You and Your Sister (1/1)
Author: Lovesbitca
Rating: NC-17
Classification: Spike/Dawn (in a completely, non-squicky way), Spike/Buffy 
Spoilers: Pretty much all of it
Summary: " You say my love for you ain't real but you don't know 
how real it feels."
Feedback: Play nice - lovesbitca@btopenworld.com 
Disclaimer: I don't own them. They do.
Distribution: Asking gets.
Notes: i) Title and lyrics, You And Your Sister, from the Rykodisc 
album, I Am The Cosmos by Chris Bell

You say my love for you ain't real
But you don't know how real it feels

Spike can always sniff out the one thing that you can't even 
whisper to yourself. Spike can see through Xander, Anya, even 
the Wiccas. He's seen them in the thick of battle. Can taste the 
fear rolling off demon girl and her floppy boy toy even as they 
beat ten shades of Hades out of the assorted nasties. He knows 
that, despite the temporary estrangement, Tara loves Willow a 
little more than Willow loves Tara and that will be what ultimately 
destroys them. 

Bruises heal and death is permanent but the swift blow of cruel 
truths softly spoken… well, that's a killer. So, yeah, his powers of 
deduction are brutal but he still doesn't get Dawn
Dawn is a mystery to him. And it has nothing to do with the bit not 
being a bit but more of a glowy, green thing.

He knows that they made Dawn out of Buffy, out of her blood. But 
he can't help wondering if a little bit of William got thrown into the 
mix too. It would explain why Dawn's a raw nerve. Who, on the 
wrong day, would cry if you looked at her without the soft sheen 
of love in your eyes. And on even worse days, would spit and 
snarl and all but spew green ectoplasm from her stomach 
because the maple syrup that she soaked her animal-shaped 
pancakes in wasn't runny enough. That had to be the part of her 
they'd made out of Buffy. He's dealt out a century and change of 
hurt but a little girl at the mercy of her hormones could bring him 
out in a cold sweat if his sweat glands, y'know, actually 
functioned.

Sometimes he tries to remember what it was like before he had 
his head tampered with. The first time people in white coats put 
a behaviour modification chip in his brain. And the second time 
monks put memories of a little girl with a stubborn tilt to her chin 
and a sister called Buffy there. He's not entirely sure which has 
screwed him up the most.

Now he cares about other things. Or just one thing and, of 
course, it's Buffy-shaped. And everything else; playing nice with 
the Scoobies, trudging around cemeteries with a whittled piece 
of wood in his hand and even the many nights knee-to-knee with 
Dawn playing endless rounds of rummy is because he loves the 
Slayer.

Your sister says that I'm no good
I'd reassure her if I could

Sometimes he thinks that Buffy might love him too. When he's 
buried deep inside her and there's that moment when she stops 
pretending that it isn't him doing those nasty, wonderful things 
and that it isn't her letting him. Her legs and arms pull him in 
further and it's all he can do to jerk helplessly along behind. And 
just when he's sure that he's so lost in Buffy that he may never 
find himself again, he hears the slight creak of the door.

He doesn't have to turn his head to know that Dawn is standing 
there. Doesn't have to see her ridiculously large blue eyes pop 
or hear her sudden intake of breath to know that she can't tear 
herself away from the two people locked together on the bed in 
some ferocious groove of their own making. And he doesn't have 
to be a genius to know that he picked the wrong Summers girl. It 
has nothing to do with propriety or legality. With Buffy it might be 
all about fucking but to him it's all about love. And he wonders 
why his sad-eyed lover won't admit it. Won't let love stay when it 
comes calling and leaves its kiss in the tilt of his head as he 
turns to her and the soft inflection of his voice as he calls after 
her and the thrust of his hips as he moves inside her. Dawn 
would. 

His bitty Buffy is closer to the real thing than the hollow girl he 
tries to fill up. Dawn's all fury and passion. She wrings every last 
drop of emotion out of all the things that touch her. Homework 
angst, witches who accuse her of stealing clogs, hell 
goddesses who want to bleed her and a joyless, older sister 
who came back from the grave and can only think of how much 
she wants to go back there. Yes, Dawn would know what to do 
with his love, could match it, make it burn even brighter. But 
she's not Buffy, never will be. And it's a fucking tragedy.

Your love won't be leaving
Your eyes aren't deceiving 

Buffy gasps airlessly. He's still burying himself deep in her and 
then stealing himself away and it's the loss that's making her cry 
out. She misses him, obviously, and he forgets the girl watching 
from the landing as he looks down at the sun-kissed creature 
spread out underneath him.

He trails a reverent finger down her cheek but she grabs his 
devoted hand and places it firmly on her breast. Once he asked 
her why she could never just kiss him and be done, why it 
always seemed to end in this frantic scrape and scrum of 
copulation and she'd muttered something about there being no 
time for all that mushy stuff. Buffy makes it clear that time's a 
wastin' and Spike's meter could run out while he's still only 
halfway round the block.

So let me whisper in your ear
Don't you worry they can't hear

Outside the door, he hears the faintest creak of floorboards as 
Dawn restlessly shifts her feet a couple of inches. He wishes 
she would go now. Wonders if she saw Buffy's rejection of his 
stupidly tender advances and if she even realised if for what it 
was. Buffy arches up against him now, pressing her small 
hands against his buttocks and winding her legs even tighter 
around him. He can't lose himself with Dawn there so he 
glances at the barely opened door and lets their eyes meet. 
Glares at her, twists his lips in a malcontent way and he can 
almost feel her blush and the unpleasant dip of her stomach as 
she realises she's been caught in the act. She scurries away 
and he hears the gentle click of her door closing a second later.

Now it's all about Buffy. How his cocks feels as she flexes 
around it. The sting of her teeth against his shoulder. The 
scalding wet heat of her as he reaches between them to touch 
her and caress her and speed her towards chaos. His fingers 
slide and slip against her clitoris and as she bucks frantically, 
squeezes him tight, something inside him gives and he sinks 
himself all the way inside her. Buffy's gasps increase to sobs 
but all he can hear is the weeping that comes from down the 
corridor as a 15-year-old girl made of ancient glowy green 
energy cries out at the cruel impossibility of him ever loving her.

Dawn's lost in him and he's lost in Buffy. And that's why they 
both feel so alone.

All I want to do is to spend some time with you
So I can hold you, hold you 


THE END

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