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Banner by KnifeEdge


Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks for the great reviews! I really appreciate them, even when I don't respond to them (which, I apologize, is most of the time...)
11/4/10: chapter updated. Thanks to KnifeEdge for the beta-read.
Spike ambled down the stairs around eleven o’clock. He wasn’t usually up this early, but he’d managed last night to break through the writer’s block he’d been struggling with for the past week. He’d celebrated that fact with a few more beers than were strictly necessary—which had left him with an aching head this morning—and then decided for a change to call it a night before sunrise.

Spike paused in the foyer to rummage through the pockets of his leather duster for the pack of cigarettes he knew was in there. His fingers closed on the crumpled pack and his silver lighter, and he sighed with relief. He made another stop in the kitchen for something to drink. He considered having a beer—a little hair of the dog couldn't hurt—but then settled for a glass of ice water and two aspirin before stepping out onto the deck for his morning smoke.

Spike stopped just outside the door, surprised by the huddled figure curled up in one of the deck chairs. Dawn glanced at him from behind a curtain of tangled brown hair as he took a seat next to her and lit a cigarette.

"Morning, little bit," Spike said. "How's it going?"

Dawn sat up straighter and wiped at her tear-stained face with a pajama sleeve. A red mark in the distinctive shape of a hand stood out on her flushed cheek. "I had a fight with Buffy," she said. "And ... and you said I could come visit whenever I wanted, so—"

Spike chuckled, and a tentative smile replaced the wary expression on Dawn's face. "That I did," he said. "Though most people knock when they come to visit."

Dawn shrugged. "I didn't want to bother you," she said, almost shyly. "I just needed to get out of the house, and I don't really have anywhere else to go. All my friends live on the other side of town."

"No bother.” The two sat in a companionable silence until Dawn's stomach rumbled. Loudly. Spike stubbed out his cigarette and considered what he should do. Clearly she wasn’t eager to go back home, and he didn’t feel inclined to force her to leave. If the blonde next door was the type to work out her frustrations with fists rather than words, well, he didn’t mind so much when it came him. The way she’d slugged him yesterday had gotten his motor revving, if he were being perfectly honest. For her to be hitting a little girl, on the other hand— "C'mon, little bit. How about I make you some breakfast?" he offered as he stood up.

Dawn turned beet red. "Oh, no! I mean ... you don't have to do that."

"Going to be making something for myself anyway," Spike said. "It's no trouble to feed one more person."

At that, Dawn bounded to her feet and happily followed him into the house. She sat on the counter next to the sink, bare feet thumping against the cupboards, while Spike mixed up a batch of pancakes and set some bacon to cooking. She poured out a litany of complaints about her older sister, which Spike reminded himself to take with a grain of salt. He might be of the opinion that his new neighbor was a bleeding menace—and the palm print on Dawn's face didn't exactly convince him otherwise—but he had a little experience with teenage girls and their tendency toward melodrama.

"So, no cable TV, huh?" Spike said with a sly grin, having ascertained what Dawn perceived as her sister's most heinous crime. He was inwardly relieved; he thought if Buffy was smacking her sister around regularly, Dawn might find something more to complain about than her entertainment options. "That's just cruel." He loaded up a plate with pancakes, another with bacon, and set them on the table. He gathered dishes and silverware for both of them, and the two sat down to their breakfast.

Dawn stuck out her lower lip at his mild teasing, even as she piled her plate with a teetering stack of pancakes. "It’s totally cruel!" she insisted. "There's a True Blood marathon on next weekend. I wanted to catch up on last season before the new one starts."

"Sounds dire." Spike poured maple syrup over his pancakes and passed the bottle to Dawn. “Still, if not subscribing to cable is the worst thing to happen to you, I think you'll survive.”

Dawn's fork dropped to the table with a clatter, and she looked down at her plate. Her hair fell around her face. “My mom died last month,” she said softly.

Spike instinctively reached for her hand but stopped himself before actually making contact. “Sorry to hear that.”

Dawn shrugged. “I thought— After my parents got divorced, it was just the three of us, you know? Me and Mom and Buffy. We used to do everything together. But then Mom got sick and— and after she died, Buffy knew all this stuff about what Mom wanted for her funeral.” She looked up at him with anguished blue eyes. “She knew! She knew Mom might die, and she never told me. They both— they talked about it, but all they told me was that everything was fine, that Mom was doing better, that she was going to be okay.” Dawn was crying now, her words garbled between sobs. “Now she won't ... won't even talk about Mom, and she got rid of all Mom's stuff, and ... and she made us move, and … and it's so totally obvious that she doesn't want me around. If she could find our dad, I'd be gone.” Dawn covered her face with her hands, a picture of abject misery in the middle of the sunny kitchen

Spike silently absorbed Dawn's words, a wave of sympathy overwhelming him. He even found himself feeling sorry for Buffy; maybe there was a reason the girl acted like such a harridan. At a loss for anything to say, and finally coming to the realization that there was nothing to say beyond perhaps an ineffectual 'sorry,' Spike opted for action rather than words. He stood, patted Dawn awkwardly on the shoulder, and grabbed a towel, which he shoved into Dawn's hand. He puttered aimlessly around the kitchen waiting for her sobs to taper off. Only when he heard the scrape of her utensils on her plate did he rejoin her, placing a large glass of water in front of her.

Dawn took the proffered glass with a tremulous smile. "Thanks," she said, her voice subdued. Spike sat down and both turned their attention back to their breakfasts.

"How you doing, little bit?" he asked when Dawn had cleared her plate. "Got more pancakes if you're still hungry."

Dawn shook her head. "No, thanks." She regarded him for a moment. "Spike? How come you call me that?"

Spike cocked his head to the side. "Call you what?"

"'Little bit.’ You called me that yesterday, too."

Spike stood then, reaching for Dawn's empty dishes and stacking them with his. "I— Sorry, Dawn. Didn't even realize I was doing it." He set the dishes on the counter and filled the sink with hot, soapy water. "Used to call my sister that," he added, not looking at her. "You remind me of her, is all."

"I don't mind." Dawn stood next to him, the last few dishes in her hands. "Nicknames are nice, you know? My mom called me her little punkin belly." The girl's voice trailed off, and Spike glanced over at her with concern. "Um, how old is your sister?" she asked, shaking off her gloom.

Spike ignored the question. "I'm going to do up the dishes. If you want to get your cable fix in, you go ahead, okay? Living room's through there," a slight nod of his head indicated the appropriate door, "and the remote's on the table. Just give a holler if you need any help."

Dawn hesitated a moment, mouth slightly open as if she had more she wanted to say. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen, only glancing back at him once. In a minute, Spike heard the TV go on. He sighed and plunged his hands into the sink, grateful for the distracting burn of the hot water.


***


I'm not worried, I'm not worried, Buffy chanted to herself as she hauled groceries from the car to the kitchen of the too-quiet house. She mulled over her options while putting the groceries away—no sense letting the perishables go to waste, not with as tight as their budget was. It was only when she found herself standing in front of the pantry, a bag of frozen peas slowly turning to mush in her hands, that she acknowledged she was, in fact, truly concerned. Dawn had a temper, but most of her tantrums were like summer rainstorms—sudden, punishing, and quickly over.

Buffy jotted down a list of Dawn's friends with the help of her mother's address book. Upon calling them, however, not one of them had seen Dawn—not they'd admit to, at least. Buffy had some serious doubts as to whether or not she could trust Janice's word on the matter, but stopped short of demanding to speak to the girl's mother. Buffy hung up the phone after running through her entire list, and sat glumly at the kitchen table, staring blindly out the open patio door.

That was when she heard Dawn's voice. Buffy clenched her jaw when she realized the sound was coming from next door and that Dawn's voice was countered by a low, rumbling baritone.

Buffy rushed out of the house, across the driveway, and into her neighbor's yard. Sure enough, Dawn and Spike were sitting on the deck, laughing and talking as if nothing were amiss with that picture.

“So, Lady Gaga, is that the bird with all the crazy hats? The one who thinks nylons can double as pants?”

Dawn laughed and smacked the peroxide-blond on the arm. “She's got an awesome voice! The costumes are just … costumes, you know?”

“Tell you what, I’ll make you a disc of some good music and—”

“Dawn,” Buffy said loudly. The two turned to look at her, identical expressions of innocent surprise on their faces. Dawn was the first to speak.

“Uh, hi, Buffy,” she said. “I— um, Spike made me breakfast and we were— I mean, I was just about to come home. Because you're home now. I came home before, but you were gone, and Spike said I could hang out here til you got back. And … and we've got all that unpacking to do, right?” She stood, giggling nervously.

“Right,” Buffy said. She folded her arms across her chest and fixed her gaze on Spike. He seemed determined to look anywhere but at her. “Since you're so eager to get the unpacking done, Dawn, why don't you go ahead and get started.”

Dawn glanced at Spike before stepping off the deck. “Bye, Spike,” she said. “Thanks for breakfast and … and everything.”

“Anytime,” Spike said. He smiled at Dawn as she left the yard. The smile left his face when he looked at Buffy. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

Buffy stalked up onto the deck and planted herself directly in front of Spike's lounging figure.

“There a problem, princess?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Buffy noticed the scar on his left eyebrow and wondered idly how that had gotten there. Piercing gone wrong, perhaps? Then she shook her head and focused on being angry. “Yes, there's a problem,” she snarled. “The problem is that my fourteen year old sister ran out of my house hours ago and has, what—been hanging out with the Billy Idol wannabe next door? Do you have a brain in your head, or did you bleach it to death?”

Spike stood up, a move which put him squarely in Buffy's personal space. She took two steps backwards and tried not to gulp when he took two corresponding steps forward. His black t-shirt was skin-tight, she noted. In fact, she could—yes, there it was—make out the shape of his nipple ring beneath the thin cotton. And oh, god, why was she staring at his chest like a twelve year old boy confronted with his first glimpse of cleavage? Her face flushed and she took a few more quick steps back.

“What was it I should have done?” Spike asked. He kept his distance, thankfully. Buffy found she could think much more clearly when he wasn't within touching range.

“Oh, let me think,” Buffy said. “How about send her home where she belongs? Did it never occur to you that maybe I was worried about her?”

He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Oh, yeah? When was the worrying, exactly? When you smacked her, or when you took off for a couple hours?”

Buffy flushed again, though this time it was anger that colored her skin rather than embarrassment. “I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“No, you don't,” Spike said. “But maybe you should explain yourself to Dawn.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Buffy couldn’t believe she was being lectured by a guy named Spike on how to take care of her sister. Dawn was so in trouble for even putting her in this situation.

Spike shrugged carelessly. “Why don't you ask her? When's the last time you two talked—really talked?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “Who do you think you are? You don't know me, you don't know my sister, and you don't know anything about our relationship. You think I need to take advice from some … some 80's reject?”

If Buffy was hoping for an angry response, she was sorely disappointed. Spike chuckled and stubbed out his smoke. “You're right, I don't know you. But I do know that that little girl was over here pouring her heart out to a stranger, instead of talking to the one person in the world who ought to understand better than anyone what she's feeling right now. Maybe you wanna ask yourself why that is.”

Buffy gaped at Spike for a long moment, not sure of how to respond. He sounded so … sincere and concerned. Which was just laughable coming from this, this … punk with the black-on-black attire and all the eye makeup and chunky silver jewelry. And was that glint of silver behind his smirk a tongue ring? Buffy wondered briefly what other body parts he might have pierced. So not a thought she wanted occupying space in her brain.

As she stood there trying to formulate some sort of come-back, Spike turned and walked into the house without another word. The door closed forcefully behind him.

Buffy took another minute to brace herself before heading home for what was bound to be an unpleasant conversation with her sister. She knew one thing for certain: Dawn was going to be absolutely forbidden to step so much as a toe on their neighbor's property from here on out.





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