As Joyce pointedly, emphatically hung up the phone, tossing it down onto the bed behind her with much more force than was necessary, Dawn looked up at her mother anxiously through tear-filled blue eyes.
“Mom? What is it? Are they okay?” she asked, her small, young voice trembling, sounding on the verge of total panic.
“Yes,” Joyce assured her, sounding exhausted and a bit faint – then frowned and corrected, “no – maybe – I don’t know, Dawnie,” she admitted finally in a trembling, helpless voice, struggling to keep back her own tears as she sank down onto the edge of the bed, the back of he hand pressed against her own mouth in an attempt to hold back the sob that rose in her throat.
Dawn’s eyes widened as her fears for Spike and Buffy’s safety momentarily receded, and she realized that her mother was seriously in need of some comfort at the moment, as well. Joyce’s tone made it clear that for now, according to whatever Spike had told her – he and Buffy were okay.
Joyce, on the other hand…apparently, not so much.
“Mommy?” she said uncertainly, standing and moving across the room to stand beside her mother and put her arms around Joyce’s shaking shoulders. “Mom? What’s the matter?”
*Brilliant question, genius,* she immediately chided herself, aware that at the moment, what was *right* would have been a lot easier for Joyce to express.
Dawn’s gentle, tentative touch seemed to remind Joyce that she was the adult in the situation, and she could not afford to break down now – for her youngest daughter’s sake. She squared her shoulders resolutely, ,pasting on a brave smile as she met Dawn’s wide, fearful eyes.
“It’s all right, Sweetie,” she assured her. “It’s just – an awful lot has happened these past few days, and – and it’s just getting to be…”
“Too much,” Dawn finished for her, understanding perfectly what she was saying.
Joyce shifted over slightly on the bed, so that there was room for Dawn to sit down beside her, and wrapped her arm around her daughter so that they were offering each other mutual comfort, for the pain and confusion that they had experienced during the past few days – mostly overlooked, due to the considerably greater trauma that Spike, and even Buffy, had been experiencing.
Joyce raised her hand slowly to run it through her daughter’s long, dark hair, smooth as silk, and very soothing under her trembling fingertips. “Too much,” she agreed softly, nodding – her voice much calmer now, but still sounding very, very tired. “Just – an awful lot to deal with in -- *two days*!”
There was an odd little ironic laugh in her voice on the end of the words, as she realized what a brief space of time it had taken to completely change their lives.
Dawn found herself laughing, too, through her tears.
It all seemed like an insane dream – it could not possibly all have happened in the past forty-eight hours. She felt a desperate surge of hope that she knew already was futile at that thought.
*Maybe that would explain it all,* she thought with a mental shrug. *Makes a lot more sense than my sister’s body being taken over by some evil creature and trying to kill me, and my not even being real, but some weird thing created by magic – not really even a real person…*
“Honey?” Her mother’s soft voice broke into her troubling thoughts, and she tried to return the concerned, encouraging smile that was now directed at her. “Is there – something else that’s wrong? Something you’re not telling me?”
“Like what?” Dawn shrugged, looking away from her mother’s far-too-perceptive gaze. “Like there’s not *enough* wrong already, Mom – and you know all about it,” she pointed out in a carefully calm voice.
Joyce was quiet for another long moment, clearly considering her daughter’s words, and whether or not to accept them as truth. After a moment’s thought, she asked quietly, “What did Buffy have to say to you – before? About – how you can beat this thing? What is it about you, Dawnie – that makes this thing so afraid?”
Dawn was quiet, not sure how to respond – only sure that she could not tell her mother the whole truth – not yet. She was not even sure yet how *she* was taking the news of her – er, unconventional – creation. What would her mother think when she told her?
But then, a part of her desperately longed to open up to her mother, the one person in the world that she trusted more than anyone else. No matter what Buffy had told her, how she had come into being – this was her *mother*…she would *always* love her, no matter what – wouldn’t she?
Suddenly, the idea of telling her mother everything that Buffy had told her, accepting the comfort that only Joyce would be able to – had *always* been able to – give her, seemed to be the most inviting, tempting idea that Dawn had had in a long time.
She opened her mouth to speak – not even sure yet what exactly was going to come out of her mouth when she did.
Just at that moment, before a single word could leave Dawn’s lips – they heard a light knocking at the door. Mother and daughter exchanged a wide-eyed, worried look – wondering who it could possibly be.
The only two possibilities they would have considered were in Spike’s DeSoto, headed across the desert – nowhere near the motel.
Joyce motioned for Dawn to stay put, and rose slowly and silently from the bed, making her way toward the door. She swore quietly to herself when she realized that there was no peep-hole in the door, to look out and see who was there. She moved to the window to glance out – and in precisely that moment, before she did, she heard the short series of clicks and turns that indicated a terrible fact.
Someone was unlocking the door.
Joyce stepped back instinctively, placing herself between the opening door and her young daughter, in a defensive stance that she knew she had little power to back up, if it came to it. Her mind raced with panic, her heart pounding as she wondered frantically who could have possibly managed to get a copy of their room key.
“Mommy?” Dawn’s small, frightened voice spoke up from behind her, as the girl stood up from the bed and faced the door, wide, fearful eyes focused on it to see who would enter.
The tweed-suited, middle aged man who strolled slowly and confidently into the room did not look physically all that intimidating. In fact, he rather looked to be the same sort as Giles.
However, the two younger, dark-suited men who followed him appeared much stronger, and more dangerous, than he did.
All the more so for the fact that they were leading Buffy’s watcher between them, supporting him on either side – most likely because he did not appear to be in any condition to even walk of his own volition. His face was badly bruised, and he was bleeding from an alarmingly large cut above his brow; and he appeared barely conscious as the two younger men led him to the bed nearest the door and helped him to lie down, with disconcerting courtesy.
“Mr. Giles!” Joyce gasped. “What – what happened? Who – who are you people?” Her voice was indignant and defensive, and as she spoke she stepped back a bit, nearer to her daughter, but keeping herself between the strangers and Dawn protectively.
“Please stay calm, Mrs. Summers,” the older man advised her in a calm, polite voice that was still a bit alarming in its coolness. “I assure you we mean you no harm.”
Joyce’s eyes were fixed on the battered, slack face of the man that her older daughter had come to view as a father, concern and compassion overtaking the anger she had felt with him earlier in the evening.
“Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe,” she said flatly.
A small, tight, and decidedly unpleasant smile met her words, as the man conceded her words with a small nod. “Yes, I can see how you would. But again I assure you – we have no intention of harming you – or your daughter.” He paused before adding in the same calm, frightening tone, “That does not, of course, mean that we will not – if the necessity should arise.”
Joyce was silent, her heart turning over in her chest at the clear threat in his words, as she allowed them to sink in.
“I can’t possibly imagine why it would be necessary for three grown men to hurt an unarmed woman and child,” Joyce pointed out, her own voice like cold steel, as she faced down the men boldly, determined that no matter what happened, they would not hurt Dawn. “I don’t even know who you people are – or what you want with us…”
“Forgive me, dear lady,” the older man interrupted with a rueful smile. “How terribly rude of me…allow me to introduce myself. My name is Quentin Travers – and I am the head of the Watcher’s Council. Your daughter is my Slayer.”
“The Slayer is my daughter,” Joyce corrected him in a severe tone, one eyebrow raised in a dangerous challenge. “I fail to see how she’s *your* anything.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on that point, and simply come to the answer to your second question – what it is that we want from you…” Travers went on, dismissive of her words.
Joyce looked at him with remarkable calm, though a sense of dread came over her at the realization that whatever it was that they wanted, it could not possibly be good for Buffy in any way.
“Just a simple phone call, Mrs. Summers – to alert your daughter to the fact that we’re all waiting for her, right here – that’s all I ask. Doesn’t sound like much – does it?” Travers’ smile was like a shark’s – cold and deadly and utterly emotionless.
“No.” Joyce’s answer was simple, and unyielding.
“Well, my dear lady, I would advise you to reconsider,” Travers told her, his expression hardening slightly, “considering this – a simple phone call to Buffy Summers was all we asked of Mr. Giles, as well – and he also refused. Of course – you seem to be every bit as resolved as he was – but then – I’m sure there are ways of getting around that…”
As he spoke, one of the two younger men headed toward Dawn, who backed away in fear, whimpering quietly, “Mom…”
“Wait…” Joyce said immediately, thinking fast. At this point, their only chance of getting out of this at all lay with Spike, and Buffy – assuming that the ritual was nearly finished, and her daughter would soon be herself again.
Perhaps in this case, what the Council wanted, was also what was in their best interest.
And regardless – she could not allow them to hurt Dawn.
“Okay,” she agreed quietly, holding the older man’s gaze firmly, anger and disgust in her eyes. “I’ll make the call.”
Spike could feel the Slayer’s fear radiating off of her – knew that she was mere minutes, or less, from her breaking point. He had already won – it was just a matter of pushing just a little bit harder, edging her nearer to the edge of surrender, until she went tumbling helplessly over and said the fateful words.
Perhaps it would take just a tiny bit more convincing.
Vicious anger flashing in his golden eyes, Spike lowered his fangs to her throat, tearing into her already torn flesh without regard to her pain. The Slayer gasped out a strangled cry of pain, pulling weakly against him – though by this point, there was no way that she could break his grip.
“Stop!” she cried out in near panic. “Stop, stop it!”
“You want me to stop, pet?” Spike asked, drawing back with a cruel smile. “Do you really? You ready to submit to me?”
He could see it in her eyes – the despair – the defeat.
She was there.
She was ready to submit to him.
The sense of elation he felt was short-lived at best.
The shrill, familiar tone of Buffy’s cell phone ringing cut into stillness that had fallen between them, and drew Spike’s attention momentarily toward the car. The open windows of his car made the sound clearly heard – and he knew that there was likely only one of two people who would be calling Buffy’s phone just now.
The question was – why?
*Oh, God, Spike! Mom and Dawnie! Do you think…* Buffy’s words in his head trailed off, before she expressed her fears.
But he already knew what she was thinking. Giles had let them know that the Council was on their trail, trying to find them and settle the problem *their* way – which most likely involved the elimination of the Slayer in question, as well as anyone else who might pose an inconvenience as far as they were concerned.
*No – couldn’t be…* Spike assured her – though he was not at all sure himself.
His momentary distraction cost him – dearly.
His attention was drawn back to the fight, when the Slayer finally landed the blow she had been attempting all night, drawing her knee up sharply between his legs – and sending a blinding, crippling pain through him that drove all thoughts of Joyce and Dawn and the Council from his mind – for the moment.
She used his weakness of the moment to push him back away from her, and he stumbled backward, his hand covering his injured groin, as she struck again, across his face. The blow was no where near as hard as it would have been had he not managed to weaken her so much already.
But it was every bit as hard as she needed it to be.
The vampire staggered backward another step, trying in vain to maintain his footing – until she lunged at him, knocking him to the sand beneath her, reaching as she did so to take something from her back pocket.
A stake.
*You had to bring a bloody stake with you, didn’t you, pet?* he groaned at his mate, even his mental voice a bit slurred and disoriented with the pain that was just beginning to fade.
*Hello? Vampire Slayer?* Buffy shot back. *I’ve *always* got a stake with me! Spike, Honey – get up! You’ve got to…*
The point of the weapon pierced his chest, directly over his heart, hovering there without finishing the killing blow – yet – but effectively centering his attention on his opponent…who at the moment, clearly had the upper hand.
“Well, Baby,” she smirked, her voice soft but deadly, her eyes hazy with pain, yet glittering with a cruel, feral triumph. “I was wondering how it was going to end. Looks like it ends here – doesn’t it?”
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