Takes place during "The Gift" as Spike & Buffy make their way from her house back to the magic shop...

Spike let himself be hypnotized by the swaying of the heavy bag over his shoulder, trying hard not to think about the impending doom. He wanted to drink in the sight of Buffy, and hope that it would be enough to last him his eternity in hell, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. To stare at her while she was vulnerable. While she trusted him to watch his back in a different sense than he would have intended. It would have been disrespectful, and he so much more than respected her.

He was so busy not watching her that he nearly tripped over her when she stopped and sank to her knees.

He dropped down in front of her, his undead heart beating in his ears. If she went comatose again... No, he needed her to be strong. DAWN needed her, and he was determined to save the sweet bit. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently. "Buffy! C'mon, love, we have to hurry!" The motion only made the tears in her eyes fall. "BUFFY!" He shook harder, and this time eliciting a sob. She buried her face in her hands.

What could he do? HE wanted to hold her, stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be ok. But he didn't have the right or the welcome to touch her, and he certainly wasn't about to lie to her. So he just kneeled there, his hands outstretched on her shoulders, afraid of moving, of disturbing her, trying to decide what to do. Should he slap her? Oh yeah, THAT would go over well. She wasn't unconcious this time anyway. No, at best it would earn him a headache, and at worst a stake through the heart.

Before he could decide what to do, she looked up at him and spoke. "I really have to do it, don't I? Giles is right, how can I ask my friends to die for someone who... it's not right to risk the world for one life. How can I sacrifice so many lives that I love, all save one?"

He could see it in her eyes, the weight that her destiny crushed with her every day, being struggled with by a girl. A girl who's hardest decision should have been what school to go to, what colour shoes to wear, and what flavor ice cream she wanted for desert. He could see Dawn in there, behind those eyes that were a hundred years too old.

Suddenly he understood a bit better what she had been trying to tell the Scoobies before. It didn't matter how Dawn had come into existence, or how long she'd been around. Reality was what you made it. The point was that she existed NOW, and as far as their memories went, always would in some fashion. He didn't think they could forget her, even if their old memories returned. She would be a ghost, literally and figuratively, but she would haunt them all the same. Especially Buffy. For what parent could survive their child unscathed? He was sure now that THAT was what she had meant, what she hadn't been able to say. Dawn had been made from her; that made Dawn her daughter. And what parent wouldn't give everything to protect their child? They had to, it was instinct. A form of self-preservation, since they said you lived on through your children. If Buffy killed Dawn, or even let someone else, she would be commiting suicide.

And he would be loosing two women he loved. He'd already lost one Summers, Joyce. He wasn't about to loose another.

Joyce had been like a mother to him. The others didn't know it, but when she'd died, he'd wept as if she really had been. No matter how Buffy felt about him, he knew that he would feel her loss as if she'd been his lover. And Dawn... he wouldn't ever belittle Buffy's pain by saying it, but he wondered if, had he stayed mortal and fathered children, he could feel any more protective of them as he did towards the lil' bit.

He steeled himself and looked the slayer in the eye, his grip on her arms tightening. "Now you listen here, love. I made a PROMISE. I will protect Dawn-- even from YOU, if need be. I don't care what you Watcher Mr. All-logic-'an-no-'eart says, it don't matter 'ow the nibblet got 'ere, she's HERE NOW! She's just as alive as any of the others, an' you wouldn't sacrifice any o' THEM to save the world, now would you?"

Her gaze was cold, not with anger, but with despair. "I did it to Angel."

"...Yeah, well... he was dead. An' not on the best o' terms wi' you at the time, as I recall. An' anyway, 'e came back, so everything came out all 'unky-dory!"

Buffy laughed in spite of herself. "Unky?"

He let go of her, and stood up. "Can't expect a bloke to say HUNKy now, can you?" He held his right hand out to help her up. "Unless 'es a big poofter, like Peaches..."

She stared at his hand. He was afraid she thought it was too distasteful to touch him, was about to pull it away again, embarrased, when she touched his palm lightly with her fingertips of her left hand. Her touch sent a jolt through him, and he jerked his hand away, cursing himself silently even as he did so.

She regained her feet on her own power, and took a step towards him. His hands hung limp at his sides as he stood there, unsure what to say or do next.

She reached out her hand again and found his, sliding her fingers lightly, slowly, across his palm. They caressed his own gently. He hadn't realised he was breathing (a habit he picked up in order to smoke), but now his breath came short. There was a tingling in the contact, an electricty that spread its branches throughout his body, warming it. He felt an aching emptiness, a hunger in his eyes, his lips, his skin. He wanted to touch more of her, even as the little contact they had seemed more than he could bear. He wanted to weep at the joy and the sadness of it, wanted to surrender to the beautiful pain that threatened to devour him. He couldn't say how, but it seemed that this little touch was far more intense than the most passionate lovemaking.

She twined her fingers with his and looked away from their grip, into his eyes. He resisted the urge to turn away, as much as he felt unworthy to look her in the eye. He didn't have to try hard, his eyes trapped by her gaze like a deer caught in headlights. He bit back his fear of what he might find -- loathing? pity? -- and allowed himself to take the first real look at her eyes ever. Sure, he'd seen them before, the anger that flashed in them as they fought. But always at a distance; he'd never seen them so close before. Never had the chance to notice the gold flecks shining in the green like... like sunlight through leaves, or so he thought he remembered. It wasn't until those eyes drew even nearer, impossibly close now, that he realised what he found in them. Gratitude. And... something else?

Before he could wonder she was closing them. The surge of disappointment lasted only a heartbeat as he realised what she was giving him in their place. Then he closed his own eyes as well.

The touch was feather light, like her fingers, and with the same effect. It was a chaste kiss, lip just barely parted, barely touching, the same as she had given him once before. He didn't move, didn't kiss back for fear of scaring her off. Who knew so soft a kiss could fill him with a such a light, one a thousand times brighter than the fires of the deepest and most passionate? He trembled with awe at her nearness, in the gift of her touch. He could feel her life through her lips as he had never felt it in the kisses he'd given his victims. He was glad he didn't need to breath and spoil it.

It lasted an eternity, but was over all too soon. His lips felt cold again; he felt the chill of his death more than he ever had before.

"Thank-you," she said simply. She moved to walk back to the shop, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before letting their hands slip apart. He dared to think it was reluctantly for a moment, that her fingertips lingered as they softly traced their paths on his palm. She walked a few feet and stopped, looking back at him from over her shoulder. "I treat you like a man because you ARE one, Spike. No monster would protect Dawn."