spike ogling her suddenly-prominent breasts, she’ll just smack him. Or not. The truth is, she’ll put up with pretty much anything if he lets her stay here, and maybe stays with her…? She piles her hair up into a messy knot and then tugs at the hem of the sweater, unsure of herself. Where did Spike go? She hopes he’s not going to try to pawn her off on Angel or somebody. Angel never liked her; grimaced at the way she’d tease him and Buffy and joke about broody bloodsuckers. Spike, of course, had given her sass back to her tenfold, and their friendship had been born. She settles herself on the couch, turns on the extremely wide-screen TV. It’s tuned to the Oxygen Channel. She rolls her eyes and scrolls for Cartoon Network. Half an hour later that’s where Spike finds her, sprawled haphazard with the remote still in her hand and the television blaring. She used to need quiet before, he remembers. He wonders, for the dozenth time since he’s seen her, where the hell she’s been sleeping these past nights. A couple of years ago he would have thought nothing of scooping her up in his arms and depositing her on the bed, tucking her in, pressing a light kiss to her forehead as she shifted and mumbled at him. Tonight he goes into the closet, grabs the heaviest and cleanest of blankets, and drapes it over her. He settles in the armchair and switches back to ‘My Lover, The Murderer.’ It’s not long before Dawn’s crying in her sleep. She did this after Buffy died. Understandable, and Spike thought perhaps that her latent Key-ness had given her extraordinarily vivid night terrors filled with memories both real and implanted, with creatures that existed in this plane and others. Then, he would groggily crawl up to her bed from where he sacked out on the floor beside her, or in the Summers living room, or even on the back porch, smoking incessantly. And he would take her up in his arms and rock her gently, murmuring to her, until she calmed. Most times she wouldn’t wake up but on occasion she would blink up at him, dazed, and curl up in his embrace before he could stop her. “I dreamed of dying stars,” she told him once, before dropping like a stone back to sleep. Tonight he’s determined to wait her out, let her settle into peaceful slumber on her own. Five minutes passes, Spike cringing on the inside, and then he relents. Leans over, gives her exposed shoulder a brief and impersonal shake. “You’re dreaming, Dawn. Wake up.” Louder, more insistent. “Wake up!” She does, with a cry of alarm. Looks around frantically until her gaze alights on him. “Is he here?” she asks. He figures he knows who she means. “No.” He hasn’t asked her about the murder she claims to have perpetrated. The less he knows about this particular mess, the better. That way Buffy can’t accuse him of gloating. Part 2: The Maddening Shroud
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