Falling: Part seven
Previous parts in memories.
Warning: kind of a transition chapter, and remember, please, that the Scoobies are going bug-shaggin' crazy in this story. Got that? NUTS. Okay, now on to the chapter:
Dawn paced in her room. Since hearing Xander’s car pull up she was torn between wanting to go downstairs and not wanting to. Staying in her room was supposed to save her from having to see and hear Buffy blow up, but how was that useful when all she could do is wait to hear it anyway?
She stopped and listened intently. There was no screaming, no shouting, no banging. Maybe it was all right? She heard voices, maybe a little clatter and an “ow.”
Footsteps on the stairs. She hugged herself tight.
Footsteps continued on past her room. The bathroom door opened and closed. She peeked out.
Xander came up the stairs. “Hey, Dawnie,” he said, “We’re going out to eat. What do you feel like? Chicken?”
Dawn hesitantly stepped into the hallway. “Did Buffy go totally ballistic?”
“Oh yeah. So I take it you knew about the flour-party in the kitchen?”
***
Dawn slipped by Xander after a noncommittal grunt about chicken and hurried down to the kitchen to check on Spike.
There was a crash and she ran.
Spike was shaking his hands and muttering “fuck fuck fuck” over an up-ended mixing bowl.
“Are you okay?”
He gave her a contemptuous glare while sucking on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “No. But I’m managing. Get out before big sis catches you.”
She watched him gingerly handle the mixing bowl as though it was red-hot, bouncing it from the side of one hand to the inside of the other wrist all the way to the sink. “Catches me doing what?”
“I dunno. Look, I have some experience dealing with the unreasonable, all right? She’s not going to like you in here with me. And we’re not going to like… her… not liking.” He waved an arm at her and continued juggling items off the counter and into the sink with his fingertips.
“Wait… what’s up with your hands?”
Spike sighed. He leaned against his forearms on the sink-edge. “Niblet, they’re burned. Now go. Buffy’s new to this… this psycho punishment routine, but I’m not. They set up an impossible task, right? You gotta do it, or at least pretend you can do it, try your best, and help isn’t allowed. Ever.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Would you just trust the hundred-year-old and go!”
“Dawnie?”
She turned to see Xander in the door, holding her coat. “Come on, everyone in the Xandermobile.”
She kept staring at Spike, his back sagging against the sink, as Xander dragged her out into the night.
***
Dawn felt like a prisoner, trapped between Xander and Buffy at Mr. Chicken. The bright lights, the food, the smiles and light banter between friends, it all looked normal, but it wasn’t, like some creepy twilight zone episode where you find out at the end everyone is eating babies or something.
“Where’s Anya?” she asked, breaking into a forcibly upbeat conversation on the subject of what movies and tv shows Buffy had missed while dead.
They both looked at her like she was talking Greek.
“Anya?” she repeated. “Your girlfriend? I thought you were living together. Is she getting dinner somewhere else?”
Xander pushed coleslaw around with his fork. “Getting Anya dinner every day isn’t my responsibility,” he said.
She’d never seen Xander look so cold. Dawn sank back in the plastic booth, no longer having appetite enough even for fried chicken.
***
The timer beeped while Spike was manuvering a cookie sheet into the sink, which was rapidly becoming over-full and so the operation felt like a final level of Tetris.
He didn’t even remember what the beep was for until it repeated, more urgently. “Bugger. Cookies.” The baking sheet fell to the floor with a loud bang and he ran to the oven.
Retrieving the last batch of cookies went like this: Twist off knob. Howl at pain. Open door. Shake hand out and jump up and down in pain. Reach into oven with bare hand. Stop, bite forearm to stop scream, accidentally puncture self, repeat, grab oven mitts. Dance around like lunatic sliding wounded hands into, apparently, concrete-and-razor lined oven mitts. Reach into oven. Feel heat awaken each millimeter of burn like it is brand-new. Bang shin on oven-door. Repeat. Screw up courage, grab the bloody thing and fling it at the counter in quickest-possible move, scattering cookies.
At least some of them stuck to the pan.
Spike kicked the oven closed, threw the oven mitts viciously into the wall and indulged in a few seconds of unabridged cursing.
After that, things went smoother. The trick was not to use his palms - to pretend his hands were wooden, unable to bend, and then just balance everything on the fingertips. Actually washing the dishes was going to be something of an exercise in agony, but he got them all in the sink, at least, and the cookbook put away and the counter cleared, which made the kitchen look a lot cleaner than it actually was.
He was wiping the last four off the counter, pushing a rag around with his elbow - when Tara came in the back door. “Oh,” she said, smiling, “Hi Spike. I didn’t…” she pointed to the door and back to him. “I didn’t let too much sun in, did I?”
Spike frowned. “It’s dark out, love.”
She turned and looked out the window. “Oh.” She brushed a smooth fall of blonde hair back from her face and grimaced. “I… I’m forgetting things lately.”
Spike rubbed his wet elbow on his t-shirt. “Thought you split, Glinda. What are you doing back here?”
Tara looked even more confused. “I live here. With Willow.”
“Nooo… you left Willow. Remember? Bint had the gall to mess with your mind. We all support you, luv….”
“I love Willow,” Tara snapped.
Spike fell back from her glare. “Glinda?”
“I love Willow,” she said again, face practically vibrating with passion. “And I’ll never leave her. Ever.” Tara’s face fell, and she suddenly shivered, curling her arms around herself. Her voice became soft, more like her usual tones. “What’s happening to me?”
Spike took a step forward, extending a hand, but she cringed and ran deeper into the house.
Spike stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking from the still-open back door to the direction Tara had run. “Well fuck,” he said.
***
Giles awoke to an incessant banging. Knock, knock, knockknockknock KICK.
“Coming! Coming!” He blearily felt along the wall for the light switch and pulled the door open against the chain-lock.
The sight of Dawn on his doorstep at two in the morning was enough to wake him. Her face was tear-streaked and she was shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Mr. Giles? Can I come in? Something is really, really wrong.”
Continued in Part Eight
Warning: kind of a transition chapter, and remember, please, that the Scoobies are going bug-shaggin' crazy in this story. Got that? NUTS. Okay, now on to the chapter:
Dawn paced in her room. Since hearing Xander’s car pull up she was torn between wanting to go downstairs and not wanting to. Staying in her room was supposed to save her from having to see and hear Buffy blow up, but how was that useful when all she could do is wait to hear it anyway?
She stopped and listened intently. There was no screaming, no shouting, no banging. Maybe it was all right? She heard voices, maybe a little clatter and an “ow.”
Footsteps on the stairs. She hugged herself tight.
Footsteps continued on past her room. The bathroom door opened and closed. She peeked out.
Xander came up the stairs. “Hey, Dawnie,” he said, “We’re going out to eat. What do you feel like? Chicken?”
Dawn hesitantly stepped into the hallway. “Did Buffy go totally ballistic?”
“Oh yeah. So I take it you knew about the flour-party in the kitchen?”
***
Dawn slipped by Xander after a noncommittal grunt about chicken and hurried down to the kitchen to check on Spike.
There was a crash and she ran.
Spike was shaking his hands and muttering “fuck fuck fuck” over an up-ended mixing bowl.
“Are you okay?”
He gave her a contemptuous glare while sucking on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “No. But I’m managing. Get out before big sis catches you.”
She watched him gingerly handle the mixing bowl as though it was red-hot, bouncing it from the side of one hand to the inside of the other wrist all the way to the sink. “Catches me doing what?”
“I dunno. Look, I have some experience dealing with the unreasonable, all right? She’s not going to like you in here with me. And we’re not going to like… her… not liking.” He waved an arm at her and continued juggling items off the counter and into the sink with his fingertips.
“Wait… what’s up with your hands?”
Spike sighed. He leaned against his forearms on the sink-edge. “Niblet, they’re burned. Now go. Buffy’s new to this… this psycho punishment routine, but I’m not. They set up an impossible task, right? You gotta do it, or at least pretend you can do it, try your best, and help isn’t allowed. Ever.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Would you just trust the hundred-year-old and go!”
“Dawnie?”
She turned to see Xander in the door, holding her coat. “Come on, everyone in the Xandermobile.”
She kept staring at Spike, his back sagging against the sink, as Xander dragged her out into the night.
***
Dawn felt like a prisoner, trapped between Xander and Buffy at Mr. Chicken. The bright lights, the food, the smiles and light banter between friends, it all looked normal, but it wasn’t, like some creepy twilight zone episode where you find out at the end everyone is eating babies or something.
“Where’s Anya?” she asked, breaking into a forcibly upbeat conversation on the subject of what movies and tv shows Buffy had missed while dead.
They both looked at her like she was talking Greek.
“Anya?” she repeated. “Your girlfriend? I thought you were living together. Is she getting dinner somewhere else?”
Xander pushed coleslaw around with his fork. “Getting Anya dinner every day isn’t my responsibility,” he said.
She’d never seen Xander look so cold. Dawn sank back in the plastic booth, no longer having appetite enough even for fried chicken.
***
The timer beeped while Spike was manuvering a cookie sheet into the sink, which was rapidly becoming over-full and so the operation felt like a final level of Tetris.
He didn’t even remember what the beep was for until it repeated, more urgently. “Bugger. Cookies.” The baking sheet fell to the floor with a loud bang and he ran to the oven.
Retrieving the last batch of cookies went like this: Twist off knob. Howl at pain. Open door. Shake hand out and jump up and down in pain. Reach into oven with bare hand. Stop, bite forearm to stop scream, accidentally puncture self, repeat, grab oven mitts. Dance around like lunatic sliding wounded hands into, apparently, concrete-and-razor lined oven mitts. Reach into oven. Feel heat awaken each millimeter of burn like it is brand-new. Bang shin on oven-door. Repeat. Screw up courage, grab the bloody thing and fling it at the counter in quickest-possible move, scattering cookies.
At least some of them stuck to the pan.
Spike kicked the oven closed, threw the oven mitts viciously into the wall and indulged in a few seconds of unabridged cursing.
After that, things went smoother. The trick was not to use his palms - to pretend his hands were wooden, unable to bend, and then just balance everything on the fingertips. Actually washing the dishes was going to be something of an exercise in agony, but he got them all in the sink, at least, and the cookbook put away and the counter cleared, which made the kitchen look a lot cleaner than it actually was.
He was wiping the last four off the counter, pushing a rag around with his elbow - when Tara came in the back door. “Oh,” she said, smiling, “Hi Spike. I didn’t…” she pointed to the door and back to him. “I didn’t let too much sun in, did I?”
Spike frowned. “It’s dark out, love.”
She turned and looked out the window. “Oh.” She brushed a smooth fall of blonde hair back from her face and grimaced. “I… I’m forgetting things lately.”
Spike rubbed his wet elbow on his t-shirt. “Thought you split, Glinda. What are you doing back here?”
Tara looked even more confused. “I live here. With Willow.”
“Nooo… you left Willow. Remember? Bint had the gall to mess with your mind. We all support you, luv….”
“I love Willow,” Tara snapped.
Spike fell back from her glare. “Glinda?”
“I love Willow,” she said again, face practically vibrating with passion. “And I’ll never leave her. Ever.” Tara’s face fell, and she suddenly shivered, curling her arms around herself. Her voice became soft, more like her usual tones. “What’s happening to me?”
Spike took a step forward, extending a hand, but she cringed and ran deeper into the house.
Spike stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking from the still-open back door to the direction Tara had run. “Well fuck,” he said.
***
Giles awoke to an incessant banging. Knock, knock, knockknockknock KICK.
“Coming! Coming!” He blearily felt along the wall for the light switch and pulled the door open against the chain-lock.
The sight of Dawn on his doorstep at two in the morning was enough to wake him. Her face was tear-streaked and she was shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Mr. Giles? Can I come in? Something is really, really wrong.”
Continued in Part Eight