[metafic] Secondary, for tinpanalley
It's tinpanalley's birthday and she is a lovely, effusive, *wonderful* person. I hope today starts off the best year yet for you.
This is a story I would write you, Jessica, if I had the ability.
title: Secondary
summary: Spike didn't come looking for Dawn.
pairing(s): Dawn/Spike. Others mentioned, het & slash.
rating: Adult
disclaimer: Ha.
It's about two years after NFA. Southern California burned from LA outward; the emergence of demons from the lower depths disturbed various minor *and* major faults, such that the burning wastes eventually slipped, sizzling and shrieking, into the Pacific.
Everything changed with the fight in LA. No one has heard from Angel. Buffy went off to look for him, and she's been gone for a while now. Wesley's body washed up on the coast of Guam five weeks later; he was only identified from a DNA scan. Giles and Dawn moved first to London, then Manchester, but a couple months ago, Dawn struck out on her own. She's learned fifteen languages since Sunnydale fell, she's trained with the best of the Slayers, and she's a little harder, a little quieter, than anyone could have imagined.
She's living in a small city (though the adjective might be redundant) in southern Vermont, right on the New Hampshire border, taking some night classes and waiting tables at a bookstore cafe. She started smoking, then quit, then took it up again when she decided her hands needed something to do while reading. She talks to Giles once a month, sometimes twice, and to Xander and Willow at about the same rate.
"Dawnie," they say, unless it's Giles, and then he says, "Dawn", in that grave tone of his, "how are you doing? Do you need anything? We could..."
They trail off then and she taps the ash off her cigarette as she rolls her eyes.
It's early one morning in mid-March; Willow's on the phone from Siena or Venice or somewhere like that. Maybe Ankara. She doesn't like to say where she is; she has too much fun playing Bondgirl this way. She's asking Dawn how she's getting on.
Dawn's talking quietly, because she shares this rambling wood house with six other people, some of whom are students, all of whom sleep in. She thinks the guy in the attic might be a werewolf, but he keeps to himself and doesn't make eye contact. It's not like she can toss some silver at him and see what happens.
Besides, that kind of thing just isn't *interesting* any more.
"...fine," she tells Willow absently. She's reaching for another smoke -- Lucky, filtered, the green and red target on the pack strangely *comforting* to her -- when her eyes stray outside. The house is on a side street, and it's still basically winter up there, but the snow's receding in the face of slush and the trees are soaked black, bony against the pearlescent sky.
There's a guy out there on the sidewalk, an over-large greatcoat wrapped around him like a bathrobe, his hands deep in the pockets. The sun's directly behind his head, a platinum disk behind the clouds, so his face is dark. But he's looking at the house and he's not moving.
Dawn picks at the scab on her forearm, from when she reached into the cafe sink to unclog the drain and cut herself on the cake knife. She bites down on the cigarette, tells Willow she has to go, and runs out the door. Over the uneven porch, down the rickety steps, across the sodden lawn. Cold mud on her feet and blood on her arm as she launches herself at the guy.
"Well, sweetness, here we are," Spike tells her. He grips her arms and lifts her off her feet, though they're the same height now, and spins her once.
His nostrils flare at the blood on her and she grins, wide as a mile, offering him her arm.
*
The hell of it is, he didn't even come looking for her. He's been wandering, these last couple years, checking in on old haunts and setting up new ones. Portland and Victoria, Chicago and Gary and St. Louis, Atlanta and Ft. Lauderdale. Northward across the Mason-Dixon line, and on and on.
He wasn't looking for her. He wasn't looking for anyone, really, though it wouldn't have gone amiss if he'd happened to run into Dru or Buffy. His life is different now, different since Sunnydale and certainly since the City of Angels.
For one thing, maybe the most important thing, he's safe from the sun. From all of it, really. It would be wonderful, it would be marvelous, if that meant he'd gotten the sandal thing, if he'd won, if he'd finally beaten the bloody gorilla-headed Mick at the one thing that ever mattered.
He's my son, Angel'd said, and thrown Spike through a wall. Like that mattered. Like anything like loyalty had ever mattered. Spike dusted off the masonry bits from his naked skin, checked the abrasions, and tossed Angel two fingers before bidding young Connor farewell with tongue and one last grope for the road.
Blood was all that mattered and without the usual restrictions -- sun, cross, stake -- vampires were running many parts of the country.
Spike hadn't won. He'd just done what he always did. He'd fucking *persisted*.
Persisted right into Dawn's town, her street, her room.
*
They're both made of leftovers. Afterthoughts, second thoughts, and he's never going to be Angel or Darla or Buffy or Connor. He's no one's son, no one's first. Just like she's never going to be Buffy or anyone else. She's a construct of blood with the weight of reality pressing in on her; he's a monster of blood with the weight of a soul.
And they cleave together. She gave him her arm, he opened his coat and drew her in, and she doesn't answer the phone any more, not when it's long distance.
She straddles him, just like her big sister, but she's longer and leaner than Buffy. Never as strong, but Dawn is *here* and Buffy wasn't, and she fucks her hips against him like she needs to, like she does it because she loves him and loves herself with him, and he wraps his ancient hands in her long, silky hair and pulls and pulls. Like reins, but she bucks against him, untamed, and comes three times, her nails in his nipples, before sliding down and sucking him so hard he loses it. She slides two fingers in his ass and keeps sucking, saucer-wide hazel eyes on him that are depthless and wise and *dirty*, fucking him hard, past the soul and the scars. Spike shouts and comes in her mouth, over her face, and Dawn laughs long and loud.
*
They're together and there's no metaphysical logic that could have predicted either one, let alone their junction. This might be a sign of the apocalypse, but that already came and went.
This is just one of the secondary effects. More than enough.
This is a story I would write you, Jessica, if I had the ability.
title: Secondary
summary: Spike didn't come looking for Dawn.
pairing(s): Dawn/Spike. Others mentioned, het & slash.
rating: Adult
disclaimer: Ha.
It's about two years after NFA. Southern California burned from LA outward; the emergence of demons from the lower depths disturbed various minor *and* major faults, such that the burning wastes eventually slipped, sizzling and shrieking, into the Pacific.
Everything changed with the fight in LA. No one has heard from Angel. Buffy went off to look for him, and she's been gone for a while now. Wesley's body washed up on the coast of Guam five weeks later; he was only identified from a DNA scan. Giles and Dawn moved first to London, then Manchester, but a couple months ago, Dawn struck out on her own. She's learned fifteen languages since Sunnydale fell, she's trained with the best of the Slayers, and she's a little harder, a little quieter, than anyone could have imagined.
She's living in a small city (though the adjective might be redundant) in southern Vermont, right on the New Hampshire border, taking some night classes and waiting tables at a bookstore cafe. She started smoking, then quit, then took it up again when she decided her hands needed something to do while reading. She talks to Giles once a month, sometimes twice, and to Xander and Willow at about the same rate.
"Dawnie," they say, unless it's Giles, and then he says, "Dawn", in that grave tone of his, "how are you doing? Do you need anything? We could..."
They trail off then and she taps the ash off her cigarette as she rolls her eyes.
It's early one morning in mid-March; Willow's on the phone from Siena or Venice or somewhere like that. Maybe Ankara. She doesn't like to say where she is; she has too much fun playing Bondgirl this way. She's asking Dawn how she's getting on.
Dawn's talking quietly, because she shares this rambling wood house with six other people, some of whom are students, all of whom sleep in. She thinks the guy in the attic might be a werewolf, but he keeps to himself and doesn't make eye contact. It's not like she can toss some silver at him and see what happens.
Besides, that kind of thing just isn't *interesting* any more.
"...fine," she tells Willow absently. She's reaching for another smoke -- Lucky, filtered, the green and red target on the pack strangely *comforting* to her -- when her eyes stray outside. The house is on a side street, and it's still basically winter up there, but the snow's receding in the face of slush and the trees are soaked black, bony against the pearlescent sky.
There's a guy out there on the sidewalk, an over-large greatcoat wrapped around him like a bathrobe, his hands deep in the pockets. The sun's directly behind his head, a platinum disk behind the clouds, so his face is dark. But he's looking at the house and he's not moving.
Dawn picks at the scab on her forearm, from when she reached into the cafe sink to unclog the drain and cut herself on the cake knife. She bites down on the cigarette, tells Willow she has to go, and runs out the door. Over the uneven porch, down the rickety steps, across the sodden lawn. Cold mud on her feet and blood on her arm as she launches herself at the guy.
"Well, sweetness, here we are," Spike tells her. He grips her arms and lifts her off her feet, though they're the same height now, and spins her once.
His nostrils flare at the blood on her and she grins, wide as a mile, offering him her arm.
*
The hell of it is, he didn't even come looking for her. He's been wandering, these last couple years, checking in on old haunts and setting up new ones. Portland and Victoria, Chicago and Gary and St. Louis, Atlanta and Ft. Lauderdale. Northward across the Mason-Dixon line, and on and on.
He wasn't looking for her. He wasn't looking for anyone, really, though it wouldn't have gone amiss if he'd happened to run into Dru or Buffy. His life is different now, different since Sunnydale and certainly since the City of Angels.
For one thing, maybe the most important thing, he's safe from the sun. From all of it, really. It would be wonderful, it would be marvelous, if that meant he'd gotten the sandal thing, if he'd won, if he'd finally beaten the bloody gorilla-headed Mick at the one thing that ever mattered.
He's my son, Angel'd said, and thrown Spike through a wall. Like that mattered. Like anything like loyalty had ever mattered. Spike dusted off the masonry bits from his naked skin, checked the abrasions, and tossed Angel two fingers before bidding young Connor farewell with tongue and one last grope for the road.
Blood was all that mattered and without the usual restrictions -- sun, cross, stake -- vampires were running many parts of the country.
Spike hadn't won. He'd just done what he always did. He'd fucking *persisted*.
Persisted right into Dawn's town, her street, her room.
*
They're both made of leftovers. Afterthoughts, second thoughts, and he's never going to be Angel or Darla or Buffy or Connor. He's no one's son, no one's first. Just like she's never going to be Buffy or anyone else. She's a construct of blood with the weight of reality pressing in on her; he's a monster of blood with the weight of a soul.
And they cleave together. She gave him her arm, he opened his coat and drew her in, and she doesn't answer the phone any more, not when it's long distance.
She straddles him, just like her big sister, but she's longer and leaner than Buffy. Never as strong, but Dawn is *here* and Buffy wasn't, and she fucks her hips against him like she needs to, like she does it because she loves him and loves herself with him, and he wraps his ancient hands in her long, silky hair and pulls and pulls. Like reins, but she bucks against him, untamed, and comes three times, her nails in his nipples, before sliding down and sucking him so hard he loses it. She slides two fingers in his ass and keeps sucking, saucer-wide hazel eyes on him that are depthless and wise and *dirty*, fucking him hard, past the soul and the scars. Spike shouts and comes in her mouth, over her face, and Dawn laughs long and loud.
*
They're together and there's no metaphysical logic that could have predicted either one, let alone their junction. This might be a sign of the apocalypse, but that already came and went.
This is just one of the secondary effects. More than enough.