Dawn

It was only as the salt on my cheeks began to sting that I realized I was crying. Her words echoed in my ears, like tiny bells, and I stepped over the figures of my fallen friends, their bodies convulsed in sobs as they avoided any glimpse of her. But I placed one foot in front of the other, staring steadily at where she lay, strewn over the remains of Glory's castles in the sky. She was tiny and broken. Her arm bone stuck out in one place, so white and bare – it thrust towards the sky almost as if it was guiding her way to the heavens. My hands reached out to touch her hair, and tiny sparks lighted on my fingers; remnants of the hungry electricity that left her empty and me… whole. Later, I noticed Spike's palms smoothing the sleek skin of her twisted legs, and I could hear the jumble of bones grinding together as he moved her towards him. It wasn't all right with the others- him wanting to hold her- but I let him, for a few minutes. Let him have his embrace before we put her in the ground.

They took her body quickly, and kept it safe and clean and cold. I remember watching calmly as Giles tucked the bones back into her skin, as he stitched the bloody wounds with careful fingers. Willow dressed her, and I hated the dress- and I remember thinking a few months later, how silly it was- the way we made up her face, and slicked lipstick on the mouth that could spin puns, and laugh, and kiss and be *alive* and it was just.a.dress. But we fought over it. I didn't win.

The summer was long, and faintly muggy. Every so often, I would take a breath and hope it would be my last. Sometimes I thought that I must have been saying her name over and over again in my mind. The softer B, the breathy fs, the yyy, that could become a scream if I formed it correctly. Pins and needles. Poking and stinging. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. I didn't adore my sister, back then. I loved her, yes. But she must have adored me- to take that leap into heaven. To let the sky swallow her. To die.

I dreamed of her often. We would fight sometimes. Eat cereal and watch TV. Her flesh was always blue. Her hair, white- like an old woman's. Mom would be there, but she was always crying, always just out of reach. Buffy would come into my room and stare out the window, her eyes vacant as she whispered, “There's no one out there.” Once she pointed to the mirror and asked, “How do I look?” She was rotting, from the outside in, her skin turning yellow and green and black and I didn't scream. I told her she was beautiful.

(Live.for.me.)

Spike was the only person I ever told about the dreams, and he was the one person who didn't want to listen. He didn't want to talk about her. He thought it would go away if we didn't say her name. If we didn't love her enough to make her stay with us. But I knew we didn't have a choice, and so did he. She made us who we were, and that had to be enough to last. The crypt smelled like dirt and dust and vodka, and sometimes I would cough as I walked down into the bowels of the earth, watching as Spike flicked his fingers over an open flame, lighting a cigarette or seeing how long his flesh could burn before I would stop him. I'd spend long hours with him, sitting so *still* and wishing the world would fall away and leave us be.

Buffy, my sister.

I only saw Angel once, and it was enough, because he was dead just like her, and I couldn't bear it. I resented him. Just enough to make my breath hitch a little, because he was dead… but he still walked the earth, and he still mourned, and he still.was. And Buffy? She was not.

I could feel him locking himself away as he held me, his arms large and strong and cold. He stroked my long hair just like she did, and I wanted to tell him things about Buffy that he had missed, but somehow I knew if I said her name, he would break down, so I never did. He told me was going away. He didn't know for how long, or where- but he gave me a number I could call, and he never once said her.damned.name. And I started to wonder if she was really dead. I started to wonder where she had gone, and why I was the only Summers left and if I was still a Key and did Angel still love her even though he'd left? Was my life going to be one long summer of stopping Spike from burning to ash, of screaming her name in the back of my throat, of watching the robot speak with her voice, of living for *her*?

Was my life going to be lived through the memory of her?

Buffy, my sister.

But then, she came back. She thought she was in Hell, but she was back, and I expected things to become simple, I expected things to become something they never were, and a year passed in Hell, and then she decided to take me to Heaven with her… and I agreed.

So we left. And sometimes I think only I looked back.

+ + +

The streets of New York are shot through with rain. I walk quickly, pushing my way through the sweaty crowds, their sharp elbows nudging my ribs as I move. Silver liquid drips down the length of my hair, pooling in the hollows of my jacket, getting in my nose and eyes and making me cough, my vision blurry. I'm jostled slightly, and I regain my balance, ignoring the itch in my throat. I can feel that I'm getting a cold, but I don't care, because Mom isn't here to feed me milky porridge and sing me lullabies, and without a mother, does illness really mean anything?

Inwardly cursing my editor (who promised me that the book signing would only take two hours and was off by about five), I cut down the ally behind a large department store near my building. It smells of rot and oranges, but my nose is stuffed anyway, and the buildings block out a little of the rain. Absently, I kick an empty bottle of tequila, its stained edges brown with mildew. Slight sound of shattering glass, and I move on. There's nothing here. Just torn bags of garbage and crates full of abandoned cardboard boxes. It's very dark, and I hear the faint sound of someone coughing and moaning, and god, I hope it's not a drunk getting sick, but as I edge around the side of a dumpster, I see that it's not. It's not.

It's Spike.

I used to dream about him too. Not a lot- but often enough that I'd wake up gasping, my stomach in knots, my legs tangled in the sheets. He was usually on fire. Burning to the ash he so wanted to become after she died. I'd dream of his smell. Peroxide and cool winter and sharp berries, and that ever elusive copper that clung to his clothes, his mouth. His mouth. I dreamt about that to. How sometimes in that long summer after her, he'd come close to kissing me, our lips just breaths apart, but then he'd stop, mumble apologies- never knowing that wasn't what I wanted. Never knowing I just wanted to forget, and if I could do it with him, then so much the better. Maybe we weren't Heathcliff and Cathy, doomed to love each other forever, but I knew then that we could have something. Something real- which was sorely missing in my life. But he was scared, and I was young, and nothing ever came from it.

He's thin. That's my first thought as I stare at his twisting, pale form, at the broken angle at which he's lying on the dirty, sodden blankets in the corner of the ally. His bones are clearly visible underneath his flesh, and he's so white that for a moment it looks as if he's been covered in wisps of snow. His eyes open and shut and I blink in reaction, bending down carefully. I haven't seen him in six years, and it feels as if my past is echoing around me. I can hear my own screams as Buffy told me Mommy was dead, and I can taste my own blood when I bit my lip as my sister killed herself to save my life. I can remember.

“Spike?” I whisper, the name strange on my tongue. “Spike?” I ask again, testing it. The sound of that name. Railroad spikes and torture and white noise, and I do remember him.

He looks at me briefly, but I don't think I'm what he sees. His eyes are red as blood and he curls up suddenly, his body shifting, the black fabric stretched tight. Strangely, he doesn't smell bad. I sniffle a little, trying to clear my sinuses, and inhale the scent of berries and Sunnydale and dirt and the bitter cold. Reaching out, I touch his head, my fingers coming away brown from the dust cloaking his flesh. He shifts, and moans slightly.

“Who'n 'he bloody 'ell ar'you?” he slurs, his voice unrecognizable.

My breath hitches, and I make a conscious decision then. He's coming home with me. I can't leave him here, to be eaten by rats and to become just a ghost of who he used to be. I suspect that it may be too late, but I don't care.

“It's…” I pause, and then say firmly, “It's Dawn. Come on. I'll give you some blood, if you'll just get up Spike.”

He squints and grasps my arms. “Blood?” he mumbles sickly.

“Yes, blood. Red, gross, veins… come *on*,” I groan with exertion as I hoist him up. He leans against the wall, his head lolling onto the knotty, slimy brick and I wrinkle my nose in frustration and disgust. “Spike… do you have any idea where you are?”

He peers at me closely, his throat working as he tries to swallow. He's so sharp. All angles and shadows, such a whipcord of panther-like sleekness. But there's no recognition in his expression and if I wasn't twenty-one and past the crush I had on him when I was fifteen and naïve- I'd been hurt. But I am past it, and I can't be hurt. Not now.

His voice is rough when he asks, “Who're you? I can't— can't see you.”

“Oh boy,” I mutter, taking his arm and balancing his weight on my shoulder. “Let's get you back to my place. I think I have some old blood bags in the freezer from when Angel visited.” Considering a moment, I smile weakly. “Of course they may be rotten by now.”

We walk carefully. He leans on me heavily, the leather of his jacket scraping my arm. The rain has quieted a bit, drizzling down like a cool, sweet shower. Every so often he mutters something incomprehensible, the ravings of a vampire half starved. It confuses me that he hasn't leapt on me yet, attempting to dig through the flesh of my neck to find the rich veins I'm sure he desperately yearns for. I can tell he smells me, and it must be driving him crazy, but still he does nothing, makes no move towards violence.

My building is on the corner of East Seventy Third Street, up high- high enough so I can see the whipped cream clouds. He struggles up the stairs, his body weakening with each step, his legs fumbling for purchase on the slippery steps. The rope of my hair drips water down my back and I shiver, chilled to the very marrow of my bones. Fitting my key into the lock, I let us in and help him to the couch, letting him lie down. I'm not even sure he knows where he is- who he is- who I am. I'm trying not to let it bother me but I feel like since I remember him, shouldn't he remember me? It's irrational, and it's petty, but I want to believe. That I'm not just green energy and fragile bone. That saving him from the candle flames *meant* something.

My hands shake as I push aside frozen steaks and old loaves of bread, searching for the bags of blood Angel left behind. They're almost black and solid rock. Shrugging, I stuff two in the microwave and take out a jug of cream to add some thickness to the liquid. It's red, hot and faintly pulpy when I remove it, moments later. Years with Angel took care of the ick factor when it comes to this stuff, and I punch holes in the bags, pouring the blood into a huge earthenware mug, adding a dollop of pure, white cream and watching it disappear into the nothingness.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror in my hallway, I wonder briefly if I look different and if that's why Spike doesn't remember me. My hair is still long, and a rich chestnut brown- and I'm a little thinner in the face, my cheekbones standing out in sharp relief when I frown. I glance at my red, red mouth and the bones of my ribs, which I can see when I breathe in. Maybe it's because I'm taller. Maybe it's because I finally have breasts. Maybe I'm just not blonde, and not a Slayer and not someone who saves the world.

Sitting behind Spike on the caramel coloured shabbiness of my couch, I prop up his shoulders. It's hot in here, and I can feel beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. He leans back into me, his head pillowed by my chest. I cough again, and raise the mug to his lips, coaxing him gently. “Open your mouth, Spike. Drink.” ((Don't touch the flames, Spike. Stay.with.me))

He drinks; his throat working as he swallows, and mumbles a little. He starts to make greedy, hungry, desperate noises as he realizes that it really is blood, and he really is eating, and his hands reach up, grasping my own as he pulls the mug closer, devouring the liquid with an impatient tongue. “It's okay, just drink,” I croon, tears stinging in the back of my throat as I hold him.

Moments later, he collapses back, his mouth tinged with pink, his un-necessary breaths laboured and harsh. I stroke his forehead absently, wondering if he's going to recall the past, wondering where he's been in the last six years…? In his letters, Xander has never mentioned Spike being back in the 'Dale, and I suspect that's because he avoided it like he would sunbathing.

Slowly, he sits up and regards me. His eyes are like black opals, the pattern of red and green pinfire so distinct and startling.

“Dawn,” he says hoarsely. He sounds resigned. He's so pale I can almost see the dead veins underneath his flesh. Shifting away from me, he gazes into my eyes and then swallows thickly, the muscles of his mouth obviously strained. “What's…?” he pauses and then his fingers clench. “Where'd you find me?”

“Moaning and groaning in a disgusting ally,” I inform him. “Maybe you'd have liked if I left you there?”

He glares at me. “Never said *that*. What year is it?”

“Oh my God…if you don't know what year it is, we've got big problems,” I opine, getting up and sniffling slightly. Reaching down for a Kleenex, I press it to my nose, rubbing lightly. “And it's November. 2008. That clear things up?”

He nods. “Only lost a couple months then.” His smile is grim as looks me up and down. “You'd be what, 21 now?”

“Almost 22,” I snap, my throat itching. Coughing again, I imagine having a fever and get even angrier. “And you'd be? Three million and forty seven?”

He ignores me and leans back, the fabric of his black shirt stretching taut over a lean belly. “So why New York? Didn't want to swan about as a UCLA co-ed?” His voice is scathing, and faintly mocking.

“What's the big about New York?” I ask. “It just seemed like a good place to start.”

“Start what?”

My whole head hurts. “My writing thing,” I downplay it and walk over to the kitchen. “Everyone always asks why I came here after…” Pausing, I stop and look back. “After I lived in all those other places.”

Spike looks bored, and cocks his head. “No need to pussy-foot around it. You went with your sister and Angelus. I got the boring memo from Xander.”

“Xander saw you?” I'm surprised for a moment. “He's never mentioned it.”

“He wouldn't now, would he?” the blond vampire grins cruelly. “The boy'd be sick if he thought I was talking to you now.”

“Xander doesn't control my life,” I reply brattily, and then check myself. Tried to clamp down on the whininess after Angel told me gently a few years ago that I sounded much more charming when I was acting like an adult. My temples throb and I press my shaking knuckles to the dented bones, rubbing gently.

Spike regards me silently for a second and then says almost gently, “Have some chicken fingers and mustard, niblet. You look ill.”

I'm startled. “What?” Pausing only for a breath, I stare at him. “You remember…you remember that's what I like when I'm sick?”

He looks uncomfortable and sits up, twisting the cuff of his black leather jacket round and round his white, white wrist. Shrugging, he answers, “I remember a lot of things. Besides, I made it enough times for you, didn't I?”

It's true, I guess. I was always getting sick after Buffy died. He never seemed to mind me throwing up in his sink, or the way I'd collapse, sweaty and pale onto his couch. Sometimes he'd watch “Passions”, sipping a bottle of vodka, mixing a little in with my chocolate milk. Watching my face turn green. Stroking the hair back from my face, absently and roughly. His hands were so cold but I didn't mind because the world was always cold without her. We'd talk sometimes, of inconsequential things, and life went on… and I stopped getting sick.

But his hands stayed cold.

“Right,” I agree, going into the kitchen to warm up another bag of blood. I'm afraid to ask, but I have to know. “Where have you, you know, been? I mean, since we all left?”

There's silence for a long time, and it's only after the microwave has stopped beeping and I return with a steaming mug of blood that he begins to speak.

“In Africa for bit.” He touches his chest briefly, and takes the mug, his throat working as he swallows. “Interesting place, that. Spent some time in LA. Hooked up with Cordelia for a while.” He smirks. “Always thought she could use a good time.”

“No you didn't—you obviously wanted to hurt Angel,” I cut in snappishly, and cross my arms over my chest. “But it won't work, you know. He's all with the Buffy love now. He's *so* over Cordelia. Not that he ever felt anything deep for her in the first place..." I amend hurriedly.

Setting down the mug of coppery liquid, Spike slides his hand into the pocket of his coat, withdrawing a packet of cigarettes. Lighting up, he cocks his head before placing it between his lips and drawing the sinuous smoke deep into dead lungs. “Touchy subject,” he finally observes with a casual grin, his pointy teeth glinting in the light.

Rain still cascades against the large windows overlooking my street, and I stare fixedly at it for a second, attempting to quell the burning anger in my belly. “If you had lived with Buffy and Angel for four years, you'd have issues with Cordelia to,” I finally remark and he barks with laughter.

“Bloody hell, if I was living with those two for that long, I'd have bigger problems than Cordelia.”

“Whatever,” I respond inanely, sitting down suddenly in a large, velvety love seat that rests across from the couch. Tapping my nails on the sleek black coffee table, I play with the edge of one of the horror books strewn across the dark surface. “Did you—what did you do in Africa? I didn't even know that you went there.”

Taking another long drag of the cigarette, he looks around, at the deep purple walls, the hangings that come from every country we visited, the paintings of Egyptian Bazaars and domes of white, at the candle wax dripping over each book shelf, the lines of magazines and paperbacks and the splash of deep yellow from my collection of National Geographic's.

Ignoring my question, he nods to our surroundings and comments, “You sure are the Phoenix, aren't you, niblet? Rose from the ash of Sunnydale quite well, I hear.”

“What do you hear?” I ask sharply and he lifts his shoulders carelessly.

“Nothing to get excited 'bout,” he drawls and jams the smoke between his teeth. “Read your books.”

Humiliated for no good reason, I can sense the red flush creeping up my neck and glare waspishly in his general direction. “You did?”

He nods blankly and sets down the cigarette, his cup of blood quickly replacing it. “I did. Fuck, my stomach hurts.”

“You drank the blood too fast,” I chide him. “I didn't think vampires even felt pain.”

“Did my poncey Grand-Sire tell you that load of garbage?” he inquires blandly. “I feel every kind there is, and more.”

“Oh,” I answer inadequately and cough as the back of my mouth itches. Sniffling, I curl back into the recesses of the love-seat, its warm velour cushioning my knotty back. “Does it hurt—to be hungry?”

“'Course,” he scoffs lightly. “That's the worst kind of pain there is. It's a niggling, gnawing, bloody fucking horrible ache deep in my throat and bones and teeth. You don't ever want to know that kind of hurt, Dawn.”

“I do know it,” I whisper uselessly. “After Buffy died… it was like that.”

Spike looks surprised for a moment and then concedes, “Guess it was. She died for you. Must have been hard to get- how she could do something like that. For little you, right? Well lemme tell you something, pet. She wanted it. Wanted death.” He's faintly bitter and sucks on the searing end of the smoke like it's going to burn away any memories of my sister. “Trust me, I know.”

“You still love her?” I ask.

His laugh is harsh and mocking. “Who in the fuck knows?” Standing, he walks with a rough grace over to the window, leaning against it weakly. There's still a certain elegance to his movements- a hunter's predatory instincts that he can't hide. But he's not at his best, and I know it. Stamping out the cigarette on the sill, he watches the sparks glow orange for a moment and then die. “I must've in the past. Got a fucking soul for her- that spells devotion, doesn't it?”

“A what?” For a moment I can't breathe, and it's like a crack of brilliant lightening- he.got.a.soul.for *her*. For her- not for me- never for me. And. Oh god. He got a soul for my sister. Who never wanted him. Never wanted him for any kind of forever.

“A soul,” he responds absently. “Fucking funny, isn't it? I just wanted to give her something- give her what she deserves.”

“You mean instead of rape?” I ask evenly.

He twists around and then shakes his head. “Should've known. Xander told you?”

“Yes.”

He turns back to the window, to the reflection-less glass and his shoulders slump a bit. “That little shit.”

“He was just trying to—“

“Be a little shit?”

“No!” I protest. “He was trying to stop me from defending you. I always defended you. So he told me that—“

“That I tried to rape your sister? He'd be right… I did.”

“Why did you do it?” I ask helplessly, my belly lurching with the urge to vomit. Buffy never speaks of it. I don't even know if she told Angel- and somehow I doubt it. Angel wouldn't have rested until Spike was dust beneath our feet.

“Not going to explain it,” he says dismissively.

“Spike—“

Dimly, I hear the sound of the phone ringing and break off, reaching over and plucking the cordless off its stand on the coffee table. Pressing “talk”, I mutter, “Hello?”

“Hey Dawnie.” Buffy's voice. Slightly strained, but like sunshine.

Startled and annoyed I answer, “Buffy!” and think for a moment. This isn't the usual time she calls. Why did she have to choose now? “What – I mean, why are you calling me? It isn't Wednesday.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I've got a job for you- with Harry and Hermione. We have to go undercover. I can't really talk about it- but will you come to Paris?”

Harry and Hermione. I spare a fond thought for them and take a deep breath, drawing air deep into my lungs. If Buffy needs my help, she knows I'll be there. We've been through too much for me to turn away. And I can do my writing anywhere. The problem is Spike—but I know the answer.

Shrugging, I reply, “You know I'll come but Buffy—someone's here. Someone who I could bring.”

Spike's head snaps around at the mention of my sister's name, and he raises his eyebrows mockingly at the next sentence.

“Who?” she inquires innocently.

I feel as if I'm about to cry. How can I bring him back into her life after everything…? But then there's a part of me that wonders why she can have Angel and I can't have--? What? Do I think I can have him? God, my head hurts.

“It's Spike.”

There's a beat, just a few seconds really, where she says nothing, and I start to wonder if she's fallen down, or if she's hung up because she hates me and then she finally returns with a blank, “Spike?”

“Yeah,” I say hurriedly. “I… well, we sort of met again. He was in bad shape. All gross and you know—um, hungry. So I gave him that blood that Angel left behind and now we're just talking- and maybe I could bring him- that is, if you don't mind, because I'm sure we need help- Harry and Hermione always need help and—“

“Dawn!” she interrupts and then lowers her voice. “You're babbling.”

“Sorry.”

“I s'ok,” she murmurs gently, but she sounds far away, as if she is trying to conceal her emotions from me. “Bring the former Big Bad, by all means. Makes no difference to me. We could use the extra man-power anyway.”

I sigh with relief. “What kind of job is it?”

“Undercover. Big stuff,” she hesitates and then admits, “I didn't really want you involved, but Harry persuaded me and we do need a team of six on short notice. Is he still chipped- because I don't want any complications--”

“Actually—“ I break in, “he has a soul. Just like Angel.” Taking a breath, I cough, wishing that there had been an easier way to tell her that. “Weird, isn't it?”

“Weird,” she repeats without any inflection. “When did he get a soul? *How* did he get a soul? I didn't know they were selling them at the local discount mall now.”

Ignoring the scathing note to her voice ((anything about Angel is sacred to Buffy and always will be)) I shrug, “Long story. Not worth telling over the phone. Anyway, this is expensive time. We'll take the next flight out.”

There's a desperate tone to her now and she whispers, “Maybe this isn't such a good idea—“

“Bye Buffy!” I call, hanging up before she can say more.

Sighing heavily, I sniff, rubbing my nose with smooth fingers. Spinning around, I suddenly recall Spike and realize that I've just signed him up for something that he might not want to do.

“Before you freak out—“

He cuts in, asking, “Where are we supposed to be going?”

“Paris,” I respond weakly, raising my eyebrows in an expression of apology.

He shrugs. “Ok. Have any cigarettes in this place?”

And that's that.

+ + +

The flight is long, and by the time we land in Paris, I want to kill him. He kept sneaking up to the bathroom to smoke, setting off every alarm on the plane, not to mention making the other passengers loathe us. I think if we hadn't been 6000 feet up, the pilot would have tossed him out head first.

It's muggy but rainy when we reach the heart of the city, and Spike removes the blanket he had draped over his head and torso. We take a taxi to the offices of Harry and Hermione and the rest of the task force that I worked with briefly back when I lived with Buffy and Angel. It's so familiar to me that I feel an odd sense- like I've come home- but also feel a pang for New York and for my cozy apartment. God knows what I've gotten myself into. A big fat mess, no doubt.

As we round the winding steps to the offices, I hear Angel's voice around the next bend. Racing up two steps at a time, I call, “Angel?!”

He turns, dressed in black and pale and beautiful and *so* my big brother. Throwing myself in his arms, I laugh as he twirls me around, kissing the top of my head. “Dawn,” he greets me tenderly, setting me down and touching my hair. “How are you, sweetheart? Buffy's been worried sick. She didn't know when your flight was coming.”

“It was delayed a bit,” I answer, grinning at him. “I should've called. I know she's not the only worry-wart in the family.” Reaching up, I touch the spikes of his hair. “I think I see some grey in with all that gel.”

He half smiles. “You could be right. I was a little—“ Breaking off as he sees someone over my shoulder, the curve in his mouth disappears and is replaced with one of displeasure. “Spike.”

“Angel,” Spike greets him, sounding bored. “Where's the Slayer? Haven't seen the bint in a few years. I'd like to say hello in private if you don't mind.”

I glance up at Angel, worried, but he merely nods to the office a few doors down. “She's in there.” As Spike begins to pass, he grabs the younger vampire's arm. “And I'm within earshot, so don't try anything boy.”

Spike smirks. “Give the Knight in Shining Armour bit a rest. I'm just saying a friendly hello, is all.”

When he disappears through the door, I expect to hear a shriek of horror, but there's nothing. Taking Angel's hand, I lead him over to a set of chairs near the desk dominating the office.

“Don't worry. He's…Buffy doesn't feel that way anymore,” I try to reassure him. “About Spike, I mean. Not that she ever really did. Oh God. I so have foot in the mouth disease.”

He glances at me gently. “Don't worry, Dawn. I'm not worried about Spike and Buffy. That door closed a long time ago. Tell me what's been happening with you- did the book signing go all right?”

“I guess,” I respond cheerfully, trying to be upbeat for his sake. “But my agent under-estimated how long it would take to sign all those copies. My hand still hurts.”

“Ouch,” Angel mutters sympathetically. “Buffy hurt herself patrolling last night so she can sympathize. We ran across a huge band of vampires and one of them sliced up her elbow fairly badly.”

“That must sting,” I recoil. “I hope you killed it extra dead for her.”

He laughs softly but his mouth tightens as well with remembered anger. “I did.”

“Good. You always were her biggest Protector.”

“Is that all I am?” he inquires bleakly.

My eyes wide, I shake my head. How can he think that? “Of course not. Geez, Buffy loves you more than anyone else in the world. You know that, Angel. She was so wrecked after you left. She only came alive again when she finally decided to leave with you- and she was on that hill with me…” I trail off, lost in sweet memories. “I never thought when she said, 'let me show you the world', that she meant literally. And with you. But I was happy to go wherever she was going.”

“I know you were,” he responds quietly. “And I was glad to have you with us.”

“Were you really?” I ask uncertainly, even though I'm fairly sure I know the answer.

He catches me in a quick hug. “Of course. Who else would make me listen to N'Sync and eat peanut butter toast in the morning?”

I giggle. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn't forget that laugh,” a familiar voice smiles from the doorway.

I look up, immediately crossing the room and stepping into the arms that I love. The only arms that make me feel truly safe. With her, I'm home. Maybe it's the Summers blood that binds us. Maybe it's the sacrifices. Maybe it's the fact that the Monks made me from her. Or perhaps it's simply because at the end of the day, we are sisters.

We hug for a long time. Her pulse beats against my chest, and her hair is thick underneath my palms. She smells of vanilla and of dry linen, and I smile, glad to be back wherever she is. There's still bitterness, but years on the road forged something between us that can't be easily broken. Stepping back slightly, she touches my cheeks and nods. “You're still beautiful. I was worried.”

“That I wouldn't be beautiful?” I grin and she laughs.

“No. You're late.”

“I know, Angel already read me the riot act, thank-you-very-much,” I snap good-naturedly. “Seriously, you might as well be one person.”

“Yuck,” Buffy wrinkles her nose and pokes me in the belly. “That would be gross.”

“Seriously?” Spike drawls. “Always thought you two were into the whole 'two souls, one groin' thing.”

“Shut up Spike,” Buffy says wearily, obviously noticing the storm clouds creeping over Angel's face. “Can you please find an elsewhere to be?”

“Like where, Blondie?” he asks silkily. “Wanna find a house to destroy?”

Buffy goes white and I stare at them both, angry at Spike for putting us all in this situation- at having to confront a past I know all of us would rather forget. Laying a trembling hand on my sister's arm, I whisper, “Ignore him. Tell me… who else are we working with on this?”

“Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley,” she responds tensely, tearing her gaze away from Spike's for a moment. “They've been working for the Agency for a few years- and friends of Harry and Hermione's since Hogwarts.” She pauses and glances towards the door. “They should be here soon. We have to go over some things.”

“Is this going to be … dangerous?” I inquire nervously, but not without a bit of excitement.

Angel gives me a wry glance out of the corner of his eye. “You sound faintly… pleased at the prospect of danger.”

“Well she can stop being pleased,” Buffy puts in. “No danger is coming your way, Dawnie. I'm going to keep you safe.”

“How touching,” Spike mocks, leaning against the wall and regarding us all. “So, Angelus, looks like we're both buggered. Having a soul's a son of a bitch, eh?”

“I doubt you're overcome with remorse, Spike,” Angel shoots back, his mouth curled.

“And how in the fuck would you know?”

“*Boys*,” Buffy warns them. “We have company now.”

I look up from studying the carpet and gaze in the direction of the doorway. Standing, framed by the yellow light in the hall, are two of the most beautiful human beings I've ever seen, and I know beautiful. I've seen beautiful. Slightly and irrationally intimidated, I let my eyes drift over her fall of dark red locks, cat green eyes, and gorgeous, slender bone structure, to his white blond hair, startling blue eyes, and black leather outfit showcasing a body that I thought only existed on rare species of male model.

“Hey guys,” Buffy greets the pair, making an effort to be cheerful. “This is my sister, Dawn Summers.”

Extending my hand, I shake theirs.

“Oh, and this is Spike,” Buffy adds as an afterthought.

“Don't mind me,” the blond vampire scorns lightly. “Just part of the furniture 'round here. I practically fade in with the wallpaper.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Ginny replies pleasantly, her voice melodious and slightly smoky. “I gather you'll be working on the assignment with us?”

“You've got it right,” I answer, smiling. “Should be a huge barrel of monkey fun.”

Ginny looks perplexed. “Pardon?”

“Its slang,” Draco explains lazily. “Which means 'incomprehensible American speak'.”

“British people have slang too, don't they?” I inquire uncertainly and Buffy smiles gently.

“He's teasing you Dawnie.”

“I know *that*,” I reply crossly, and notice Spike's smirk.

Draco's lips curl in a semblance of a grin. “Don't worry. I tease everyone.”

“Including me,” Buffy says mock-furiously. “Which reminds me, we're in charge of buying the clothes for the operation. Do you want to go now?”

“Whatever,” Draco answers, but I notice a glint in his eye as he watches Buffy move to get her purse.

Angel's gaze seems to slide all over the room, but there's grimness in his expression that doesn't bode well.

Taking a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Spike withdraws a smoke and lights it, drawing in noisily. As everyone, including me, looks askance in his direction, he shakes his head. “Sorry, forgot to ask. Anyone else like one?”

Yes, it's going to be an interesting few months.

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