InsaneJournal

Fic: DISTANCE (pt 54 of ?) - redacted
This section of the fic has been redacted. I've left it here as an out-take.





Previously

She didn't want to let her sister and Spike out of her sight, even as she knew that in a little while they'd disappear into the tower and remain invisible for a long time. Xander seized her reluctance, told her to pull her car onto the shoulder and they'd come back for it later.

As she climbed into the front seat of the SUV, she saw her sister in the back, Spike's head resting in her lap. She was stroking his hair with a soft absent gesture, as if it was some plush toy she'd found beneath her hand. She was pallid with a sort of shock. Dawn had to reach across the seat back to pull the belt around her; she seemed unaware of her surroundings. Spike's eyes were shut; Dawn wondered if he'd fallen asleep again, or was unconscious, but then his hand came up, curling around Buffy's wrist. Their hands came together. She squeezed his tight.

In her rush, she'd forgotten the thermos of blood; as soon as she realized it, Buffy could think of nothing else during the whole drive back. She wanted to borrow Xander's pocket knife, slice open the inside of her arm, press the bleeding gash to Spike's lips. The urge was so intense that it was hard to sit still. But she forced herself to sit still, because Spike's head was in her lap, and he was gazing up at her with a mute, nearly unblinking, doglike look.

In her tower she put him to bed. He let her take the duster, and his boots, but wouldn't undress.

"Modesty now?"

"S'not modesty. Just get out for a minute an' I'll take off my kit."

"Spike, if you're hurt, I want to—"

"No. Let me alone."

She couldn't believe this. He sank wearily onto the bed, and she waited, expecting him to relent. But he was waiting too.

"All right. I'm sorry. I'll be right back."

In the kitchen she found three tall thermoses on the table, with a note: We did a whip-round. Tell him he's welcome. Buffy didn't recognize the handwriting. The 'i's were dotted with little circles.

Of course it was her own blood she poured first, carrying the brimming cup in two hands. It no longer seemed strange, to be dispensing blood like soup.

He'd pulled the sheet up past his shoulders, and turned off the lamp she'd turned on. When she put the cup under his nose, he balked.

"Not yours."

"You need your strength. I want you to heal. You know I can easily spare it."

"It's not proper."

"Shut up and drink it. Or I'll knock you out and pour it down your throat."

Spike cringed and shrank, even as his eyes flashed and his fangs descended.

She'd meant playful bullying; what came out was rage. The urge to scream at him, to strike him, where did it come from?

Clattering the cup down on the nightstand, she fled to the kitchen ahead of her spasm of tears.

"Hey Spike. Hungry?"

"What're you doin' here, Bit?"

"Buffy asked me to look in on you."

"You should be asleep."

"It's okay. I was still up, chatting with my honey."

The cup of her sister's blood sat congealing on the nightstand. She tried not to look at it, though she'd have to remove it and pour it away. Spike took the thermos she held out, glanced at the note, a smile flickering on his lips as he took it in. But he still seemed reluctant as he unscrewed the cap.

"They'll be insulted, if you refuse," she said. "It was your friend Bakhita who organized it."

"My friend." Again the little smile, ironic and sad. Now he drank, straight from the flask.

"You look better already," Dawn said approvingly. "You'll heal up in no time."

"No time," he echoed.

Dawn found it hard to look at him. Denuded of his leather and clothes, his head on the pillow was an invalid's, he looked like a man with a wasting disease. She wasn't sure what had happened exactly that made her sister knock on Xander's door just a few minutes after she'd taken Spike upstairs, asking her to go to him. All Buffy had said was that she'd lost her temper, and was afraid of losing it again, and this made no sense to Dawn, who had imagined the two of them just holding each other for hours, maybe sleeping, maybe talking, not letting each other go. But the desperation in her sister's eyes discouraged lingering, questions. She went, leaving Buffy with Xander.

"Spike ... tell me if you don't want to talk about it, but I'm curious. Has it been ... has it been so long for you, that you don't really remember us?"

"Remember everythin'."

"I meant ... that you feel we're all still far away? Like you don't know us anymore?" She was afraid to hear the answer, and gestured at him to drink some again. He'd fanged out when the blood first touched his lips, but she only noticed it now.

"Fourteen months, long time in the life of a slayer."

Dawn took his hand. "You don't have to worry about that. Believe me."

"Gimme my trousers, pet." He pointed to the chair where his clothes were draped.

She went to them, wondering if he meant to put them on and steal out, though that made no sense. Then she saw the outline of the cigarette pack in the pocket. She brought it to him, with the matches; struck one and lit his cigarette. Spike took a long grateful drag.

Buffy would hate having her bedroom stinking of tobacco but Buffy, Dawn decided, could suck it up.

"Be careful with the ashes. Wait, I'll get you a dish or something."

When she came back from the kitchen with a jar lid to catch the ashes, Spike looked visibly less gaunt. He seemed to batten more on the smoke than on the blood.

The part of his bare arm she got a glimpse of was mottled with stripes, like the one on his neck. He tried to hide it from her, lipping the cigarette. Dawn pretended not to see.

"Where'd sis go?"

"She'll be back in a little while."

"S'my fault she got upset. I was stubborn with her."

"Fault? Who's talking about fault? No one brought up faults. Drink some more."

"Maybe was too soon."

"What?"

"Should've waited longer. Was too soon to come back. Only I missed her. Missed her so much."

"Spike, this is your home. You never have to wait to come home."

"That a fact?" He let the half-smoked cigarette drop into the ashtray, his head dropping back on the pillow. The brief revival of energy was over; his half-lidded eyes were glassy. He was still vamped out.

"You should sleep. Buffy will be here with you when you wake up."

"Stay a moment, Niblet." He reached for her hand, but between reaching and grasping, he was asleep. Dawn huddled at the edge of the chair, his fingers encircled in hers, watching him. Wondering about where he'd been, what had made him so hurt, so stripped inside and out. Fourteen months gone but she was sure that for him it was many years, years of straining to get back here, hoping he'd find the welcome and rest and peace he didn't wholly believe in, or feel he deserved.

The responsibility of him, of what he needed, was so huge, it daunted her.

"Hey Dawnie."

Buffy had stolen up behind her; she slipped her arms now around her sister's neck, hanging over her chair, pressing her cheek to hers. Buffy's face was hot and moist.

"He's sleeping again," Dawn whispered. "That's what he needs. To feed, and sleep, and be with you."

"He drank this, good." Buffy took up the empty thermos from the nightstand, peered into it, tucked it under her arm. Then picked up the abandoned cup of her own blood, and carried it out. When she returned she hugged Dawn again. "I'm going to get into bed with him now, so ...."

"I'll see myself out." Dawn paused. "Are you okay?"

"I will be. I really really will." Buffy was already shrugging out of her clothes, turning back the sheet on her side of the bed.

Dawn waited another moment, to see her sister slide into bed, hitch herself over close to Spike.

Then she put out the light, said goodnight, and closed the door.



Next-->