
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3837.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Spike/Dawn_Summers
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Romance, Dark, Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-04-04 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 3090
****** Tied ******
by snowpuppies
Summary
     "They're tied together, now and, in a way, he thinks they always have
     been."
     After The Gift, Dawn is Called. Spike has other ideas.
Notes
     Beta'd by Kitty_Poker.
***** Chapter 1 *****
[http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v89/snowpuppies/Random/Banners/fic%20title/
                                   Tied.png]
 

A pillow sails through the air, landing squarely on the side of the BuffyBot's
head.
"Dawn is my little sister. She cries a lot."
"I do not!"
Filled with a strange mix of amusement and grief, Spike watches as Dawn stomps
up the stairs, waiting only until the 'Bot leaves the room before he follows,
climbing to the second floor as well.
It's what he does now.
Follow.
Watch.
He has since the minute they'd returned to the house; the moment he regained
his senses after watching Buffy fall, he began watching.
He knows that even if they share the same blood, it's a long-shot, but there's
just something niggling in the back of his mind, some instinct that screams at
him to watch.
Just in case.
So he does.
It's not all he does, though. In between watching her cry and scream and throw
food at Red and stomp around the house—and how does a girl so small make so
much noise?—he gets ready. He packs away supplies: money, food,
clothing…whatever he can get his hands on, whatever will be useful.
He hopes it won't be necessary, but he can't take any chances.
He promised to protect, and that's what he'll do.
 
***
 
The first sign comes about a month after the tower, after the fall, after the
whole world went to hell.
It's long enough in coming that he knows there's been another, maybe two, in
between. Another girl, bright and happy and young, snuffed out before she even
began to understand what she was.
He used to hunt them for fun.
Now the idea makes him sick.
 
And all signs point toward Dawn as the next.
 
He can't really blame her—the 'Bot wasn't meant to take over big sisterly
duties—and after a while, the fake smile and the perky, happy comments get to
be too much, and she pushes, and the 'Bot's arm pops off.
It's not a confirmation—it could just be that there was a weak joint, that the
weld wasn't done correctly—but it's enough that he begins the last of his
preparations.
And has a talk with Glinda.
There's no use running if you can be tracked with a simple spell, after all.
 
***
 
The confirmation comes when she stakes her first vamp.
Oh, it's possible for an ordinary human to stake a vamp—hell, if Harris can do
it, anyone can—but it's not the staking that cinches the deal, it's the way she
does it that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
They're just returning from a routine patrol—Red, Harris, Glinda and
himself—when they're ambushed, about twenty yards from the Summers' front door.
They've got a routine, a well-coordinated dynamic that works for them most of
the time, but they're caught unawares, and there are two vamps for each of the
humans, three for himself. He can handle it, of course, and he's not concerned
for the witches—they're strong enough together to handle their four—but Harris
has already been through the wringer tonight, and out of the corner of his eye,
Spike sees him falter.
He's trying to cross the yard to help the boy out when the front door slams
open and a brown, blue and pink blur flies into the fray.
It's Dawn, stake in hand, scowl in place as she stakes two vamps and pulls
Harris from the ground, shoving him towards the house—where Demon Girl's
brandishing a cross on the front porch—before she runs to help the witches.
She's…amazing, dodging and leaping and whirling and slaying, not quite like
Buffy—she's taller, and longer limbs require different moves, different
balance—but still, elegant and beautiful and supernaturally strong.
But it's not the physical grace and poise that confirms his suspicions, it's
the glow in her eyes as she wades through the floating ash, that hunger that's
been present in every Slayer he's ever fought.
And it's then that he knows.
Dawn's a Slayer, and the Council will be there any day.
 
They leave that very night.
 
***
 
It's not that he doesn't think Dawn's capable.
She could learn the skills, easily, and with the Big Bad as her teacher, she'd
be ready for nearly anything.
It's not the physical aspect of Slaying that concerns Spike, however, it's the
emotional.
Dawn's much too soft-hearted to be a Slayer. She has too much faith in
others—reminds him of Joyce, the way she took him in and treated him as a man,
even while he was a monster—and one day, it'll mean her death.
That's no life for his Bit.
And it's not what he promised.
And he doesn't even want to think about what would happen to her if the Council
sends in one of their Wankers.
 
So he'll do the only thing he can do: take Dawn and run.
 
***
 
They run for three months, sleeping in abandoned buildings and houses—in a bed
if they can find one—living hand to mouth and foot to pavement.
After a week, she's learned how to use her newly-found Slayer grace to distract
the locals while he picks their pockets. And if there are any problems, she
takes care of the humans, and they deal with the demons together.
It's a good system, and they work well together.
The Council catches up with them twice, but he's got a good sixty years of
experience on the oldest of the bunch and, time and again, they slip away.
He knows their luck will run out eventually.
 
***
 
He runs, Dawn's heaving breath echoing next to him, and he wonders if this time
will be the last.
He jerks to the side just as a tranquilizer dart whizzes past his skull—the
Council's hunters are gaining on them—when in the distance he hears a
rumble…and a whistle.
Eyes widening, he grabs Dawn's hand and pulls her towards their only hope; even
the hunters' ATV's can't keep up with a train moving at full speed. They
scramble through a wooded area, jumping fallen limbs and logs and roots,
plowing through brambles, until they stumble onto the track. The train is
pulling away, just ahead.
The forest has given them a bit of leeway, but it'll all go to shit if they
don't catch that train.
So they run, fingers knotted together, drawing closer…closer…
Suddenly, she slips from his grip.
Turning, he scoops her up and begins to run again. He's just about reached an
open boxcar when he feels the hot liquid splashing against his face and neck;
she's bleeding, but he doesn't have time to stop. With a heave, he throws them
both into the car.
She falls to the floor, unmoving.
Scrambling to her, he finally sees the damage: one of the hunters' darts hit
her neck.
It nicked the jugular.
A pool of blood is spreading beneath her as blue eyes flutter up at him.
"Spike."
"Bit." He presses his fingers to the wound, but he knows it's too little, too
late, and he sees it all crumbling down around him. He swore to protect her,
and she's dying.
Gasping for breath, she stares into his eyes.
"Change…me…"
"No." There's no way. "This isn't…I'm supposed to protect you—this isn't what
Big Sis would want."
Her eyes narrow as a hand shoots out the grasp the collar of his t-shirt—it's
surprisingly strong, even for a Slayer who's lost so much blood—and gives him a
shake.
"I'm..." She shudders, coughing a little; he feels the blood splatter against
his face. "Not. Buffy." She growls.
He closes his eyes.
She's right.
So he lets himself be pulled down, closer, her rasping breath soft against his
cheek, until her moist lips brush his neck and blunt, human teeth sink into his
flesh. He leans into her hold, and lets her drink.
Later, when her body slumps to the floor and her eyes glaze over, he holds her
close, and for the first time in a hundred and twenty-one years, he prays.
He just doesn't know what he's praying for.
***** Chapter 2 *****
[http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v89/snowpuppies/Random/Banners/fic%20title/
                                   Tied.png]
 

He sits, slouched against the wall, watching.
The steady click-clack of the train fills the boxcar and pulses through his
body; it's surprisingly comfortable, considering he's had more than a century
to get used to the lack of movement in his chest.
Suddenly, the air shifts and he sits up. Slipping to his knees, he inches
towards the body on the floor.
He knows it won't be long and he's not disappointed—in moments, bright blue
eyes open and Dawn sits up, the action a little too effortless, a little too
smooth to be natural.
She doesn't blink, but studies him closely; the look is predatory, but there's
a spark of recognition underneath the hunger.
He doesn't move, but as they stare at one another, he feels a strange
connection.
The noise of the train fades away.
 
The world is still…
 
…and everything he knows and everything he's experienced in all his years is
hanging by a thread and suddenly he realizes that the next few moments will
change his entire universe, and instead of dreading the moment, he's hungering
for it. He can feel it, taste it, can almost touch the future sitting just a
few feet away…
…but he doesn’t have to reach for it.
Before he can finish his thoughts, she moves, sailing across the cabin to crash
against his body, tackling him to the floor. He screams as his neck is ripped
open, small, delicate-looking hands leaving bruises on his shoulders.
In moments, the pain fades into a dull ache and his eyes flutter shut as Dawn's
small body burrows against him, her soft, needy whimpers echoing in the empty
boxcar.
He's floating, high in the clouds, and he's never felt so right.
 
The sucking ceases at his neck and moves to his lips; he opens his mouth to her
tongue as they kiss for the first time.
Before—even before the tower—there had been moments, times when the air between
them was charged with meaning, with potential, but he always held back. He
didn't want to meet the end of the Slayer's stake and, more importantly, Dawn
had been so young. And in the past few months…sharing a bed, waking, spooned,
with her warm, soft body, her arse snuggled against his groin…there were times
he'd nearly given in.
He knows now that it was inevitable.
He belongs to Dawn now, and she's always belonged to him.
He grunts as his jeans are ripped open and his shirt is torn from his body.
Sprawled on the floor, he lies helpless, pinned by Dawn's yellow eyes as she
strips him, metaphorically and literally, hikes up her skirt, tears the panties
from her body, and sinks down on his cock.
He yells, a long, ragged cry that rises above the click-clack of the train, as
she begins to rock.
Surfacing from his stupor, he surges upward, bucking into her body, hands
rising from the floor to knot in her hair. He tugs and she leans forward; the
bones in his face shift as he licks the dried blood from her neck, worrying the
wound with his tongue until a trickle of metallic fluid paints his tongue.
He growls, sinking his fangs into Dawn's pale flesh as his hips bang into her
thighs, the slapping and squelching of their flesh blending with the whimpers
and moans from their mouths.
She shudders above him, small, cool hands gripping his shoulders, his neck, his
head in desperation. Her knees press into his sides as she comes, squeezing his
prick until the world turns white, then black, and he explodes.
He slumps to the ground, arms cradling the weight on his chest.
He's always been love's bitch, but he's never before felt so possessed.
He thinks it was worth waiting for.
 
***
 
He gives her a choice.
Once upon a time…a month, even a week ago, he'd have made the decision for
them, carting Bitty Buffy back to Red in a heartbeat, get her slapped with a
soul, fixed up nice just like big sis would want.
But he knows it's not his decision to make.
It's what Buffy would want, but Buffy's dead, and Dawn will never be the girl
she was before. He has to live with the Dawn that exists now, she has to live
with the Dawn that exists now, the one with fangs and yellow eyes and a
distinct lack of a heartbeat—although both incarnations have a disturbing
fondness for those nancy boy bands.
It's a distinction that helps when, come morning, he's balls-deep in her cunt,
fangs scraping against her bare chest while sharp nails carve her brand into
his back—this is Dawn now, and that's all that matters.
He's a bit shocked when she chooses to go home.
 
***
 
He chooses their victims very carefully.
He has since she woke, really, carefully sticking to the guidelines she'd set
for him when she was still alive, bringing him the human baddies she'd caught
abducting children or raping the homeless, one eyebrow cocked at his disbelief
as she opened their jugulars with a knife before tossing them his way,
remarking, "Guess I'm a crappy Slayer, then."
He can tell she doesn't much care, baddie or not, but she humors him, only
drinking when he gives the go-ahead, yellow eyes fastened on his as he joins
her after the victim's pain response fades near death.
He doesn't know if she'll have her soul back or not, but he won't let the guilt
pile up, either way.
 
***
 
They arrive in Sunnydale without fanfare, tossing a nest of vamps from his
former crypt then christening all the horizontal—and some vertical—surfaces,
some twice.
It isn't until they arrive at the house that they learn of Buffy's revival.
She stands at the door, wide-eyed, gaping, and looking more than a bit
confused. "Spike…Dawn…"
Red comes to the rescue after a moment, pulling the Slayer from the doorway and
issuing the invitation.
Dawn's fingers find his as they walk through the door.
"How?" she asks Willow, nodding her head towards the Slayer.
"We brought her back. She was stuck in a hell dimension, so she's still a
little…you know, out of it."
Spike holds back a snort; the Slayer looks like she's in a hell dimension. He
feels a momentary pang of concern, but pushes it aside—he's there for one girl,
and one girl only, and as soon as she gets what she came for, they'll leave the
Hellmouth in their dust.
Dawn hums under her breath as she studies her sister, then turns to Willow.
"Take it out."
Red blinks, brow furrowed. "Huh?"
"The chip. Take it out. I know you know how."
If he had a heart, it would have leapt into his throat. Forgetting about the
Scoobies, he turns his attention to the girl, the woman he's going to spend the
rest of his unlife with.
He wants to rip the jeans from her body, fall to his knees and worship between
her thighs.
He settles for squeezing her hand.
"Dawnie, I…"
"Yes, you can."
"Buffy, what do I...?"
Dawn's jaw clenches—she doesn't have much more patience than he does—and a
growl erupts from her chest as her fangs drop. "Do it, now."
Spike feels a growl answer in his own chest; he doesn't remember ever being
this turned on.
In a moment, a blur flies across the room; one-handed, Dawn catches the
Slayer's wrist just before the stake slips into Spike's chest.
"Buffy."
Slowly, the Slayer's attention turns to her sister. "Dawn." A sound that's
half-word, half-sob comes from her mouth, and her face crumples as she begins
to cry. Grip firm, Dawn holds her away when she would curl against Dawn's
shoulder.
"Buffy, the Council did this. They killed me." She pauses while Buffy regains
her composure. "This is what I am now—you can't change it, and I don't want you
to. But I promise, after Willow gets the chip out of Spike, we're going to
leave, and as long as you're here, as long as any of you are here, we won't
come back. Not ever."
Blinking, the Slayer turns away.
In a moment, she turns to Red, and nods.
 
***
 
They go…anywhere, everywhere. They spend several months in New York and a few
in Paris, traveling across the globe on a whim, Dawn squealing over clothes and
shoes and European bands while he basks in her smile.
At first, he holds to his routine—feeding on the dregs of society, making sure
she does the same—and she never protests, following his lead until he's ready
to change.
It's about three months after the chip's come out that he breaks the habit.
A girl in Paris, young, blonde and helpless, calls to him.
He sinks his fangs into her before he even realizes what he's doing. Her blood
is warm and spicy and it slides down his throat like magic, filling his belly
with energy and life and heat. She tastes like innocence.
With a delighted growl, Dawn latches onto the other side of the body, her
fingers twisting and knotting in his hair as she holds him in place.
When he's had his fill, he rips Dawn's mouth from the girl and fills it with
his tongue, fangs clashing together as he backs her into a wall. She wraps her
legs around his waist and they fuck under the streetlight, the cooling body
only yards away.
Groaning in satisfaction, he lets her legs slide to the ground, licking the
traces of blood from her chin and lips.
"Spike?" she breathes into his ear.
"Yeah, Pet?" Tracing the lines of her neck with his lips, he nibbles on her
earlobe.
She smiles. "I love you."
Even though she's never really said it, he's not shocked.
He's always known.
"I know, Love."
Wrapping her arms around his back, she rests her head on his shoulder. "I did,
even, before."
"Yeah." He pulls her close and the scent of her shampoo fills his nostrils.
"Me, too."
They're tied together, now and, in a way, he thinks they always have been.
He knows they always will be.
Pressing a kiss against petal-soft lips, he whispers, "Let's go, Dawn."
He takes her hand as they step over the corpse, and leads her away into the
night.
 
 
FIN.
 
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