Ficlet: A Glimpse of the Life of a Latchkey Kid
Took a look at this week's prompt at tamingthemuse. Wrote ficlet. Too late now for the submission to count, but it was a fun exercise nonetheless. Standard disclaimer applies, i.e. Joss's creations are not mine.
Prompt: 455 - Smirk
Rating: G/FRC
Fandom/Continuity: BtVS, post S5 season finale, “The Gift”
Pairing: Spike & Dawn
She had the distinct sensation of floating in mid air. Weightless. Guiltfree. Calm. Safe. No wind whipping her hair against her face, strands sticking to tear tracks, as on Glory’s platform. No burden to sink her under, leaden limbs propping up a helpless body, equating her life with the world’s death. Not enough forward momentum to be flying; too soothing to be stationary. Was she...being rocked? Cradled like a baby? … Mom?
As soon as the thought entered her mind, the peace shattered, and she was falling, falling…
She gasped, an arm shooting out to latch onto something, anything. “Mommy?” Her desperation came out between a shout and a sob.
“Shhh-- It’s me, Nibblet.”
Disappointment battling relief, Dawn opened her eyes. It was pitch black.
She blinked. It took a moment for the grogginess to recede. Spike was lowering her into bed, the feeling of cold mattress pressing into her body not particularly reassuring. She must’ve fallen asleep downstairs, and he’d just carried her up. He continued to hover awkwardly, until she noticed the fistful of leather jacket in her hand and relaxed, then tried to smooth out the rumpled lapel. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it.”
She didn’t hear him move, and in the low light, she could barely make out his outline. “Okay, creepy much? We do own lights in this house.”
A soft click, and then she was shielding her eyes from the abundant light that poured over her from the nightstand, squinting at Spike. She sat up and leaned away, retreating into the shadows.
“Better?”
“Not really.”
Spike dragged a chair next to her bed and sat astride it, his arms resting on the back. “You wanna talk about it?”
Dawn didn’t. She was sulking and wanted to go on sulking on principle, continuing to stew in anger about being neglected and abandoned. Coming home to an empty house was one thing, returning dejectedly to the same house after a bout of pointless-because-unwitnessed teenage rebellion, only to find it still empty and careless, and now dark, triggered a new wave of hurt. Then, adding insult to injury, she had fallen asleep on the living room sofa without dinner like a most pathetic latchkey kid… Was it too much to ask for a constant, responsible adult in her life? Never mind that Spike was there now. His presence did not remove the sting she still felt so vividly. She wanted to lash out.
She went on the defensive, “What are you, Dr. Phil now?”
“Oi! I’m much better looking than that pillock!”
Dawn suppressed a giggle but couldn’t stop a smile.
Spike smiled, too. “Where’re the witches? Dinn’t know I was s’posed to show earlier.”
Dawn put on her woe-is-me look. Her bottom lip might have trembled in conjunction. “Out. Summer jobs. Wiccan meeting. Hot date. Pick one.”
Spike seemed to be studying her. Tenderly, he said, “You eat yet?”
Great. Now the vampire was pitying her. “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach, having not gotten that memo, growled all too disobediently at that moment.
“Right,” he said, then jumped up, full of energy. “C’mon, I’ll make you dinner.”
Spike, the very flammable vampire who had only mastered the microwave last year without making a bloody mess, was going to cook for her? This she got to see.
“Okay,” she said, forgetting that she had resolved to mope and languish. She bounced down the stairs after Spike, ignoring the smirk at his lips.
Prompt: 455 - Smirk
Rating: G/FRC
Fandom/Continuity: BtVS, post S5 season finale, “The Gift”
Pairing: Spike & Dawn
She had the distinct sensation of floating in mid air. Weightless. Guiltfree. Calm. Safe. No wind whipping her hair against her face, strands sticking to tear tracks, as on Glory’s platform. No burden to sink her under, leaden limbs propping up a helpless body, equating her life with the world’s death. Not enough forward momentum to be flying; too soothing to be stationary. Was she...being rocked? Cradled like a baby? … Mom?
As soon as the thought entered her mind, the peace shattered, and she was falling, falling…
She gasped, an arm shooting out to latch onto something, anything. “Mommy?” Her desperation came out between a shout and a sob.
“Shhh-- It’s me, Nibblet.”
Disappointment battling relief, Dawn opened her eyes. It was pitch black.
She blinked. It took a moment for the grogginess to recede. Spike was lowering her into bed, the feeling of cold mattress pressing into her body not particularly reassuring. She must’ve fallen asleep downstairs, and he’d just carried her up. He continued to hover awkwardly, until she noticed the fistful of leather jacket in her hand and relaxed, then tried to smooth out the rumpled lapel. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it.”
She didn’t hear him move, and in the low light, she could barely make out his outline. “Okay, creepy much? We do own lights in this house.”
A soft click, and then she was shielding her eyes from the abundant light that poured over her from the nightstand, squinting at Spike. She sat up and leaned away, retreating into the shadows.
“Better?”
“Not really.”
Spike dragged a chair next to her bed and sat astride it, his arms resting on the back. “You wanna talk about it?”
Dawn didn’t. She was sulking and wanted to go on sulking on principle, continuing to stew in anger about being neglected and abandoned. Coming home to an empty house was one thing, returning dejectedly to the same house after a bout of pointless-because-unwitnessed teenage rebellion, only to find it still empty and careless, and now dark, triggered a new wave of hurt. Then, adding insult to injury, she had fallen asleep on the living room sofa without dinner like a most pathetic latchkey kid… Was it too much to ask for a constant, responsible adult in her life? Never mind that Spike was there now. His presence did not remove the sting she still felt so vividly. She wanted to lash out.
She went on the defensive, “What are you, Dr. Phil now?”
“Oi! I’m much better looking than that pillock!”
Dawn suppressed a giggle but couldn’t stop a smile.
Spike smiled, too. “Where’re the witches? Dinn’t know I was s’posed to show earlier.”
Dawn put on her woe-is-me look. Her bottom lip might have trembled in conjunction. “Out. Summer jobs. Wiccan meeting. Hot date. Pick one.”
Spike seemed to be studying her. Tenderly, he said, “You eat yet?”
Great. Now the vampire was pitying her. “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach, having not gotten that memo, growled all too disobediently at that moment.
“Right,” he said, then jumped up, full of energy. “C’mon, I’ll make you dinner.”
Spike, the very flammable vampire who had only mastered the microwave last year without making a bloody mess, was going to cook for her? This she got to see.
“Okay,” she said, forgetting that she had resolved to mope and languish. She bounced down the stairs after Spike, ignoring the smirk at his lips.