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-PART VII-
AFTER THE SILENCE HAS RETURNED


Giles looked down at Dawn, suddenly more aware than ever of the marked contrast between the sisters. Dawn was now the same age Buffy had been when he first met her. Whereas Buffy had been as headstrong as she was physically strong, Dawn was, in all regards a lot more fragile.

Having only a supernaturally imposed set of memories and life experiences from which to draw, and having a big sister who quite literally fought all her battles for her, it was no wonder to Giles that Dawn often found herself in over her head. Especially when everything on which she thought she could rely was taken from her, not once, but apparently, twice.

"Yes, Dawn," Giles lay a hand on hers in sympathy. "Buffy's alive, and I do think she'll be quite pleased to learn you are as well."

"She's alive," Dawn repeated, and then began to giggle. "That's fucking fantastic!!"

Reflexively, he opened his mouth to chide her on her choice of adjectives, and then changed his mind. Instead he said, "She's been very worried about you."

"Spike took good care of me," she said with reflexive defensiveness.

"Sending you off to pinch blood," Giles countered, "is hardly my idea of a responsible guardian."

Dawn's eyes flashed, as she turned to him. "You don't understand!" Before he could ask for clarification, she added, "He was starving."

Giles sighed, defeated, and silently returned his attention to the road. He wasn't going to argue with her. He couldn't. With his chip apparently not working, Spike very easily could've eaten Dawn, but didn't. He felt as though he was trying to put the pieces of more than one puzzle together, and the lack of clarity was threatening to give him a headache.

"We'll talk about it more after we get back to the house," he finally said, and then felt the need to ask, "How long since you've had any real food? Do you want to stop for something?"

"No," she offered the single syllable and no more, then, like him, turned her full attention to the empty road ahead.

* * * * *

The disembodied voice floated menacingly from the television, "It's 10 PM; do you know where your children are?"

He threw the remote at the screen. He had no idea where Dawn was. He had no idea whether she was even alive. All he knew for sure was that it was long past dark, and if she wasn't dead, she soon would be.

And it would be all his fault.

He looked back to the camping gear still thrown haphazardly against the wall. Inflatable mattresses taunted him – permanent reminders of the idealistic ponce he had only so recently been. Who had he been kidding, thinking he'd be the one to take care of Buffy's little sis, when no one else could?

He was good for nothing more than fighting and destruction, and that's what he was going to do. He kicked the boxes aside with an angry growl, and reached for the other bag. From it, he removed a crossbow and arrows. Examining the equipment, he suppressed an involuntary shudder.

"Don't turn into a sissy on me now." The voice chilled him more than the lethality of the cross-bow, and he turned to again see his mother. Standing with her arms folded, there was a stern line of disapproval etched between her brows. "You know you've got to go through with this. It's the only way."

With steady hands, he loaded an arrow into the crossbow and pulled it back until it clicked securely into place. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he turned and aimed the weapon directly at her heart.

She laughed. The bitter, angry sound reverberated throughout the stone walls of his crypt. "You can't kill me, silly boy! I'm not real."

Before he could react, she was gone. Instead it was Willow – décolletage spilling out from the top of a leather bodice, standing next to him, her mouth inches from his ear. "I'm your worst nightmare."

Then she, too, was gone, and he was alone. He sank to the floor, cold sweat pouring down his back.

It's just hunger, he told himself. I'm hungry and I'm hallucinating.

His mother was dead. He'd dusted her long ago. If she hadn't haunted him at the time, there'd be no reason for her to start now.

Willow, well, she may be scary, and powerful, and just as crackers as Drusilla, but she had the same weaknesses as any other vampire, and it was about time someone put her in her place.

His courage grew as he continued to rationalize, and he looked back down at the crossbow in his hands. It was time to put it to use.

* * * * *

The crunch of the tires against the gravel driveway woke her, and she looked around, startled and frightened. Seeing Giles next to her only added to the panic she felt, as though he'd caught her in some misdeed. Which, she realized upon reflection, he had.

Her sense of impending doom only increased upon the realization that her sister was inside. Best to get it over with.

"We're here?" she asked, the conflicting excitement and fear still coursing through her in equal measure.

"We're here," Giles confirmed with a level of ambivalence that seemed to match her own. "Dawn," he added, "I think it's important for you to realize Buffy's been through a lot. She was lucky to survive -- and then learning what Spike did, and not knowing where you were. . ."

"Don't expect her to be happy to see me; got it!" she finished for him, and unbuckled her seatbelt as her earlier uncertainty quickly gave way to anger and resentment.

"It's not like that, Dawn –" Giles tried to explain.

She turned to him, grey eyes flashing. "She's a grown-up, Giles. You don't need to make excuses for her." Opening the car door, she climbed out, effectively ending the conversation.

* * * * *

The cemetery was quiet, devoid not only of the less supernatural forms of wildlife, but also vampires and demons. Still, he walked among the gravestones and larger monuments, crossbow hanging at his side, his thumb at the ready on the safety so that he could fire at a moment's notice.

A soft breeze kicked up the tree leaves, and he turned suddenly only to realize he was aiming at nothing. Nothing.

He lowered the crossbow, flipping the safety back into place with his thumb.

Nothing.

He reached the boundaries of the cemetery, and hoisted himself over the fence. As he pulled himself over, his stomach growled.

It was getting harder to ignore his hunger. He could feel it now on a cellular level – muscles struggling to keep up with the movement he demanded of them as he jumped to the other side of the fence, he stumbled.

Turning the corner in the direction of Sunnydale proper, he tripped over a broken chunk of sidewalk, and threw his arms out awkwardly to steady himself as his head swam.

“Disgusting,” he heard someone mutter to his companion, their footsteps growing faster as they rushed past him. “Drunk this early in the evening.”

He flared up in anger, but had no rebuttal. Instead he kept heading toward the city.

He passed The Bronze, more out of habit than plan. The thrum of the bass and scent of hope rode on the cool evening air and settled like a balm on his soul. Drawing comfort from the familiar he stepped inside.

Children, all of them, chasing the bread and circuses of a tribal drumbeat and cheap alcohol, blissfully ignorant of increasing danger that lay right outside the doors.

“See something you like?”

He jumped, as Willow’s breathy voice rushed across his ears and her chin settled on his shoulder. She raked her nails down the front of his chest and he cursed the fact that his nipple had reflexively risen at the contact.

“How does it feel?” she asked, “knowing that your chip doesn’t work – that you could have any of them?”

“My chip works jus’ fine,” he countered, irritated.

“That’s not what I heard,” her hands had snaked into the waistband of his jeans, and begun to knead the sensitive skin on either side of his hips. “There’s a barroom full of demons that said they saw you kill Warren.”

She pinched him, sharply, and pulled her hands back. Then drawing a circle in the air, directed him to turn and face her. She studied him, her brows knit in concentration, as though he were an ancient texts the secrets of which could be unlocked if only she applied enough effort.

“What are you, Spike? What battle are you fighting?” She pursed her lips and said, “I’m not even sure you know, do you?” Then she clapped, releasing him from her thrall. “No matter now, but you’d better decide soon, and when it comes down to it, you’d better hope you’re on the winning team.”

She started to walk away, and then turned back, for one last word, adding, “Pity I’m gay. I could’ve had a lot of fun with you.”

He left shortly after her, the nostalgic allure of the nightclub forever tainted. He continued to head deeper into town. Rounding another corner, he stopped in his tracks. Ten feet in front of him, honey blonde hair danced across narrow shoulders leaving a trace of jojoba and goat’s milk in its wake. Drawing on energy he hadn’t even been aware he still possessed, he sprinted forward.

“Buffy!!” he caught up with her and gripped her shoulder.

She turned, confusion and fear both playing across her features, and he stepped back as through she’d burned him.

“Oh,” he apologized immediately. “I thought you were someone else.”

“S’okay!” She began to step forward already having put the encounter out of her mind.

“No matter.” He stopped her again with a hand to her shoulder, at the same time settling into game face. “You’ll do just fine.”

It was a rush – her blood rushed across his tongue in a delicious mixture of tastes – sweet, bitter, metallic. It was a primitive instinct – feeding, suckling from the gash in her neck, he reflexively swallowed, and felt the warmth of the liquid trace its way down his gullet and into his stomach.

Damn! It felt good to be undead.

She fought him – pointlessly, her strength ebbing as the blood flowed from her body and into his. Her perfume, her hair – it was Buffy but not – and it only served to fuel his hunger. His clench on her neck tightened, and he spat out a chunk of flesh.

Too much.

He’d gone too far.

But it was too good to stop now.

Blood continued to pour from the wound in her jugular and he drank it all, until he was long past sated, until she had no more to give.

And then he dropped her. Stepping backwards, and tripping over his own feet, he turned and ran blindly. He couldn’t be there any more.

* * * * *

“I want to train today,” she announced at the table, her expression resolute, her muscles already tensing in anticipation of the workout she was going to give them.

"Buffy, are you sure that's . . ." Giles began, stopping when she pinned him with an angry glare. "Wise?" he finished, in spite of her unvoiced threats.

Unconsciously, Buffy's hand drifted to the red scar peeking above the neckline of her shirt. Dr. Davis had removed her stitches several days earlier, stunned in spite of his knowledge of a Slayer's powers, at how quickly she'd healed.

"I'm fine," she answered, her jaw clenched, and then turned in the direction of the doctor-cum-watcher, as though daring him to contradict her.

He didn't. "I think it'll be okay," he said – emotionlessly. "Buffy's really had an amazing recovery.

Giles again trained his gaze in Buffy's direction. "Good," she said, not looking at him, and picking up a forkful of scrambled eggs. "I'll get changed and start warming up after breakfast."

* * * * *

The gym was a converted shed in the backyard. She threw the doors open, and reached blindly for a lightswitch. Weaponry hung on the back wall adjacent to rows of paper targets. A punching bag and speed bag were in the opposite corner. Mats and a pommel horse were stacked just inside the door.

She wanted to do everything at once. Like a child at Christmas with toys spread out around a tree, every option looked better than the one before it. She approached the speed bag first, throwing a few careful punches and settling quickly into it's rhythm of rebounds.

Soon, however, that bored her, and she moved onto the weapons. Taking a heavy sword in hand, she began to swing it experimentally. Cutting swaths through the air, precision and control growing with each movement as she thrust, parried, and stabbed at her imaginary opponent. Swords had always struck her as an antiquated relic with little utility against the modern vampire.
Today, the sword was hers. Unused muscles grew achy then fluid as she rehearsed the movements she learned in a library what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Finally, she couldn't do anymore, and dropped the heavy metal to the ground with a clatter, bending at the waist to catch her breath, and wipe away the sweat.

"Buffy . . ." It was Dr. Davis. She looked up at him without a word, as she began to roll the kinks out of her shoulders.

"I think you've had enough for today; don't you?"

She opened her mouth to protest, and stopped, realizing that in spite of her best intentions she was drained. "I guess," she admitted reluctantly, and bent to pick up the sword, returning it to it's place among the other weapons.

"They'll still be here tomorrow," he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder to lead her out.

"I know," she answered, though she didn't sound fully convinced.

"Who were you fighting in there, anyway?" he asked. "You were in your own world."

She answered with a sharpness born of defensiveness. "No one!"

He didn't question her further, and she was grateful. He didn't need to know that every time she swung the sword, it was Spike whom she was decapitating in her mind, that every punch she threw was aimed at Willow, and that every time she pushed herself she was hoping to die as much as she hoped to live. That she couldn’t even stand the sight of her sister, because it was easier to give up and stop fighting when Dawn was gone, but now that she was here, she had to try to stay alive.

* * * * *

Ice cold fingers traveled up his thigh to his groin, leaving a trail of goosebumps as the fine hairs sprang to life in their wake. "Buffy . . ." he breathed, his subconscious filling in the gaps between his sleeping and waking state, admitting that he missed her in ways he couldn't always allow.

"Wrong, lover!" He felt a small hand gripping his balls, and a shudder of pleasure mixed with pain ran through him as sharp nails began to rake the tender skin of his scrotum.

This wasn't a dream. His hands immediately shot downward to protect himself just as his eyes flew open.

"Buffy used to do that for you?" Willow smirked. "How sweet!"

He scrambled to the other side of his bed, realizing too late that he'd put more distance between himself and his precious crossbow.

Willow was in his crypt! Willow had touched his . . . his . . . He looked again down at his penis, the erection already waning as fear took over.

"'S none of yer business," he mumbled, and then asked. "What t'hell do you want?"

"I heard a girl died the other night,” she mentioned casually. When Spike didn’t answer, Willow added, “I heard she was sucked dry, too.”

“So?” He leaned against the wall, feeling slightly nauseated. He didn’t mean it. It was an accident. He was hungry. Excuses ran through his head, even as he tried to remind himself that really, he was a demon, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Vampires eat people.

“You don’t know anything about it?”

Willow’s presence seemed to fill the room, and he knew she already knew the answer. Still, he wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of his answer. “Nuthin’.”

“Pity,” she said with a pointed look at his crotch. “I thought you might have finally grown some balls.”

And she was gone. Had she even been there? He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.





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