Sequel to Dangerous
Sequel to "Dangerous", post-Season 7. Set 30 years after the events of the previous story. Rated NC-17
Thanks to my beautiful betas, Julia and Annie Sewell-Jennings, and to the LiveJournal Community for their encouragement and support.
She still insisted on patrolling. Old habits die hard, apparently, so every other night they took a turn around the closest cemetery, spoiling for a fight.
Spike loved these nights best, familiar and sweet, her hand in his, and the prospect of real fights, hard fights, with her at his back, by his side. With or without fights, they usually wound up shagging there, her spread-eagled on top of a tomb or among the blossoms left for the recently dead.
That night wasn't anything different; the two of them striding through the graves, coat fanning out behind him, Buffy wearing next-to-nothing and high-heeled shoes. Could have cut yourself on how sharp they looked - dangerous and beautiful and ready to brawl.
He let his eyes slide over her as they walked, moonlight picking out the curve of her breasts through the sheer white top she wore.
Buffy caught his leering glance and stopped to preen in the moonlight. "Like my new blouse, I take it?"
"I'm not sure you can call it a blouse, love. Doesn't it actually have to cover your body? I don't think a wisp of transparent silk counts. Looks more like a scarf to me." He ran the flat of his hand over her nipples, dark and stiff.
"I don't hear you complaining, do I?" she asked, coyly.
He closed his hand around one breast, leaned into her. "Don't know about that, love. Don't think I like you showing off what's mine."
"Fuck you, Spike," she said, pushing him off her. "You might have sired me, but you don't own me. You never did, and you never will." She turned, escaping his grasping hand, and sprinted towards the gate without a single glance back.
In retrospect, he should have known.
It came on so gradually, he was almost the last to know. Maybe it had been there from the start, and he just hadn't noticed - mind too full of Buffy to pay the least bit of attention to his shell-shocked soul. But eventually... eventually he felt it.
Started with twinges, really, just stray thoughts that left the strangest feelings in his gut, a tic in his cheek. The first time one of Buffy's temper fits nearly took his head off, for example, and he wondered what the Watcher would know about other Slayers that had been turned. Or when they'd found that talisman in a victim's pocket, and he'd said aloud that they should take it back to Willow to find out what it was. Buffy'd given him a snide look and said, "Yeah, that's a good idea, Spike, except you weren't smart enough to turn her so you could ask." She'd been aggravated by the inconvenience, though he'd been right - she didn't miss them.
But he did.
Well, not Harris, to be honest, but the rest of them. He'd known them, what, four, five years out of 150, and yet, he often saw their faces in his dreams, thought of them, and when he saw their likeness in a potential victim, they always seemed to get away. Couldn't figure out why, for the longest time.
The first time he dreamed of the witch, he knew. A stupid dream, no phantom visitation or prophetic vision, just a dream. Sitting in the kitchen of the Summers' house with Willow, drinking coffee while she worked on her laptop, quiet, friendly. He bolted awake, heart in his mouth, and he knew.
That strange feeling in his gut? It was guilt. The soul waking up from its long repression. The beginning of the end.
Reading was just another way of putting off the inevitable. Wasn't even a good book, really, which was a happy coincidence, seeing as how he was too hungry to really concentrate. Just a distraction, was all. Distract him from hunger and from the deep-down joy over the thought of a meal.
"Spike?" Her voice rang from the back of the apartment; he could hear her heels clacking on the wooden floor. She must have overslept, she was usually looking for him way before now.
"Yeah, Bit - in here." Spike glanced up from his book as she came through the door. All dressed up tonight - filmy white top, short black skirt with the tops of black thigh-highs peeking out. He caught glimpses of her white, white thighs as she walked. Bright, bubbly, all tarted up like she was trying to mimic the big girls, and failing miserably. He smiled a bit - she'd always done that. These days, of course, it was just an act.
"Going out, love?"
She nodded, absently, setting her foot on the arm of the couch to check her stocking, affording Spike a straight view up her skirt, where honey-colored hair curled around the edges of a silk thong. "I'm gonna go eat, and then I hear there's a new dance club down on 4th." She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a lipstick and eyeliner. "Do me first?"
He ignored the teasing lilt in her voice as he rose to take the cosmetics from her. "Where's the rest of it?" he asked, opening the pencil.
"That's it," she said. "Tubercular is the in look right now. You know, white skin, dark eyes, red lips from coughing up blood?" She grinned, and then obediently opened her mouth for lipstick application. Then she stepped back, did the once-round for Spike's practiced eye. "How do I look? Like a pining heroine?"
"More like a kinderwhore."
She laughed, a girlish exclamation, and ran her hand over her breasts coyly. "If you're good, Daddy Spike, I could be." She laughed again, and turned to go. "Sure you don't want to come with me, Spike? Please? We'd have a really good time - dancing, hunting. I'll even let you beat me at pool." Her lip extended in a little pout, as she waited in the door for his answer. He made a show of thinking, pretended to be absorbed in his book. She sighed impatiently and flipped her hair, and suddenly he was back in the Summers' house, years before. That awful summer, when Buffy was gone, and all he had left was her kid sister. He couldn't place the memory: Dawn begging for something she couldn't have or shouldn't have. The old pain flared bright in him for a minute, and then it was gone again.
"You go ahead, sweet. I'll catch up."
He watched from the window till she was out of sight. He'd have to hunt, too. Couldn't put it off another night. Hunger was already tearing at him, making him shaky. It was like this every time. He was already awash in a sea of blood; why should his soul care about one more on the pile? He kept staring into the darkness, wishing. Briefly considered the butcher's, but given how they'd reacted last time he came home smelling of pig's blood, he didn't think he could risk it. He'd already lost Buffy; he couldn't lose Dawn, too.
In the end, of course, he went out. Had to eat sometime. Had to keep strong, take care of Dawn. Took a different path than she did, riding his bike to a different part of town, where the normal folks didn't go. Fidgeted as he drove up and down; he'd had his eye on a drug dealer for a few weeks. One of the few who didn't stink of an addiction, and who did a brisk business when the cops weren't driving past.
No one gave him a second glance; Spike often cruised this strip, pretending to buy drugs. The dealers were used to seeing him now, nobody thought twice about him anymore. He told himself that if he had to kill, this was the best way to do it; rid the world of these parasites. One parasite taken out by another, seemed fair.
He finally saw the guy - big Leon - doling out favors in a vacant lot. Took a while for the traffic to die down; Leon was a busy boy. Muscular and tall, draped with gold necklaces that showed he wasn't scared of getting robbed. He was a badass, and even that tough neighborhood knew it. He waited till Leon was leaning back against a tree, half-lost in shadow, before he killed the bike and sauntered over. "Hey, hey, blondie, whatchoo want?" Leon called, rolling into his spiel before Spike was anywhere near him. Spike shuffled his feet and mumbled something low. Fuck, he hated playacting. Finally, Leon leaned in to hear, and Spike saw his chance. Grabbed him, quick twist to end it, and dragged him behind the tree to feed.
The boy was warm, his skin soft and well-oiled, and for a moment, the blood washed away all Spike's doubts, all his guilt, all his emptiness. There was only pleasure, the welcoming of senses, and an end to his terrible hunger. Hunt. Kill. Feed.
And then it passed, and he was left alone with the body.
He stripped as much from it as he could, ate till he could take no more; every day he could go without feeding was another person that got to live. After it was over, he laid big Leon on the ground, face down, so those accusing eyes couldn't stare up at him. He went through Leon's pockets carefully. Nearly $ 3,000 and change, plus the handful of gold around Leon's neck. That'd pay the rent for a month or two, though it wasn't as much as he'd hoped.
The drugs he left scattered 'round the body. Let the scavengers have it. God knows he wasn't in any position to judge self-destructive behavior, not when he'd made it into an art form. He paused, thought maybe...maybe he should say a prayer over the dead man, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn't imagine God would listen to anything he had to say.
Wearily, he climbed back on the bike, and turned towards downtown. Tried not to think of the body. Tried to convince himself again that he had picked him because he was a parasite. The wad of cash in his pocket said otherwise.
The club was full and smoky. He eased in, checking faces and exits. He didn't see anyone he recognized. Not that any of them would have spoken to him if he had. He was bad luck walking, as far as they were concerned. Those that didn't remember him from his demon-killing days now knew about the soul - Buffy had made sure of that. Acted like they thought it was contagious. Or maybe they were just afraid of her.
He slid into a corner booth, wiped his mouth discreetly as the waitress came over. He could still taste the boy's skin on his lips. He ordered Jim Beam and a beer chaser - anything to take away the taste of yet another murder.
Anxious, he scanned the crowd, looking for her. Too many people; when he did finally see her, it was only in glimpses - a flash of thigh, a flick of her shiny hair, waving hands. She was dancing right in the thick of things, shaking her ass like mad in front of a frat boy who thought he'd got lucky. Poor bastard.
As he watched, the music changed abruptly; fast to slow, and Dawn sidled up next to the boy, brushing her body against his, smiling. Laughed at something he said, the boy's lips just touching her ear, her hand tangled in his hair. A cold feeling crawled over Spike. Couldn't shake it, couldn't stop looking.
His drink arrived, but he didn't touch it. He was suddenly anxious for Dawn to come to the table, wanted her to smell the kill on him, to know he'd hunted, hear his unspoken, ongoing litany: see what I'm willing to do for you?
He rose from the table, headed closer to where she moved dreamily to the music. Was she only hunting? It had been long since he'd seduced his (victims) prey, but he knew it was easier on the girls if they did. Didn't much like it, though. Never did.
He threaded his way through the dancers, eyes fixed as much on Dawn as he could manage. As he came 'round the last couple next to them, he noticed two things: Dawn's skin was pink - she'd fed already - and frat boy's hands were on her ass.
Rage exploded inside him, his mind providing snapshots of him stomping the boy's chest till he died, choking the air out of him, ripping his throat wide open. Git would never know that he owed his continued existence to the three-year shelf life of some government microchip. Fucking Initiative might have taken everything else away, but it had given him self-control.
His hands twitched, wishing for tender skin to break. In a low, threatening voice, he said, "Get your fucking hands off her."
The couples around him looked up, startled, and backed quickly away from the naked malice in Spike's voice. Everyone, that is, except the couple being addressed. Dawn was doing it on purpose, the little bitch; he didn't know what the boy's excuse was. Didn't care, either.
He grabbed one offending arm in a crushing grip, and jerked so hard that Dawn went spinning off into the crowd. "Are you fucking deaf?" he bellowed. "I told you to get your hands off her!"
The kid began try and wriggle out of his grasp, sputtering threats. Behind him, Dawn was complaining. "Geez, Spike, rude much? Jimmy and I were just dancing, you didn't have to--"
"Shut it, Bit," he snapped. "I'm talking to the boy here." He twisted Jimmy's arm to the side, testing. So easy just to snap it. So damn easy. So satisfying. His thoughts must have been clearly visible on his face, because the frat guy had gotten very, very still. No bluster now. He had suddenly realized just how dangerous Spike really was.
"Sorry, man," he babbled. "I didn't know she was your girl. We were just dancing, and she never said she had a boyfriend." He looked imploringly at Dawn to bolster his story.
"Oh, did I forget to mention Spike?" Dawn giggled. "He's not really my boyfriend, he just kind of fucks me sometimes. Oh, and he thinks he's my dad."
Jimmy gaped at her for a moment before appealing once more to Spike. "Come on, man, I won't go near her again, I swear. Lemme go."
Spike jerked the boy's hand up in front of his face, showing where his wrist was already blooming purple and black. "If I ever catch you touching her again, I'll cut it off. Understand, shithead?" He let go suddenly, and the boy fell on his ass, scrambling back from the dance floor, then running for the door, cradling his injured arm.
Dawn stood scowling, hands on her hips. "Thanks for ruining my night, Spike. Now I probably won't be able to come in here anymore."
"Yeah, that's a big loss. Get your crap, we're leaving."
Dawn bitched nonstop all the way to the table, and lingered so on the way to the door that Spike finally took her arm and pushed her out into the alleyway. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he demanded.
"Me? I was just dancing. You're the one who made a big production out of it." She glanced slyly at him and said, "You ran Jimmy off, and I was thinking about turning him. He was so damn hot."
He moved so fast she barely had time to notice before she was slammed against the wall, his fingers 'round her throat. "You’re mine," he growled. "I won't share you. Got it? You turn that prick, I'll kill him, and I'll make you sorry you ever laid eyes on him."
She rolled her eyes, and loosed an impatient sigh; just as though she was still that frustrated 17-year-old. "Yeah, whatever, Spike."
His voice held all the menace he could muster; he could feel her shaking beneath his hand. "I mean it. You belong to me. I won't have you getting cozy with the cattle. Understand?"
He stared into her eyes for a long moment, vibrating with anger, jaw clenched and fingers tight on her slender throat. And then, she laughed.
"Yes, Daddy," she said, sarcastically. Licked her lips, then, and opened her thighs to enclose his hip. Let a teasing tone enter her voice as she pressed against him. "Ooo, you're sooo sexy when you're all manly and jealous, Spike." One hand ran over the small of his back, the other reached up to trace patterns on the back of his choking hand.
When his hand loosened to grasp hers, she raised her head to kiss him, her free arm snaking 'round his neck. He could taste blood in her mouth, sweet and tangy; she pressed harder against him, and for a minute he forgot everything but his arousal. Broke the kiss to stare down at her, eyes beginning to darken with need.
Beautiful and deadly and not afraid of a goddamned thing, not even him. She was all the things he shouldn't have - death and blood, theft and gleeful destruction, and, on top of it all, his lover's kid sister. Even without a soul, he'd seen her as forbidden territory. Every time he touched her, that delicious wrongness made it hotter, kept him gasping and clutching at her for more. It was worth feeling dirty, after.
Now... now she was really was his, his only one. Not forbidden anymore, not really, except for the murder on her lips.
He remembered the first time she'd slipped into his bed, her little hands pulling at him, eager and inexperienced. He'd shoved her away, told her to piss off, and remembered her storm of anger afterward. She'd cried for days, whined, refused to leave her room, shouted and screamed and thrown things until Buffy finally pitched him out of bed, snapping, "Oh, for god's sake, just go fuck her so she'll shut the hell up!"
Won't matter how long he lives, he'll never forget her face when he went in to her, her surprise and eagerness, the clumsy way she tried to seduce him, whispering dirty words that sounded like she was trying on clothes two sizes too large. Nor would he forget how sweet she was, how ready to please; unsure, but completely uninhibited, as unlike Buffy as she could have been.
He looked at her now, all confidence and artifice, but he still tasted the sweet girl underneath it. She'd never belonged to anyone else, and she never would. He'd marked her good, with fangs and lips and prick. Didn't matter that Buffy still burned white-hot in his heart; Dawn would always be his.
He chuckled at her hungry expression, his anger melting away as always. So whipped he was. "That how it is, sweet?"
She lifted her face for another kiss. "That's exactly how it is, Spike," she said. She grabbed his hand and drew it beneath her skirt, between her moistened thighs, and pressed his fingers into her, rocking them gently, mmm-ing under her breath while she moved her fingers over his own.
Advantages to the schoolyard whore look, he thought idly, and leaned to brush his lips against hers, slow, and soft and thorough, deepening as he pushed further and further in, gently caressing all - Wait a minute.
He stopped; stilled his hand and pulled his head from hers to stare accusingly. "Where the fuck are your panties, Dawn?"
Another giggle. "In my purse, asshole. I took them off when I saw you come in the club." She craned her head up to tongue his ear and whispered, "I figured you'd want to fuck right after the fight."
Couldn't help it; it startled a laugh from him. "You did it on purpose. You *planned* it, you bitch."
"Yeah," she smirked. "So are you going to do me, Spike, or are you just going to scowl at me all night?"
"Say it first." His teeth nipped along the curve of her neck, but his hands were still. "You're mine, and you do what I say. Say it." He rubbed his thumb slowly over her clit, matching the gesture with his tongue, just below her ear. She moaned, one leg falling wide.
"Oh, god, Spike." She pushed up towards him breathlessly. "You know - fuck - you know I don't want anybody else. I was just teasing."
Good enough, he guessed. He slipped his other hand inside her blouse - no bra, either - and plucked her nipple hard, felt her knees threaten to give way. Nuzzled along her neck, little kisses here and there, whisper-soft. "That's my good girl." He thrust three fingers hard inside her, made her gasp. "You do what I say. That means nobody but me touching you. That means you stay out of this dive, and you stay away from those college boys. Understand, Dawn?"
He could hear the acid in her voice as she replied, "Fuck you - I'll do whatever I want!"
In the space of an eye blink, his fingers slid out, and he was two steps away from where she sagged against the wall. "Do yourself then, I'm off home." He turned and headed for the bike.
He smiled at the whine in her voice, and smiled even more broadly as he glanced back at her: skirt hitched up around her hips, one milky tit hanging half out of her blouse, her face awash in more than sexual frustration. "Want to hear it from your sweet little mouth. You are mine. You'll stay the fuck away from whoever I tell you to avoid, right?"
She nodded sullenly, but didn't speak.
"Didn't hear you, pet. What was that?"
"Yes, godamnit. I won't go near any more icky boys." He could practically hear her teeth grinding. "Now get over here and fuck me."
He sauntered back to her, touching her with the barest fingertips. "Whose lips are these?"
"Duh - mine." He raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and she rolled her eyes. "Yours."
Rubbed his thumbs across both nipples, lowered his head to her ear. "And whose lovely tits?"
Shoved one hand hard between her legs, caught her clit between his fingers. "Whose wet, pretty cunt?"
"Fuck! Spike, come on! Yours, yours, yours, OK? Just - oh, come on, I'll do whatever you want, just - Oh!"
He twisted harder, felt her buck against him, his dick twitching in response. "I know you will, pet. Just like hearing you say it, is all." Now he'd stopped teasing, gentle tugs on her nipples growing harder, more insistent, fingers thrusting against her, kisses timed to match the rhythm of his thumb along her clitoris, growing harder by the minute as she whimpered and rolled beneath him. Been a while since he'd fucked her right out in public; the thought was unbearably sexy. Considered different scenarios as he worked her; he'd bring her off this way, first, and then he'd fuck her till she screamed, right here in front of god and everybody. Pull it out and never mind the people streaming out at closing time, and never mind that sunrise was on its way, make her suck him off against the wall, yeah, yeah. She shuddered and cried out, clutching at his shoulders, her legs tight around him, and suddenly - suddenly, he was rocketed back to before, to the alley outside the Bronze, back before the soul, before it all, Buffy's legs wrapped around his waist, her constant moans as he pounded into her, and the delicious fear that her friends would find them, and -
He was suddenly sick to his stomach, couldn't tell where the guilt ended and the sorrow for her began, and his erection was gone, gone, gone. Hid his face against Dawn's hair - please god, don't let her see. She nibbled at his neck, her hands beginning to roam over his back, and he jerked away from her touch. "Come on, Bit. Don't fancy it in the alley, myself. Let's go."
She shrugged; whatever, she was used to his moods by now. "Your loss," she said, with a toss of her head. Climbed on the back of the bike with him, and held on tight. "Mmm," she said, snuggling up against his back. "I swear, your jealous fucks? Best I've ever had."
That hunger for possession surged upwards in him again. "I'd bloody well better be the only fuck you've ever had."
Her laughter rang out loudly as they headed for home.
He stayed awake for a long time after sunrise. Wandered from room to room nervously, smoked one cigarette after another. Dawn hated the smell - he was sure to get an earful tomorrow - but it was soothing, familiar, a holdover from when he knew who he was, what he wanted.
The bottle of bourbon he kept in the kitchen was a constant temptation, but he'd learned that it no longer aided sleep. These days it simply made him maudlin, and that he could definitely do without.
He walked endless circuits of the flat, peeking in at Dawn where she lay, sleeping. She lay utterly still, face half-buried in the pillows, one slender foot sticking out from under the giant comforter she hogged all to herself. He wished he could sleep like that again. Hadn't had a decent day's sleep in - well, since before Prague, anyway. He leaned against the door, smoking quietly, wishing he could give her more. She deserved more - more than a fucked-up excuse for a vampire who couldn't love her, not like she loved him. And, on the heels of that thought, the whispering knowledge that what she really deserved was to be a 50-year-old with a husband and children and maybe grandchildren on the way. Not - not to be damned, like him. He pushed the thought away from him, too late now for second thoughts.
He crushed the smoke out against the sole of his shoe, and stripped wearily. Slipped back under the covers, pulling her unresisting form onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her tight. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered.
"Shut up, Spike," she murmured, sleepily.
His dreams were seldom pleasant. Too many awful memories, too many bad decisions, too much waking time spent pushing bad thoughts away. Good dreams were few and far between, coming only in glimpses - chatting with Joyce, Drusilla's sweet kisses, Buffy smiling softly at him - and all of them carried their own little aftertaste of pain. And those dreams that once upon a time he'd have thought were brilliant, those were the worst. Dreams of his glory days - blood and bone and tortured screams - were slideshows of memories that he didn't want to watch. Watching meant he'd wake in tears that had to be hidden from Dawn, so she didn't find out how weak he really was.
Lately, his dreams were all of her, which meant they were very bad, indeed.
He didn't know where she had learned it. He knew she'd always had a cruel streak. Felt it often enough the year she came back - fists and feet and words as sharp as broken glass. But he never thought she'd pick up the taste for torture on her own. Maybe it was his fault. He'd been caught up in Dawn, newly in his bed, waking him in the evenings by crawling in beside him, naked, bringing him awake with mouth and hands.
He thought Buffy liked it at first, found it exciting, but soon she started hunting early, going out by herself without waiting for him. Didn't like that at all. One night, he told her to wait, pushed Dawn away, and left the bedroom to find her gone. Had gone after her, angry, craving her company - hell, she was the one who wanted him to shag Dawn in the first place - couldn't help that the girl liked it, could he?
He had smelled the blood in the cemetery blocks away; stomach growling in response. It quickened his steps; if he got there fast enough, they could feed together, maybe hunt again - after they went at each other a time or two. All sorts of pleasant diversions ran through his head as he pushed open the door of the crypt.
In his sleep, he grimaced, his hands tensing 'round Dawn's waist.
The crypt looked like an abattoir. Blood everywhere, walls and floor, and all over Buffy, specks marring her hair, her skin. She was bent over something when he walked in, he couldn't see - and then she turned. She fairly beamed, all cheerful smiles, happy he'd come after and left Dawn behind. He was so struck by her delight that he almost missed what lay beyond. It had been a man - he was fairly sure - though it was hard to tell now. Every inch was covered with gouges, marks, blisters. She must have been at him for hours, maybe days; too much blood spilled on the floor for her to have fed.
His stomach knotted desperately; he couldn't look away from the scene, the ropes which held the victim peeking white here and there (or was it bone?) through the red and black of marred flesh, and the little pile of skin laid so carefully beside the chair.
"Spike!" Buffy ran to kiss him, hot with longing, lips cold as the grave and tasting of death and, god help him, he responded, aroused and hungry and fondling her greedily while they kissed. His hands roamed over her breasts, slipping in the blood, making sketches on her skin. And he would have fucked her right there, everything would have been OK, he could have pushed the image from his head like he had so many others, except…. Except the ruined thing behind them moaned. It - he - was still alive. Hours and hours and maybe days of…this, and still able to feel…?
"Huh." Buffy released him to peer down at the horrid thing. "I thought it was all played out." She bent to pick up a wicked-looking knife, covered in blood and bits of skin, offered it to him sweetly. "You want a turn?"
He couldn't help it, couldn't have stopped it. His soul, so long in disuse, rebelled, took his stomach with it. He couldn't remember flying from the crypt, dropping to his knees in the dying grasses, vomiting what little his body had. Incoherent prayers flew from his lips, and he couldn't stop. He lifted his head to see her, disgust written in every line of her body, staring balefully at him from the doorway of the crypt.
That night, for the first time, she refused to sleep in his bed.
He was pulled from sleep by a familiar sensation. Warmth encompassed his groin, sliding, wet - half asleep, it jostled loose a 30-year-old memory, long-treasured; the feel of Buffy's mouth around his dick, the sight of her little blond head between his legs. His first thought was, She stayed. And then, of course, the realization that he was dreaming, must be dreaming.
Lips felt real enough, warm and slick, tongue sliding around him, beneath him, long slow sucks up and down. He reached his hand down to touch silky hair, soft skin. Moaned a little as he gave himself over to it, fuck, who cared that it was a dream? Murmured, "Don't stop, please," hands grasping blindly, when the movement stopped, but then it was hotter than ever, harder, pumping him with hands and lips and swirling tongue, until he cried out in release.
A smile curled his lips, eyes still blissfully shut. Hadn't had a dream this good in years. "Oh, god, Buffy, I love you," he murmured.
When the pot full of hot water smashed him in the face, he knew he hadn't been dreaming after all.
"You motherfucking bastard!" The lamp was next to go, littering their bed with broken glass. If he hadn't been intent on ducking the ashtray, he might even have appreciated the irony.
Dawn was angrier than he'd ever seen before, game face twisted in rage, tears streaming down her face. "You. Fucking. Asshole! You thought I was her?"
He caught her arm about to upend the dresser. "Dawn! Thought I was dreaming, pet. You know, back when. What else would I think, girl? Since when is your mouth warm?"
Her demon slid away, the tears coming even faster. "Buffy used to say that's all you talked about, how much you liked it, so I got some hot water, and thought I'd wake you up nice, and maybe you'd actually want to be with me, instead of just hanging out somewhere away from me all night!"
His heart sank. She had noticed. "Dawn, sweet, I don't - "
"Like hell, Spike! When was the last time you went hunting with me? Or went anyplace with me? I thought maybe you just were, I don't know, bored or something, but it's her, isn't it? Doesn't matter that I'm here, does it? You still want that cunt -"
The slap surprised them both, echoing through the apartment, staggering Dawn with its force. "Don't you ever fucking talk about her that way, " Spike hissed.
"Fuck you, Spike." Her tone was shrill, and her voice hiccuped with sobs. "I'll say whatever I want to about that bitch. She may not be your girlfriend anymore, but she's still my stupid goddamned sister." Dawn jerked herself from Spike's grasp, took two steps to the closet and pulled down a suitcase, tossed it to the bed, and starting filling it with clothes.
He looked on in shock; she was leaving? His chest cracked wide, a desperate, tearing pain that threatened to drag him down. His voice crackling with emotion, he shouted, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting the hell out of here. You don't want me. Maybe I'll go stay with Diane and those other vamps over on the East side; I hear they've got a big house." Fat, angry tears poured off her cheeks as she packed.
"Don't be stupid; you'd be lucky if they didn't kill you for associating with me." He leaned against the door, carefully. Now she was just being ridiculous.
"Then maybe I'll go stay with Buffy and dickhead. At least they don't kiss my ass while they're hating me."
That arrow hit its mark; it was all he could do not to beat her till she was silent. Stood there, fists clenched, trying to steady his voice. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
He didn't see the shoe flying at him till it was nearly too late. "You fucking liar. You're mine, Dawn, I love you, Dawn, stay with me forever, Dawn. You didn't mean any of it, you asshole. You never wanted me. Yeah, I get that now. So I'm out of here, and you can pine after the Bitch Queen all you want." She slammed the lid down on the suitcase, made to lift it off the bed.
He tore it from her grasp, set it sailing across the room. "I'll show you what I want," he said, and kissed her. Pulled her hard enough to bruise against him, tearing at her clothes, panting in her ear. She wouldn't leave him, not if he could stop it. Whatever she needed to make her happy, he'd do it, he'd say it. Pulled apart her blouse to grasp her breasts, nipples already hard against his palms, and pushed her toward the bed. Screw the broken glass. Tipped her over and pinned her hands to the bed as he shoved inside her, demon rippling to the surface as he fucked her. "Feel that, Dawn?" He thrust deep, and she moaned for him, gutteral noises that made him want to live inside her. "It's hard for you, petal, not for some phantom in my dream, for you. All for you. Want you, and I'll have you. Forever, hear me?"
"Yeah - god, Spike - harder, do it harder." Not one for poetry, his girl, but she knew what she wanted. Pushed back against him, coaxed him on, to thrust harder and harder, till he buried his fangs in her shoulder, and came, crying his pleasure into her flesh. Heard her answering shout, from pleasure, pain, or a mixture of both.
He wouldn't lose her. He wouldn't. Not ever, and especially not to them.
After, he gently licked her shoulder, pulling her down to spoon with him. Whispered to her, "Stay, sweetheart. You know I love you, always want you, want to give you want you need, precious. I swear, I'm yours." He laced his fingers with hers, lifting their hands to his mouth, kissed each knuckle in turn.
He ran one hand along her thigh, over her labia, along the gentle swell of her belly, and up till he brushed her face, so hopeful. He just had to give her a little more; he could do that. He was sure he could do that. He closed his eyes and buried his face against her, arms wrapped tight around. Said, "When we're done, we'll go have a nice kill together, yeah?"
She snugged back, smiling happily. Knew where she was, where she belonged. "OK, Spike. Can we go out dancing, too?"
"Yeah, that, too, love." Whatever she needed. Worth his soul, if he could give her that.
"Spike - "
Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by the shrill sound of a cell phone, ringing on the dresser. Spike tensed, staring down at her worriedly. "Dawn? Who else has the number for your cell phone?"
She pursed her lips, and looked away nervously. Finally, she answered with a sigh, "Buffy."
The ringing went on, insistent and loud. It had been years since he'd spoken to Buffy, and the thought that he could be the one to rise and answer it, hear her honeyed voice again? Fuck. Too late for second thoughts.
Finally, Dawn made as if to get up, and Spike gathered her tightly against him. "Screw her. It's not important. You can talk to her later." He kissed her sweetly, rubbing his face against her hair. "We've got places to go, you and me."
Continued in Chapter 2