They’re going to take Dawn away.




It was only as the words rang in her ears, her lips still parted on the final syllable, that the true import of Ms. Stevens’ warning registered with Buffy. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes, and she instinctively covered her face with her hands again. The gauze wadded up in her fists was soaked through already with tears and—yuck.




She dropped the cloth to the ground and stared at it where it lay next to her feet. She tried to ignore the fact that Spike was watching her have a complete meltdown. That was hard to do when his bare, white feet were toe-to-toe with her practical work shoes and his arms were wrapped around her.  Then his arms receded from her shoulders. She felt bereft at the loss of contact—doubly so when his feet walked away from hers. She heard the soft pad of his tread on the cement floor, then the squeak when he stepped back onto the mat. He pushed something soft into her hands—a small towel. She took it, wishing she were brave enough to take his hand at the same time. She hadn’t felt as if she would fly to a million pieces when he was holding her.




Buffy wiped at her eyes futilely; the tears wouldn’t stop. She was strangely calm, though, even as the tears poured down her face. She looked up at Spike, met his eyes, and began to speak. Her voice was steady and modulated, empty. “I keep thinking: Mom would be so disappointed. I’m supposed to be taking care of her, and I’m not doing it. But at the same time, I can’t help thinking it’s her fault. My mom’s fault. She—” Buffy’s voice wavered. Her fragile control over her emotions snapped—no stronger than the gossamer filaments of a spider’s web. “I’m so … sometimes I get so angry at her. She had to have known I couldn’t do this, and she still left me, and I can’t help hating her for it.”




She stopped her words by clapping a hand over her mouth. She wished she could take those words back, erase the memory of them from Spike’s mind. He was going to think she was terrible. She was terrible.




He’d told her only a few days ago that she didn’t care what he thought of her. At the time, she’d thought that was probably true: she could tell him anything, even all the deep-down, mean, nasty things that she was half-afraid to admit were there, and it wouldn’t matter. His opinion didn’t matter.




She felt like it mattered now. But this was Spike. She’d been awful to him from the day they met. He was right: she’d thought of him as a punching bag. A convenient body on which to release her anger and stress. Even after all of that, after her being—she could own up to it now—completely unreasonable for several months, he was here with her, listening to her, wanting to help her. As if, no matter what she did, no matter how horrible she was, she would still be someone he’d want to know.




He only smiled at her, his eyes soft and blue and accepting. “Oh, Buffy,” he murmured. “That’s natural, to feel that way. It’s okay.” Spike’s hands curled under her elbows and pulled her closer to him.




She placed one hand on his chest. His heart thumped beneath her fingers. “It’s not.” She shook her head—he acted like he understood, but clearly he didn’t. “I thought … I used to think, if Dawn went away, maybe that would be better for both of us. I can’t tell you how many … you know, if I didn’t have to take care of her, maybe I could go back to school. Do what I want to do. Not … not work so much and worry all the time. How could I— She’s my sister! She’s the only family I have left, and I—”




Buffy leaned her forehead against Spike’s chest and gratefully accepted the embrace he offered. He patted her back, then rubbed circles between her shoulder blades. It felt so good to be held, to lean on someone else, even if just for a little while. She let her eyes slip closed as he caressed her. He pushed her messy hair back from where it clung to her wet face, and his thumb stroked away the tears on her cheek. His soft voice murmured equally soft words in her ear. He urged her to relax, and her knees buckled beneath her.




“Not quite what I meant, love,” he grunted as he caught her suddenly limp weight. He eased her down to the mat and knelt next to her as she continued to cry. How many tears could she possibly have? Buffy remembered the towel in her hand and brought it up to cover her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocked out as much light as possible, and simply existed in the moment. Spike’s arms around her, his hands still moving in soothing patterns across her back. Spike’s voice shushing in her ear. The smell of Spike’s cologne, and beneath that, the good male scent of his skin. Slowly, slowly, the flood slowed to a trickle, and her breathing evened out except for the occasional whimper. She tried not to move or think or feel.




“Buffy?” Spike spoke tentatively. His fingers carefully tugged her hair behind her ear and tugged at the towel which concealed her from view. “You’re okay, yeah, love?”




She nodded, holding tight to her towel.




He tugged at it again, not so careful this time. “Talk to me, Buffy. Please.”




It was the fright she heard in his voice that made her drop her security towel and meet his eyes. She’d forgotten: Spike cared about Dawn, too. Loved her, maybe? He treated her like a bratty but beloved little sister; Buffy couldn’t deny that. Of course he’d be concerned. “They’re going to take her away from me. Not right now. We get a … a probationary period, she called it. If Dawn goes to school and improves her grades and we pass a home inspection, I can keep her. But—”




Spike let out a shaky laugh. “You scared me half to death, pet. That’s all you’re worried about?”




Buffy’s temper flared again. She sat up, pushing off the shelter of his arms. “That’s all? That’s … I can’t do this! What don’t you get? I’m going to fuck up, and they’re going to take Dawn away, and—”




He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her one quick, sharp shake. “No! No one is taking her away from you. Because you know what you have to do, and you’re going to do it. You’ll make her go to school; when she knows what’s at stake, she’ll play along. You know that. She doesn’t want to leave you anymore than you want her to go.”




He sounded so sure of himself. Sure of her. Buffy had to make him see. “Did you not hear what I said? I can’t tell you how many times I thought my life would be so much easier without her.”




“I heard you. Did you listen to yourself?” Spike stared at her, hands still on her shoulders. “You’re angry. And it’s okay to be angry, Buffy. Even at your mother, even for something that wasn’t her fault.”




“Don’t … don’t forgive me for that, Spike.” Her voice was hollow, a good match for her insides.




“Oh, love,” he said softly. There was a note in his voice that caught her attention, made her meet his eyes without flinching. He released her shoulders and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked lightly against her cheeks. “You think you have to be all goodness and light all the time? That if you have dark places inside you, you’re not a good person anymore?” He leaned toward her until their foreheads rested together and she could feel his breath puffing over his lips as he spoke. “We all feel things we don’t want to admit to. Thoughts that seem so awful you’d never expose them to the light of day. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. I see you, Buffy—the way you are with Dawn. You’d do anything for your family. That’s the kind of girl you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be so torn up about this.”




Spike lifted his head. His hands fell to her shoulders and moved down to squeeze her upper arms. When he pulled away from her, Buffy stopped him by mirroring his hold. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, her fingers sliding up beneath the hem of his t-shirt sleeves. His skin was warm and surprisingly soft.




“Buffy,” he murmured. She caught her breath at the way he looked at her; something burned in his blue eyes. An answering something quivered in the pit of her belly. Even before he moved toward her, she knew he was going to kiss her. She licked her lips in anticipation.




At the last second, Buffy couldn’t wait any longer. She surged forward and captured his mouth with her own.






***






He stopped at the last moment. Much as he wanted to kiss Buffy—wanted to taste her and hold her—he knew it was a bad idea. There was too much messy emotion lying between them: his revelation unspoken but prominent in his mind, her pain on clear display in her green eyes. She needed him, but anyone would have done at the moment. He just happened to be the first person within easy reach—and a willing ear to boot. Then she moved toward him, she kissed him, and his will melted with the heat of her lips.




Spike moaned low in his throat and tightened his grip on Buffy’s arms. He wanted to pull her flush against him. Hell, he wanted to throw her down on the thin gray mat and not let her up for at least the next two days. But he was sure the quickest way to make her stop kissing him was to force his hand. And—bloody hell—there was nothing he wanted more than to keep his mouth fused to hers as long as she would allow it.




He let his weight fall back on his heels. Buffy made a noise of protest, but then Spike tugged her forward so that she straddled his legs. It was an awkward position; he had to crane his neck to meet her demanding lips. She twined her hands into his hair, sucked on his bottom lip and made him gasp, then invaded his mouth with her tongue. She broke away for a quick breath before inching closer to him and kissing him again.




He needed to put a stop to this before they went too far. Buffy was vulnerable; he was taking advantage. Spike knew that logically, but the taste of her, the warmth of her body against his, overrode all rational thought. He let his hands slip around her waist, and he tugged her shirt out of her pants. He slid one hand over the small of her back. Her skin was like warm silk. He wanted to take off all her clothes and kiss every inch of her. Twice.




The taste of salt on his tongue brought him back to himself. Buffy’s face was still wet with tears, and he was thinking only of holding her, touching her, kissing her. Spike pushed her away. It took some effort, but when she was sprawled on her bottom three feet from him, thinking became a lot easier. “Buffy,” he started, but got no further.




She was on her feet in a flash, her eyes wide and horrified. In the next second, she turned and sprinted up the stairs. Spike stayed where he was until he heard the slam of the front door. Then he headed upstairs himself. He needed to talk to a bottle of bourbon right about now.






***






Dawn cried until her eyes were gritty and dry and her nose was stuffed up. She lay on her bed for a time and sniffled miserably. Then she eased off the bed and crept to the door. She peeked into the hallway. “Buffy?” she said, barely above a whisper. When there was no response, Dawn let herself out of her room and hurried to the bathroom.




She looked awful. Swollen eyes, puffy nose, splotchy cheeks, messy hair. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she stared at her reflection. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she berated herself. Dawn blew her nose and splashed cool water on her face, all the time avoiding further glances in the mirror.




The house was still quiet when she opened the bathroom door. “Buffy?” she called again, a little louder this time. Nothing. She walked downstairs slowly, not wanting to make Buffy mad by leaving her room without permission.




She needn’t have worried. The house was empty except for her. Dawn stomped back to her bedroom and slammed the door. She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily and trying to process her anger. She’d been on edge for the past twenty minutes, waiting for Buffy to burst in and start lecturing and yelling and grounding. Instead, she’d taken off and not even bothered to tell Dawn where she was going? That was typical. Why would Dawn need to know anything? She clicked on her stereo, selected a track from her favorite disc, hit play and cranked up the volume.




I had enough, I had it tough.


I had enough of that crummy stuff.




The next few minutes were a flurry of destruction. A pile of pillows and stuffed animals collected on the floor; the pink bunny she’d gotten from her father on her last birthday—when she was way too old for stuffed animals—hit the door with a soft thud and slid down to join its partners. The posters that hung above her bed were yanked down, leaving behind tattered corners held up with colorful tacks. She cleared her dresser with one sweep of her arm. Tubes of lipstick and eye shadow compacts went flying across the room. Dawn turned in a circle, panting and furious. A snow globe found its way into her hand. She hefted the weight of it in her palm and pulled her arm back.




The door opened a crack, then snagged on an animal head and stuck. Buffy squeezed her way through the opening, kicking at the obstacles in her way until she managed to get into Dawn’s room.




“What are you doing?”




Dawn lowered her arm and studied the knickknack she held. It was a souvenir from a family trip to SeaWorld. She watched as the flecks of white slowly settled on a family of penguins inside the globe. She set the item on her dresser and turned her back to her sister. “Don’t you knock?”




“Let’s put that at the top of the list of Privileges You’ve Lost.” Buffy made her way to the stereo and cut the power. “Now sit down.”




Dawn grumbled quietly, but did as she was told, settling cross-legged onto her bed.




Buffy shifted aside a torn Twilight poster and sank down next to her. She looked tired, Dawn noticed. And her face was all red, like she’d been crying, too. “Doing a little redecorating?”




Dawn lifted her shoulders. “Whatever. I don’t even like that movie. Vampires are lame.”




Buffy took a look around the room. “Not too fond of your make-up collection, either, I see.”




“Can we just get to it?” Dawn snapped. “Am I grounded or what?”




“I don’t know,” she said. There was a weary, resigned note in her voice that Dawn didn’t like. “Would it do any good?”




“What do you mean?”




Buffy stared down at the comforter, plucked at a yarn tie. “I just don’t know what to do. How to get you to understand that you can’t lie to me. That you have to go to school.”




“School is stupid.” She spoke without thinking. Buffy’s head snapped up, her eyes gleamed, and Dawn flinched back from the anger on her sister’s face.




“How would you know that if you’re never there? You can’t— Dawn, what is it going to take for you to understand that you can’t do whatever you want? Especially not since—”




“Since what?” Dawn dared Buffy to say it.




“Since Mom died.”




They stared at each other as the words reverberated in their ears. Dawn took a hitching breath. “What does it matter what I do?” she said, finally.




“It matters.” Buffy bit her lip before continuing. “Things have to change. Starting right now. You are going to go to school and come home. And that’s pretty much the extent of your social life right there. I hope you had a really good time the past few months, because you’re not having any fun until I’m convinced I can trust you again.”




“What happened to thinking grounding me won’t do any good?” Dawn folded her arms across her chest.




Buffy threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know! I am at the end of my rope with you.”




“Well, I’m so sorry you’re stuck with me.”




“I’m not stuck with you.”




Dawn brushed away her sister’s feeble protest. “Whatever. I know you’re only taking care of me because Mom made you.”




“That’s not what I meant.” Buffy’s voice was quiet, but something in her tone captured Dawn’s attention. “If I can’t make you go to school, I won’t be found fit to be your guardian anymore. They’ll take you away from me.”




“W-what?” Tears welled up in her eyes; she hadn’t thought she could cry another drop today, but apparently she was wrong. “They can’t— They wouldn’t—” She had to stop for a moment to breathe. Questions tumbled through her mind, but the one that kept repeating itself, louder and louder, was: “Where would I go?”




Buffy shook her head. “I don’t … Dad, maybe? Or foster care?” She looked up, and Dawn was shocked at the heartbreak in her eyes. “I didn’t … I didn’t really want to ask.”




Everything fell away in an instant. Hating school and all the fake posers filling it, being treated like a little kid, being talked about—none of it mattered at that moment. All Dawn could think was that she’d lost her father, she’d lost her mother, and now she was going to lose Buffy. And that last one was all her fault. Buffy wasn’t going anywhere; she looked, honestly, as devastated as Dawn felt. And it was completely avoidable. There was no reason anyone in authority should have even looked twice at them. Buffy was working hard at keeping them together. Keeping them a family. But Dawn had screwed it all up.




“They can’t,” she said again. Her lips were numb. “I won’t. I won’t go.”




“I don’t want you to.” Buffy scooted across the bed and took Dawn in her arms. “I need you. You’re … you’re all I have left.”




Dawn began to cry as her sister held her. “I’m so sorry,” she managed to say between sobs. “I’ll ... I’ll be good. Just don’t—” She wrapped her arms around Buffy and held on with all her might. “Don’t let them take me away. Please.” She could feel panic welling up in her chest. Her stomach felt tied in knots. “Buffy, promise me.”




“Oh, Dawn.” Buffy’s voice was tinged with sorrow. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t go anywhere.”




Dawn released her grip on Buffy and sat up. She used her sleeve to mop the tears off her face and sniffled in an attempt to clear her nasal passages. “But it’s up to me,” she said. She stared down at her lap, at her hands twisting together. “It’s my fault we’re in trouble.” She glanced up. After a moment’s hesitation, Buffy nodded.




The knot in her stomach tied itself a little tighter. Dawn clutched her hands to her abdomen and squeezed her eyes shut. “Can I be alone?” she managed to say without bursting into tears again. She wasn’t sure how she managed it.




“Are you sure?”




Dawn nodded silently. She kept her eyes closed until she heard the door click shut behind Buffy. Then she jumped off her bed, retrieved her best stuffed animals, and hit ‘repeat’ on her cd player before climbing back in bed. She pulled the covers up over her head and cried until she fell asleep.






***






Buffy moved through the house very carefully. She felt brittle, as if the wrong thought would break her, and she would collapse. She couldn’t do that right now; she didn’t have the luxury of having a meltdown. And so she simply didn’t think about the wrong things. She filled her mind with the mundane details of her life and ignored the crisis the afternoon had unfolded before her.




She stripped out of her work clothes and thought about the shift she had promised Manny she would cover tomorrow. There wasn’t anything she wanted to do less than spend sixteen hours at the Doublemeat. The extra money would be nice, though. Dawn was growing out of all her clothes, and Buffy needed a better pair of work shoes. She climbed into the shower. That reminded her of the three hundred dollar water bill that had arrived in the mail yesterday. Images of new jeans and comfortable shoes vanished. Buffy sighed and slumped against the shower wall. She tried not to think about anything at all.




It was with a sudden spasm of guilt that Buffy realized, many minutes later, that the water was going cold. Way to be wasteful, she chided herself. She didn’t bother with soap or shampoo, merely turned her face up to the chilly spray and let it wash away the last traces of her tears before turning the water off. She shivered as she stepped out of the shower; goose bumps prickled up on her arms and legs, and her nipples were painfully hard.




Buffy avoided looking in the mirror as she toweled the water off her skin. It would show her nothing she didn’t already know: that she was too thin, that her hair was a damp tangled mess, that she was sporting permanent dark bags under her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to care about her appearance, though. It was difficult enough to go through the motions of untangling the snarls in her hair and brushing her teeth. Buffy wrapped the towel around her chest and headed for the sanctuary of her room and the oldest, comfiest sweats she could lay her hands on.




The steady thumping bass of a Ramones tune spilled out of Dawn’s room. The same song was still playing when Buffy passed Dawn’s door again; this time, she heard the conclusion of the song and gave a sigh of relief when it stopped. Her reprieve from punk rock was short-lived, however; the song started up again after a few seconds’ pause. Buffy knocked very quietly on the door, then nudged it open.




The room was engulfed in an early-evening gloom. Through the gathering shadows, Buffy could make out Dawn’s slim, still figure on the bed. She was asleep, even with Joey Ramone screaming in the background about the misery that was his life. Buffy rolled her eyes when she realized she’d just identified the band and the lead singer. One more thing to thank Spike for. She shied away from that thought and crossed the room to silence the stereo. She stopped at her sister’s bedside to smooth the quilt over her shoulders. Dawn shifted at her touch, but didn’t wake up. Her face was streaked with dried tear tracks.




Buffy eased her way out of the bedroom and downstairs. She supposed she ought to make something for dinner, though she didn’t have any appetite to speak of. As she turned to head to the kitchen, a gentle rap sounded on the front door.




She opened the door and there stood Spike. He held a baking dish covered in aluminum foil. She stared into his blue eyes and tried not to think about why he was the other topic at the top of her do not think about list.




“I made this for you,” Spike said. He passed the pan her way, and she instinctively reached for it. An unintelligible scrawl of numbers and letters was scribbled on the foil in black sharpie. Buffy realized she was looking at it upside down. She turned it around. ‘40 min @ 375,’ she read. She glanced up at Spike.




“Figured you and the Bit, uh, Dawn wouldn’t be coming for supper tonight.” He shrugged. “It’s lasagna. Take the foil off before you bake it.”




Buffy saw a shiver pass through him; his pale arms were bare below the short sleeves of his black t-shirt, and the night was cool. She imagined asking him in. ‘Come out of the cold,’ she’d say, and he would step deliberately into her house. She could picture closing the door behind him, pushing him up against the door, latching her lips to his. He would put his arms around her and hold her tight. He would make everything else on her mind disappear. Buffy wavered—almost spoke—fought down the urge to invite him in. It was too tempting, especially now she knew what it was like to kiss him. The quick, hard contact the night she’d been too drunk to appreciate him and the fleeting, barely-there kiss they’d almost shared earlier this week had done nothing to prepare her for a real kiss from Spike.




He’d kissed her like he never wanted to do anything else.




It was almost enough to make Buffy clear her schedule so he could do just that. But there were bigger things at stake now than how much she really, really wanted Spike, so he stayed just outside her door. The toes of his scuffed boots scraped against the doorjamb. “Is Dawn okay?” he asked.




“She’s … Well, she’s asleep now,” Buffy said. “She’s upset, but I think she understands how serious this is.”

Spike shoved his hands into his jean pockets. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something. Buffy hoped he wasn’t going to bring up what she’d done in his basement. She could feel her face growing hot as she thought of the way she’d thrown herself at him. If she weren’t clutching a pan of lasagna so hard her fingers hurt, she’d probably be throwing herself at him right now.




“I’m sorry,” she blurted, wanting to stop him before he could speak. “I shouldn’t have … I’m sorry I pushed you. Did I hurt you?”




He shook his head and smiled at her. “Nah. I’m tough. I’d appreciate not having a repeat performance, though.”




Buffy blushed. “I know. I won’t … I won’t do that anymore, okay?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.




“About that.” He leaned against the door frame, suddenly very close despite still being outside. “Was thinking—I go to a gym most mornings. Maybe you want to join me? Give you a chance to work off some energy, so you’re not so tempted to beat me up.”




The image of Spike working out—shirtless, sweaty, lifting weights, and had she mentioned shirtless?—filled her mind. She found herself nodding in agreement before consciously thinking about it. “That sounds … I like the idea,” she stammered. She hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he was the idea she liked. “Oh, but—”




She hated the objection her brain remembered to raise a few moments too late. Gyms meant memberships meant membership fees. Buffy bit her tongue before she admitted to Spike that she couldn’t afford to be his gym buddy. It was embarrassing to be so concerned about money, especially when faced with someone who didn’t seem to have any worries on that front. She didn’t want him to offer to pay for her out of some weird sense of obligation. And she was afraid that if he did, she wouldn’t have the strength of will to turn him down, which was just asking for trouble.




“But?” Spike prompted.




“I, uh, I’m working a double tomorrow. I don’t think I have time.” Buffy was impressed she managed to come up with a plausible excuse.




The smile on his face faded. “Maybe another time.” He shivered again.




Buffy stepped back from the doorway. “I should let you go,” she said. “Thanks for dinner and … and for earlier.”




“You’re welcome,” he said. His deep voice rumbled through her. “And, Buffy—” He reached out with one hand and cupped her cheek very gently. She tried not to lean into his touch. “If you or Dawn need anything, even just to talk, I’m …” He pulled his hand back, his manner suddenly brusque. “Well, you know where to find me.”




Buffy nodded as Spike turned away. She tried not to feel disappointed as she watched him disappear into his house.