Buffy Fanfiction: No Reason to Panic
Here, while I'm in a giving mood, have some old Buffy fic.

Title: No Reason to Panic
Author: ygrawn
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Category: Spike/Dawn friendship, Spike/Buffy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5, 200
Timeline: Season 6.10, Wrecked. This fits between the car accident and the scene in Willow's bedroom.
Summary: Dawn is nothing more than a frightened fifteen-year-old in serious pain, terrified and uncertain, motherless and for the moment, sisterless, and her only comfort is a sharp-boned, cold, distant vampire who doesn't know how to touch people.
Author's Note: Written as part of a challenge years ago - I only just discovered it again.



********

There is no reason to panic.

There is no reason to panic.

Buffy rounds the corner and the hospital smell hits her in the face: antiseptic, death, rotted skin, sweat, bad food, fear.

There is no reason to panic.

And there isn't. Dawn got a cut on the forehead, she has a few scratches, and she obviously broke something in the accident. Buffy and Spike established that much without a medical degree.

Funny, Willow is the one the most medical knowledge. After her, Giles. After all, Spike and Buffy don't need doctors and class their injuries differently. A stab wound? Put a band-aid on it. Broken rib? Shrug your shoulders and then remember why that wasn't such a good idea.

Buffy rounds another corner and concentrates on the fact that there is no reason to panic. Dawn has broken her arm, Willow is at home with Xander bawling her eyes out and vomiting in the bathroom whilst Anya hovers uncertainly in the hallway, Buffy's in a hospital which is panic-worthy on its own, Giles isn't here, her mother isn't here, nobody is here, and there is absolutely no reason to panic.

But Buffy walks faster through the maze of corridors to x-ray, where the ER nurse told her Dawn would be. She almost walks straight past the ward, and pulls up short at the last minute.

Another nurse - they all looked tired and overworked - points vaguely in the direction of Room 4 when Buffy says, "Summers - Dawn Summers."

Buffy doesn't do hospitals. Hospitals mean that her cousin is dying, that Willow is unconscious, Faith is in a coma, and that her mother is sick. Hospitals are the all-time Big Bad on Buffy's list.

But she can do this; she can, Buffy tells herself. She can hold it together, suck it up, and play the grown-up.

And it doesn't matter how disconnected she feels, how lonely and isolated - the fear for Dawn spearing through her intestines is real and tangible. As real and tangible as last night, with Spike.

Oh, sure, Willow is addicted to magic, Buffy can't pay her bills or feed her sister properly, there is no grown-up here to take care of things, and she slept with the undead, even though the last time she did that, the world almost ended. Definitely no panicking here.

The door of Room 4 is open, and Buffy stops up with complete surprise at the vision in front of her. Neither person in the room notices her.

She stares with wide eyes.

********

Spike was not touchy-feely person at the best of times. And except for biting people and having sex, he isn't a particularly touchy-feely vampire.

He'd been raised in the Victorian era, after all. Touching had been a huge no-no. Even looking lustfully at the opposite sex was frowned upon. And if you ever thought about sex God would smite you down and you'd spend the rest of your life in Hell. And the Hell of his childhood had been pretty graphic - their local pastor had really gone in for the fire and brimstone version.

So, he's never been good with physical contact. Even Angel - who was born over hundred years earlier in a more licentious time and place - is uneasy about touch. Vampires just don't do it. Touch is about affection. Touch is human contact and vampires don't need it.

But lately - possibly since the advent of the chip - Spike has found himself strangely fascinated by it. He notices it more, pays more attention to it, and has discovered that he actively looks for it, as if to understand it better.

Xander and Willow are an excellent study case: they touch constantly, for reassurance, as a reminder, as a restraint and even absentmindedly and offhandedly. Usually tucked in some dark corner of the Magic Box, Spike often watches them. They knock knees under the table when sharing a private joke; whenever Xander wants the witch's attention he always touches her neck, his fingers tapping the top of her spine; and when Willow is spontaneously happy - as she often is - she hugs Xander tightly and bumps noses with him.

Tara seems - or seemed, rather - as bemused as him; Anya doesn't like it at all.

But it's fascinating. Touching is an important and constant dimension of Xander and Willow's relationship, a marker of familiarity and territory. It isn't romantic, although Spike occasionally wonders about the two of them. They touch for a different reason. It's an affection that doesn't lead to sex or violence, and given that all of Spike's touching revolves around sex and violence, he doesn't understand it.

But he tells himself that he doesn't particularly crave touch and doesn't want it anyway, and has no time for people who do.

Which is why, when Dawn throws herself all over him, he freezes and growls without realizing what he's doing. It's an indication of how upset Dawn is that she doesn't even notice and only holds on tighter.

And refuses to let go.

They're fine in the car. Shock starts to set in - Spike recognizes the signs; the vagueness, the lack of tears; the monotonous voice; the shivers that she just can't stop and she begins to complain that she can't get warm. He keeps her talking and drives faster than he usually does, which is saying something.

He hurtles into the ER, holding Dawn to his side, demanding a doctor. He knows it's only a break and that Dawn will be fine, but something close to fear squeezes his heart and his head, and his voice sounds tight and worried.

They give her drugs straightaway, but they don't strap the arm up because she needs x-rays, which they send her and Spike upstairs for. When the two of them arrive in Room 4 - after an incredibly slow elevator ride - Spike enters first and then hovers by the bed, expecting Dawn to climb up and lie down.

Instead, she hurls herself at him like a hurricane and clings tightly to him with her good arm. He growls, but he accepts her weight because there's nothing else to do: she uses the attack of surprise to her advantage.

Dawn is dramatic at the best of times - this much Spike is used to. He figures it has something to do with adolescence and rampaging hormones and the inability to think properly. Although, sometimes, there is startling wisdom and depth in Dawn's eyes and he remembers that she is the key, older than him, older than any of them, older than ideas and voice and memory, and perhaps even older than time.

But here, right now, in this cold, sterile, bright hospital room, Dawn is nothing more than a frightened fifteen-year-old in serious pain, terrified and uncertain, motherless and for the moment, sisterless, and her only comfort is a sharp-boned, cold, distant vampire who doesn't know how to touch people.

Spike leans back against the bed, taking Dawn with him. Without even thinking, he closes his eyes. Dawn's pale face is buried in his leather coat and her hair is spread across his chest. She isn't crying, but she is holding tighter than he thinks anybody has the right to. She's holding tight enough for him to notice, tight enough for him to reflexively attempt to breathe, forgetting that he doesn't need to.

Her bad arm - he almost can't look at it because he knows how much it hurts her - hangs listlessly against his lower torso, the fingers brushing the outside of his thigh. The other arm is around his waist, fingers curling around the opposite side, digging into ribs and muscles and, it almost seems, into his organs.

Spike shifts his weight again, and wonders how to disengage the girl. He could turn around and try to get her onto the bed. And then maybe he could hold her hand, or touch her arm. Talk to her, make her laugh, distract her from the pain until the doctor and Buffy arrive and fix it. Those are simple things. Easy things. He can manage those.

Because this is killing him. He can't do it. He cannot do this. He can't be Dawn's lifeline; he can't have somebody this close to him, somebody this warm and fragile. Spike loves like a madman, craves love, and craves the neediness that comes with love. But this is something completely different, something beyond neediness. Dawn doesn't need his body, or his devotion, or his strength. She needs his tenderness. His affection. His softness.

If he growls again, flashes his vamp eyes, she'll get the picture. She'll definitely get the picture. Dawn will pull away, eyes wide and terrified and then she'll never touch him like this again.

Only…

Spike's eyes snap open as he realizes that he doesn't quite want Dawn to let go of him.

There's a tiny, niggling part of him that doesn't want to growl and scare Dawn off from ever touching him again. There's a tiny part of him that hurts because she's hurt and doesn't ever want her to be hurt again. There's a large part that wants to go out and commit some serious violence.

Spike shifts his chin slightly so that Dawn's head is tucked underneath it. Her hair is incredibly soft.

"How's the pain?" he asks in a soft voice.

"Better," Dawn replies. Her voice is muffled, so she turns her head and lays her cheek against his chest. "Better," she repeats.

"The doc should be here soon," he adds, uselessly. He's talking to ease the tightness in his chest.

"Mm." Dawn leans more of her weight against him, and Spike takes it. "Did you ever break any limbs?"

"Only as a vamp. And we've got that super-healing thing."

"Buffy broke her arm once, when she was ten. Even then, it healed up really fast. The doctor didn't know why."

"Did you push her off something?" he jokes.

Dawn smiles. "No. She fell out of a tree."

"Because you pushed her."

Her smile widens. "Okay. You got me. I pushed her."

"Always knew you were evil, Lil' Bit."

"Hey, you never had a big sister. It's not evil, just self-preservation."

"Uh-huh. You've got a bad streak in you."

Dawn seems strangely pleased by that. "What bones have you broken?" she asks.

Spike isn't sure he should tell her - it's quite a list and will only remind her of her own broken limb. "My legs and my spine, obviously."

"Oh, yeah, you had the wheelchair for a while." She frowns. "I have - I have memories of that. Of Buffy saying that. I know I do."

"So do I," Spike says calmly.

Since they found out she was the key, nobody really talks about their memories of Dawn, because no matter what they say there's always hollowness in their voice. They all know that the memories are faked. And they are, but Dawn doesn't need that.

"So do I," he says again. "You were such a little thing, then. With huge eyes. And all you did was ask questions. Like, after I got the chip and you came with Buffy to Giles one day, after school."

"Yes. Buffy and Giles were talking and I sat in the bathroom with you and asked you heaps of questions about the chip."

"Drove me mad, you did."

"What else have you broken?"

"My arms a few times. Probably every rib I have 's been broken at one time or another. A few of them have been broken too many times to count. Ah…my collarbone, back in the '20's. I think that's about it. The legs were the worst."

"Spike…what…with Willow…"

He shakes his head. "Let's not talk about Willow. Not yet. Red's in a bad way."

Dawn's voice is getting sleepy - it's probably the drugs, but she'll need to be awake for the x-ray. "I was angry with her, before."

"You're entitled."

"But are we going to help her?"

Spike doesn't know what to say. Everyone will help her as much as they can. Willow is a friend; Buffy and Xander treasure her beyond measure and even Spike is as fond of her as he can be when it comes to humans. But Spike knows for fact that Willow has to help herself, and he's not sure that the witch wants to.

There's something about Willow - a flash of recognition he gets occasionally. Power and malice and arrogance, a scent he's very familiar with.

"Spike?" Dawn insists. "She'll get better, right?"

"Sure, Nibblet," he finally says.

And it's that - the lie he's just uttered - that makes Spike lift his left arm and wrap it carefully around Dawn's lower back. He avoids her bad arm and eases further onto the bed, pulling Dawn to him and holding her close.

The young girl shifts her weight again, accommodates him naturally, until she's sitting in his lap, her legs dangling idly against his shins, her whole body curled into his. Spike's other hand comes up to rest on Dawn's head. He smoothes her hair, rubs her forehead with his thumb. He does it slowly, cautiously, uncertainly.

There's a cut on her forehead, and he feathers the edges of it with his thumb. He'll make sure the doctor takes a look at that.

Dawn is happier now. Calmer. He realizes that he has done that. Spike understands that he couldn't have this with anyone else. Certainly not with Buffy, who hides who she is and who she wants to be, even from herself.

But Dawn, who will always be little and young and incredible and wise to him, Dawn, who he has real and fake memories of, Dawn, who is joyous and beautiful and his, has reached out for him with need, held onto him without thought, and given him something he was so sure he didn't need: touch.

********

Buffy stares at the two of them: Spike on the bed with Dawn in his lap, one of his leather-clad arms stretched across her stomach and over her hip bearing her weight, the other on top of her head, his thumb stroking her forehead. He lowers his head and his lips hover near her ear.

They both have their eyes closed, although they seem to be talking about something.

Dawn's broken arm hangs at an awkward angle, and that arm is a blatant reminder of everything she's trying to forget: her mother's death, Giles' absence, Willow, the awful, sick thing she did with Spike last night.

She looks again, because it doesn't seem right. Spike isn't capable of holding anybody like that. Touch is human - it's love and affection and tenderness and Spike is hardness and death and hatred and violence.

But there is her little sister, holding tight to Spike, curled around him, peaceful and happy and safe.

Buffy clears her throat and Spike and Dawn open their matching blue eyes. Buffy never noticed that their eyes are the same colour. She expects them to jump apart, but Dawn holds tighter and Spike doesn't move.

"Hey," Buffy says. She steps into the room, up to the bed, feeling unaccountably isolated and out of place. She touches her sister's cheek and her fear and panic lessen. "Hey, Dawnie."

"Hey, Buffy," Dawn replies in a soft, sleepy voice. "I think the drugs are kicking in. I feel gooey."

"That's good." Buffy smiles at her choice of words. "I came as soon as I could."

"'Sokay. I had Spike with me."

Spike looks down at Dawn and his expression is unreadable. "The Bit was just admitting her guilt - she pushed you out of a tree once, she says."

Buffy frowns and it takes a moment to realize what they're talking about. "Hey, she did too."

"Didn't," Dawn argues.

"It was still your fault. You insisted on climbing up the tree, and I had to rescue you before Mom saw you. But when we got back down, you realized you'd left Teddy Kate up there and you made me go back up and get him."

"Teddy Kate?" Spike interjects.

"Dawn's teddy-bear was called Kate."

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

"Kate was our neighbour," Dawn mutters.

"I was getting Kate when I lost my balance and fell out of the tree and broke my arm."

"Was trying to be like you," Dawn offers. "Climb trees…like…you…"

Spike smiles briefly. "And then you tried making out with vamps like your sister."

Buffy starts and glares at Spike. Then realizes he's talking about Angel, which reminds her of Angel, which only makes her realize that she hasn't thought about Angel for quite a while.

"Hey, I didn't sleep with the undead and nearly end the world," Dawn says.

"That's right, Bit," Spike nods. "Got standards, you do."

Buffy decides not to respond to that. She strokes Dawn's hair and for a moment, her fingers tangle with Spike's. "The radiologist should be…"

"Ah - Dawn Summers?"

It is the radiologist, standing in the doorway with a clipboard and another variation of the tired expression.

"This is Dawn Summers," Buffy says, pointing to her sister. "I think the drugs are making her sleepy."

"Well, let's get this x-ray done and send it straight down to the doctor."

"Up you get," Spike says, pushing Dawn onto her feet. She resists it and clings to Spike tenaciously.

Buffy and Spike lead her to the x-ray room and stand outside whilst the radiologist does his work.

Buffy crosses her arms over her middle. She feels cold and hungry and tired and angry with Willow, and unsure about the thing with Spike and Dawn earlier.

"Thanks for bringing her here," Buffy suddenly offers.

Spike shrugged. "Rather do that than deal with Willow."

"Xander's at home with her. I didn't want to leave her alone. She's pretty bad."

"It'll get worse."

"I know."

Spike angles his body slightly, toward her. "Much worse."

"I know." Buffy is so quiet - almost defeated by everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. "I don't…I don't know if I have the strength to help her out of this."

"Xander and Anya will help. Maybe Tara."

She slants her eyes up at his and asks the questions without words. Will he help?

"I'm not exactly a poster boy for reform, luv."

Buffy tightens the arm around her stomach. God, she hates hospitals. The smell, the lights, the white on white, the waiting, the death…

"No," she finally says. "You're not."

There's a twinge in her lower back from the fight earlier and she shifts her weight to ease it. Then she realizes that the twinge is from her night with Spike and she flushes bright red.

"I meant it before, I want you out of my life," she says quietly.

"And you know I was right before - it's too late for that."

They come to an impasse, because Spike is right but Buffy won't admit it. Nor will she admit that she and Spike are going to sleep together again. She knows it, down in her bones, in her marrow, and he knows it too.

"You know, hospitals are pretty swish these days," Spike says in a breezy, casual tone. "I hate the expression, 'back in my day'. But you know, my day was a hundred-something years ago an' all."

As Spike talks, he begins to pull his coat off. He puts it over her shoulders.

"Don't," Buffy says. "Just don't."

Spike leaves the coat there.

She could fight it - she could take the coat off, give it back to him, remind him that they aren't going out, that they don't date, that she doesn't love him, that she's not going to sleep with him again, that she thinks he's sick and depraved, and God, she's even more sick and depraved than him, because she should know better, but she slept with him anyway.

But the coat is warm and soft and he's worn it in perfectly, and Buffy recognizes the gesture has nothing to do with the fact that they slept together last night, but the fact that he loves her. Twisted and wrong as it is, he loves her and he's being chivalrous. And damn it, she's cold, she really does hate hospitals, her fear and panic haven't really disappeared, and it helps a little.

Spike keeps talking about the shocking conditions of hospitals in his youth, of the time he had to go to a hospital with a friend who needed stitches in the head, and the squalor that he saw.

He's a good story-teller. His voice is low and gravely, the facts are interesting, the rhythm is soothing, and Buffy recognizes this gesture too. Spike knows how much she hates hospitals; he knows how angry and upset she is. He knows how afraid she is, so he's distracting her with a useless story she won't remember tomorrow, but right now, it's exactly what she needs.

He could be pushing the issues between the two of them, but instead he's trying to make her less afraid.

Buffy pulls the coat tighter and listens to Spike.

********

They go back downstairs and the doctor arrives an hour later. The drugs have well and truly worked on Dawn, although she keeps drifting in and out. Whenever she does, she looks up at Buffy, then Spike, and relaxes when she ascertains that they're still with her.

The doctor explains that it was a fracture, not a break, and shows them the x-ray on the light board. Spike is fascinated, but tries to look nonchalant. Buffy often sees that look in his eyes: Spike is fascinated by many things; he thirsts for knowledge; he wants to pull objects apart and study them, work them out and understand them, but he'll never admit it.

The doctor talks to both of them and calls Buffy "Mrs. Summers", and Spike "Mr. Summers." Dawn giggles, partly in amusement, partly from the drugs. Spike shrugs but doesn't say anything. Buffy, who hasn't relinquished the coat, makes a face but can't be bothered explaining anything, either.

The doctor cleans the wound on Dawn's forehead, then sets the cast and gives them a prescription for some painkillers and Buffy realizes, with shame, that she doesn't have any cash on her. But Spike takes the prescription before Buffy can. He goes upstairs to the pharmacy and returns with the drugs, a few magazines for Dawn, and a chocolate bar and a soda for her.

Buffy could make a point out of this too. She could ask Spike where he got the money, tell him not to buy her and Dawn things with stolen money, not to buy them anything at all, because he doesn't have that right. But it wouldn't be a lecture for Spike; it would a reminder to herself of what they did last night.

It would be a reminder that she kissed him first.

Instead, she eats the chocolate bar, drinks the soda, and doesn't ask any questions. She can't pay for the prescription anyway, and Spike obviously can and wants to. She's not looking at this gift-horse any which way.

Dawn is groggy, but they manage to get her into the backseat of the De Soto with minimal trouble. It briefly crosses Buffy's mind that Spike no doubt has experience dealing with unconscious bodies.

Buffy covers Dawn with Spike's anti-sun blanket, which is riddled with holes. Dawn hums quietly to herself and Spike and Buffy share an amused glance.

The drive home is quiet. Sunrise is only an hour away and the light is indigo and grainy. Spike is restless, and Buffy knows it's because of the impending day. The moon is a silver sliver dying slowly in the sky. They don't see any other cars and not a single pedestrian. A dog barks aggressively as they turn into Revello Drive.

Spike helps Dawn out of the backseat, but it's clear that she won't make it to her bedroom by herself. He hoists Dawn's weight easily, carries her in his arms with little effort. Buffy could carry Dawn too, but she couldn't make it look so graceful. Dawn's head lolls against Spike's shoulder, and her mouth bumps against his neck. Her arm is slack around his lower back.

Buffy takes Spike's coat off before they reach the front door. Even then, when Xander sees her carrying the coat in her arms, he gives her a strange look. She ignores it and strokes the soft leather with her thumb.

"I can take her from here," Xander says, blocking Spike at the bottom of the staircase.

"I've got her," Spike replies stonily.

"I said I can take her."

"Xander," Buffy says tiredly.

Xander steps out of the way with an annoyed expression, and then follows the three of them up the stairs. Anya trails after Xander and they make a strange, disconnected parade.

"I called Tara, just to let her know. Willow had a shower. She's in her room," Xander says.

"She's stopped vomiting," Anya adds. "Which is good, because watching somebody vomit is not very pleasant."

"Neither is hearing about it," Spike offers.

Buffy scoots ahead of Spike and opens the door to Dawn's bedroom. She pulls back the bedcovers and looks for some loose pyjamas. She drops the coat on the end of the bed. Spike places Dawn on the bed, and then pulls her shoes off. A moment later, he pulls her earrings out, too.

Buffy is surprised by the small gesture.

Spike and Xander turn around whilst Anya and Buffy coax the sleepy girl out of her clothes and into her pyjamas.

"There you go," Buffy says softly.

"Hey, Dawnie," Xander says, turning around. He leans over her. "You doing okay?"

"Mm-hmm," Dawn manages. "Just…peachy…"

Xander laughs softly.

"Spike…" Dawn says.

"Here, Nibblet." Spike steps around the other side of the bed, next to Buffy.

"Arm is heavy," she complains.

"We know, Dawnie," Buffy answers. "It's the cast."

"'M…sleepy…"

"Yes," Spike says. "It's okay, you can go sleep now."

Dawn reaches out her right hand. "Stay…'til I sleep."

"Sure." Spike sits on the bed, next to Dawn's hip and tightens his grip on her hand. He ignores Xander and Anya's stares, and realizes that Buffy is neither surprised nor annoyed.

"I'm going to check on Willow," Buffy says.

Anya - who is remarkably perceptive - makes Xander say goodbye and forces him out the door, even though he clearly doesn't want to go. He shoots a backward glare at Spike, and Spike grins cheerfully at him.

Dawn's breathing begins to deepen and regulate and her features relax.

"Come…visit…tomorrow…" she asks.

"'Course. We can watch bad TV and make fun of it."

"Good."

Dawn's grip on his hand is as tight as ever, even as she falls asleep. Spike can feel that moment, knows exactly when she passes through consciousness and into sleep. He doesn't let go of her hand, though.

With his other hand, her brushes her hair back, lets it fall across the pillow like a dark streamer.

Spike isn't sure about this version of himself; about the softness spreading through his insides. He's fond of Dawn - loves her, really - but this is something else. Something deeper and different. It's not about loving her, it's about showing it. It's something tender and affectionate and Spike isn't sure how to do it.

But Dawn shifts in her sleep and sighs, and her fingers flex against his, and Spike decides that he can live with this version of himself, if Dawn can. If it makes her feel happier and safer, he'll give her that.

He bends forward and kisses Dawn's forehead and tries to remember the last time he did that to anybody. Probably with Dru. He has a sudden, almost-forgotten flash of Darla, doing it once to him, when she was trying to manipulate him into something. His head is a mess and jumble of people and times.

Spike drops another kiss near the corner of Dawn's eye against her smooth skin, and as he pulls away he senses Buffy. She's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him. Her plaits make her look terribly young, and there are dark, smudgy circles under her eyes.

"How's Red?"

"She's decided to cut out the magic completely," Buffy answers softly. "I think it's a good idea. She was out of control."

"Is out of control," Spike corrects firmly. "She's deep in those woods, yet."

"Yes." Buffy steps into the room. "She's asleep?"

He nods and disentangles his hand from Dawn's. He stands up and collects his coat, pulls on the familiar weight and texture of it. Only, the leather smells freshly of Buffy and Spike barely resists the urge to inhale deeply.

Buffy leans over the bed and kisses Dawn on the cheek. "'Night, Dawnie."

They walk into the hallway and Spike shuts the door behind him.

"I told the Bit I'd come over tomorrow, watch some TV with her."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Buffy says, coldly.

Spike sees the resolve on her face. "It's like that, huh?"

"Yes."

He shrugs. "Not coming to see you, coming to see Dawn. And I'm going to."

She doesn't say anything, but looks down at the ground.

"I'm off."

He doesn't wait for her goodbye, but strides down the stairs. As he walks through the door, she says, "Spike?"

"Yes?" He looks up at her.

"Thank you for tonight."

"You already said thanks."

"For taking Dawn to the hospital and staying with her. But thanks for…well…she feels safe with you."

He nods, then strides out into the almost-sunrise. His skin prickles slightly, and he walks quickly, watching the world lighten in degrees. He pushes it as close as he can, and arrives back in the crypt with seconds to spare. Spike keeps doing that, going out as early as possible, coming back as late as possible.

Because he loves those few seconds when he feels like he really is standing in the sunlight.

********

Buffy sits tight on her bed, and looks at the garlic. She is curled up tightly and defensively, and reminds herself there is no reason to panic.

But there is every reason to panic. Not just about Willow, and the strange happenings in Sunnydale, or Dawn's injury, or the bridesmaid's dresses that Anya is designing, or the severe lack of money and the absence of responsible people.

Tonight, she watched Spike with Dawn, the way he touched her and let her touch him. It was something human and tangible and tender, and Spike didn't look remotely awkward. She saw how safe Dawn felt with him, how she chose Spike over the others to stay with her as she fell asleep. She listened to Spike talk about Willow, and knew that he was right. And in the hallway in the hospital, in the car, going upstairs with Dawn, things were silent and easy between the two of them.

Spike understood her and Buffy understood him, and nobody else did.

Spike is in her life. And it's one thing to want him around for the sex. Even with all this garlic and her newfound stoicism and the determination not to do it again although she knows they will because she wants his body like a crazy woman.

But it's another thing entirely to want him for advice, for friendship, for companionship, for help, for safety, and for understanding.

Spike's in her life and Buffy isn't quite sure that she wants him to leave.

So, there's every reason to panic.

********

End