An Oldie for Fluff Friday
I saw the posts for Fluff Friday and thought, well, why not re-post this one? It's pretty fluffy! I love the Spike-Dawn friendship and this was my attempt at it, which didn't go quite as expected but...oh, well. Hope you all enjoy.
♥Fluff Friday♥
Summary: In the summer after “The Gift”, Spike helps care for Dawn.
Characters: Tara, Spike, Dawn
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: None, but you better have insulin on hand.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all. It’s his world and we’re all just living in it.
Running breathless down the street, Tara was at a loss.
Not at the crypt, not at Willy’s or the Bronze. Not in any of the four cemeteries I’ve checked so far…Goddess, where is he? Wish we’d had something of his to use for a locator spell, rather than running around Sunnydale looking like this.
At least her disguise was working. No demons had yet accosted her - the few she’d seen had either ignored her or, flatteringly if she chose to look at it that way, ran away from her. That was the whole point, the only reason Xander hadn’t gone searching instead of her. Willow would have come, but after two nearly sleepless days divided between the Summers household and UC-Sunnydale, she was too tired even to attempt the protective spell, so the task had fallen to Tara. Willow had guided her through the incantation and given her the last burst of magickal energy at her disposal, then had collapsed, exhausted, while Tara’s appearance transformed into that of a Fyarl demon. She’d startled the bejesus out of Xander when she’d emerged from their room.
That had been nearly two hours ago and, tired and anxious as she was, holding the glamour was becoming increasingly difficult. Pausing for breath with a hand pressed to her aching side, Tara caught a harried glimpse of her reflection in a storefront window; to her horror, her facial features occasionally melted through the glamour, shimmering through the mottled skin and slimy maw she had conjured. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew on her waning reserves of magic to solidify the proper image, checked to make sure it held, and then ran on.
Where could he be on a Wednesday night?
Wednesday. Wednesday. What was she forgetting, that was special about Wednesday?
“Oh, for the love of Mother Earth,” she muttered a moment later, wanting to smack herself for her stupidity. Wednesday. Blood delivery day at the hospital. Spike himself had told her. She gritted her teeth, turned a corner and forced herself to run faster, toward the hospital.
Sure enough, there he was, sitting with his back against the wall by the quiet delivery bay, sucking the last dregs from a plastic pouch. At the sight of her, he bolted upright, tossing the empty packet aside, and settled easily into a ready stance, fists rising, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Spike!”
His head tilted in that curious-puppy way of his at the unexpected utterance, then lifted as if to scent the air. His lips twitched and his hands unclenched and dropped to his sides, his vampire visage melting away. By the time she halted in front of him, wheezing and panting with her hands on his shoulders, the spell had completely broken. He grinned broadly at her, steadying her with a respectful light clasp of her waist.
“That’s a hell of a glamour, Glinda. For a minute there I thought you were the mate of the Fyarl I bagged an hour ago. Gotta work on the eyes, though - Fyarls have red eyes. And they smell a hell of a lot worse than you do: like raw sewage, not -” he bent and sniffed her hair briefly “ - honeysuckle and lavender.”
“You -’’ She nearly collapsed into a fit of coughing and gasping.
“Breathe first, Witchlet. Talk later,” he chuckled at her.
She glared at him, frustrated, as she drew deep gulps of air. He misunderstood the look and his amusement morphed quickly to defensiveness. “Didn’t nick that blood, ‘f’that’s what you’re thinkin’. Got me an arrangement with the delivery guy. Saved ‘is neck last month, so he gives me a pint of A pos now an’ again. Don’t tell me you’ll grudge me that, Glinda. Man’s got to have some vices, y’know.”
Goddess, did the man never shut up? Not that she could fill the silence if he did, but honestly! “Spike - Dawn -’’
Spike went utterly still, like a pointer on a hunt. “What about Dawn? She all right?”
“Sick.”
“Well, yeah. Summer cold she caught from that silly bint Janice, right? Told me it wasn’t anything to fuss over, bit of a scratchy throat was all -’’
“Started that way,” Tara gasped, relieved that she was finally able to string more than two syllables together. “Turned into - flu.”
His face blanched even whiter at the word, all stark bones and hollows, horror in every chiseled line. Some remembered pain darkened his eyes to near black, and for a moment, drawing the necessary breath to speak seemed beyond him. “Didn’t she -” He paused and tried again. “Didn’t she get one of those - whatsits - flu shots?”
“She had one last year, when -’’ Tara stopped and bit her lip, mournfully lowered her eyes. Last year, when Joyce and Buffy were alive. His hold abruptly weakened and she continued, “Since it’s not really flu season, she’d’ve had to go to the hospital to get one, and we can’t take her there.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“We’re - not sure about the insurance situation. B-besides, taking her to the hospital would alert Social S-Services -’’
The flash in his eyes finished the thought: And they’d take her away. Send her to her no-good father or, worse, put her in foster care. “Right,” he said stonily, jaw tense. “Better go, then.”
“You go ahead -’’
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Not a chance, Glinda.” Without warning he scooped Tara up in his arms as if she weighed no more than eiderdown, and strode away from the loading dock, toward the shadows at the side of the building. “’M’not leavin’ you out here alone and defenseless, with your magick all tapped out from that glamour. You’re a lovely sweet-smellin’ armful, an’ no doubt some nasty’d love a taste of you. Know I would, if I could,” he leered at her, nuzzling at her neck. She squeaked indignantly and pushed at him with a little giggle, and he drew back, returning her grin before falling serious again. “So hold on, we’ll be there in a minute.”
Tara clutched black leather as Spike took off running, rapidly accelerating to maximum vampire speed. For all its swiftness, his pace was amazingly smooth, his footfalls barely discernable to her either in sound or motion, an impressive feat in his heavy Docs. Were it not for the world speeding by in a hazy blur, she would have thought he was standing still, gently rocking her in his arms as she’d seen him do several times with a nightmare-stricken Dawn.
The first time she’d seen that, she’d been startled and apprehensive, ready to whisk the girl away from the damned creature using any means at her disposal. But then she’d noted his gentle, reverent hold on the girl, and the obvious comfort Dawn drew from his presence, and her disquiet had extinguished like flame under water. Cradled lightly in his arms, Tara began to understand the solace Dawn felt in his embrace.
As he ran, she found herself ogling his impassive face, as if by staring hard enough she could discern his secrets in its sharp angles and surprisingly soft curves, discover what made him tick. Buffy had related, with a snigger of disbelief, some of the supposed personal history he’d divulged to her one night, of being an orphan on the streets of Victorian London, growing into a pickpocket, cutthroat, and a seducer of innocents, Big Bad to the Bone from the word Go. Looking at him now, and thinking of all he’d done since Glory arrived in Sunnydale, Tara instinctively knew that that “history” was a fabrication.
He’s too gentle with women - the ones he cares about, anyway - for that to be true. She had never seen him and Drusilla together, but all she had heard of their relationship only served to enhance her theory. She knew enough of vampires to know that infirmity was not tolerated in one of their kind, the weak and injured often used cruelly by their superiors. And yet Spike had protected the mad and, by vampire standards, vulnerable Drusilla for more than a hundred years. When it comes to “his girls”, Spike is - she searched briefly for the right word - well, chivalrous, sort of - I guess -
A chivalrous vampire? Cool logic snorted at the idea, but her heart was quick to take up the challenge.
*How else do you explain it?
The chip, of course! Sneering.
The chip only prevents him from hurting people. It doesn’t make him feel things. It doesn’t make him a different person… (Person? When did I start thinking of Spike as a person?)
Oh, and do you want to remove the chip and find out for sure?
No! But I… no…
To distract herself from the confusing thoughts, she explained aloud the need for his presence: Willow had to teach an all-day computer lab and Xander had to be on site on the other side of town, while she herself was scheduled to take the last exams to make up the credits she’d missed while suffering from Glory’s brain-wipe.
“I know you m-must be tired, what with patrolling every night. We wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t absolutely n-necessary,” she said as he slowed his pace and turned up the walk at 1630 Revello Drive. He turned blue-flame eyes on her and a pang went through her chest at what she read there.
“When it comes to Dawn, I don’t want to be the last resort, Glinda.” Spike’s voice was quiet, his accent smoother than usual. “I want to be the first.” He placed her gently on her feet just as Xander opened the door and nodded curtly to Spike, dark eyes resentful but resigned.
“Just in time, Chips Ahoy. Will’s asleep, and I gotta go -”
Spike’s mouth thinned ominously. “You left ‘er alone?” he snarled, clearly not referring to Willow. He roughly pushed the carpenter aside, flinched briefly as the chip protested, then leapt up the stairs two at a time, swift and silent. Tara followed at a more decorous pace and reached the landing just as he tapped gently on the closed door of Dawn’s bedroom.
“’M comin’ in, Nibblet,” he called softly, opening the door. She saw him recoil momentarily at the smell of sickness - phlegm, infection, sweat - but he recovered quickly, striding to Dawn’s side to brush his fingers against the top of her head. “You awake, Sweet Bit?”
Propped up by pillows in her twin bed, Dawn looked terribly pale and thin, her body forming the slightest of mounds beneath the covers piled atop her. Her breath rasped painfully from between dry lips and two spots of color burned high on her ashen cheeks. Febrile eyes opened, focusing on him with difficulty.
“Spike?” Her voice was the merest breath of sound.
“Yeah, ‘s’me, Bit. You causing trouble again?”
She summoned a bleary smile from somewhere deep within herself, that strong bright Summers place that Spike clearly loved. “It’s what I’m best at.”
He shrugged off his duster and grinned down at her. “You got that right.”
Tara smiled and said quietly, “Spike, I’m going to check on Willow for a minute, all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said abstractedly, all his attention on the softly smiling girl before him. As Tara turned away, she saw him stretch his hand toward Dawn’s forehead as if to check her temperature. Tara hadn’t yet reached her and Willow’s door when she heard Dawn release a hoarse moan, the sound bringing her up short. She hurried back to Dawn’s room, halted in the doorway to see the girl shivering uncontrollably from head to foot and Spike blinking in stunned surprise. Horrified realization swept over his face.
“Dammit, Bit, I’m sorry,” he breathed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The full-body shuddering continued, and helpless tears appeared under Dawn’s closed lashes. Brow furrowed with worry and guilt, Spike cast wildly about, looking for something, then snatched up a shawl from the foot of the bed and whipped it over Dawn’s hair like a babushka, tucking the ends under her chin. He watched her anxiously, hovering over her like a bird with its young.
“What happened?” Tara asked faintly. Shamefaced, Spike straightened and looked at her.
“My fault. Shouldn’ta touched her.” He glared at his hands as if he wished to tear them off. “Soddin’ cold hands, gave ‘er a chill. Only make her sicker, an’ that’s no good.” He shoved his fingers into the platinum hair, squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed into a heap of misery in the bedside chair, muttering, “Bloody waste o’ space, I am. Wasn’ thinkin’ an’ now she’s all shakin’ an’ it’s my fault -”
Tara had to bite her lip, amused but unsurprised. So dramatic. There was no halfway with Spike; he was the personification of extremes. At the moment he was wallowing in guilt for his unwitting mistake; as soon as Dawn’s shivering stopped - and it would, shortly, due to his own quick thinking - he’d be full of relieved happiness, either limp with it or bouncing in his seat like Tigger on speed. Still, his concern for Dawn was achingly sweet, and Tara felt her heart soften further toward him.
She swiftly crossed to him, knelt and laid a soothing hand on his arm. “Spike, no. Stop. Look, it’s working.” Reluctantly, as if fearing what he’d see, Spike lifted his head. Dawn’s shivering had diminished; as they watched, it slowed and then ceased altogether, thanks to the trapped body heat beneath the shawl. The girl murmured and sighed, unwinding, and soon her breathing had evened to that of peaceful sleep. The vampire also relaxed visibly, expelling a held breath with a cautious smile at the witch beside him, his eyes full of relief and pleasure. They were silent for a few minutes, observing the slumbering girl, until Tara stifled a yawn. Spike tore his eyes from Dawn and surveyed her, frowning slightly.
“You’re all in, Glinda. Go to bed. I’ll stay with the Bit.”
The blonde witch started to protest that he was at least as tired as she and needed sleep just as badly, but she subsided at Spike’s pointedly raised brows. When she turned to go, however, Spike reached out and touched her arm, beckoned her close. Avoiding her questioning eyes, he murmured into her ear, “Is there one of those heatin’ pad things about?” As she drew back to nod at him, he gave her a fleeting glance, plainly abashed and wary. She suppressed the tremulous smile tugging at her lips, sparing him any further indignity, and retrieved the pad from the bathroom without a word.
However, she could not help blinking hard when Spike plugged the pad into the wall outlet and turned the temperature control to the highest setting, then pressed the pad between the palms of his hands. Nor could she remain silent as she observed him, the weary but determined set of his powerful shoulders, the intent expression as he watched over his girl. She bent to whisper to him, “Need anything else? There’s blood in the fridge.”
“Thanks. Maybe later.” His eyes remained fixed on Dawn. He flinched slightly as Tara, greatly daring, slid her arm around his shoulders, but she stubbornly refused to be intimidated into releasing him. After a moment, he peered at her, apprehensive and mildly irritated because of it. “What’re you on about, witch?” he growled softly.
She favored him with her brightest smile and breathed into his ear, “You know what they say, Spike - Cold hands, warm heart.” With one final squeeze of his shoulder she straightened, making for the door. As she quietly opened it, his choked rumble reached her ears.
“You’re bleedin’ daft, you are. M’heart’s just as cold an’ dead as the rest of me.”
In the doorway she turned and fixed him with a knowing look. He stared a challenge back at her, but it wavered, and just as it fell she murmured, “Yeah. Right.” And closed the door behind her.
♥Fluff Friday♥
Summary: In the summer after “The Gift”, Spike helps care for Dawn.
Characters: Tara, Spike, Dawn
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: None, but you better have insulin on hand.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all. It’s his world and we’re all just living in it.
Running breathless down the street, Tara was at a loss.
Not at the crypt, not at Willy’s or the Bronze. Not in any of the four cemeteries I’ve checked so far…Goddess, where is he? Wish we’d had something of his to use for a locator spell, rather than running around Sunnydale looking like this.
At least her disguise was working. No demons had yet accosted her - the few she’d seen had either ignored her or, flatteringly if she chose to look at it that way, ran away from her. That was the whole point, the only reason Xander hadn’t gone searching instead of her. Willow would have come, but after two nearly sleepless days divided between the Summers household and UC-Sunnydale, she was too tired even to attempt the protective spell, so the task had fallen to Tara. Willow had guided her through the incantation and given her the last burst of magickal energy at her disposal, then had collapsed, exhausted, while Tara’s appearance transformed into that of a Fyarl demon. She’d startled the bejesus out of Xander when she’d emerged from their room.
That had been nearly two hours ago and, tired and anxious as she was, holding the glamour was becoming increasingly difficult. Pausing for breath with a hand pressed to her aching side, Tara caught a harried glimpse of her reflection in a storefront window; to her horror, her facial features occasionally melted through the glamour, shimmering through the mottled skin and slimy maw she had conjured. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew on her waning reserves of magic to solidify the proper image, checked to make sure it held, and then ran on.
Where could he be on a Wednesday night?
Wednesday. Wednesday. What was she forgetting, that was special about Wednesday?
“Oh, for the love of Mother Earth,” she muttered a moment later, wanting to smack herself for her stupidity. Wednesday. Blood delivery day at the hospital. Spike himself had told her. She gritted her teeth, turned a corner and forced herself to run faster, toward the hospital.
Sure enough, there he was, sitting with his back against the wall by the quiet delivery bay, sucking the last dregs from a plastic pouch. At the sight of her, he bolted upright, tossing the empty packet aside, and settled easily into a ready stance, fists rising, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet.
“Spike!”
His head tilted in that curious-puppy way of his at the unexpected utterance, then lifted as if to scent the air. His lips twitched and his hands unclenched and dropped to his sides, his vampire visage melting away. By the time she halted in front of him, wheezing and panting with her hands on his shoulders, the spell had completely broken. He grinned broadly at her, steadying her with a respectful light clasp of her waist.
“That’s a hell of a glamour, Glinda. For a minute there I thought you were the mate of the Fyarl I bagged an hour ago. Gotta work on the eyes, though - Fyarls have red eyes. And they smell a hell of a lot worse than you do: like raw sewage, not -” he bent and sniffed her hair briefly “ - honeysuckle and lavender.”
“You -’’ She nearly collapsed into a fit of coughing and gasping.
“Breathe first, Witchlet. Talk later,” he chuckled at her.
She glared at him, frustrated, as she drew deep gulps of air. He misunderstood the look and his amusement morphed quickly to defensiveness. “Didn’t nick that blood, ‘f’that’s what you’re thinkin’. Got me an arrangement with the delivery guy. Saved ‘is neck last month, so he gives me a pint of A pos now an’ again. Don’t tell me you’ll grudge me that, Glinda. Man’s got to have some vices, y’know.”
Goddess, did the man never shut up? Not that she could fill the silence if he did, but honestly! “Spike - Dawn -’’
Spike went utterly still, like a pointer on a hunt. “What about Dawn? She all right?”
“Sick.”
“Well, yeah. Summer cold she caught from that silly bint Janice, right? Told me it wasn’t anything to fuss over, bit of a scratchy throat was all -’’
“Started that way,” Tara gasped, relieved that she was finally able to string more than two syllables together. “Turned into - flu.”
His face blanched even whiter at the word, all stark bones and hollows, horror in every chiseled line. Some remembered pain darkened his eyes to near black, and for a moment, drawing the necessary breath to speak seemed beyond him. “Didn’t she -” He paused and tried again. “Didn’t she get one of those - whatsits - flu shots?”
“She had one last year, when -’’ Tara stopped and bit her lip, mournfully lowered her eyes. Last year, when Joyce and Buffy were alive. His hold abruptly weakened and she continued, “Since it’s not really flu season, she’d’ve had to go to the hospital to get one, and we can’t take her there.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“We’re - not sure about the insurance situation. B-besides, taking her to the hospital would alert Social S-Services -’’
The flash in his eyes finished the thought: And they’d take her away. Send her to her no-good father or, worse, put her in foster care. “Right,” he said stonily, jaw tense. “Better go, then.”
“You go ahead -’’
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Not a chance, Glinda.” Without warning he scooped Tara up in his arms as if she weighed no more than eiderdown, and strode away from the loading dock, toward the shadows at the side of the building. “’M’not leavin’ you out here alone and defenseless, with your magick all tapped out from that glamour. You’re a lovely sweet-smellin’ armful, an’ no doubt some nasty’d love a taste of you. Know I would, if I could,” he leered at her, nuzzling at her neck. She squeaked indignantly and pushed at him with a little giggle, and he drew back, returning her grin before falling serious again. “So hold on, we’ll be there in a minute.”
Tara clutched black leather as Spike took off running, rapidly accelerating to maximum vampire speed. For all its swiftness, his pace was amazingly smooth, his footfalls barely discernable to her either in sound or motion, an impressive feat in his heavy Docs. Were it not for the world speeding by in a hazy blur, she would have thought he was standing still, gently rocking her in his arms as she’d seen him do several times with a nightmare-stricken Dawn.
The first time she’d seen that, she’d been startled and apprehensive, ready to whisk the girl away from the damned creature using any means at her disposal. But then she’d noted his gentle, reverent hold on the girl, and the obvious comfort Dawn drew from his presence, and her disquiet had extinguished like flame under water. Cradled lightly in his arms, Tara began to understand the solace Dawn felt in his embrace.
As he ran, she found herself ogling his impassive face, as if by staring hard enough she could discern his secrets in its sharp angles and surprisingly soft curves, discover what made him tick. Buffy had related, with a snigger of disbelief, some of the supposed personal history he’d divulged to her one night, of being an orphan on the streets of Victorian London, growing into a pickpocket, cutthroat, and a seducer of innocents, Big Bad to the Bone from the word Go. Looking at him now, and thinking of all he’d done since Glory arrived in Sunnydale, Tara instinctively knew that that “history” was a fabrication.
He’s too gentle with women - the ones he cares about, anyway - for that to be true. She had never seen him and Drusilla together, but all she had heard of their relationship only served to enhance her theory. She knew enough of vampires to know that infirmity was not tolerated in one of their kind, the weak and injured often used cruelly by their superiors. And yet Spike had protected the mad and, by vampire standards, vulnerable Drusilla for more than a hundred years. When it comes to “his girls”, Spike is - she searched briefly for the right word - well, chivalrous, sort of - I guess -
A chivalrous vampire? Cool logic snorted at the idea, but her heart was quick to take up the challenge.
*How else do you explain it?
The chip, of course! Sneering.
The chip only prevents him from hurting people. It doesn’t make him feel things. It doesn’t make him a different person… (Person? When did I start thinking of Spike as a person?)
Oh, and do you want to remove the chip and find out for sure?
No! But I… no…
To distract herself from the confusing thoughts, she explained aloud the need for his presence: Willow had to teach an all-day computer lab and Xander had to be on site on the other side of town, while she herself was scheduled to take the last exams to make up the credits she’d missed while suffering from Glory’s brain-wipe.
“I know you m-must be tired, what with patrolling every night. We wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t absolutely n-necessary,” she said as he slowed his pace and turned up the walk at 1630 Revello Drive. He turned blue-flame eyes on her and a pang went through her chest at what she read there.
“When it comes to Dawn, I don’t want to be the last resort, Glinda.” Spike’s voice was quiet, his accent smoother than usual. “I want to be the first.” He placed her gently on her feet just as Xander opened the door and nodded curtly to Spike, dark eyes resentful but resigned.
“Just in time, Chips Ahoy. Will’s asleep, and I gotta go -”
Spike’s mouth thinned ominously. “You left ‘er alone?” he snarled, clearly not referring to Willow. He roughly pushed the carpenter aside, flinched briefly as the chip protested, then leapt up the stairs two at a time, swift and silent. Tara followed at a more decorous pace and reached the landing just as he tapped gently on the closed door of Dawn’s bedroom.
“’M comin’ in, Nibblet,” he called softly, opening the door. She saw him recoil momentarily at the smell of sickness - phlegm, infection, sweat - but he recovered quickly, striding to Dawn’s side to brush his fingers against the top of her head. “You awake, Sweet Bit?”
Propped up by pillows in her twin bed, Dawn looked terribly pale and thin, her body forming the slightest of mounds beneath the covers piled atop her. Her breath rasped painfully from between dry lips and two spots of color burned high on her ashen cheeks. Febrile eyes opened, focusing on him with difficulty.
“Spike?” Her voice was the merest breath of sound.
“Yeah, ‘s’me, Bit. You causing trouble again?”
She summoned a bleary smile from somewhere deep within herself, that strong bright Summers place that Spike clearly loved. “It’s what I’m best at.”
He shrugged off his duster and grinned down at her. “You got that right.”
Tara smiled and said quietly, “Spike, I’m going to check on Willow for a minute, all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said abstractedly, all his attention on the softly smiling girl before him. As Tara turned away, she saw him stretch his hand toward Dawn’s forehead as if to check her temperature. Tara hadn’t yet reached her and Willow’s door when she heard Dawn release a hoarse moan, the sound bringing her up short. She hurried back to Dawn’s room, halted in the doorway to see the girl shivering uncontrollably from head to foot and Spike blinking in stunned surprise. Horrified realization swept over his face.
“Dammit, Bit, I’m sorry,” he breathed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The full-body shuddering continued, and helpless tears appeared under Dawn’s closed lashes. Brow furrowed with worry and guilt, Spike cast wildly about, looking for something, then snatched up a shawl from the foot of the bed and whipped it over Dawn’s hair like a babushka, tucking the ends under her chin. He watched her anxiously, hovering over her like a bird with its young.
“What happened?” Tara asked faintly. Shamefaced, Spike straightened and looked at her.
“My fault. Shouldn’ta touched her.” He glared at his hands as if he wished to tear them off. “Soddin’ cold hands, gave ‘er a chill. Only make her sicker, an’ that’s no good.” He shoved his fingers into the platinum hair, squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed into a heap of misery in the bedside chair, muttering, “Bloody waste o’ space, I am. Wasn’ thinkin’ an’ now she’s all shakin’ an’ it’s my fault -”
Tara had to bite her lip, amused but unsurprised. So dramatic. There was no halfway with Spike; he was the personification of extremes. At the moment he was wallowing in guilt for his unwitting mistake; as soon as Dawn’s shivering stopped - and it would, shortly, due to his own quick thinking - he’d be full of relieved happiness, either limp with it or bouncing in his seat like Tigger on speed. Still, his concern for Dawn was achingly sweet, and Tara felt her heart soften further toward him.
She swiftly crossed to him, knelt and laid a soothing hand on his arm. “Spike, no. Stop. Look, it’s working.” Reluctantly, as if fearing what he’d see, Spike lifted his head. Dawn’s shivering had diminished; as they watched, it slowed and then ceased altogether, thanks to the trapped body heat beneath the shawl. The girl murmured and sighed, unwinding, and soon her breathing had evened to that of peaceful sleep. The vampire also relaxed visibly, expelling a held breath with a cautious smile at the witch beside him, his eyes full of relief and pleasure. They were silent for a few minutes, observing the slumbering girl, until Tara stifled a yawn. Spike tore his eyes from Dawn and surveyed her, frowning slightly.
“You’re all in, Glinda. Go to bed. I’ll stay with the Bit.”
The blonde witch started to protest that he was at least as tired as she and needed sleep just as badly, but she subsided at Spike’s pointedly raised brows. When she turned to go, however, Spike reached out and touched her arm, beckoned her close. Avoiding her questioning eyes, he murmured into her ear, “Is there one of those heatin’ pad things about?” As she drew back to nod at him, he gave her a fleeting glance, plainly abashed and wary. She suppressed the tremulous smile tugging at her lips, sparing him any further indignity, and retrieved the pad from the bathroom without a word.
However, she could not help blinking hard when Spike plugged the pad into the wall outlet and turned the temperature control to the highest setting, then pressed the pad between the palms of his hands. Nor could she remain silent as she observed him, the weary but determined set of his powerful shoulders, the intent expression as he watched over his girl. She bent to whisper to him, “Need anything else? There’s blood in the fridge.”
“Thanks. Maybe later.” His eyes remained fixed on Dawn. He flinched slightly as Tara, greatly daring, slid her arm around his shoulders, but she stubbornly refused to be intimidated into releasing him. After a moment, he peered at her, apprehensive and mildly irritated because of it. “What’re you on about, witch?” he growled softly.
She favored him with her brightest smile and breathed into his ear, “You know what they say, Spike - Cold hands, warm heart.” With one final squeeze of his shoulder she straightened, making for the door. As she quietly opened it, his choked rumble reached her ears.
“You’re bleedin’ daft, you are. M’heart’s just as cold an’ dead as the rest of me.”
In the doorway she turned and fixed him with a knowing look. He stared a challenge back at her, but it wavered, and just as it fell she murmured, “Yeah. Right.” And closed the door behind her.