much belated and not so ballyhooed

diva_stardust had a birthday. I tried to get this ready in time, but it never happened. It's not the peaches and cream which I wanted to write for her, but it is Spike/Dawn. It's also not the best thing I've ever written, actually rather awkward. But, it's finished. So here it is. Diva, dear - sorry it isn't better.

Dedicated with many hugs and apologies for lateness to diva_stardust. Happy Belated Birthday, Love.

Spike/Dawn
post-Bargaining
PG-13 for implied violence and sexual situations


TITLE: Concerning Flight
AUTHOR: seraC
EMAIL: seraphcelene@yahoo.com
SPOILERS: Bargaining
RATING: PG-13 for implied violence and sexual situations
ARCHIVING: Essential-Imperfect, Buffy Fiction Archive. All others please ask.
SUMMARY: Without a soul and Buffy to impress, how long would Spike's altruism last?
NOTES: This is dedicated to Diva Stardust, for her birthday. Post-Bargaining AU.
FEEDBACK: Is like air and highly addictive. In other words, yes please!
DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers Company, UPN, et al. I'm just taking them out for a little exercise.
Thanks: Moonwhip, for looking at this not once, not twice, but three whole times (at least). All mistakes and crappiness are solely mine.


“Love is not of the same sort as other evils.”
-- The Queen, Eneas


Concerning Flight


He said, “Let’s fly, pigeon” in that snarling voice that you love; and you did.

You left with him on the night Sunnydale burned. That’s what you like to say when you tell people how it all happened. You took his hand, jumped on his motorcycle and the two of you roared away while Sunnydale burned in the distance.

There was no reason to stay in Sunnydale. Mom and Buffy are dead. Giles exchanged you for the promise of England with Olivia. Willow had your beloved Tara, and Xander had Anya. So, you left with him.

The memory of Buffy throwing herself off a tower because of you is a wound that never quite heals. It is an image forever impressed on your brain. You dream her jumping, brilliant sunrise ripping reality at the seams, her arms thrown wide to embrace the coming dawn. In the small hours of the night you are sure it was a mistake.

She loved you. You are sure. Sometimes, you are very sure that she must have fallen.

Spike is what seems real to you. The steadiness of his hands betrayed by the quiver in his voice. He is angry, hurt. He mourns for a myth of a girl destined to one day kill him. But still you want him. Tease him. You recognize the heat in his eyes and offer yourself: a gift, a thank you, a sacrifice. He pushes you away, calling you “Nibblet,” reminding you that you are the young one. Soft Child. Baby Sister.

You never remind him that your blood can destroy worlds.

Sometimes you wondered why he stayed if he was never going to touch you. At night you woke to the chill of him curled into the heat of your body smelling of sweat, sex, and whiskey. The blonde hairs clinging to his skin, you knew, were not his.

Spike would leave you for days in dirty motels. At first you never left, too afraid of what was on the other side of the door; some things must be invited in.

Lonely, you finally chose a boy with sweet, brown eyes and unruly hair that fell across his forehead. Spike brought you his eyes in a jar when he found out what you had done. The news anchor, perfectly manicured and appropriately somber, said his name was Justin.

Spike had you then, finally defeated by the crack of your palm against his cheek. He was on you before you could move and it was ravenous and painful. Even though it hurt, you whispered into his ear: “Harder. Faster. Yes. More.” Always more.

But more was never enough.

The boy in Denver was tall, pretty and wore a madras shirt and Levi’s 501 jeans. He told you his name was Hank and you laughed.

"That's such a hick name," you said.

He blushed, a beautifully warm rush just beneath his skin and you smiled. He told you he was named after his father, Henry; and invited you to watch his band play at The Broken Barrel later in the evening. You promised to come but didn't. The next day Spike brought you his tongue wrapped in a page from the morning paper.

"You can't do this," you cried as Spike spilled you off his shoulder into a coffin. Two days later the stars look as though they have never shined brighter.

"You make me crazy," Spike said, holding you tightly. You heard the tears in his voice. "I love you.

He told you he adored your eyes, big and blue. “I thought you preferred green eyes,” you teased, sometimes only a little serious.

“Blue is a beautiful color,” he said. “Beautiful.”

The ache of belonging touched you and you forgave him.

You always forgive him.

He strokes your hair gently and touches your face. The tips of his fingers skim lightly across the purple blossoming tenderly beneath your left eye.

"Dawn. I'm sorry. I love you." He seldom calls you by name, preferring a wealth of sweet, soft endearments: 'Bit, Pet, Little One. Dawn is the name for his remorse.

This is his nature you tell yourself. He is only acting according to kind. And he is your kind. The thought of Buffy broken on the ground reminds you that you are a monster, too.

He says he loves your hair, thick and dark and the scent of you on his skin. “I thought you liked blondes,” you whisper, your breath catching as his hand slides beneath the abbreviated hem of your skirt.

“Brunettes are better,” he growls into your ear. “I loved Drusilla for a century.”

Later he tells you he loves your porcelain perfect skin. “Ethereal.” And still later when he finds someone to remove the chip, he tells you he loves to see you bleed. He pricks the curve of your breast, the inside of your thigh and you make love, skin slick with sweat and blood.

It has become a ritual, and you crave the sharp edge of his teeth sliding into a vein at your throat before you come. It is like dying and you wonder if it felt as good for Buffy.

"A little blood never hurt no body," Spike says, sullen. You don't say anything, spitting into the sink instead.

He lounges languidly in bed, a sheet casually draped across his lap. In the mirror opposite the bed all you see is the burning tip of the cigarette as he inhales. Gently you caress the impressions his fingers left on your throat. You remember the panic and the breathlessness, and you wonder: How did I come to this?

You meet Jeremy in Phoenix. He smiles at you as he pours your coffee.

Spike touches your hair, gently. “A gift,” he says, slyly, watching you open the gaily wrapped boxes.

In Las Vegas Colin wants to take you to dinner. His insistence makes you nervous.

Spike brings you eyes: blue, brown, green, and grey. Some are jewel bright, others are clouded with age.

Jack is from Seattle. He falls, smiling, when Spike snaps his neck.

This time his gift is the delicate tip of a finger, a calloused knuckle.

"You belong to me," Spike hisses into your ear as he pounds into your body.

“Stop,” you say breathlessly as you cradle your aching ribs, but Spike only laughs and the next morning there is a box tied with a yellow bow beside the bed.

Finally, you leave.

He catches you in Atlanta. You cut your thigh crawling through the crypt's stained glass window. New Orleans is a close call but the nuns at St. Elizabeth’s are not unprepared. Catching up with you again in Sunnydale, Spike corners you in an alley and threatens to kill you.

“Maybe, if I feel generous, I’ll turn you.”

You feel his breath and the flick of his tongue against your throat. Shivering with pain, pleasure and dread, your eyes close tightly. You feel the wet of tears against your cheeks and wait.

But the pressure of his teeth against your neck, the sting of a vein opening, the dizzying rush of his feeding never comes. Instead you feel lightness and a sudden drift across your skin. You open your eyes just as Spike shatters into dust.

Behind him, a stake gripped tightly in one fist, a girl with beautiful, familiar green eyes meets your startled gaze. She takes a step forward and lightly touches your face. Carefully pulling you into her arms, Buffy raggedly breathes your name.


end.