Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Character/Pairing: Spike/Buffy, Dawn
Challenge/Prompt: nekid_spike: Nekid Colour: Red
Word Count: 1,744
Date Written: 11 March 2017
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
Red used to mean blood, sweet, succulent blood slipping down his throat like the smoothest of wines usually from a fresh victim. Their screams used to add to the taste, making his victories even sweeter, but somewhere along the way of falling in love with Buffy, his victims' screams stopped bringing him the same elation they once did. He even got to the point where he liked to make the screams stop -- and not by killing the screamers either --, and he spends more time these nights making screams stop than creating them.
Except where one particularly beautiful Slayer is concerned. She's got a little, red number that he loves too, but she doesn't wear it nearly as often. Of course, they can't go on the town like a normal couple, so her opportunities to wear the tight scrap of cloth are limited. Still, though, just thinking of her wearing that dress, which isn't actually made of silk but feels pretty darn close to the real thing, is enough to make him want to reach out to her, wherever they are, whatever they're doing, and ravish her.
"Don't," Buffy whispers.
Spike's eyebrows arch slightly upwards. "Don't what?" he growls softly back, sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine.
She reaches over and gently slaps his arm. "You know what," she mouths back and then jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen.
Spike makes the few steps it requires to see into the kitchen and sees the table covered with scraps of red and pink paper. His brow furrows, and he steps closer. "What's all this, Nibblet?"
Dawn blushes as red as his favorite dress on her big sister. She sweeps her long arms across the table, trying to cover all the papers, as he steps closer. "Nothing," she hurriedly denies.
"Doesn't look like nothing to me," he observes, calm and cool. He swaggers around her chair and to the other side of the table. "What's his name?"
He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Dawn turns even redder at his question. "It's that obvious, huh?"
He grins. "Only to me. You know I've been love's bitch for ages."
Standing behind her sister and still just out of the room, Buffy mouths his name. He glances at her, then looks pointedly away and back at Dawn. If the kid's old enough to fight Vampires, which she does along with them every night, she's old enough for a little "grown up" language. His attention returns to Dawn just in time to catch her heartfelt sigh. "How do you handle it?" she asks Spike.
He shrugs. "Time. Patience. Hope that eventually the one you love is going to stop running, turn around, see you, and maybe want you just a fraction as bad as you want them.
"And if they don't? What do you do then?"
Spike barely stops himself from answering, You get sodding drunk and resort to a little violence. "You make them notice you," he says instead.
He nods at the cardboard paper she's still holding close to her. "Looks to me like you've already got a start on that, pet."
"Do you think it will work?" she asks, meeting his eyes. "I know it's silly. It's silly that a girl who doesn't even really exist and is supposedly older than the stars, which I so totally don't feel, is crushing on a teenage boy who does exist." She stops, realizing that she's finally spoken those words aloud. She looks down at the table, then back up at Spike. "Isn't it?" she asks softly.
Buffy's mouth is open, her tongue and teeth poised to croon her little sister's name. Dawn might have been some kind of cosmic key when she first came to them, but she's as real as any of them -- and their care and concern for her has kept from making huge, life-risking mistakes more than once. It's also the reason why her sister died last year. Spike casts a quick glower at Buffy, warning her not to say anything and also reassuring her that he's got this. He turns the chair opposite from Dawn around so that it's seat is in front of him and straddles it. Looping his arms over its back, he looks across the table and straight into Dawnie's eyes.
"Not at all," he vows. "What's silly is that girl still thinking she's not real when she's as real as anybody in this house and her heart has kept everybody here from making at least one huge mistake. Dawn, we've been through this, luv. Whatever those monks did or didn't do, you're just as real as me or your big sister, Buffy, or anybody else. Nobody feels and loves like you do and isn't real. Your heart is one of the most real, and most loving, I've ever known."
Dawn blushes once more, but he notes that this time the color that fills her bashfully smiling face is more pink than red. Her anguish is gone, seeped away, melted away by his words. His words. If a smile touches his lips, only Buffy notices.
"Maybe you can help me then," Dawn says and pushes one of the papers toward Spike. "How bad is this? Really?" she asks nervously.
He looks down at the pink paper and reds the curly, glittering writing. "Roses are red, violets are blue. You're so handsome. I'm totally crushing on you." He winces and remembers even worse poetry from well over a century ago. "It's not the worst," he remarks honestly.
"It's also not good," Dawn admits with a soft, half-laugh.
She goes to take the paper, but he takes her hand instead and looks back into her eyes once more. "Maybe you don't need poetry," he says.
"What do I need?"
"Yourself," he answers without hesitation, "and maybe some candy or a flower or two. Guys like to be thought of too, you know. But if you know what he likes and can get him something more tailored to his interests, that's better. It shows you care enough to know him."
Dawn nods. "And?"
"And then just tell him," Spike suggests, sitting back, "or ask him out."
Dawn's eyes widen. "Ask him out?" she repeats, suddenly breathless at the idea.
Spike shrugs. "Sure. Why not? It's the 21st century, after all. I'd think that any nibblet who's used to staring down Vampires on a nightly basis -- or threatening to wake them up on fire -- would be courageous enough to not think twice about asking a guy out on a date."
"But what if he says no?"
Spike shakes his head. "Ain't gonna happen."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because," Spike says, raising his eyes to Buffy who's been behind her little sis this whole time, "you Summers women have a way with guys."
"What are you two talking about?" Buffy asks as though she's just now arriving. She strolls into the kitchen as Dawn quickly picks up her papers, markers, scissors, and glitter pens and throws them all into a bag.
"Nothing," she says, jumping up from the table, but she hesitates and looks back at Spike with a warm grin. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, pet. Just be true to your self, and as sappy as that sounds, if that boy's worth your time, he'll come running to you."
Dawn flashes him a wide, bright grin and runs from the room. Buffy watches Spike roll his eyes with a grin of her own. "What?"
He shakes his head at himself. "Damn, I've gone soft."
Her grin widens. "I like it. Besides," she shrugs, "you're only soft where it counts." Walking around the table, she runs her hand over his shoulders, immediately tensing his body with need. "If you weren't straddling that chair, I'd . . . " She leans closer and whispers the rest of her declaration in his ear. In the span of one human heartbeat, Spike jumps up, flips the chair around, sits back down, and pulls her toward his lap. She straddles him.
"You know," he admits, "I was thinking about that little red number you have earlier. You haven't worn it in a while. Maybe you can wear it and we can go out for dinner tomorrow night?"
"Kinda hard to have dinner on the town with a Vampire." She wriggles her nose, knowing he likes the display. "You don't exactly eat."
"Oh, I eat all right -- " he growls.
She laughs, her eyes sparkling; there's a place deep inside of him that warms with the knowledge that he is the cause of that beautiful, joyous sparkle. "How about I just wear it tomorrow night?"
He growls again, leaning closer to her throat. "You know how to treat a guy."
"And you know how to treat a woman. You were great with Dawnie."
"Really? You think so?"
"Oh, yeah. But that poem . . . " She laughs.
It's a musical sound, but he still finds himself defending her sister. "I've written worse myself."
"I know. Back in the day."
"Back in the days before I was the Big Bad -- "
"I didn't like you as the Big Bad," she interrupts, sliding her arms around his shoulders. She thrusts her fingers up into his short, blonde hair and slides closer on his lap. "Or as William. I like you as you."
"Yeah." Suddenly, all he can see is her beautiful face smiling down at him. "Especially this softer side of you."
"You like it?"
He grins. "I guess I do, too." But when he moves on her, that softness isn't to be seen. He covers her smiling mouth with his, nipping at her lips and pulling her tongue into his mouth. He darts against her, thrusts his tongue into her mouth, and fills her. She sighs happily as her tongue wraps around his. And with her in his arms, her legs wrapped around his hips, and her tongue in his mouth, Spike decides that yeah, he does like being a little softer, and maybe there is something to being a gentleman after all -- just as long as he isn't too gentle and neither is she. Rising, he carries her down to the basement, never once letting up on kissing her or relinquishing her tongue. Red has always been many things, he thinks, remembering his earlier reverie, but his favorite has always been passion. Now he fills that for one woman alone, and he's never been happier.