She’s dead. I know I’m in shock, denial, whatever you want to call it. My body feels as though it isn’t my own. My hand is frozen just above her cold, clammy skin, going to touch her. At the last minute I pull up. I can feel my sister’s eyes burning into my back, not interfering, but simply watching. For the first time in our lives, she’s letting me make a decision about something important.

And for the first time in our lives, I don’t want it. I want her to take me in her arms and snuggle me and send little trails of tingles up and down my back as she rubs it. I want to cry until her top is soaking wet, and I want her to whisper hollow reassurances into my ear, tickling the skin with her warm breath, positive proof that she is alive.

In this world of horrors, people live in denial, not knowing that they may be grabbed and attacked, their blood drained and their bodies discarded like garbage, or worse, awake without a soul to the life of the undead. And in this world of awful creatures of both night and day, the Fates, the Prophets, the Oracles, whichever higher power controls the strings of life, had to cut the one with my mother’s name on it.

They could all die. Buffy and Giles and all my and her friends. Just vanish in one fell swoop. And someday, it will be time for my destiny to play itself out too. I have a Slayer for a sister, but I’m hardly an ordinary 14-year old either.

It scares me sometimes. I don’t know what I’ll be asked to do in the name of all that’s good. Knowing the way things really are, I’m leaning towards death, and I try, day after day to prepare myself for that moment when I must sacrifice myself to save someone or someones I love from horrors beyond imagination.

But more than anything, it is the fear that grips me when I think about being alone in this big, mean world, without Buffy, that propels me at near warp-speed into my sister’s embrace.

She’s surprised, but she folds her arms around me without hesitation. It feels good to know she loves me, even though I know it’s not for real. Sometimes I wonder why I have to be some mystical form of energy, when instead I could be an ordinary kid with an extraordinary sister.

It’s funny. My life has more purpose and meaning that anyone else’s, except maybe Buffy’s, but I constantly wonder about my worth. I, my consciousness, my sense of self, it’s all part of this body. And this body is just a means to an end. I’m just a storage facility. And no one has any idea how worthless that can make a person feel.

My tears do soak her shirt, and I stand there for a long moment, reveling in the feel of her fingers making my spine tingle just the way I had imagined. We may fight like cats and dogs, but she is my everything, my literal reason for living. More than that, though, she’s my emotional reason for living.

The empty reassurances don’t come, however. I should have known. Buffy isn’t the type to offer false hope. Maybe clutch to threads, otherwise she wouldn’t have made it out of such tight binds, but never truly false or impossible hope. And we both know that our mother, her mother, after all, I have no mother, is dead. And nothing will bring her back.

 

*******

 

It’s hours later, and the house is dark. I’m in bed, looking up at the ceiling. I have done this so many times, I could chart every variation of my own ceiling by heart. But this isn’t my ceiling. This is my mom’s.

Buffy is snoring softly beside me, but she tosses and turns, and I know her temporary grasp on sleep is precarious. We’re sleeping in here, or trying to, as a tribute to our mother’s memory. When either of us was little and ill, our mother would invite us to sleep in her and my father’s bed with them. My father never liked it much, said they were going to catch all of ‘the kids’ illnesses, but it was quality time for me and/or Buffy and Mom.

It’s three in the morning, and I know I’m not sleeping tonight. Buffy said I don’t have to go back to school until next week, so there’s almost a full six days before I have to face that horror. I sit up quietly, and tiptoe from the room. I’ll be back before Buffy’s up, I can’t let her wake up to an empty bed. If anything, she’s in worse shape than I am. I saw the spot on the floor earlier where I know she threw up. At least the floor at the school is only wet with my tears, not my stomach acid.

In the kitchen, I make a beeline for the phone. I’m not calling my friends, and I’m not calling my crush. I know better than to interrupt Xander and Anya or Willow and Tara, who I know are doing their own grieving, so the number I enter is for one cranky, platinum blond-haired vampire.

Spike answers the phone, sounding fully awake. After all, with all that sleeping during the day, he has to be awake at night. A body can only get so much sleep. “What do you want?” He asks in his usual ornery manner before even finding out who is on the line.

I remember why I’m calling, and the tears start to drain down my face, making wet, slightly sticky paths on my cheeks. I scrubbed off all the makeup earlier, with a towel almost wetter with tears than cold cream, and I know I must look like a miserable child right now.

“Who is this?” Spike sounds mildly curious, but mostly just annoyed. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want someone calling me up and crying at me before they even tell me who they are. I make an attempt to right the situation.

“It’s Dawn.” My voice comes out shaky and a little squeaky, but I don’t even cringe.

Spike is immediately concerned. “Dawn? What’s wrong? Is Buffy okay?”

I sniffle again. “Buffy’s okay.”

“Then what is it?”

“My mom...” I almost burst into loud, noisy sobs, but the presence of my barely-sleeping sister who less than a week ago forbid me to talk to Spike upstairs keeps me from doing so. Instead, I press my hand against my face, and try to stifle my tears.

Spike is still concerned, but he’s started to get irritable again. “Dawn. What’s wrong with your mom?” He asks, slowly, as though I am a young child.

“She’s... she’s dead, Spike.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath, which I know is a sign that he’s disturbed, or at least surprised, since he has no physical need to breathe anymore. He sounds like he’s ready to speak again, but I cut him off.

“I need to get out. I’m going for a walk. Buffy’s finally asleep and I don’t want to wake her up... but I know I’m not strong enough to fight for myself. Will... will you come with me?”

This is a big step for me, because I never would have admitted I couldn’t take care of myself a week ago, but now I’ve seen up close and personal how ugly death can be, and how quickly it can befall us. I’m terrified that it will reach out and snatch me or Buffy, and if protecting myself means spilling my guts to Spike, then so be it.

To his credit, Spike doesn’t say a word about my paranoia. Actually, anywhere else, it would be paranoia, but in Sunnydale, or as Xander likes to call it, Sunnyhell, it’s a sensible precaution. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten minutes, Dawn. Stay inside until I get there, okay?”

I sniffle loudly and swipe at a tear that threatens to fall over my cheekbone. “Okay. I’ll look out the window so that I know when you’re here.”

Spike’s voice is more gentle than I’ve ever heard it. “All right. I’m on my way right now, Dawn. Just stay put.”

I nod my head reflexively, even though I know he can’t see me. “Thank you, Spike.”

Spike tries to regain a little of his biting wit. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not sure you’ll like what you get.”

I can’t even smile for him, which I know is what he wants, but I’m just still too much in shock. My face could be an iron mask, for all the emotion it has displayed since I learned. Except the occasional tear I suppose.

“Thank you anyway.”

“If you insist. Coming, Dawnie.” There’s a click, and the phone is dead. I put it down slowly, and make my way at a snail’s pace to the wide front windows. The street is deserted, of course, but there is one small black and white cat hunting a cricket. I keep myself entertained by watching it for the seven and a half minutes it takes for my one and only vamp pal to show up.

 

*******

 

The night passes slowly, and we walk, just through hills and over fallen tree trunks and across dry riverbeds. Spike is a true gentleman, holding my arm as I stumble, allowing me to hug him tight when the urge for a living, or at least, undead body who cares about my fate grabs me. His coat is soaked from my tears and my eyes are red and my cheeks pressed with the lines of his jacket when we return to my house, but I feel a little better, knowing that there is someone in the world who isn’t a basket case, and who cares for me.

I understand how Buffy feels. After all I feel a different version of the same thing she does, and Willow, Giles and Xander all loved my mother too. Tara is emotionally involved ‘cause her mom died too, and I don’t think Anya would make a very good person to talk to or grieve with. Therefore, I have a choice of a basket case... or a basket case, to talk to, or simply be with.

And right now, I need someone to be strong for me. Spike cared for my mother, I know that because of all the times we’ve simply talked and laughed together, he couldn’t not care for her, he’s nowhere near as cold as Buffy makes him out to be. But he has a grip of his feelings, and it’s nice. I can be the basket case, and he can do the comforting, without the pressure of trying to comfort the other mourner while you’re trying to grieve.

When he took me home, he hugged me tight. He looked pensive, and I knew he had something to tell me. Never patient, I did what I usually do and dived in. “What is it?”

Spike cast his eyes downward. “Tonight, seeing how upset your mother’s death made you, it makes me regret all the killing I did before I got this chip.” He refused to meet my eyes, and I knew, in that moment, that whatever demon lived within the body of William ‘Spike’ the Bloody was either no where near as bad as it was portrayed to be, or it was being overthrown by whatever remained of Spike’s humanity.

I’d seen it done in movies, and I’d always thought it looked stupid. But I gave it a try, and placing two fingers under Spike’s chin, I pushed it up until his eyes met mine. “Come back tomorrow?” I asked.

Spike shook his head. “You might be sleeping. If you are, I wouldn’t want to wake you.”

“Well, what are your plans for tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Then you can come by here at midnight and wait ten minutes, and if I don’t show, you can go and do whatever it is you’re killing time with.”

Spike hesitated. “I’m guessing the Slayer isn’t aware of this little early-morning jaunt?” He inquired. I shook my head slowly.

“She kind of told me to stay away from you.” Spike’s eyes went down again. God, the poor thing really was in love with my sister. Oh, well. Nothing I could do about that.

“So, will you come?”

Spike hesitated some more.

“Please?” I pleaded.

With a shrug, he consented. “I’ll be here. Midnight. Ten minutes. If you don’t show, don’t be calling me.”

I nodded, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, William.” I thought I saw something flicker over his eyes when I used his name, but it disappeared so fast that I managed to convince myself it was simply my overactive and overtired imagination.

I waved as I wandered into the house, kicking off my shoes and sliding back into bed beside Buffy. She twitched a little, but didn’t awake. Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, I brushed her long blond locks from her face and kissed her forehead. Unwilling to cease the contact between us totally, I took her hand and intertwined her relaxed fingers with my own. Squeezing her hand gently, I lay back, and finally fell asleep.

 

*******

 

The next five days went by in a blur. Buffy’s face was stained and breaking out in a rash from the salt water that almost continually poured out of her eyes, and I suspect I didn’t look much better. Neither of us bothered with the usually thrice-daily application of makeup, except once, for Mom’s funeral. We didn’t want to look shabby when we were saying good-bye to our mother.

Buffy had the funeral at night, and a few unexpected guests turned up; Spike, and Angel and crew. Angel had driven in from LA with Cordy and Wesley just that afternoon, Gunn staying behind on the excuse that he hadn’t known our mom. I think he just doesn’t like funerals. Then again, who does?

Of course, I tried to get up some enthusiasm for meeting Angel, who, technically, has never met me, or I him, and it lasted long enough to tease him about not having to change his clothes to attend a funeral. His usual macabre tones were plenty somber enough for the occasion.

And then it faded as fast as it had come, and I made up some excuse, which was really just a way to get away and find Spike. My sister collapsed into the darker vampire’s embrace as I left the scene, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people made for each other more than them. They fit together so well, each knowing instinctively what the other needed... too bad this was a funeral, or I might be wishing that they’d get back together.

I found Spike, camped out in the corner with a bottle of liquor. He stood and folded me into his arms, having become surprisingly protective of me during the past few days, or nights, I suppose, and I cried unabashedly. When I was spent, and wiping my eyes, we retreated back into the corner. I reached for the flask, curious, but Spike whipped it away.

“Now, your sister would stake me if she knew I’d given you liquor, Dawnie.” He paused. “Then again, it might not even take proof. I’ll rephrase that.

“Your sister would stake me if she even came up with the idea that I might give you liquor, Dawnie.”

I gave him the puppy-dog eyes that work so well on the soft-hearted vamp, and he relented, handing me the container. “Just a little sip,” He cautioned. “It’s strong, and I bet you’ve never had alcohol before.”

I blushed a little, knowing that it was just another signal of how far apart me and the two-century-old demon were. Covering quickly, I hoped that the light was dim enough that he hadn’t noticed, and hurriedly took a swig.

I nearly spit it out. Instead, I swallowed hastily. Spike chucked softly. I glared hard at him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me the stuff tastes like shit?” I asked, using language I almost never made use of.

Spike raised a single eyebrow. I’ve tried it, and I have no idea how he manages. But either way, that’s what he did, showing his surprise at my exclamation, and he hurriedly reclaimed his flask. I spit on the ground, attempting get the taste out of my mouth.

I grabbed a glass of water from a nearby refreshments table, and swished it around my mouth, still glaring at him. Spike grinned annoyingly, and swigged another sip from the bottle. I made a face, and grabbed it from him, and then poured it on the ground.

He lunged at me, but after six months of hanging with him, I knew he was playing. I gave a half-hearted shriek, and ran. He tackled me to the ground and pinned my arms. I struggled playfully. “Uncle! Uncle, I surrender!” I cried. Then I went as limp as I could in his arms, trying to look weak. “Have your way with me,” I stated, trying to appear helpless and hopeless.

The plan was that when Spike let me up, as I knew he would do, I would yank his ankle, and he join me on the ground. Unfortunately, I forgot that the funeral had been attended by other people, including my sister, who has a serious distaste for platinum-blond haired vampires. Spike was roughly yanked off of me, and thrown into the wall. He landed with an ‘oomph!’, and sat up slowly, rubbing his shoulder.

“Ouch, Slayer! What was that for? We were just playing!”

Buffy had her Slayer face on. “The hell you were. What were you doing to my sister, Spike?” She asked, her tone menacing.

“Nothing! I swear!” Angel had Spike against the wall, hanging the shorter demon by the neck. I recovered hastily from my shock, and rushed to his side, landing a few hard blows on Angel’s side as I made my way to Spike’s. The larger demon let go in surprise. I’m not a green belt in tae kwon do for nothing. I may not be able to take on a vampire, like my sister, but I can hold my own with humans. And, clearly, hit hard enough to catch Angel’s attention.

Buffy tried to step between me and Spike, but I held my ground. Spike cowered behind me, rubbing his shoulder and smoothing his hair.

“Dawn, move. I have to deal with Spike.”

I looked into my sister’s eyes, my mind made up as hard as set concrete. “No. He was telling the truth, we were playing. Honest.”

“No you weren’t.”

All my pent-up rage and frustration, in fact all my pent-up any emotion except sadness and loneliness, burst to the surface in that moment. I stomped my foot like a small child and my long, free hair floated around my face like a dark curtain. “Who the hell are you to tell me what I was doing? You may be able to tell me what to do, but you can never tell me what I am doing!”

Buffy was taken a little by surprise, and Angel had retreated a few feet, sensing a family problem rather than a monster attack was at hand. Spike was tottering to his feet behind me, and I turned to take my first good look at him while my sister was distracted.

He was rubbing his arm, but otherwise in good enough shape. He couldn’t however, manage to keep his mouth shut.

“So, Slayer, think you could have thrown me a little harder?” He asked sarcastically, retreating behind me as he spoke. Buffy glared, but dared not try to get around me. Instead, she looked at me, and issued an order.

“Dawn. Car. Now.”

I didn’t back down. “Not unless you come.”

Buffy gave a sarcastic grin. “Oh, I’m coming. After I beat up this creep.”

“No.”

Angel stepped in. “Buffy...”

Buffy turned to look at the darker vamp. “You stay out of this, Angel.” She said sharply.

Angel didn’t flinch. “Buffy, I think that you should go home and calm down. If Dawn says they were just playing, they were probably just playing.”

Buffy gave one last glare at Spike, then grabbed my shoulders and steered me away from him, allowing a little time to glower at Angel for his interference, before we left the building, undoubtedly leaving a wake of questions behind us.

The night was quiet, and the Spike ordeal wasn’t mentioned again. Instead, we spent the night looking over old photographs, and crying for our loss. We’d never stop missing her, I realized. Mom was gone, and that was that for her, but we would still have to miss her for the rest of our lives. Sometimes it’s harder to see who has the crueler punishment, the dead or the people who cared about the dead.

When Buffy finally went to sleep, I wandered out onto the porch, looking for Spike. He came, as always, at midnight, and we spoke hardly at all. Just walked, and walked and walked. We never stopped moving, and we didn’t get back to my house until five am. He looked tired, but shrugged it off when I asked about it, saying that the funeral attendance had disrupted his sleeping schedule. For that one night, I bought it.

But, five days later, Spike showed up on my front porch, and nearly collapsed. He’d been getting more and more tired during the past days, but had been equally touchy about it, and so I hadn’t asked again. But now, there was no denying it, for either of us.

I sat him in the porch swing, and stared him in the eye. “What’s going on here, William?” I asked.

He averted his eyes. “Nothing, Dawnie,” He lied. I didn’t buy it for a second.

“Bullshit, Spike. Now tell me what’s wrong,” I demanded.

He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling. “I don’t know. But... I think it’s been too long for my body to handle without human blood,” He replied.

“Angel went for years without human blood. Why not you?” I reasoned.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But the bloodlust is getting stronger, and my body’s gettin’ weaker, and it’s the bloody only conclusion I can draw.”

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