Title: Note # 112 Need

Summary:  A random part of my Dawn/Spike Londonverse *looks at Leni-see what you did* Apparently Spike takes lots of notes regarding Dawn’s behavior.

Rated PG-13 for a word

AN: Written for Moviequoteminis “I’m not a concept. Too many guys think I’m a concept or I complete them or I make them alive, but I’m just a fucked up girl who is looking for her own piece of mind. Don’t assign me yours.” Clementine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

 

 

 

“I’m not a concept!” Dawn yelled, her hands pulled at her hair. Spike reached up and took her hands in his.

 

“I know, Pet. You’re going to pull all your hair out at this rate, and while you’d be bleedin gorgeous no matter what you do, I rather like the long locks.”

 

“Stop it!” she yelled and tugged her hands out of Spike’s and resumed her pacing. “Too many guys think I’m a concept or I-I complete them!  Or worse-did you know he actually told me that he’s only alive when I’m with him! Does he have any idea how much pressure that is? I can’t deal with that kind of pressure! I don’t want to be anyone’s reason for living or anyone’s heart or anyone’s soul! The truth is I’m just a fucked up girl who is looking for her own peace of mind! I don’t need anyone to assign me theirs.”

 

“Not trying to assign you anything, Nibblet,” Spike assured her. “Why don’t you come sit down with me ‘stead of pacing around? All that whiskey you drank tonight is liable to come right back up.”

 

“Tequila,” she pouted as she flounced down next to Spike. “It was tequila. And I only drank it because Mr. You Make Me Alive told me I couldn’t.”

 

“Teach him to tell my Bit anything like that,” Spike grinned at her. “So what became of the Nancy boy?”

 

“I gave him a copy of Penthouse and told him to go make himself feel alive.”

 

That prompted uproarious laughter from Spike. “That’s my girl,” he finally managed. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. Dawn took it out of his mouth after he’d lit it, puffed on it a moment and put it back in his mouth.  She leaned against him and closed her eyes, sighing softly.

 

“Why do they all have to be so screwed up? In six months I’ve had eight boyfriends and every single one of them is screwed up and looking for me to save them. I don’t wanna save anyone, Spike.”

 

“You’ve got to stop going out with these college prats,” Spike answered.

 

“I went out with an artist three months ago,” Dawn argued. “He was almost thirty. He had the nice studio and a gallery with his work in it.  I thought he was a grown up, that he knew who he was and he wouldn’t want me to figure it out. He studied in Rome for God’s sake! I spent a month and a half with him before he told me he needed me. I was his muse. I don’t wanna be anyone’s muse. I just wanna-I don’t know what I want to be. I’m just so tired of saving the men in my life.”

 

Spike put an arm around Dawn and kissed the top of her head.  “Don’t worry, Platelet. I got nowhere else to be. I’ll put ‘em in line for you, Love. Let me do the saving. I rather fancy the white knight gig anyway.”

 

“You don’t need me, Spike.” Her voice slurred as she spoke. He could hear her heartbeat slowing as she slipped into sleep. “I’m not your reason for living ‘cause you don’t live. I’m not your heart, ‘cause you don’t have one and your soul is yours ‘cause I remember when you got it and it had nothing to do with me. That’s what I love about you, Spike. You always save me.”

 

He waited until she’d fallen asleep, then gathered her up in his arms, carried her up the stairs of the townhouse she shared with her flat mates and into her bedroom where he tucked her in, placed a kiss on her forehead and sat in the corner of the room to listen to her breath. He made a mental note, the hundredth of its kind:  Don’t ever, ever tell Bit how much I need to save her.