I'll Fly Away

5-29-02

Chapter 14: Before Her Time

Early on, these walls were rose-colored.

Dawn hated pink, of course, and painted them as soon as she was old enough to wield a brush, painted them a vivid, misty purple. They knew nothing of the key's mystical origins then; the color just spoke to her soul. Buffy remembered that afternoon. It was springtime, the radio was playing, and the two of them, in splattered overalls, crunched across newspapers to dip their brushes in great drums of liquid violet. In her not-memories of that day, Dawn is a small girl with huge, laughing eyes. She had not yet grown so tall.

And the room was filled with sunlight, just like today.

Buffy hitched her chair closer to the window and looked into the glare of the sun until it became too much. Then she closed her eyes and lapsed back into memory, this time of another bright day, when she'd stood in the kitchen doorway and listened to the happy noise of children, the hum of blue jays, the whistle of wind in trees. It was the cruel din of a world moving on without Joyce Summers, who laid down to take a nap and never got up. So much changed on that bitter morning; whatever Buffy became, or did not become, might be traced to that loss, to the shuffle of mourners and gentle curve of cemetery lanes, fragrant with roses and shifting earth. Only grief was deeper than oceans, and Buffy was sure she'd hit rock bottom with Joyce and Angel and Riley, with her lovers, her battles, and her many deaths, with her vampires and her friends, who brought resurrection to her grave instead of flowers.

But she was wrong. There was farther to fall.

The door creaked open and Spike stepped into the room, smelling of tobacco and whisky and Willow's tears, of a grief like her own. Buffy didn't turn, but pictured him in her mind's eye, moving carefully around the pools of saffron light, dodging stray beams, dancing with death.

She hoped he understood; she needed the sun when everything else was dark.

Spike held out the phone. "It's Rupert."

Giles. A wave of anger swept over her, sweeping away a bit of the comforting numbness. He left, like they all did, leaving her to watch everybody. And she'd fucked it up. Travers and the Council would have a good laugh over the situation, she was sure. A Slayer who couldn't keep her own sister safe, who couldn't protect the one girl who meant more to her than the fate of the world, the one she'd died to save.

Buffy didn't reach for the phone. The last call she'd taken had ended with her retching into the toilet while Spike held her head and Willow hovered in the doorway, wringing her slender hands. With one phone call, everything changed…

It was inconceivable. Angel was…Angel. He would go on forever, fighting the good fight, a flurry of fists and fangs and agile fury wrapped in the skin of a youthful Irishman. And Dawn, her sweet, magical Dawn…

She didn't know which to mourn first.

Spike sighed and stepped out of Dawn's room, back into the shadows of the hall. He clutched the phone between his ear and shoulder while fumbling for a much-needed cigarette. "She's less than chatty right now."

Giles sighed. "Understandable." Spike pictured the stuffy Watcher in his not-so-swinging bachelor pad, surrounded by books, polishing those damned glasses like a madman. The image was absurdly comforting.

"This is bad, Rupert." He puffed hard on his fag.

"It's…very unfortunate."

Ah, that English reserve. Spike was glad he'd never really had any. Even prissy William hadn't known when to shut his gob.

"Unfortunate is Fox Mulder losing control of the X-Files! This is a bit more serious, man!" Spike leaned his head back against the wall. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette. "What are we going to do?"

"I didn't think there was any question about what must be done. Buffy is the Slayer. She's made painful choices before--"

Spike interrupted harshly. "This is Dawn, you stupid git! Not some random fledgling she can just stake then go out for Kung Pao chicken!"

"It's her sacred duty--"

"Balls! It's her sister!"

Giles words fell like battle-axes. "She has no sister."

Spike kicked the wall. "Are you still with that song-and-dance? After everything that's happened?"

"Putting aside the issue of Dawn's origins, I'll remind you that the creature who staked one of her own kind--while his back was turned--is not Dawn. You, of all...people...should be conscious of that, Spike."

Spike gripped the phone so tightly that his fingers turned white. "We don't know what happened, yet. Maybe she's got her soul or she's…"

"What? Not that bad?" Giles pulled out the big guns. "Tell me, what were you like as a fledgling, Spike? Respectful, law-abiding…?"

Wild, free. Glorious. Spike opened his mouth, but Giles pushed on, dragging the hard truths out by their nether bits. "Not only is this particular fledgling extremely knowledgeable about her own kind, and about Slayers, she is also extremely old. Ancient. Who knows what key-power remains, bound up with the demon and Dawn's memories."

Spike felt sick. "And she'll use it to--"

"To get what she wants." Giles shoved the bitterest truth from its hiding place, into the harsh light of day. "None of you are safe. The vampire--"

"Dawn," Spike insisted.

"--very well, Dawn knows all your strengths and weaknesses. Your hopes, dreams and desires." Giles sighed. "She must be stopped."

Spike sneaked a look into Dawn's room. Buffy remained as he left her, absently trailing her hand through the sunlight, looking dreamy and absent. But, looking closely, he could see tears still streaming down her face. "I don't think she can do it, Rupert. I don't want her to have to."

"Can you?"

Spike swallowed. "I...don't know. It's Dawn."

"Yes, we've established that. I need to know if you can do what must be done. What Buffy isn't emotionally--and the others aren't physically--strong enough to do."

Was he?

Spike's mind flashed on a hundred different memories of Dawn, their Dawn, sitting cross-legged in his crypt…calling him friend…bandaging his bloody hands on the Winnebago ride to hell …facing death on Glory's tower, a small girl framed against a simmering red-purple sky…playing cards late into the night while the ghost of Buffy flitted all around; such a breezy, loving child. The best he'd ever known.

"I don't know what to tell you, Giles."

Giles sighed impatiently. "Could I please speak to Buffy now?"

The afternoon shadows were just beginning to gather as Spike carried the phone to where Buffy sat, still slumped in her chair. "He won't leave off until you talk to him."

Buffy took it reluctantly. "Hi, Giles. How's London?" Her voice was flat, dulled.

"Hello, Buffy. It's, er, fine here. A bit foggy, per usual." Giles paused uncomfortably. "I know things there are--"

"Pretty shitty," Buffy supplied.

"I was going to say, unsettled. What I'd like to know is what you're going to do to resolve the situation."

"Do?" Buffy echoed. Quite honestly, she hadn't thought about it. There was no casket to pick out this time, no funeral. The world wouldn't know of Dawn Summers' passing.

"About Dawn, of course. Her potential for destruction is astronomical. I know you find the idea distasteful, but maybe someone else could…take care of it. The A.I team, perhaps? They're grieving, now, but I could call and ask---"

Buffy gently set the phone back in its cradle, cutting Giles off in mid-sentence. She stared straight ahead. Spike was just a bright spot in her peripheral vision. "He wants me to stake her."

Spike nodded. "Yes."

"I can't."

"I know."

Buffy looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since the nightmare started. "You do, don't you?"

The light was almost gone now, and Spike could perch safely on the windowsill. "Do you remember when Dru came back?"

Buffy barked out a laugh that sounded disturbingly like a death rattle. "How could I ever forget, manacle boy?"

Spike had the grace to look embarrassed. "I would have done it, you know. Killed her. For you."

Buffy grasped his meaning. "Are you offering to, as Giles so delicately put it, take care of it for me?"

"I'd do anything for you, love."

Buffy searched for his eyes in the lengthening shadows. "It would destroy you."

"Yes." He had never lied to her.

Buffy stood on shaky legs and crossed the short distance that separated them. He watched her approach, impassive, but, as she curled her fingers in the neckline of his black T-shirt, Buffy felt the familiar weight of his arm, wrapping itself securely around her waist. No pulse could be found there, and Buffy thought of all the things this Dawn would never do, like wear sandals in the sun or sing a hymn without guilt. She would never graduate college, give birth, or have a human boy chase her through the rain. She thought of Angel, who only wanted to do good, to be good, and find his way into the light.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Spike murmured into her neck, where he was listening to the thrum and swish of life. "It's too bad about the poof."

Buffy let the name-calling go. Some things would never change, like the century of jealousy and confused loyalty that lay between Spike and Angel. They weren't unlike brothers who were just too different to ever get along. She sighed. "You didn't love him."

"No," He agreed. "I…knew him."

Buffy nodded, and let that go, too. She kissed him as only she ever had, warm and gentle and filled with affection. It was something different for them, more human, less dark and hungry. His lips were cool, like raindrops.

"I haven't given up; not yet. Maybe we can find her. Help her. And if not…then it will be me who takes her out of this world. I'm responsible for her coming." Buffy paused painfully. "I'll see to her going."

"But--"

Buffy placed her finger on his ripe lower lip. "Only me."

They were quiet for a moment, watching night fall beyond Dawn's window. "I don't know how we’ll find her."

Spike rested his chin on her shoulder. "I don't think that will be a problem, pet."

Buffy twisted to look at him, raising an eyebrow in question. He shrugged eloquently. "Everything she ever wanted, needed, or desired is here. She'll be coming to get it. With bells on."

Buffy looked at Spike in horror. "She'll be coming home."

He nodded. "To Sunnyhell. To us."

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

Somewhere north of Los Angeles, a black Cadillac swerved off the highway, scarring the blacktop.

It screeched into the breakdown lane and shuddered to a stop--for less than twenty seconds, just long enough for the passenger door to open and a body to tumble out. It rolled beyond the guard rail, propelled by a strong hand, and the Caddy resumed its course with a rubbery shriek of tires. The dead man, in life, had owned a Chinese grocery near Burbank. He wouldn't be found until mid-November, long after the summer of souls.

His car, though, flew merrily along. The new driver would have preferred something sportier, but, like her Mother used to say, beggars couldn't be choosers. She licked the blood from her lips--Dawn never cared much for Chinese--and pushed experimentally at the pedals. The speedometer climbed past eighty, and she tried to remember, from her few driving lessons with Spike, which one was the brake.

Horns blared and Dawn waved happily at the irate drivers, rolling her window all the way down so they'd be sure to see. Ninety…ninety-five…one hundred. She was really flying, now! Dawn plucked at the radio controls with one hand and reached into her pile of snacks with the other, briefly letting go of the wheel completely. She'd made a snack run earlier, and left the 7-Eleven loaded down with Snickers, Ho-Ho's, and chocolate milk. The clerk hadn't put up much of a fight, and her pockets were full of cash. It was nice; she didn't have to be sneaky anymore.

Dawn turned the volume up as far as it would go, so she could hear it over the rush of the wind. She laughed as it whipped her hair into a frenzy of chestnut. She bounced in her seat like a child, and sang along with Jo-Dee, beating out a rhythm with her hands and feet. Bye, bye, love/I'll catch you later/Got a lead foot down on my accelerator/

In her mind's eye, Dawn could see the sign already, looming just beyond the skyline: WELCOME TO SUNNYDALE. It was battered and bruised, marking the passage of another black car. Like the seasons, he came, and left, and came again. Dawn had missed him most of all.

She was glad to be going home early.

L.A. sucked.

TBC

Coming up next: Spike shakes down the locals and gets some answers. He kicks a little demon ass.