My Beloved Monster by Heronymus

Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All characters and properties in this fiction fall under the ownership of their respective copyright and trademark holders; that includes, but is not limited to: Mutant Enemy; Joss Whedon; Fox; Warner Brothers; and various other parties not named but not excluded. Infringement of these rights is neither expressed nor implied; usage of these characters and properties is expressly without the permission of the respective holders and indicates no surrender of intellectual property. This work of fiction was created without the intent to generate profit, and is distributed solely as a free exercise. In other words: I don't own 'em, wouldn't have done things the same way anyway, so please don't sue.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Sure! Please let me know, though.
Feedback: I'm a slave to it.
Spoilers: Season 5.
Author's Notes: To Ex-wife v.2.0, for liking me despite the last year. To Yojo, for the line-edit that made mediocre into worthy. To Susan Carr, whose feedback on my writing thus far has inspired me to write more. And thanks of course to Joss and his writing team, without whom the vast wasteland of modern entertainment would be even more parched and desert-like. Serenity rises, April 23!
Pairing: Dawn/Spike

Summary: The grapes of anger can be pressed into the wine of forgiveness. Sequel to In Vino Veritas.

They don't like him, she thinks, and it is a statement, not a question. It also happens to be true; no one, save perhaps herself, actually likes Spike. He's not likable at all. But he's curbed, perhaps cured, and for whatever else is true, Spike is hers.

"Dawn? Are you up?" His voice is low and strong, rough from too many cigarettes, but quiet, like he didn't actually want to wake her. He was always kinda, well, tentative around her.

"I'm up, Spike. In here." Dawn is standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, finishing up the brushing of her long brown hair. For a moment, she debates braiding it, but decides to leave it down; it is easier to hide behind that way. School is a daily routine in a life that resists all things ordinary; too many losses, Dawn thinks, and then blinks hard to stop the tears. If she thinks of Buffy jumping, if she thinks of Giles leaving, if she thinks again of all that has happened, she'll start crying, and she's tired of crying. And Spike will stand there, sad, lost, and not knowing what to do, and Dawn doesn't think she can take much more of that.

She checks herself in the mirror once more, then turns to leave. She gasps when she nearly runs into him in the doorway. I can never get used to the fact that they don't have reflections, she thinks, as she looks at Spike, just standing there, looking at her.

It is not, despite what any of the grownups might think, even remotely sexual, the way he looks at her. It's something deeper, something more profound. Yes, there is love in that look, but more the love of a father, or a brother, or a guardian. Dawn is momentarily puzzled to think that she had seen that look on Giles' face when he looked at Buffy. Pride, and love, and fear, all mixed together. How utterly strange it is to see that look on Spike's deathly pale flesh, to see in his utterly soulless eyes that, even without a soul, without a conscience, without anything but a demon, he still feels nothing but love and care for her.

Xander would say that it's the chip; that a little piece of technology acts as an artificial moral compass for her protector. But Dawn knows better, and in her more honest moments, Willow knows it too. Tara, Dawn thinks, trusts Spike with Dawn, for whatever reason.

"Dawnie," Tara had said, "you can trust him with your life. Just don't trust him with anyone else's."

Spike, for his part, has never talked to her about why he acts so much the protector around her. She did ask, once, during the long hot summer. He just shrugged, and took a puff of his cigarette, and shook his head. "Seems like a good idea. Smokes and blood and a chance for mayhem; no downside I can see." Dawn knows it's a cop-out. One day, she'll get the real story out of him.

She looks up into his face, and cocks her head, and he blinks, then moves out of the way, turning gruffly, unwilling to admit that he had been caught in such an emotional state. "Well, get your things together; you're gonna be late for classes," and his voice is hard-edged with forced bravado.

Dawn darts into her room, grabs her bag, and ducks under Spike's outstretched arm to scuttle down the stairs, and immediately turns for the kitchen where she can hear Willow and Tara puttering about, perhaps making breakfast. When she peeks her head in, though, Dawn can see that they are entangled in each other. Tara is at the stove, making pancakes, and Willow is wrapped around her, whispering something in her ear, and they are both smiling, and laughing, softly. She feels Spike come up behind her, and then stop, suddenly, when he too sees the sight of the two lovers in their morning tryst.

There they are, two loves, Dawn thinks. And here we are, two voyeurs. Perhaps that is her role, now: to watch. Everyone else seems to have a role now. Giles has gone back to England, Anya has become quite the little shopmistress, Xander has become such a gifted builder, and here these two are, lovers. Even Spike has a role: protector, guardian to a key. Well, an ex-key, anyway. But Dawn, Dawn has no role, no part to play. She just watches, and tries not to think about missing her sister.

"Oh, hey, Dawnie. Tara's making pancakes for breakfast. Sit down, I'll get you some juice." Willow was so sad yesterday. She had been so sad for so long, and now...there is a glow about her, like electricity or lightening or something. The energy just flickers off of her, from her to Tara and back again, like the two legs of a Jacob's Ladder. Dawn almost thinks she can see it, but when she blinks, all she sees is their smiles.

"Nope, just a good night," Tara says, and as Dawn looks up she catches the look of shock on the two lovers' faces. They're talking about sex, of course, and Dawn realizes that it's been awhile since she's come home to find the two of them hastily rearranging their blouses, or heard curious noises in the middle of the night while stumbling to the bathroom. They haven't been having sex, and now they are again. And Dawn smiles at this; it's good to know that healing is possible, at least for some. And Dawn laughs, because it feels good to laugh again, and Tara and Willow laugh too, and the day looks a little brighter with funny-shape pancakes and laughter in the morning.

It's light out, so Spike wraps himself in a blanket and darts to the sewer lid, and then drops down under the street. Dawn then walks to school, and she knows that Spike is following her every step; underground, he's trailing her. Making sure she gets to school unharmed. It's an assumption on her part, of course; she won't see Spike until after school, when they'll make their way down into the basement of the school, through the steam tunnels, and thence into the Magic Box. It could be that when he drops into the sewer, he just slinks away and leaves her alone. But it's not likely, Dawn thinks. He needs to be there more than I need him there. He's driven to it by whatever it is inside him.

School is...well, school. And surprisingly easy; Spike, when he wants to be, is an excellent teacher and tutor. His only weakness is a complete lack of interest in Creative Writing. He's good at Literature and English, though; he'd started slipping her books ever since he'd gotten chipped.

Except that he wasn't. Spike didn't ever give her "Wuthering Heights" because he supposedly gave her that book so she could impress Willow by reading the same book as she was in Freshman English at UCSD. When Willow was taking Freshman English at UCSD, Dawn didn't exist.

It is a question that haunts Dawn constantly. What is real? What is an actual memory? What is created? She'd never quite gotten up the courage to ask Willow. Tara would be all 'It's all you, whatever it is', which is nice, but not a real answer. And Giles was always uncomfortable when Dawn asked questions about her key-ness. So she just resigns herself to never knowing.

After school, Spike is lurking in his usual place, just inside the door to the boiler room. He falls in step with her silently, the tracks from school to the Magic Box familiar and easy and a comfortable routine. Sitting in the Magic Box at the study table, listening to Anya deal with another customer, waiting for Tara and Willow to arrive, Dawn leans over and rests her forehead against the math book. She can feel the tears, just behind her eyes, and doesn't really want to cry, but all she can think of is how her life will always be like this: wondering who's next to go, scared that nothing in her head is real.

His hand is cool, and light on the back of her neck, and the smell of cigarettes is so reassuring that Dawn almost cries in relief.

"Nibblet? Something wrong?" The kindness, the fear in his voice is enough to tip her over the edge. The people she cared about most in the world have all left her, but Spike's fear of her, for her, will keep him around forever. Spike will never leave. The tears leak out, not the wracking, painful sobs she's so familiar with, just an overflow of emotion through her eyes.

Spike's arms are around her, then, curling her up against his chest, and she's just too tired to be anything but limp. She can hear Anya's voice, in the background.

"She's just tired, Anya. I'm taking her in the back, maybe try to see if she can get some rest before the lovebirds show up. Let 'em know we're back there, right?"

Dawn feels herself carried through the doorway, into the back room, the training room, and Spike lays her down on a stack of exercise mats. He whips off The Coat and covers her up with it. Dawn rolls onto her side, and Spike sits down next to her, and lights a cigarette. She inches over and puts her head in his lap, and he strokes her hair with one hand while smoking with the other.

There's a pause. "Yeah, pretty much." Dawn grins, a grimace more than anything else. Spike always tells the truth; there's that, at least. "Look, Little Bit, life seems that way sometimes. That's all life is, really. Life's not a song; life's not bliss. Life is just this: it's living. And with enough time, everything just...well. It doesn't really ever stop hurting, but you get used to it. The pain we feel? We only heal it by living."

"I hate feeling like this, like I'm living the same day, the same bleak, crappy day, over and over again. And I don't know whether it's because some monk got lazy with the details, or if my life really is like this?"

"I know what you mean." His voice is quiet, and it makes Dawn turn to look up at his face, and he looks down at her. He's not smiling. "Two hundred eleven days, counting today." He takes another drag on his cigarette. "You know, I saved you. Not when it mattered, of course, but every night after that. I think about it, do something different, a little faster, a little smarter. A little stronger. Every night, I save you. Because if I save you, then she doesn't have to die." Another drag, and he looks away, off into the sunlit side of the room. "So, yeah. The same day, over and over again. I know what you mean."

Tara and Willow show up then, and Spike moves away, darts across the streaming light and out into the alley, in the shade, to smoke. Willow fusses, and babbles, but Dawn tunes her out; it's rude, and mean, but right now she doesn't feel like dealing with all of the stuff going on with Willow. Tara takes Spike's place, and Dawn just lies there for a bit, her head in Tara's lap, Tara's hand stroking her hair.

Willow eventually winds down, sad, small, probably convinced that somehow this is her fault. Tara just waits, listening in the quiet to Dawn's breathing for a little while. Then she stirs a little, and Dawn looks up at her.

Willow's answer is quick. "You're Dawn. You're just a girl, like me and Tara. And like Buffy." They are at least healed enough that they can say her name, now.

"So that's it? I go from big ball of green energy to teenager, and I get a free photo album of people I've never known and places I've never been as a special prize?"

"Well...yeah." Willow sounds confused; they'd gone over this before. "The monks, they just...made you up, and plastered in memories of you. They made you safe."

Xander, listening from the doorway, makes his way in with Anya just behind him. He comes and sits down on the edge of the mat and puts his hand on Dawn's ankle.

"Listen, Dawnster," he says, "doesn't matter what anyone says. The memories I have of you? They're real to me. That's what's important."

Tara's laugh is so out of place, so shocking, that everyone just turns to stare for a moment.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But of course your memories are real, Xander; they're real because they happened." Dawn watches Tara look from one shocked Scooby face to the next, then down at Dawn. "Is that what you're worried about? What's real? Look, Dawn, who told you your memories weren't real?"

"Giles said they were made up. The monks made them up, and put them in my head."

Tara is shaking her head, and she has everyone's attention. "That's not how it works, Dawnie. Wasted energy isn't something that's easy in magic, and inventing a whole life and then inserting to appropriate images into everyone's head...that's a lot of waste."

"So how does it work?" and it is Spike, back from his smoke break, who asks the question that everyone wants answered.

Tara is still grinning, slightly, but now her face takes on a more serious cast. "They rewrote history, of course."

"Well, it's magic, right? A-and, magic, it doesn't waste energy. If there's energy left over, it goes into the casters, you know?" Dawn sees her blush and, glancing at Willow, sees she is blushing as well. "So, instead of all that wasted energy of making memories, the spell just...rewrote history. Dawn, you've always existed, like you are know, because the spell went back and made you real. You lived all of those moments, did all of those things, made all of those choices. You did it, not some monk. All they did was make the universe change."

Xander speaks first. "You mean, wait, you're saying that it was easier to just…rewrite history? To change the universe? Just...abracadabra, and there's a Dawn?"

"Of course, it's so easy! See, 'cause all the magic has to do is find some other world, somewhere else where the universe matches the desired template, and then make a copy of it over this one. Boy, talk about confirming the Myriad Ways Theory of quantum physics..." Her voice trails off. "The energies involved, though." She shakes her head. "It must have been an astounding spell."

"It was the power of the Key. They used almost all of it to unlock the walls between the universe, and find the place where Dawn existed, and then make that place, this place." Her voice gets quiet, then. It's almost a whisper, and Dawn would have missed it, had she not had her head in Tara's lap.

"Do you...do you think..." Dawn's voice is shaking, but she clears her throat and tries again. "Do you think...I could do it again? Remake the universe again?" She doesn't voice the thought, but everyone knows what she means. Can I bring Buffy back? Or Mom?

Willow is shaking her head in time with Tara. Tara looks sad, but Willow just looks thoughtful. It's Willow that speaks. "I don't think so, Dawnie. The energy needed...it's on the order of the energy potential of the Big Bang. And, in theory, there's no energy level that can exceed the potential of the entire universe. It would break down the walls between the dimensions. It would cause by accident what Glory was trying to do on purpose." Her voice drops, both in volume and in tone. "You can't bring her back, Dawnie. I'm sorry. They're gone."

Dawn cries, then, and everyone is trying to be comforting, but it is Spike that steps in, and curls her up in The Coat, and carries her home. He lays her down in her bed, and sits quietly with the window open, smoking and watching her sleep. She does sleep eventually, the last of her hopes and dreams about Buffy draining out of her with her tears. They are really gone, forever gone, always gone. And, with that realization, she starts to put things in order, in her dreams, and in her thoughts. She wakes a couple of times, and Spike is there, smoking his cigarettes. Once, she wakes and realizes that he is missing. But when she raises her head, she sees that he has just moved away from the sunlight. He is still there, watching over her.

She wakes with grit in her eyes, the terrible taste of sleep in her mouth, and the grimy feeling of old dirt and sweat on her skin. She slept in her clothes, apparently for at least a day, since it's dark again. She can hear voices outside her door, and she eases out from between the sheets, not really eavesdropping, not really.

"-'ll be fine. Just needed to sleep it off." It's Spike's voice, quiet, but determined. "I can smell her; she just needs the rest."

"OK, if you're sure." That's Tara's voice, also quiet, but more questioning. "I just...she's been getting better. She was, I thought, better, until I– "

Spike cuts her off. "Not your fault, Goldilocks. Little Bit copes well. She's a Summers Girl; she's good at coping. But you told her the truth, and sometimes the truth is a hard pill to swallow. There's a reason why all the best villains tell the truth, you know. It's hard, and sometimes cruel, and nothing hurts more. But Nibblet needed the truth, and you gave it to her. And to me."

There's a cough. "Fine, I'm fine." There's another pause, and then Spike's voice, barely above a whisper. "I'm not the kind of person someone loves. But she treats me like a man...like a father. And that's...that's enough for me."

There's a rustle, and a quiet space, and Dawn can't see anything, but she knows what's happening. Tara is hugging Spike, and for whatever reason, he is allowing himself to be hugged. This goes on for a while, at least a couple of minutes, and then she hears Spike's boots shuffle against the carpet, and Dawn hears Tara let go.

Suddenly Dawn's attention is focused again on the conversation in the hall. She holds her breath and strains to hear better.

"You said, 'almost all'. So what's left over? How powerful is Bitty Buffy in there?"

"Um." Tara's voice is hesitant. "Well, Willow and I were talking about that. Look at it this way: almost all of the sunlight put out from the Sun just goes off into space, radiates away into nothingness. The actual amount of light that falls on Earth is a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the total light put off by the Sun, you know? But that little bit of sunlight, that's responsible for all life on Earth. All of it."

"Yeah. That's what I meant by 'almost all'. Spike, I think, I think she's so powerful that I can't feel it. Willow and I, we think that after the universe was changed, that she became part of the background noise of the world. That trying to feel just her would be like trying to breathe just oxygen. She's...I think she's more powerful than Glory was."

Dawn's world starts to grey out. Little sparkles are at the edges of her vision, and her chest is burning. At first, she thinks it's because of what Tara said, but then she realizes: she's holding her breath. It comes out of her in an explosive rush, before she can control it.

Spike whips open the door, eyes narrowed, and catches Dawn, crouched next to the bed, leaning close to the door to hear better.

"Evening, Nibblet. Slept the clock 'round, you did." He takes his time, drawing the moment out. "So. How much of that did you hear?"

"Nice try, Dawnie." Tara's voice is light with amusement at her attempt, but her face shows concern.

Spike shakes his head, and gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. "Look, Dawn, get a shower, brush your teeth, then come down for some dinner, and we'll sit down and talk it over. No doing anything rash just yet."

Dawn nods, and Spike closes the door, giving her privacy to get out of her grimy clothes and into her bathrobe for the trip to the shower.

After the clean sluicing, after the soft towels, after the clean teeth, Dawn makes her way downstairs, and then into the kitchen. They are all arrayed around the island: Xander and Anya by the back door, Tara by the stove, cooking, and Willow and Spike bookending the central stool, left open for her. Dawn takes her appointed seat, her hair still drying on the back of her fuzzy cotton pajamas. Her eyes look from one face to the other, and then down at the plate in front of her as Tara turns from the stove to serve her the chicken stir fry, complete with chopsticks. For a little while, Dawn can't really think of anything but eating; she's ravenous, and goes through two plates of the stir fry and rice. Halfway through her third helping, she stops suddenly, and looks up.

"You don't all have to watch me; it's not like I can slit my wrists with wooden chopsticks." There's a sudden uncomfortableness in the room, a sudden guilt, and Dawn likes it for a second. And then she thinks, Is this what power does? Makes us cruel, makes us evil? Am I evil now?

"Didn't think you were gonna, Nibblet. Just in awe of the Crouching Kidlet, Hidden Shovel eating technique you've got going there." Spike's voice is amused, with a bit of sharpness. Dawn gets the message immediately. Just because you're scared, there’s no need to be mean.

"Hey, Dawn-a-tello, get enough rest? We called you in sick to school, and since it was Friday, you get a long weekend. Well, not so long now; it's 10:00 pm on Friday."

Dawn nods, and then looks towards Tara. When wellness is involved, she always looks to Tara. "Was there...is it..." But Tara knows what she means.

"It's perfectly normal to sleep for extended periods, Dawn. You're dealing with serious emotional issues, and that can be very draining. You just needed the rest. How do you feel now?"

Dawn cocks her head, and thinks for a moment before answering, and catches Tara's approving nod in the corner of her eye. "I guess...better. Not great, but, I mean, I know that they were dead, but there was always a little spark of hope, way back in my back brain, that maybe. Maybe I could save them." Surprisingly, there are no tears. Just a great weight of sadness. But, unlike before, it's just heavy, not crushing. And heavy, she can handle. "So tell me about my keyness."

And as she eats, Willow and Tara tell her. How she has an astounding level of power, so great that it blends in with the background noise of the world. How, with time, she could learn to possibly use some of that. How Tara and Willow would help teach her, help to focus her abilities.

And how, despite all of this, she was still not-quite-17, and so therefore it was time for bed. Nevermind that she had just slept for 20 hours, it was time for her to go to bed. And Dawn doesn't argue. Well, not more than perfunctorily anyway. She makes her way up to her room, and curls up on the bed with her diary, and sits staring at the page, trying to figure out how to start her first journal since she burned them all. She hears Anya and Xander leave, not long after that, and then hears Tara and Willow make their way upstairs, and into their room. Later, as she sits on the bed with her still-blank journal in her lap, she hears Spike at her door.

Actually, 'hears' isn't the right word. Spike didn't make any noise. But there was...there was a lack of noise, where Spike was. Like a dead spot in the world. Is this one of my powers? This 'sixth sense'? Something to ask Tara and Willow in the morning.

"You can come in, Spike; I'm not asleep." Dawn looks up and watches him slip through the partially open door.

Spike drags the chair over to the window, opens it, then sits down and taps out a cigarette. Buffy hated it when he smoked inside, and Willow and Tara have asked him not to, but Dawn knows it's a test, for him. A test of will, to see if he can be that close to the flame, that close to oblivion, and still want to live. Well, for a very broad definition of 'live', of course.

"Dawn, you and I need to talk." He's using her real name; this is a serious talk. And, as Dawn closes her eyes, she can almost see everything going on. She can see the soft green glow of the tree outside, and the red glow of Tara and Willow behind her, and farther out, as she extends her consciousness, she can feel all the little red glowing cores the all the little sleeping people all around her. And, here in her room, she can feel the black hole that is Spike, and she knows: Spike is death. He's death made mobile, and there's no soul, no human there. There's nothing but death there, nothing but hunger and thirst in him. And he still cares for her, despite that.

"Look, we know that I've been hanging around, hovering around you, because I wanted to, to help. I wanted to maybe, protect you. From some of the nasties and the beasties and the things that go bump in the night. Plus, you know, blood and smokes and a safe place to sleep." He's trying to be funny, and Dawn smiles at that. "But the thing is, listening to Red and Goldilocks the last couple of days..." Here his voice trails off, and Dawn opens her eyes to look at him again. And, faintly, laid over everything in her vision, is the soft glowing in her head. And for a moment, she thinks she's imagining it, but probably not. This is the Key's legacy, this is her gift now. To see things, and to open doors.

"Dawn, you don't need me around anymore. And I know, and you know it if you take a minute: I'm a monster. I am death. I feed, I kill, and I revel in it. And the whole 'protection' thing? That's just a cover story. It's not me. It's just the chip. Without the chip, I'd kill you and drain you dry and not think for two seconds about it. I know that, and so do you."

He stops for a second, his protracted goodbye suddenly derailed, because that's what this is: goodbye. He's leaving, because he'd rather be gone than be useless, and he feels that his only reason to be here is to protect Dawn, and now he seems to think she doesn't need protecting. "Of course I'm sure."

The headache is enough to knock her off the bed, and give her a nosebleed. For a second, she's blacked out on the floor, but through the throbbing and the haze she can hear Spike howling, apparently in pain. Dawn didn't think it would be this hard, but...but she did it.

Spike is writhing on the floor, clutching his head. Dawn drags herself up to kneeling next to the bed. The door flies open and Willow and Tara are there, holding hands, the blue energy of magic already crackling between them (at least in Dawn's mind's eye). They take in the scene as Dawn imagines it: Dawn, leaning against the bed, blood streaming from her nose, hair matted to her forehead by sweat. Spike, his paroxysm of pain now over, curled in a little ball beneath the window. The chair overturned and bric-a-brac from the desk scattered everywhere. And lying in the middle of the rumpled bedspread, a little lump of metal and silicon, with a fine spiderweb of tiny wires like delicate lace wings. The chip in Spike's head, now on the bed.

She'd done it. And it only hurt massive amounts, she thinks. And she'd done it.

"Dawn! Dawn, are you OK? What happened? Oh my God, you're bleeding!" Willow was on the edge of panicking, only her connection to Tara keeping her grounded. But Tara, looking past Willow, meets Dawn's eyes, and smiles.

"Willow, it's OK. Look, look what I did..." And Dawn turns and points to the little mechanical butterfly on the bed, and then looks over to Spike, and her smile abruptly vanishes. He's curled in a ball in the corner, arms wrapped around his head, cowering. Spike is cowering. "Spike?"

His voice climbs from a whisper to a shout in an instant. "What have you done? What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, DAWN? " He explodes out of the corner, and Dawn doesn't even have time to react, just to think He's so fast... He's shaking her, shaking and shaking and shaking her, and then he throws her one way and himself another. They end up on opposite sides of the bed. He's crumpled on the floor between the bed and the wall, and Dawn is sitting on her butt, propped up against the closet doors. She's still not very sure how she got there, a little dazed. She can feel a bruise starting to form on the back of her head.

"Spike?" Her voice is soft, scared. Dawn is scared, now. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

But Spike isn't talking to Dawn, now. He's talking to Willow and Tara, and the look on his face...it is fear.

"Willow, Tara, she took my chip. She took it out of my head. It's not there anymore. I can feel it. When I think, what I feel...there's no pain anymore. There's nothing there. I'm unleashed. Do you understand? She took the chip."

"Spike," Tara's voice is soft, soothing. Like talking to a wild dog. "I see it. I see what she's done. Are you OK?"

"NO! Don't you understand? There's nothing stopping me now. The Big Bad is back. There's no governor any more, do you see? The demon is loose again! William the Bloody is back." His voice has dropped to a whisper. "And I don't want to be him anymore. And I don't know how long I can hold it in."

And Tara lets go of Willow's hand, and moves towards Spike. He turns, sitting sprawled against the wall, a mirror image of Dawn, and his hands drop to the floor. "Listen, Red," he's talking past Tara, "you have to stake me now. You have to dust me before I hurt someone. Before I hurt Dawn. I can't...I won't...There's too many dead already, Red. And I can't feel the chip anymore." And Tara is there, beside him, and he's trying to shrink away from her, and Dawn can see the fear in his eyes even from across the room.

"No, you don't understand, I'm a monster, you can't do this. I can't be forgiven. Please don't forgive me. Please." And there are tears, from Spike. From William. And there is Tara's healing touch, and her infinite capacity for love and forgiveness.

And he cries. It all comes out of him. All the fear, all the guilt, all the hate and hunger and anger, just comes out. And through it all, Tara holds him, a loving mother figure to this, this man. A dead man perhaps, but still a man.

Later, they are all sitting in the kitchen. Willow called Xander, and he and Anya have come over, and everyone is sitting around the kitchen once again. This is their place, now. Their safe-haven; planning and patrol meetings and such happen in the Dining Room, but for safety and comfort, and friendship, the Kitchen is their heart.

The chip, still carefully preserved, sits on the counter in the center of the group. Spike can't take his eyes off of it.

"Why," Xander's voice is quiet, but the rage underneath it is almost palpable, "haven't we staked Spike yet? He's got no chip anymore. Is this some sort of charity function? Get out of hell free day?"

"Xander!" Tara's voice is a whipcrack. Even Xander is surprised at the tone. "You may not believe this, but Spike is as much a person with feelings as you are. You may not like him, but don't be cruel."

"Xander...he's a man. A man's body animated by a demonic curse. But he's still a man."

Spike still can't look at anyone, but his voice still carries, even talking to the countertop. "Do you think I don't remember who I was?"

"Well, yes. The demon strips it away, that little voice in your head that keeps you from doing all of the things that you really want to do but won't because it would be wrong? It takes that away from you. There's only two speeds when you're a vampire: full bore, and dead stop. Every emotion is intensified and crystal clear, every thought sharp like glass, every sense overloaded. A vampire is the very definition of Poor Impulse Control, junior. But it's still you. Your soul may have gone somewhere else, but your body remembers. All the demon does is give you a chance to walk around again."

"Of course he lied, Whelp. All the bad things, you blame on the demon. It absolves you. Of evil, of responsibility, of difficulty, of questions. It makes you so wonderfully blameless, that lie. 'The demon did it.' A little invisible friend, and no one who isn't a vampire would never know. But I know, and think about it, Whelp. I don't lie. That's why I'm so bad: I don't lie." And Spike and Xander lock gazes. Xander looks away first.

"But it's you, now, William." Dawn's voice is soft, but at the mention of his name, Spike reacts as if she'd slapped him. "There's no chip anymore. No leash anymore. Just you, and the choice every day: to do right, or to do wrong. There's just you, and your strength of character." Dawn reaches over the counter and puts her hand on Spike's hand, and when he tries to draw away, she holds tighter. "You haven't needed the chip for a long time, William. We're here. We're your friends." and she looks up and locks eyes with Xander before he can say something, and he closes his mouth, not happy, but not willing to argue, either. "We'll help, if you'll let us. Spike, you were wrong before. I might be powerful, but it's only one kind of power. There are things out there that will want me to use, or to hurt, or to kill. And with Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya, I can fend most of that off. But I need you, as a last resort. I need your fight with me, William. I need your strength of character."

"William or Spike, it doesn't matter. You might be a monster, Spike. But you're my monster. And I love you."

And, when he sees her eyes, he nods. "Yeah, yeah I do. And if...if you'll have me, I'll be your monster, Dawn. For good."

It has been a week since his chip-ectomy, and there's not much that's changed around the Summer House. Not the Summers' House; it was a slip of the tongue by Dawn one day, but she likes it, so she's keeping it. It's not really her house anymore, anyway. It's the Rosenberg-McClay-Summers-some-name-that-Spike-still-won't-tell-her house, now. But the Summer House has nice connotations: heat, home, love, safety, relaxation. The Summer House is home, now. Technically, sure, it's still hers, but she's willing to share.

The strains of music are filtering up from the basement, where Spike has made up a permanent home. He's practicing his guitar. He's gotten pretty good at it, actually.

Dawn is thinking that wine, real and metaphorical, has been in her thoughts quite a bit lately. She stumbled across a quote during research for a paper earlier in the week, and she likes it so much she has written it down in her journal: "Music is the wine that fills the cup of silence." And the music she can hear from the Summer House is a sweet harvest, indeed.

They don't like him very much, she writes. He's not terribly likable, either. But they're learning, and so is he. It's not a question of cures, or leashes, or curbing. He may be a monster. But he's my monster.

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My Beloved Monster

by Heronymus

Copyright © 2003

heronymus_waat@hotmail.com