Buffy Ficlet (Spike & Dawn)
This is a response to yma2's challenge to write a brief fic in response to the prompt "jaded." She asked for a "writing sample," which is what this is: fast, unbeta'ed, Buffy future fic, spoilers through Angel S5, Spike & Dawn, PG for brief reference the AR, 500 words. Dawn's thinking in her dorm room.
Jaded
Dawn looked at her book and realized she wasn't reading. What had put Spike in her head this time? Right: Pride and Prejudice because it was nineteenth century and British--which was stupid 'cause it wasn't like that was his society; it was written decades before he was born.
Giving up on the Austen, she stared out her dorm window. These past few months, it was like he was living in her brain. And that was stupid, too, because she hadn't even seen him for, what, four years? She just vaguely knew he was alive and fighting crime with Angel. And was it wasn't like they'd had a relationship--not "relationship" relationship, just any relationship--even before Sunnydale had become amulet apocalypse ground zero.
She'd hated him after he tried to rape Buffy. She'd felt betrayed, which was a new low of stupid because he'd never pretended he was anything but evil. The fact she couldn't get that just meant she'd been naïve.
You could cut the irony with a knife though: the way he'd come back all good and soul-having just when she was finally getting picture that vampire equals evil.
Sometimes, that last year, after her rage had died to a simmer, she'd dream about putting things back together, imagine telling him she knew that his soul made things different, and if Buffy could forgive him, so could she. But then, the whole damn year went by, and he acted like she didn't even exist. And how perverse was that? He had a soul now, so he ought to be all perceptive, right? Instead, it was more all-about-Buffy than ever. Not a word for Dawn, not a look in her direction. So fine, if he didn't care about her anymore, she sure as hell had no reason to care about him.
She'd told herself it was no biggie when he died. Heroic and all, but not a big deal for her. And then, hey, Buffy's Slayers announce that he's back. The Slayers tell them. He's back from the dead, and he can't even be bothered to let them know, not even let Buffy know. Dawn wanted to get in his face and say, "So how would feel if Buffy had come back from the dead and never bothered to tell you?" But she didn't, because who needed it? He wasn't worth flying to L.A. for. Not after he came all the way to Rome, running around after Buffy, and, according to Andrew, couldn't even manage a "So, how's Dawn?"
Sometimes, she'd imagine dumping all of it on him. What a bastard he'd been to her for years. But it was too many years, too much silence. Even her anger was jaded. He'd moved on; so had she. So she picked up her book and tried to care whether Darcy would ever overcome his pride.
Jaded
Dawn looked at her book and realized she wasn't reading. What had put Spike in her head this time? Right: Pride and Prejudice because it was nineteenth century and British--which was stupid 'cause it wasn't like that was his society; it was written decades before he was born.
Giving up on the Austen, she stared out her dorm window. These past few months, it was like he was living in her brain. And that was stupid, too, because she hadn't even seen him for, what, four years? She just vaguely knew he was alive and fighting crime with Angel. And was it wasn't like they'd had a relationship--not "relationship" relationship, just any relationship--even before Sunnydale had become amulet apocalypse ground zero.
She'd hated him after he tried to rape Buffy. She'd felt betrayed, which was a new low of stupid because he'd never pretended he was anything but evil. The fact she couldn't get that just meant she'd been naïve.
You could cut the irony with a knife though: the way he'd come back all good and soul-having just when she was finally getting picture that vampire equals evil.
Sometimes, that last year, after her rage had died to a simmer, she'd dream about putting things back together, imagine telling him she knew that his soul made things different, and if Buffy could forgive him, so could she. But then, the whole damn year went by, and he acted like she didn't even exist. And how perverse was that? He had a soul now, so he ought to be all perceptive, right? Instead, it was more all-about-Buffy than ever. Not a word for Dawn, not a look in her direction. So fine, if he didn't care about her anymore, she sure as hell had no reason to care about him.
She'd told herself it was no biggie when he died. Heroic and all, but not a big deal for her. And then, hey, Buffy's Slayers announce that he's back. The Slayers tell them. He's back from the dead, and he can't even be bothered to let them know, not even let Buffy know. Dawn wanted to get in his face and say, "So how would feel if Buffy had come back from the dead and never bothered to tell you?" But she didn't, because who needed it? He wasn't worth flying to L.A. for. Not after he came all the way to Rome, running around after Buffy, and, according to Andrew, couldn't even manage a "So, how's Dawn?"
Sometimes, she'd imagine dumping all of it on him. What a bastard he'd been to her for years. But it was too many years, too much silence. Even her anger was jaded. He'd moved on; so had she. So she picked up her book and tried to care whether Darcy would ever overcome his pride.