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[A/N: The title comes from a song by the Welsh band, The Alarm. If you’ve never heard of them, go take a listen. And the quote? Well, that’s the Bard of Avon. ]

Disclaimers: Everything but the plot belongs to someone other than me, namely Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and various and sundry other corporations that have loads of better lawyers than I have. . . . maybe. The chapter titles belong to the people who first coined them, and the quotes belong to whomever is quoted. Standard disclaimer to apply throughout. I gain nothing from this but the satisfaction of telling a tale. Hopefully, I’ll do it well.



One – Rain in the Summertime


My grief lies all within,
and these external manners of laments
are merely shadows to the unseen grief
that swells with silence in the tortured soul.
There lies the substance.

Richard II, act 4, sc 1



Spike was exhausted. Resting his head on the cold tile of the shower, he finally allowed the tight rein he kept on his emotions to drop. Emotions were a weakness right now, a liability he refused to allow himself. He couldn’t let the mask of – well it surely wasn’t indifference, the impassive face he showed in front of the Scoobies, to crack. There was no fucking way in hell he’d let his real emotions show – not in front of Harris anyway. The birds might be okay, but he’d decided against that, given how shattered they all looked. Even Rupert looked hollow most days.

Dawn was asleep, curled up in the Slayer’s bed, tears drying on the pillows. He’d found her there after patrol and while he knew he should make her sleep in her own bed, he’d not wanted to wake her. Sleep had been elusive for the teen for the last three weeks. Sleep was elusive for all of them. Twenty-two days and a couple of hours since she’d lost the last piece of her family, since the Slayer had flung herself off the tower in an effort to save Dawn and the world. Twenty-two fucking days.

For the first couple of days, she’d coped, held up fairly well, all things considered. They’d been so busy, keeping busy, planning a funeral none of them were prepared to hold, and just going through the motions. And then, one night, for no other reason than some stupid song on the radio, Dawn had collapsed. Giles and Willow had tried, but she’d been inconsolable, unable to stop the tears or the sobs. Tara had stepped in, recommending that they just be there, not trying to get her to stop, but even that hadn’t worked. Finally, the quiet witch had spoken, ‘maybe we should get S. . spike.”


Well that had not gone over well. Or so he’d imagined. When Dawn had still not stopped crying after about two hours, Giles had caved in and gone his crypt. Spike had been deep in the contemplation of another bottle of stolen scotch, when the Watcher came to call.

Spike had barely looked up at him when Giles clattered his way through the crypt door. Barely acknowledged his presence even after the older man began speaking to him. He only turned his attention to Giles when he’d heard the girl’s name. “ . . been crying for a while, we can’t get her to stop.”

Tense jawed, Spike retorted “and you ‘xpect me to help?”

“Spike. We, well Tara thought it might help if you were there.” Giles hadn’t wanted to admit it, hadn’t wanted to face it, but the girl had a valid point. Both Buffy and Dawn had come to trust the vampire in the final days, and it just might be his presence that would calm the girl. He knew it was an admission of sorts, an admission of something he wasn’t really sure he wanted to face. That of all of them, the vampire was the one the last Summers woman wanted. What Giles didn’t want to face was the fact that had it been Dawn that died, Buffy would be in the same frame of mind. Rejecting all of them in favor of Spike.

“She’s cryin?” Despite his tone, Spike rose to his feet and reached for his duster. “‘Spect she finally realized what’s happened. Is she talkin?”

“No,” Giles hesitated a moment, “well, she’s not talking to any of us. Tara thinks she might speak with you, or at least your presence will help.” Spike looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. “Must make you warm all over to have to come to me.”

A soft inhalation and Giles said “if we can get Dawn to calm herself, I don’t care if its Angel.”

A raised eyebrow was his only response. While Buffy might have fooled herself that her Watcher had forgiven the elder vampire, Spike had known that Giles would never forgive Angel for the destruction he’d caused three years ago. Hell, Spike didn’t know if Giles would ever get over what Angelus had done. There was nothing they could say to each other, Angelus had effectively taken both their women. But for Giles to admit that, Dawn must be in a bad way.

“Right then. Let’s go.”

The two made their way silently through the night to Revello Drive.


That had been over two weeks ago. Since then, Spike had nearly moved into the house. Well, almost everyone had. Willow and Tara were currently sound asleep in the room that used to belong to Joyce, and Dawn was tucked in tight. Sometimes the Watcher slept on the couch, some nights it was Harris and the bird, but every night since Giles had fetched him, Spike was back here at Revello, watching over the all girls, but mostly, he was watching over Dawn.

The poor kid was a mess. Her tears hadn’t stopped when he and Rupert had returned, but he’d managed to calm her enough so that she slept. The funeral had been a complete disaster, at least for Dawn. The others had managed to hold it together, at least outwardly. Dawn had clutched him desperately, not wanting to let him go, even after the others had subtly tried to get her to let him go. At least it had served the purpose of angering the L.A. crew, specifically Angel. The Poofter had swooped into town three days after he’d effectively moved into Revello, the night before the funeral was scheduled.

He groaned as the soapy water infiltrated his wounds. Patrol tonight had been fine, just a few vamps, and no other demons. But one of those vamps had given him a bit of a tumble, using a razor sharp blade, which eventually Spike had taken and used to behead the vamp. Now sporting long, thin cuts up and down his arms and one across his belly, Spike regretted not taking the same patrol as the bot. A grimace crossed his features. While he had moments of gratification from the Buffy-bot, too soon he’d been discovered and now, now that the real girl was gone, he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as the thing. He hated patrolling with it, and it was only his reluctance to let the others know how much he . . . . how much he missed her, how much he bled, how much of this whole mess was his fault.

Forcing his mind away from thoughts of Buffy, he focused instead on the things Angel had tried to do. At first, finding Dawn curled up in Spike’s arms he’d nearly growled the whole house down, then tried shouting at Spike. When Dawn, and then Giles, had come to his defense Angel had been forced to shut his mouth and momentarily keep his objections to himself. Thankfully, most of the others had been too dumbstruck to even speak, which was a surprise considering Cordelia rarely kept her mouth or her opinions to herself.

They’d left, going to stay at the mansion, which was still owned by Angel, only to return the next day, armed with more arguments why Spike was such a horrible person, why he shouldn’t be allowed near Dawn. Giles, in his inimitable way, had merely taken off his glasses, looked once at Spike and Dawn, then spoke very quietly and very clearly, so that everyone who was present heard and even better, understood his position.

“Are you prepared to stay here in Sunnydale and take over everything that Spike has been doing for the past week?” He looked at the elder of the two vampires present and waited patiently for his answer. “Are you prepared to patrol nightly and do whatever it takes to keep the Hellmouth quiet? Will you guarantee that you won’t turn your back on Dawn? “

Giles waited, knowing Angel would refuse to leave Los Angeles, and that he couldn’t promise to stay with Dawn as long as necessary. Angel stared at the Watcher, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “The truth is Angel, I don’t trust you. Haven’t trusted you since your . . . since Angelus appeared.”

At that, Angel had sputtered, while Cordelia’s voice rang out, “and you can trust Spike?”

Without hesitation, without any bloody hesitation, Giles had said the one thing that forever ensured Spike’s loyalty to him. “Yes.”

No one else spoke. Not a word of recrimination from any of the Scoobies, neither a denial nor an indrawn breath nor a break in anyone’s features to indicate that any of them disagreed with Giles. Not even Harris. Spike had been floored. He’d never expected that. Not once.

“How can you possibly . . .” “This is SPIKE, remember?” Came from both Cordelia and Angel, while Wesley hemmed and hawed out something unintelligible beneath their voices.

Giles spoke again, his voice strong and clear. “I trust him, Angel. Far more than I can trust you at this point. And Cordelia, I’m well aware of whom we are speaking.”

Growling deeply, Angel made a move to where Spike and Dawn stood next to the fireplace. Giles grabbed his forearm, his glasses hanging from his free hand. “Don’t. It’s neither the time nor the place, and it isn’t your place either.”

Xander had moved imperceptibly closer to the older men, knowing if Angel decided to strike out, Giles wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Spike stepped forward also, discretely pushing Dawn out of the way, toward the kitchen. Red, Glinda and Anya moved out of the way, crowding closer to Dawn, just in case. But it hadn’t come to blows, it had just been Giles’ voice, delivering a home truth to Angel that Spike had never, in a hundred years, thought he’d overhear.

“I don’t trust you Angel, and I am only allowing you here for what you once meant to Buffy. Joyce wouldn’t want you here, and Dawn doesn’t either. You are here on the memory of Buffy’s possible wishes only. You gave up your rights, if you ever truly had any, two years ago. This, what goes on here in Sunnydale, is not your concern.” His voice took on a tone that none of them, save Spike had thought Giles capable of. “I do not trust you Angel.”

Taking a deep breath, and looking over at where Spike waited, Giles continued “I do, however, trust that Spike would not hurt Dawn, that Spike would do everything in his power to protect the girl, from everyone,” and throwing a look that was inscrutable to everyone but Spike and himself, “including me.”

Giles was not surprised when Spike didn’t flinch. So, he thought, Buffy had told him about their last conversation. Somehow, that didn’t surprise Giles in the least. There was something . . . they were two of a kind, his slayer and the vampire, despite their vocalizations otherwise. It probably went a long way to explaining why neither could gain the upper hand on the other, despite numerous attempts on both their parts. It didn’t always sit well with him, but he knew, in the last days of the fight against Glory, Spike had earned Buffy’s trust, earned it to the point where the others had no choice but to accept it.

And because Spike had earned that trust, because Buffy had given it freely, Giles could do no less. It might give him moments when he doubted his sanity, or the sanity of his slayer, and it might keep him up nights, but it did not negate the reality of their situation. Dawn was safer with Spike around.

That had been the last anyone had said about the matter. While the Scoobies might accept him on a trial basis, they would band together against outsiders to protect that right – and for all his thinking and protestations otherwise, Angel, and his group, was now an outsider.


Spike didn’t fool himself for one instant that there hadn’t been numerous discussions about that, and about his living in the Summers’ house. He knew the whelp was just waiting for him to screw up and make a mistake. That Red and Glinda walked warily around him, that Giles only trusted him conditionally, but all of that amounted to no more than a hill of beans, because of the one person that did trust him without hesitation. Dawn. They welcomed him because of Dawn.

He took another unneeded breath, idly noting the bruises forming around his torso. Black and dark blue showed up in stark contrast to his alabaster skin, blooming darkly, the only color in the nearly all white bathroom. He wasn’t overly hungry, but knew he should feed, if only to facilitate the healing. Dropping his head to rest against the tiles, Spike drew in another breath, then another, and, on the third indrawn breath, his composure broke.

Tears slid down his cheeks, mixing with the hot water. Buffy. . . was gone. Whenever his thoughts stilled, and his mind was clear, he saw again her too-still body on the ground that fateful early morning. In the quiet moments, he re-lived those last minutes on the tower, when he tried and failed . . . he blamed himself, every single time he went over it, could have been sooner, could have been faster, should have moved differently. He ran through different scenarios, trying to figure out where he made a mistake, how it could have turned out differently. So far, he’d come up with 13 different outcomes, none of which ended the same way, all of which had one single good outcome . . . The survival of both Summers girls.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, the tears falling faster and faster, soft sobs now hitching despite his need to breathe. Buffy . . oh Buffy . . . ran through his mind, counterpointed with thoughts of Dawn. Now almost doubled over, Spike pounded a fist against the tile, her name a litany on his lips, his tears scalding his cheeks. Her loss was a physical pain, centered just over his belly, an ache resembling hunger. It hurt. . . God above how it hurt.

Every night on patrol, he’d find himself turning, expecting her to be there, a smart-assed comment waiting on her lips, feet tapping and hands upon hips. Every time he walked into the Magic Box, he expected to smell her perfume, hear the cadence of her heartbeat, hear her voice. And every single breath he took that wasn’t necessary inside her house he did because there was always a trace of her in the air. Every second he slept on the floor of her room, he did because it was hers. And every single bleeding god-damned second, she was gone. . . She wasn’t there.

Buffy was gone.

And Spike cried.





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