Warning: There's a fair amount of "fucking" this and that,
but no real harsh language except expletives; there's an extended implied
sex scene, but no plumbing (plumbing -- explicit body parts -- doesn't
interest me).
Old Blood
Nan Dibble
FIFTEEN
The next morning Dawn got up, washed her face, and dressed, then went down and ate her breakfast of Pop-Tarts and strawberry yogurt all very calm. She thought the level of blood in the next-to-last plastic jug was about the same as yesterday, but made a tiny dot with a marker so next time she checked, she'd be sure.
After brushing her teeth, she checked Buffy's room and found it empty, the unmade bed no evidence one way or the other of whether Buffy had ever gone there last night, since Buffy only made the bed after she'd washed the sheets. Then Dawn collected one of the couch cushions and used it as a seat in the angled corner under the upstairs staircase facing the basement door. She began her vigil. Either Buffy would come up, or someone else would be going down. All she had to do was wait.
While she waited she reviewed the narratives already in the notebook and wrote herself reminders of the others she wanted to get.
About nine o'clock there were ascending footsteps followed by the clack of one bolt. It was Willow and her hands were empty. As Dawn stood up, Willow was plainly surprised to see her. "Dawnie, shouldn't you be at school?"
"I'm not going to school today. I expect Buffy to write me a note," responded Dawn composedly, and Willow's eyebrows climbed.
"Well, I don't know, you'll--"
"Willow, that's not important. I've been very patient. I've waited all night. Now I want to go down and see him."
Willow finished shutting the door and pushed the top bolt as though Dawn couldn't just as well reach it if Willow could. Turning again, Willow's face lost the comically unsure expression and became merely tired and sober in a way that did not bode well. "You're not going down, Dawn. I'm sorry."
"Why not?"
"Because you're not. I could give you reasons and we could argue about them, but the real reason is that I'm not gonna let you."
Dawn could feel the blood going out of her face. But she held her ground. "How is he, then? Is he awake?"
"No."
"Has he been awake?"
"No. He looks exactly like a dead body, except he's not, because he's still there. And you're not gonna see him looking like that. And you know as well as I do that he wouldn't want you to either."
"It seems he has no choice about anything. And neither do I." Dawn lifted her chin. "What's wrong and how bad is it?"
It didn't seem possible Willow's face could become even more stern. She considered Dawn for a long moment. "His wrists and hands are burned to the bone. The bones are charred. And not all of them are there. If he were human, amputation would have been performed, and wouldn't have helped. He'd be dead by now. But he's a vampire, and vampires don't die of such things. The bone will regenerate. And the flesh will eventually cover the bone. But that hasn't even begun at this point. He's unconscious and has been since Anya brought him home. Whether it's shock or coma or something else, I have no idea. As best I know, he's not in any pain. He's not there at all. It was his pain that told me I had to send Anya. That had ended before Anya reached him."
Willow stopped, and both had the mouth trembles and held still until they went away. Dawn felt each detail like a separate blow but accepted it, noted it as a fact, and noted also that Willow respected her enough to give it to her.
"Are you reading his mind?" Dawn managed to keep her voice steady. "How you knew?"
"No. He told me.... Well, he told me to quit or else, basically. You heard him. So I haven't done that since. But...let me use an example. If that pain had been a noise, there would have been dogs barking from here to Sandy Beach. What the dogs hear, I hear. Because I've made that connection, it's still open even if I'm not listening. Though not really listening: only like listening."
That loud. Dawn shivered, then suppressed it. "What are you doing for him? --is anybody doing for him?" she corrected herself.
"Well, there's no such thing as vampire medicine. There's nothing."
"Giles--"
Willow interrupted, "--has checked what remain of the Watchers' Council records, and there's nothing except powers, and principalities, and ways to kill them as quick as possible. Just what you'd expect. But Giles has contacts, and he's using them. Because I asked him to. Because I know Spike saved Kennedy's life, and I owe him big time for that. Really big time." Willow measured it with spread arms and open hands. "I'd try to help anyway, because...we have history. Not all of it good, but history. And...I guess I'm in no position: glass house, kettle, stones, sin? And I have to admit, he's become a mensch. Not a man, but a mensch."
"Like a person," Dawn suggested.
"Something like that, yeah. So I have my contacts, too. I have calls out. I don't know how much Earth magic is gonna help a vampire. Healing magic: Earth magic. He's not of the Natural order of things, so that limits what I'd even dare to try. I have calls out. I'll do whatever I can."
There was silence while Dawn considered it all. She decided she had no doubts of Willow's sincerity. Only of how much help Willow, and the mild benevolent magics that were all she allowed herself now, were likely to be.
And that wasn't Willow's problem: it was Dawn's.
"All right," Dawn said finally. "Thanks, Willow. Will you tell me when something changes?"
"Sure, Dawnie. I know you're worried. I'll tell you when it starts to get better. And I believe that it will. I just don't know when, or how to help it along."
Willow reached out a hand to stroke Dawn's hair, and Dawn endured it. Inside Dawn's head, the high singing whine that had never really stopped became stronger and then faded as Willow went away.
Dawn went to the front room and announced to the air, and the eight or so SIT's there, "I need to make a phone call. Could you go out in the yard or something for a little while?"
They were uncertain, it was an odd thing for Dawn to ask, but nobody objected or refused. As soon as the room cleared, Dawn dialed the memorized number quickly.
"Angel Investigations, good morning."
"You're Fred, right? This is Buffy's sister, Dawn. Maybe you can tell me who I need to talk to. Angel or anybody. I need to find Drusilla."
"As in...Drusilla?" said Fred, in a rising, incredulous, alarmed voice. "As in--"
"Look, Angel knows her. Very well. Extremely well. I need to find her. Is Angel there?"
A hand reached past her and broke the connection. Willow was looking down at her with cold, cold eyes. "Drusilla isn't coming here, Dawn. She can't pass in, she's not invited. I will never invite Dru within reach of anybody I care about. Ever."
"But you have to!"
Buffy came in. She was dressed for work, attaching an earring. "Have to what?"
Willow looked around, still with that deadly impassivity. "Dawn was calling L.A. Trying to contact Dru."
"No, Dawn! Are you out of your--"
"You have to! None of you knows anything about taking care of a vampire. Nothing at all! You admitted it! All you're doing is waiting for him to heal. If he does. You're doing nothing at all. He took care of Dru, and Dru took care of him, for a hundred years. She's the only person he ever loved who loved him back, and she'll take care of him! You have to--"
"Dawn," said Buffy, in what was probably meant to be a sympathetic voice, but all it did was add to the whine.
Dawn rolled on, "OK, not here, he won't be any worse anyplace else if all you're gonna do is wait. Take him to his crypt, leave him there, I'll take care of him! But get Dru to come, that's all. If anybody knows how, she will."
Buffy slowly folded her arms. "Dawn, Dru is insane. And so are you if you think I would allow her back in Sunnydale for--"
"You don't fucking care about him. You just care about the fucking and you don't even have that anymore. You don't care if he hurts. You don't care if he dies. You left him there. If you won't help him, get somebody who will!"
Buffy had gone very still. "Dawn. You don't have my permission not to be in school. I understand that you don't have your homework done. I'll write you a note for that. On the grounds of a family emergency. Because that's what I consider it: a family emergency. We're not, I'm not gonna discuss my relationship with Spike with you. Not now and maybe not ever. But certainly not now. Get whatever you need. I'll give you lunch money. But I don't want you in this house for awhile. Get your things. You have three minutes."
Dawn then knew for the first time what it felt like to be dangerous. That if people were wise, they would leave you alone, stay out of your way. Even the people you loved, that loved you. That you could hurt them, hurt them badly, and not mind at all until maybe later. But right now, not at all.
The icy inner calm deepened, and the white whine strengthened so that it was almost all that she could hear. She collected the notebook. "I don't need anything. I'm ready now."
Dawn walked down the hall to her second period class. She sat through the class in case Buffy, who worked at the high school and had a cubicle next to the principal's office, decided to check on her. She was in no hurry. She showed her note about the missed homework and dutifully wrote down the new assignment.
At the bell to change classes, she sedately passed among the milling students and out the usual convenient door, the way she'd often gone before: a quiet girl with long, straight brown hair, wearing a Puritan grey dress and grey flats that flexed with each step. Speaking to no one, noticed by no one, she took the ways she knew to the Magic Box.
Dawn looked in the front window, knowing there was a chance Giles might be here. She had a story prepared for that. But she saw only Anya leaning by the register, reading a newspaper, which she wouldn't be doing if there were any customers in the store. Anya never missed a chance for a sale.
Dawn went inside, and the bell tinkled above her. Anya looked up and started to greet her, then changed her mind and they just looked at each other measuringly. Anya might be a grasping, tactless annoyance who changed hair colors faster than the moon changed phases, but she was shrewd after her own fashion.
"Are you a Justice Demon at the moment, Anya?"
"Not officially, no. But I'm only under suspension. I haven't been fired. D'Hoffryn is still trying to get me back. If he doesn't decide to kill me first, of course. It varies. Why?"
"Can I make a wish?" Dawn asked steadily.
Anya studied her, evaluated. "Possibly. What kind of wish?"
"Can I wish Spike well?"
"He's not the one who's hurt you. So no. You could wish something against Buffy, if you wanted, you're quite enraged enough, but I wouldn't advise it. Wishes involving the Slayer tend to go real bad, real fast. Conflicting primal forces on the aetheric planes. Unexpected consequences. Highlyunexpected."
Dawn had no intention of wishing against Buffy. Buffy wasn't her concern.
"Obviously," said Dawn, "you can teleport."
"Obviously. Though it takes a lot out of me, and I've had this terrible headache--"
"Anya, I'm trying not to be rude, but you're not helping. You're proud of being a businesswoman. I want to be businesslike."
Anya changed to what she probably thought was a more businesslike pose. "What did you have in mind, Dawn?"
"I want you to teleport me into the basement. You know I'm not gonna hurt anybody. There's no good reason why you shouldn't. That doesn't mean you won't try to find one because nobody is cooperating today."
"You said business," Anya pointed out. "That's an exchange of goods and/or services measured in terms of something of mutually recognized worth, usually money, but it could be shrimp, or candles, or--"
"Anyanka, you're the oldest person I know. A thousand years."
"Actually--"
Dawn completely lost patience with Anya's compulsive babble. She interrupted, "I know what I look like. But you know, and I know, what I am. I'm older than you, Anyanka. By thousands and thousands of years. Before there were such things as spells and maybe even before words. When the magic was direct. When powerful, terrible energy could be alive, and aware, for thousands and thousands of years--a ball of bright green energy that opens things. Portals. Dimensions. Paths. I was here long before you, Anyanka, and I'll be here long after you're gone, one way or another. In one form or another. I won't always be what I am now. If you help me now, I won't forget. I'll owe you a favor, to be claimed whenever you choose. Whatever you choose that's within my power. Even D'Hoffryn can't make you an offer like that. And if you don't help me, I won't forget that either. And you won't like me owing you a punishment. You won't like it at all."
Anya smiled insincerely and fluttered her hands nervously in the air. "You've been playing too much bluff poker."
"Spike and I don't play poker anymore. At least not lately. When he came back, when I talked to him, he said he'd found out what he was for. Today I found out what I'm for, Anyanka. And you sincerely don't want to get in the way of that."
"Actually," said Anya pensively, "I don't believe that I do. And for all I know, it might help Spike. And don't tell Xander, I could be very unpleasant to you now if you told Xander, but...I still have a certain fondness for Spike. Demon solidarity. Also very good sympathy sex."
"Fine," said Dawn, who couldn't have been less interested in demon solidarity or sympathy sex, either one. "I want an hour. An hour with no interruptions. Then bring me back."
"Done," said the ex-demon Anyanka.
Dawn had never been teleported before. It didn't feel any different, except she was suddenly in the dark. She listened hard until the creak and bump of feet overhead supplied directions and bearings. She felt her way slowly forward and left and found the stairs, then darted quickly up far enough to reach the light switch.
Willow had been right: Spike looked exactly like a dead body. Dead by violence: a thick pad of gauze was taped over his collarbone to the left. And his hands, subtly the wrong shape and size, were loosely wrapped in gauze and laid at his sides on top of the blanket. If he'd been bleeding, he wasn't anymore. All the gauze was pristine and white as bedsheets or his flesh.
Dawn ghosted to the side of the cot. She watched for a little while, then confirmed with fingers lightly pressed to his chest: he wasn't breathing. Well, he didn't always. But usually, if irregularly, if he was asleep.
Again, Willow had told her the truth. He wasn't here. Just the body--Spike was elsewhere. Like Mom. But different from Mom, too. He wasn't of the Natural order. It wasn't death, only unlife. Dawn could call him back. But not until she'd determined how to take care of him, once she did.
Focus, she thought.
The blue mug was on the floor, almost full, its contents skinned over and congealed. So they'd tried that and he hadn't taken it. She searched and found the waste paper can. In it was the cut-off top of a hospital unit of blood, A negative. One of the commonest types. They hadn't raided the rare types, which was right. It was all blood alike to him. Vampires couldn't afford incompatibilities of that sort. She didn't find the rest of the blood packet, but the fact that there was the remains of only one told her either they didn't know any better, which was unlikely, or they hadn't been able to get him to take that either.
Dawn expected he had profound inhibitions about taking human blood now. He'd refuse it if he could. Best not to begin, she imagined him saying. And it would be hard to force it on him, unconscious and unwilling. You couldn't just set up a transfusion. Vampires didn't process blood that way. It was a spiritual transaction.
Normally he needed about two quarts a day. Healing, he'd need much more. At least a gallon, and likely more than that. And they'd only opened one packet. And then probably had to discard it into the sink. It didn't keep, once it was opened.
She set the notebook on the floor and toed it under the cot so it would be there, were he to wake and look for it. He'd know it had been moved, but Dawn didn't think he'd mind. Anyway she didn't need it anymore.
She settled carefully on the edge of the cot and just was with him, thinking, rubbing his uninjured shoulder, patting his cool face and newly crisp and bone-white hair that looked like it should again. She got the pen knife out of her pocket. Then she had an instant's vision of his coming up at her in game face, desperate and barely conscious and unheeding. It didn't frighten her, but it could happen. That would upset him so, when he'd tried so hard to be safe. And the chip would punish him terribly. Assuming it read Dawn as human....
Very gently she lifted each manacle and clicked it shut over his forearms well above where the gauze ended. There. He'd feel that, the weight, and know himself not a danger, restrained from the infinite destruction an unguarded moment could be to one incapable of being disarmed or of disarming himself. He was a weapon. That was what he was for. He was the ultimate and absolute defense of the Slayer and her sister, the once-Key. It was very simple, once you knew what you were for.
Then, having thought further, Dawn found the roll of gauze and the tape and the scissors. Having now all needful things at hand, she gritted her teeth and cut carefully: as she'd done once before--then, to see if she'd bleed green. When she'd recovered from forgetting what she was but hadn't yet truly known it or accepted it.
As then, her blood was the same bright red as anybody's blood. Except that it wasn't anybody's. It was Slayer blood: exactly the same. The portal that the Keyness of Dawn's blood had opened, Buffy's blood could close. So no difference. Or a difference that was only magical, not physical. Slayer blood.
To a vampire, the rarest, sweetest blood there could be.
She held some gauze to the small cut for a few minutes, then leaned forward and presented the gauze to his nose, his mouth, the side of her hand resting on his cheek. He hadn't fed now in nearly a day. It would be days yet before he truly began to starve. And nothing would even begin to heal until he started feeding.
He'd just come back to something like his full strength. It had taken a week, and almost hourly feeding. Dawn hadn't seen those injuries when they were fresh, but she thought this was at least as bad if not worse. Deeper. More total. Not just a wound, but loss. He'd have no reserves. The last six months had been for him one terrible injury after another, and still fighting back, and fighting back, to coherence and sanity and health, to be what he must. To swallow down the utter disruption of the soul and make his peace with it. Focus.
She felt it when he breathed.
She leaned farther to kiss his forehead: still smooth, unchanged. He changed only for fighting, and now not always for that. He was of the Order of Aurelius. He controlled his demon.
"It's only me," she whispered. "Don't be scared. You're safe."
She made another shallow cut higher, where her arm rounded, then held it to his lips. "It's OK, you can have this. It's not taken. It's given."
She continued to reassure him with her voice and her presence and her calm and her scent, that nothing of what she was, was withheld from him. So he could know it was permitted and not for pleasure or power or even for food, but for healing, that she required of him by right, and he was therefore granted a special mercy on that account.
When at last his throat worked and he swallowed, Dawn knew what she would do. And thought she truly felt her thousands of years of abiding to open the ways between realities. Willow was wrong: the Earth would not reject him. All of the earths, the dimensions, claimed him as their child, of a lineage nearly as powerful and ancient as her own. Dawn's blood knew connections beyond where Willow had ever ventured.
But Dawn had need of Willow, too; and that would come in its turn.
Now, in whatever remained of her extorted hour, she was with him, and
the keening in her mind had all stilled into calm, and she let him feed
from her what he could take, quietly stroking his face and content, with
a focus so vast she could not touch its limits.