Chapter Two: Come As You Are

Ever see a caged tiger at the zoo?

As it is, Spike tends to lean towards the feline end of the spectrum. It's just, the way he walks, and that purring sound he makes when you ... do something that only I'm allowed to do right now. Well, he's got a severe case of sexy catlike grace.

Not that I'm complaining. Just me being all observant.

Hence the caged tiger at the zoo bit. 'Cause there he goes, all pale and sleek and pacing, those clear blue eyes fixed right on me as I lean against the wall, tossing the video tape still in my hands to the side. I feel like I'm holding a raw steak in my arms. Or better yet, like I am one.

Usually, when I have that feeling, it's followed by a lot of nakedness and groping. I don't think I have to say ... not one of those times.

I'm still a little stunned from Spike's response, so I sound more offended then I am when I snap, Oops. Sorry about that. That whole thing where Dawn catches knives and stomps on demons? Must have been a figment of my imagination.

Spike freezes at that, and I get a flash of pre-vampire Spike, all vulnerable and human before the fangs and forehead ridges. "You're bluffin'."

Why, I ask. My poker face in full effect?

"Dawn can't be the soddin' Slayer," he says. You'd think he was pleading with me, as if he could argue his way out of this. "She's not even real."

I should be pissed at that. It should be my turn to yell, "Take that back!" But fact is, just this once, I let myself say, You think I didn't think of that?

Spike stares. I squirm.

He's really good at that.

Okay, I say, it never even came up in my head. I was kind of fixated on "Aw, Dawn just mutilated her first demon, and me without my camera."

His shoulders slump a little at that, as if I'd magically picked this idea out of my scattered brain without any evidence, as if I hadn't actually seen her doing it. Yeah, sure. Because Dawn-as-Slayer is such a funny joke.

Listen close, you'll hear the laugh track.

"But she just ... she can't be the Slayer," he chokes out past clenched teeth.

I ask why not.

Spike practically screams, "Because it's not bloody fair, that's why not!"

Damn. First he's got me beat on immaturity. Now he's got more notches in the "mad as hell and not going to take it anymore" category.

I can't take my eyes off of him as he moves towards me, some of the bluster sucked out of him, but still looking mighty tasty. Our gazes lock, and a slow fire flares inside of me as he speaks. "You go out there every night against the toothy nasties of the dark, and you win. Do you have any idea how much you spook the natives? Slayers don't make it as old as you have without bein' the best at what they do. Being a Slayer ... it suits you, love. Might've had one or two bad days here and there, but you're best of bloody show. Full stop."

Oh.

Wow.

My lips tremble as I smile, and even more so when Spike lifts a hand and brushes his fingertips over it. This amazement, pure and perfect, flickers in his eyes. Like, "Hey, I made the pretty girl smile."

But there's still pain there, and he glances away. "Nibblet isn't ... she doesn't --"

His voice trails off, but I know where he's going with it.

Deserve this, I say.

And I know I should argue this. You know, pick a side. Because Dawn not deserving this either means she's not good enough for the job, or the job's not good enough for her.

Not sure how either one of those reflects on little old me.

I'm silent long enough for Spike to fall back on the unfairness of it all, and his eyes go hard and steely. "She's not gettin' eaten on my watch," he says. And then he makes a run for it.

Aw, give me a break.

He dashes out the door before I can stop him, so Dawn-fixated he doesn't even bother picking up his duster. Frustrated, I yell out his name.

Yeah, like that'll stop him.

By the time I catch up to the guy, he's already out of the building, kicking the speed limit in the ass as he steers himself in the direction of Revello Drive. We're lucky the main strip's looking pretty vacant right now, because I'm anticipating major yelling in the near future.

I finally latch onto Spike's arm and spin him towards me, getting him off-guard. His eyes flash golden yellow in the darkness, and he winces as he shakes off the yellow tint.

But still looking pissed. Spike does all hopped up and angry pretty well. Makes me wish most of my anger hadn't gotten wiped away by the "overpowering unfairness" rant.

Spike, I came to you looking for a little sanity, I say.

He tenses and shakes off my grasp, though not in a bad way. "And you found it, love. Right 'bout now, a little sanity's all I've got left."

Cute, really cute. I ask him what he plans on doing once he gets to my house.

A muscle flickers in his jaw as he says with fierce determination, "Lockin' the bit in her bedroom. Not lettin' her out until they outlaw boys and demons."

And you people wonder why I let him protect my sister.

I cock an eyebrow, a smirk slipping onto my lips before I can stop it, and I ask him if that shouldn't be my job.

Spike glanced away, runs his fingers through his hair and starts up with the pacing again. After a few seconds of that, he stops, lets loose with a sigh that he probably pulled out of his toes, and looks straight past my eyes, into a place so far inside me I'm pretty sure he'd have to look up to see spirit and soul. However many of 'em I've got.

His British accent is a quivering, barely restrained whisper when he says, "Grace, you got any idea how many arrogant blokes there are like me out there, wantin' a taste of the Slayer?"

I don't want to think about it. I dream up mental images of cocksure vampires ready to take on my baby sister, who can't weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and I immediately blank them out. Poof. What disturbing nightmares?

But I can't resist a little Spike-centered rub. I bite back another smile as I ask, You think she couldn't handle a guy like you?

"No, I'm of a mind that she could. Therein lies the bloody problem."

Oh.

Leading back to the whole thing where Dawn is a Slayer, right? Right.

Gee, thanks, Spike.

Not that I say that. I'm too busy sagging against the nearest car. Not so much physically, but mentally. I'm tired. I'm still a little buzzed. And I'm throbbing in all the wrong places. And all I can think about is Dawn. Killing vampires. Doing my job. Having to go through Glory's minions and the Knights wanting her dead, but instead it's everybody who wants her dead, and every night.

I can't even look at Spike when I speak, my voice flat and weary. I don't know how to handle this, I say. I tried beer, but being all drunk and goofy? Amazingly not the way to deal with stress.

There's silence. And then there's this worried half-sigh, half-groan. A nice sound when you can get it, especially out of a boyfriend.

Spike walks up to me slowly, his booted footsteps echoing in the shadows. He sighs when he gets to me, cool milk-white hands reaching up to stroke my hair. It's an incredible feeling, and I immediately sink forward, letting out my own sigh as my forehead falls gently against his chest.

His touch is so soothing, I barely hear it when he asks, "You goin' to tell the Watcher?"

My head shoots up at that, and I gulp back my fear. Oh, God, I blurt out. You've got me telling Giles? I'm still stuck on admitting I really saw Dawn kill a giant purple people eater.

He takes a second to digest that. Blinks. Then says, "I'm not askin'."

I thank him for that.

He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating under my fingertips. I stroke the fabric of his T-shirt a little, warming up at the purr that immediately rises from deep within. Man or monster, the guy makes interesting sounds when you turn him on.

I'm still thinking about that when his lips descend on mine, so much warmer than I expected. His kiss gentle, his hand on my cheek a welcome caress, I should be amazed my knees don't just give up and go home. Assaults like this out of the Big Bad, I could get used to.

I pull back before it gets too serious and the kiss moves out of the "I'm here for you" column into "I'm here for you naked" territory. Give me tonight to see what's going on, all right, I say.

It takes him a sec, but he follows up with a reluctant nod.

And no tattling, I add. The last thing I need out of any of the gang is the "I had to hear it from Deadboy Jr. first" rant.

Not to worry, though, from the bittersweet look in Spike's eyes. "Who would I tell?" he says, as his hand slips from my cheek.

The first thought that pops into my head is, "Well, gee, everyone? So that you can build up Operation Lock and Key until you've got Xander building an impenetrable fortress in the Arctic?"

But I get where he's getting at. How was he -- hell, how was I supposed to break this news to anyone? Singing telegram?

Oh, God. Mental image. Spike, in a ladybug costume, singing, "Gonna Get Someone To Call My Slayer."

Yes. I am weird. And somewhat clinically insane. Got the paperwork to prove it and everything.

Another quick smooch, and Spike heads back to the apartment complex, unfortunately without the coolness factor the duster brings. The whole swirly leather thing? Major turn-on, let me tell you.

Though not now. 'Cause I've got big sister talkin' to do.

It doesn't take all that long for me to get back to Revello. It's so late, it's not like anyone notices me leaping cars and scaling fences to get home. Yeah, I know. It's not a matter of life or death or anything, but hey, the shortest distance between two points ...

Huh.

What the hell ...

Some wacko's spying on my house.

Not that there's anything to see. The light's out in Dawn's bedroom, and my room looks totally unoccupied. So what's with the scrawny little guy in the trenchcoat standing under Spike's oak? Inquiring minds here, people.

Doesn't feel human, though. I'm getting neon "demon alert" signs in my head, which I don't have to tell you are usually of the bad.

Please don't tell me the demons have resorted to flashing me.

I duck into the shadows behind Mr. Kline's bushes, blend and get all sneaky like Slayers have a bad habit of doing, then yank out Mr. Pointy and make with the attacking.

So there I am, grabbing on to the guy, turning him around, raising the stake, and --

Whoa. Black eyes. Guy's got black eyes.

Okay, so unless the vamps are going for a new fashion statement, this one's not one of the dusty crowd. Little, wiry, old ... hey, don't I know him? Not sure from where, but then again, I've got two sets of People-I've-hung-with files in my head, so bear with me here.

He blinks, and the black shadows over his eyes vanish in an instant. He stares at me in amusement, surprise, and ... oh, hey, fear.

"Oh, my," he says, looking me up and down, and a sweet grandpa smile crosses his face as he shakes off my hand hard enough to knock me back a step. "Well, Miss Summers, this is an interesting turn of events, isn't it?"

Miss Summers?

He knows my name -- like, my real, un-uberSlayer name -- and he's a demon? Oh, that can't be good.

I don't even think. I just pounce, springing at him with fists ready for pummeling. Just call me Tigger, because I practically bounce off the grass towards him.

Of course, getting whacked by his tail squashes that plan pretty fast.

All I feel is a slippery, snakeskin length of muscle slamming into me, and my beaten body cutting through the air as it flies toward the road. The nice telephone pole I hit does me the favor of stopping my flight. Unfortunately, it also presents me with a brand new concussion.

And while I'm in the middle of my head trauma, he makes a run for it.

Now, color me crazy, but that was bad, right?

I stumble to my feet, this time not because I've been stealing Spike's beer stash, and rub at the back of my head as I glare in the direction I think he disappeared in.

I yell for him to wait.

No answer.

Hey, I yell, didn't I throw you off a tower?

That gets a playful, impish laugh out of the darkness.

Okay, this thing where the evil guys fall off towers like I do and don't get flattened? I'd just like to establish how totally unfair that is.

I could have sworn I killed that guy. Or at least dented him. And while I suppose chasing after Glory-worshipping demons should be high up on my to-do list, it can wait. After all, no more Glory, no more gaping hole in reality, no more use for a toady little lizard man like Grandpa Charlie back there.

I'll worry about him later. Right now, heap big sisterly talk. Color me terrified.

Yeah, you heard me. Terrified. Just watch me screw this up and inflict some major teenage trauma.

My fingers tremble as I unlock the front door and peek inside my house. No Dawn eating mallomars in the dining room. No Dawn yelling at the idiots on Big Brother. Nothing. I would have thought she'd made a run for it if it weren't for the oh-so-familiar hum of Dido making the wall hangings wiggle.

Sob music. At least she's not bottling up her emotions.

Not anymore. I'm picturing a little bottling, a little violent shaking, a little opening and spurting all over the place.

I head down to the basement first, grabbing a couple of quarterstaffs. It'd been Giles's idea to stash extra weapons down here, and he'd followed that train of thought to the station where we toss a few mats down and have ourselves a spare place for sparring. Hey, couldn't hurt. (Okay, technically, if you do it right, it hurts a lot. But we're really moving into territory that's far away from the point, aren't we?)

There's a Viking army's worth of weaponry down here, and I could have my choice of any number of sharp, poky instruments of death. But I was going for safe pummeling on this one. And wooden sticks? Safest pummeling going in these parts.

Somehow, I manage to get up both flights of stairs and knock on Dawn's door without whacking anything with the staffs. Yay, me.

The music stops -- gee, thanks, God -- and the door opens a crack. Dawn's anxious face peeks out.

She immediately starts in on the babbling and nervous apologies. "Grace, I'm so sorry. I just ... you were busy with Buffy stuff, and Faith stuff, and I just --"

I don't say a word. I just shove one of the quarterstaffs at her.

She doesn't even think twice, swiping it from my hand. You'd think I'd handed her a frozen trout, with the reaction I get. "What is this?"

A stick, I say, adding, Damn, I'm good at this game. I cock my head towards the stairs. C'mon.

I don't look back at her as I head down the stairs, not even when she asks, "What for?" I get about halfway down the stairs before she trails after, calling my name.

"Grace?"

No answer. I'm preparing for battle. Do you mind?

She figures out the sitch as soon as she sees me go down into the basement, and I could swear she lets out a breath she's been holding since I sent her home. As soon as she gets off the steps and onto the basement floor, I turn to face her, nerves ready for fighting.

I tell her to show it to me.

I must have tough, take-on-the-world Slayer face, because as soon as I say it, Dawn gets that twinkle in her eye. That one Kendra'd get when she headed into battle knowing she'd win. That one Faith'd get when she'd drag a willing virgin like Xander into her bed. That one Buffy'd get when she teased her friends or exchanged silent promises with her boyfriend of the moment.

She spins the quarterstaff in her hands slowly, deliberately. "How much of it?" she asks.

I let a little Faith slip through, the corners of my mouth turning up as I lazily spin the quarterstaff. Tell you what, I say. I'll put everything I've got into whacking you like a Catholic schoolteacher, and you try to keep up.

Dawn smiles wickedly. Little 'bit's probably been gettin' lessons from the blonde. "Sounds like a plan," she says.

And then it's on.

Can't say she doesn't have the talent for it. She gives as good as she gets, responding to taps on the arm with nudges in the stomach. Nothing too violent or bruise-inducing. She sees it for the test that it is, and does what she's got to do to pass.

But, something's just ... off.

She's got the moves, but hell, she could have gotten them off those videos she watched. And the reflexes, and the strength, but.

The confidence is there, though. Years of being around Big Sis, the Deluxe Edition of the Slayer model ... it's rubbed off. Probably got thoughts of straight Slayer A's running in the family running through her head right now.

But.

It's just not right. Even when I disarm her, and she dives for her staff ... when she swipes at my feet, and I slam into the mats ... even then, it's off.

Gimme a minute. I was never good at crossword puzzles.

We don't go at it long, only taking fifteen minutes before we're slumped against the wall, breathing heavily and supporting our weight on the staffs in our hands. If it'd been a more physical fight, we'd still be whacking at one another. But venting takes up more energy.

She heaves beside me, the exhale of the clearly over-exercising fiend, and I can't resist staring at her. Dawn. The Key. My sister. A big glowing green ball of energy. A Slayer.

Somewhere in there's a connection. Give me a few days and I'll dream up some crazy scenario.

We can't tell the others, I hear myself say.

Dawn's enthusiasm dims a little as she tries to catch her breath. "What? Wouldn't me being all Slayworthy come in handy? You know, just in case you need a spare on patrol?"

She's got this determined, hopeful puppy-dog look in her eyes. I remember that look. It was so much more potent on her when she'd been sitting on the floor of the morgue reaching up to touch Mom's cold, still body.

You know.

Let me have powers.

Let me be helpful.

Let me be big-time useful in the saving the world business.

I try not to give her any ideas, looking away before I speak. That's why I've got Spike, I say.

She cocks an eyebrow at that. "I thought you had Spike for orgasms."

That stuns me for a sec before I can respond. Okay, you know what? No more sleepovers at Anya's.

It takes a second, but we finally let ourselves laugh at that. I mean, really laugh ... the kind that makes your sides sore and your cheeks ache. And as we do, the tension bleeds away, flittering away into the night.

We're both still giggling when I take a really good look at her -- a really good Slayer-y-Slayer type look -- and my laughter cuts off as quickly as it started.

Oh, my God.

Dawn immediately notices the stunned look on my face, and her own giggles die a quick death. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks. Her hand shoots up to her forehead, her chin, her pert little nose, rubbing at them gently. "Do I still have demon goo on me? Or something in my teeth? Oh, God, I don't have demon goo in my teeth, do I?"

It's hard to explain the way it feels, being in the same room with another Slayer. Like rubbing a balloon against your nape. Like someone dropping ice down the back of your shirt. Like there's a bloodsucker in the room, but a little ... orgasmic. It tickles in all the good ways, although it's not like I was going to be practicing sharing with that concept anytime soon.

I'm amazed I never 'fessed up about it when I was Faith, to be honest. Talk about a warm and fuzzy feeling.

I never knew why it did that. And I dooubt the Watcher's Council ever got filled in on that party trick. But it's not hard to miss.

Yet, here I was. Missing it.

Nothing, I manage to rasp out. It's nothing, Dawnie. We'll talk about this some more in the morning, all right?

Dawn nods, her smile growing little by little as she leans the staff against the wall. And then ... whoosh. Dawn huggage.

Her too-thin arms wrap around my neck, and I sink into her embrace. Her hair whispers past my face, the scent of coconut conditioner heavy in the air.

And then she's gone, a goodnight tossed over one shoulder, her footsteps pounding up the basement steps, the door slamming shut behind her.

And finally, for the first time, all of Faith slides away from me for a heartbeat, a fraction of a second, and I feel strong enough as Buffy and Buffy alone to say what I have to say without bursting into tears or doing the dance of joy.

Admittedly, I'm saying it to the Christmas decorations. But still, words being said.

Dawnie, I whisper, you're not a Slayer.

And it isn't Gracie, Queen of Denial saying it.

It's Buffy, and it's true.

I don't care why she can do what she can do right now. I'm busy thanking God here. Here's hoping he doesn't want any firstborn children of mine for this early Christmas present, because I was kind of planning on keeping those.

But while we're being grateful, I'm dying to know.

All right. Who gave my sister superpowers?