***************************************

She liked the club; had been here before and came back for the pounding trip-hop and dim lighting. Here, in her flimsy sheer silk and a too-short skirt, she was just another girl in search of a good time. Like Buffy had been, once, before death became the only dance partner that stayed.

Whatever. She was becoming as maudlin as her sister. Dawn shook off the memories and instead concentrated on the way her body writhed, sweat-dampened skin burnished by a thousand greedy stares. So easy to make the boys go slack-jawed and stammering. Worth taking the infrequent half-hearted shit Buffy doled out.

Dawn was living for two now, while her sister threw herself into her job at the youth center and acted like a widow in mourning the rest of the time. Stupid, although a small part of Dawn knew that she was just as bereft. Both of them stranded in Normal when the truth was, they’d left their hearts in Fucked-Up.

The beat was strong and steady now, and Dawn moved with it. She could feel the eyes on her, could feel the arousal and envy from the crowd. She could feel….

Her head snapped up and she scanned the dance floor. There had been something, some warning twinge at the back of her neck and a lifetime (however genuine) of living on one Hellmouth or another had made it impossible for Dawn to ignore her instincts. She moved up, her hands wrapping around the bars of the cage, swaying distractedly to the music as she peered from face to face. One meaty hand reached up to grab her ankle and she kicked it off viciously.

There. By the bar. Oh, God.

He was talking to some guy, had a drink in his hand that he paused occasionally to sip. Leather and peroxide and those eyes that saw right through a person. It was him.

Dawn could almost hear the click-click-click as the things that had been floating and scattered inside her fell into place.

Oh, she thought, Oh, what took you so long? Didn't know if she was asking him or herself. Scrambling out of the cage, she hopped the few feet down to the dance floor. She ignored the disappointed catcalls and shoved her way to the bar.

She barrelled into him full-on, spilling his drink and startling his companion. Clinging to him tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him and chin hooked over his shoulder because she couldn’t seem to get close enough as she waited for him to respond in kind.

“Spike! Spike, oh, God – Buffy said you were dead, you killed them all and then the whole city caved in – I saw it – and God, I can’t believe you’re really here –” Dawn pulled back, tilted her face up to his. She was crying now, bawling like a great big baby, but Spike was no stranger to her tears. “Are you really here?”

The man in her arms was stiff and unaccountably warm. He shifted out of her grasp, setting her away from him. His companion snickered.

“Friend of yours?”

Spike flashed a disarming half-smile. “Hardly. ‘Nother crazy club chick, talking nonsense. Nate, buddy, let’s –”

“Oh, my God!” gasped Dawn. “You have amnesia!”

“No, I don’t,” Spike answered, gritting his teeth at the interruption. “Now get lost.”

She moved close again and took his face in her hands. “Your name is Spike,” she said clearly. “You lived in Sunnydale, and you helped save the world. And you’re a vampire.”

Nate laughed again. “The both of you got vamps on the brain, huh?”

“Like I said,” Spike told Nate. “Crazy.” He nodded toward the lounge area. “Want to continue this somewhere more private?”

“Spike!” Dawn grabbed his arm.

In an instant he had whirled around, backed her up against the counter. “I’m doing business here, Dawn. Keep out of it or things are going to go real badly for you. Real badly.” He gave her a rough shake for emphasis.

She felt weird and scared and her giddy, giggling sobs had trailed off. “What’s wrong with you?”

He just smirked, releasing her and walking away.

“I hate you,” she hissed, choking on the words, but his only reply was a dismissive half-wave. He wasn’t even looking at her.

Well, this wouldn’t do at all.

Dawn ran after him, across the room to a table near the wall. She plopped down in a chair seconds after he did. He glared at her but she just stuck her chin out and pulled her chair in.

“I’m not leaving,” she informed him hotly. He shrugged.

A waitress appeared and Spike ordered buffalo wings and two scotches, neat. Dawn cleared her throat. Spike ignored her.

“I’d like a Corona,” she said loudly. Spike didn’t even lift an eyebrow as she presented her fake ID. The waitress barely looked, anyway; too enraptured with Spike’s low murmur in her ear and – ew! – hand on her butt.

Finally she left and Dawn waited expectantly. But instead of Spike, it was his sleazy pal Nate who was suddenly in her face. Dawn blanched at the smell of liquor and old sweat.

Nate leaned forward, leering. “Aren’t you the sweet meat?” he asked lasciviously. “I’d love to get a taste of you.” Dawn rolled her eyes and looked away.

And then Nate reached across and grabbed Dawn’s thigh.

Oh, shit. This jerk had touched her and now Spike was going to go all crazy-protective which would surely involve violence and breaking glassware and for crying out loud, she still didn’t know where the hell he’d been for the last year and a Spike-brand riot would surely set back her information-gathering for at least an hour. Possibly two.

Except…Spike hadn’t moved. He still sat indolently in his chair, looking at Nate with mild disgust and impatience but a complete lack of chivalrous anger. Some potbellied, highly skeevy guy had just fondled her and Spike acted like he…like he didn’t care. Like he really, really did. not. care.

So Dawn kicked Nate in the balls.

He squealed – very satisfyingly, in Dawn’s opinion – and bent double, clutching his crotch. Dawn inspected her heeled boots with pleasure. She waited for Spike to react, to scold her or congratulate her or kick Nate now that he was down. Instead he took a long swallow of his drink and asked, “Can we get down to it, already?”

The rest of the conversation was conducted in some indecipherable demon language, per Spike’s request after he caught a glimpse of Dawn’s too-inquisitive gaze. Maybe he remembered she was good with languages, Dawn thought. But probably not.

Out of spite, Dawn ate most of the buffalo wings even though they really were too spicy. She was too proud to ask for a glass of water so she washed them down with the beer, which she rarely drank and didn’t much like. By the time the meeting was over she was left with a leaden feeling in her stomach that wasn’t just due to the meal.

Nate, his face still mottled red with pain, walked with Spike to the back entrance. Dawn followed. Nate slunk off to parts unknown and Spike started down the alleyway.

“Where are you going?” Dawn asked, easily keeping up with his long strides.

“To my car. You mind?”

“Where have you been? Are you gonna tell Buffy? I mean, you know – did you come back for her?” Dawn wasn’t sure what she wanted his answer to be.

He didn’t say anything. Dawn realized they were standing next to a late-model gray sedan. Other than the tinted windows, it was bland and boring and without character. Like the anti-Spike-mobile.

He was getting in. “Hey!” Dawn protested. “You can’t just leave me here!”

“Watch me.” He turned the key in the ignition.

“How’m I supposed to get home? The buses aren’t even running anymore!”

“Next time maybe you’ll think twice ‘bout staying out so late. Good luck.” And then he slammed the car door shut.

“You stupid vampire!” she screamed. “I wish you had died!”

She thought she heard him laugh at that, but the car pulled away before she could be sure.

Part 4: Resurrection

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