Title: A Prettier Life

Summary: She’s lost and she doesn’t want to be found.

Rated: +13 for references to bad stuff

 

 

 

No Virgin me

For I have sinned

                        ~Mary Mary by Chumbawamba

 

 

She pulled down the tiny black skirt she wore and stuffed the wad of bills in her bra.

           

            “That’s it?” the man in the alley with her asked as he buttoned his pants.

 

She smirked. “I charge extra if you expect me to hold you.”  She turned around and slipped through the fire exit she’d disabled and propped open. She let the door slam behind her. The john could find his own way back in the club if that’s what he wanted.

 

The crush of music and people hit her like a tidal wave. She took a deep breath and plunged in. It didn’t matter how deep the water was if you knew how to swim and she’d learned to swim, or at least tread water.

 

 

*

 

And tell him “Mary

Is no more a child.”

 

 

He kept searching. There were times in the dead of night when he thought he was the only one still looking, then he’d see her picture with that hated word, Missing, over it and he knew Willow, Giles, Xander, even Angel were out there. They had other commitments though, slayers, watchers, sons. She was his only commitment.

 

The subway jerked to a stop. He checked the address he’d inked on his palm earlier that evening. It was a few blocks from this stop. He pushed past the people scattered about the subway and made his way up the stairs to street level. He cursed New York City. It never slept, as busy at midnight as it was as noon. It was easier to look for her in cities that weren’t so crowded, didn’t have so many options. He growled to himself and plowed through the crowds, not taking the time to weave through them, barely brushing up against them the way he could have if he’d wanted to.

 

The Confessional was housed in an old Catholic church. The walls and stained glass windows beat with the pulse of the music within. Everything shone red, reminding him of a time when he and Angelus had locked a covenant of nuns inside a church before setting it aflame.  A skinny, blonde stood just outside of the entrance throwing up on the wall.  He was sure priests everywhere were rolling over in their graves. He gave the guy at the door a fifty dollar bill and shouldered his way through the door. In essence the club was no different than any of the other places he’d looked before. The music faded into one mind numbing scream in his ears. The patrons were one desperate crowd of need and want. He could smell the stench of it coming off the crowd in waves, more importantly he could feel it. It made him nauseous.

 

Spike shoved his way through the crowd, oblivious to the insults and looks thrown his way as he muscled past people. He ordered a Johnny Red at the bar and sat down at a recently vacated stool to watch the throng of people gathered. He shook his head, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag off of it. He blew the smoke towards the ceiling.  All these people who thought they were such originals could be and likely were some of the same people he’d seen the night before, relentlessly searching for something they’d never find in this place. He wondered if his search was just as futile.

 

He watched, peering closely at fifteenth brunette to walk past him. It wasn’t her. They are never her. Someone bumped his shoulder and he turned to scowl.

 

            “Hey, can I bum a cigarette?”

 

Spike raked his eyes over the man sitting on the stool next to him, dark jeans, black silk shirt, perfectly mussed hair. He could be an ad from one of those girly for guy’s magazines. He shrugged and tapped a cigarette out of his pack, offering it to the man. He slapped his Zippo down on the bar for the man to use, and then pocketed it after his cigarette had been lit.

 

            “Those things will kill you,” he muttered as the man blew the smoke in his face.

 

The man smirked. “I’m David and that’s kinda hypocritical don’t you think? Considering you’re smoking one too.”

 

            “I’m already dead,” he muttered.

 

David shook his head and took a deep drag off the cigarette. “Yeah, I hear you. Same old same old, always searching for something, someone and never finding them.”

 

He nodded. David might be a pratt, but he knew what he was talking about. “Yeah, gets old never finding them.”

 

David grinned at him. “Yeah, every person you meet, you wonder if they could be the one…in a place like this…it’s hard to get to know anyone, find anyone. You need quiet, privacy for that, something more conducive to talking.”

 

He grunted, back to scouring the crowd for a brunette that might be her, could be her. The heavy makeup and skimpy clothing that was universal here made it hard to tell one girl from the other. He growled low in his throat, growing more irritated with the scene by the minute. This place looked like it belonged in a bad Anne Rice film. Music and the patrons fit too.

 

            “You wanna get some coffee somewhere? We could talk; see if maybe we make that connection.”

 

He snapped his head around towards David, noticing the way he was leaning on the bar toward him. “Do I look like a bleedin nancy boy to you?” He shook his head. “I’m here lookin for some one. A girl. Brunette.” He fumbled in his coat pocket, bringing out an old picture of her. “Have you seen her?”

           

David plucked the picture from his fingers and held it up to the light over the bar. He frowned, tilting it and studying. He handed it back with a doubtful look. “There’s a brunette here, works the men. It could be her, the eyes and the lips. I saw her slip out the fire exit earlier some middle aged guy in tow. You’ll probably find her in the alley.”

 

His mind wouldn’t let him absorb what he was hearing, but his body acted on instinct. He didn’t register the people he pushed past, knocked over. His eyes were fixed on the exit sign glowing red . The dread coiled in his stomach slipped loose, draining away at the sight of the fire exit propped open with a spiked heel shoe. It wasn’t her. She’d never wear shoes like that. Girl couldn’t run in a pair of those silly contraptions, couldn’t stake a vamp or do anything useful. He glanced at the throng of people behind him. It would be easier to interrupt whatever was going on in the alley and leave that way then it would be to fight through all those people again to get to the front door.  He kicked the door open and stepped out into the alley. It stank of garbage, dirt and something long dead.

 

            “Sorry to interrupt the mood,” he mumbled and started past the couple. What he caught out of the corner of his eye ground him to a halt. Long, pale limbs, tiny black skirt shoved up around her waist, long, dark hair trailing down her side, brushing her rib cage.

 

It was her mouth that stopped him. She’d always had a Summers mouth.

 

*

 

I sold my soul

For sex and gin

 

 

No. This was not happening. He was not allowed in this world. This was her world and he didn’t exist. She shoved the guy in front of her away. He pushed back. The ripe smell of the alley and the sight of him there in her world made her feel dizzy.

 

            “Get the fuck off me,” she growled.

 

            “I’m paying for this,” he protested.

 

And then the man was thrown across the alley. “I believe the lady said to get off her.”

 

She kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want him to see her. She pulled her skirt down and hobbled over, snagging her shoe from the fire exit. She slipped it on her foot. “He owes me money.” If there was someone to muscle the money out of the guy, might as well let him do it.

 

            “Like hell I do,” the john spat.

 

He picked the john up by his shirt collar, dangling him inches above the ground. “The lady said you owed her money. Give it to her.” He dropped the john, who promptly scrambled in his pockets, tossing a wad of money onto the ground and then ran away as quickly as he could go.

 

He picked the money up and held it out to her. She reached for it and he held onto it, forcing her to look up at him. Her blue eyes were lined with thick coats of black eyeliner. Her lips were stained crimson. That bottom lip trembled and he ached.

 

            “Spike?”

 

He’d lived a lot of years, seen a lot more things and no one had ever said his name like that. Like he was a savoir, redemption…a knight in shining armor. He didn’t answer her, didn’t wait for her to say anything else. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her out to the street, hailing a cab.

 

She shook her head, but kept her nose firmly buried in his neck. “You can’t just come in and do this.”

 

            “Looks like I just did,” he responded, silently cursing New York City and its cab system. One finally jerked to a stop at the curb. He got in, keeping her body tucked into his.

 

She shook her head again, hands clasping his neck tighter. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”

 

            “Didn’t ask if you wanted to be,” he responded, burying his nose in her hair. She didn’t smell the same anymore. She was innocence lost, purity sullied and he hurt for everything she’d lost and all the things she’d gained.

 

*

 

I’m so up and down

And I love what’s not allowed.

 

 

She watched him through hooded eyes. He was standing at a window gilded in moonlight. He was a study in dark and light. The silver gleamed off his hair, his opaline skin. The shadows were thickened by the black of his coat and his jeans. His had his head bowed and even though she knew he was probably aware she was awake by the cadence of her heart beat and breathing, he didn’t acknowledge it.

 

 

She watched him with a sense of detachment, the way she might watch a grainy old black and white movie on mute. He didn’t belong here in her world and she could no longer remember a girl who had belonged in his. She reached over and grabbed a bit of skin at the bend of her elbow and twisted.

 

            “You’re not dreaming. I imagine you’d pick a prettier life than this if you were.”

 

The sound of his voice brought a smile to her lips, the way the music the ice cream truck had played when she was little once did. It was nostalgic and bitter sweet all at once. It left a slightly metallic taste in her mouth. He turned to look at her, blue eyes cutting through the grainy movie feel. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe and everything was stark, harsh reality.  She fisted the worn, ugly bedspread in her hand and the cloying stale smoke smell that permeated the room invaded her senses. It even seemed to sting her eyes.

 

            “What the hell do you think you were doing out there, Bit?”

 

            “Why the hell do you care?” She snapped back. She shoved the blankets off her legs and got out of bed, fumbling in her tiny bag for a pack of cigarettes. The cheap, gold shag carpet felt dirty under her bare feet. She pulled a cigarette out and placed it between her lips while she searched for her lighter. Spike stalked across the room and snatched the cigarette out of her mouth. He snapped it in half and tossed it in the trash.

 

            “Shouldn’t smoke, Platelet. It’s bad for you.”

 

She arched an over tweezed eyebrow at him.  “News flash, I’m not a little girl anymore. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” She tapped another cigarette out and lit it, blowing smoke in his face defiantly.  “Why the fuck do you even care anymore?”

 

Spike grabbed her by the shoulders. She was skinny. He could feel her shoulder bones sharp against her pale skin. “I’ve spent 193 days looking for you. I’ve been all over Europe and a good portion of America. I’ve searched every single nightclub, derelict building and homeless shelter I could find.”

 

            “Yeah, I know. You made a promise to Buffy. End of the world or some kind of bullshit. Gotta keep those promises, Spikey,” Dawn spat, struggling in vain to jerk away from him. He finally flung her away from him. She stumbled and fell onto the bed. The springs squeaked loudly and memory of a night she’d spent here with a faceless man left a sour taste in her mouth. She inhaled cigarette smoke, seeking to replace that smell and eradicate the memory.

 

            “This isn’t about the Slayer,” he growled.

 

            “It’s always about Buffy. Every man in my life…it’s always been about Buffy. Daddy didn’t stay in touch because Buffy’s life and problems were too difficult to stand. He left us because of Buffy. Angel…he was like this larger than life big brother guy…my first crush. He wanted Buffy. Riley….never even noticed I was around except as an annoyance….And you. I needed you so much and the only thing you could see was my sister.” She took a drag off the cigarette, then turned it down and touched it to her thigh. She hissed in pain.

 

Spike jumped at her, slapping her hand and sending the cigarette flying across the room. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing hurting yourself like that?”

 

Dawn looked up at him with empty eyes. “That’s not pain, Spike. That’s just physical. Pain…pain is the world I left behind. Nothing that can happen to me here, nothing I can do to myself, nothing a john can do to me hurts like the life I left behind.”

 

Spike stared at her silently. How had any of them let it come to this? “I’m sorry, Bit. When Big Sis died I should have-”

 

Dawn slapped him. “This isn’t about Buffy. Yeah, when she died it was the last straw…this is about me! This about the life I had to live. The things I had to lose. The way my entire life is sharp bits of glass cutting, cutting, cutting until they cut out everything I was. It spilled on the floor and it’s gone now, Spike.”

 

Spike reached and glided his thumb across her cheek. Somehow with this much pain there should be tears for him to wipe away, but there weren’t. He shook his head. “No, s’not gone, Niblet. I’ll find you. That’s what I do. That’s all I do, anymore. I find Dawn.”