| |
In the Ground
by Rabbit
Email: impudent_guttersnipe@hotmail.com
Rating: Let's say R for squickyness
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Summary: Set in season five. What if Dawn hadn't ripped up Joyce's photo after conjuring her from the grave?
Notes: This is kind of a gruesome death fic, with violence and tons of angst.
In The Ground
Sometimes reaction happens before reasoning kicks in. As a slayer she
should know that. Usually it's not a problem, there's not too much
intellectual bargaining needed if the choice is evil vamp number one, or
two. But, this would be the perfect time to stop, to weigh the pros and
cons, to remember that there is no coming back. And five years on a
hellmouth seeds almost enough cynicism to knock the hope out of her voice.
Almost.
"Mom?"
Random snippets of cautious British warnings: //convergences of mystical
energies, unpredictability of magicks//, mentally trail behind the click of
the knob. She never did listen to Giles; the realization comes just as the
weather stripping along the bottom of the door squeaks against *that* point
of the floor. Pomposity and tweed lose the fight to an impossible wish come
true: death is not forever. Her mother is back.
And for all the screaming she wants to do at Dawn, Buffy's still the first
one there, still the one racing to the impossibility of beating mortality.
After all these years of being locked into a no escape clause slayer
contract with a guaranteed fatal ending, when did she become so optimistic?
The door is already opened, because damn all of those worst case scenarios,
that's her mother out there.
Wide-eyed and hopeful, her neck cranes as the door swings open. And Buffy
doesn't know what she expects- her mommy as she remembers her before the
doctors and tumors, before slayer hands crushed her ribcage in a clumsy, but
heartfelt attempt to bring her back? Some fragment of time before she had
to pick a dress for Joyce Summers to be buried in? She doesn't have time to
register anything, doesn't know whether to hug her or to cry. She settles on
both.
"Mommy, mommy, mommy," Buffy melts, tucks her chin into that hollow dip
just above her mother's clavicle, squeezes her eyes shut and just keeps
repeating it. It's the sweetest sound she's ever heard as she
psychologically dances around the bitter tang of soil and decomposing eaves,
moss, and whatever...
She hears the choked sob behind her just before Dawn's body slams into them,
sniffled breaths and an endless stream of sound intended as words, that come
out only as the most primitive expressions of pain. Poor Dawnie, this is a
lot for someone her age to deal with. Buffy turns her head and kisses her
little sister, she shouldn't have yelled at her earlier.
Some small part of her feels a pang of guilt? Jealousy? Dawn was the only
one with balls enough to pursue this, to find a way to bring their mom back,
and she wasn't even the real daughter. Chosen one? Saving mankind? Some
independent slayer she was, caving to Giles and Willow's warnings. She
should have looked it up on her own, tried to do something. Yeah, she wasn't
a witch, but neither was her little sister.
Yet, somehow Dawn has succeeded in doing the impossible. It's scary to think
what kind of power she's released into the world, what could have happened,
to worry about that cosmic conscience biting you in the ass. But here they
are, all unharmed, and all the lecturing has been taken right out of her.
She'll have Willow talk to Dawn about the dangers and responsibilities of an
action like this. As if she'd listen.
Buffy thinks she should ground her though, give her something to think
about. The thought strikes her that she doesn't have to do that anymore,
that her mom is back and Buffy doesn't have to play at half-assed, pseudo
parent anymore with no plan, or idea how to even begin to fill her mother's
shoes. Not tonight though, tomorrow. She'll ask Willow to talk to her. Dawn
worships Willow and Tara, and will probably listen to them more than she
will an interfering big sister.
She steps back, and lets Dawn greet their mother. Buffy's hand smoothes down
Dawn's long, straight brown strands, pulls them away as they stick to the
tears running down her little sister's face. Dawn's eyes will be red, they
always are when she gets this upset, and they have been for the last few
days. Buffy rubs a couple of sun-bleached pieces through her fingers, and
wonders if her mom's hair had been this dark when she was Dawn's age? They
really were so similar; her dad always used to say so.
But actually he hadn't had he? He'd never really met Dawn? Hank Summers
hadn't even come to her mother's funeral, never saw her lying there in the
dress Buffy had picked out, never noticed how the blue made Joyce Summer's
skin seem impossibly pale.
You'd think that Buffy would have been used to that death pallor by now, but
she never really had. She survived it by shutting herself off from it,
concentrating on the way Xander's chin tightened, or Giles' eyebrows
wrinkled. If she kept Willow's sad/determined face in focus, she could
organize her thoughts and carry on her duty without fixating on the latest
victim and wondering if someday she would be cold and lifeless like that.
Even after hundreds of times, it's made it easier to distance herself,
because she thinks she might go crazy if she doesn't.
Her mother must be exhausted. She can't even raise her arms to return Dawn's
hug, hasn't returned Buffy's either come to think of it. And when Buffy
really*looks*, she can see the dirt smeared against the robin egg's blue of
Joyce's skirt as a sharp reminder of what she's been through.
What are they thinking keeping her out here? Every muscle in her body looks
stiff enough to snap, and she's not even focusing on anything, just staring
straight ahead, looking like she's about to collapse.
"Maybe you should come inside mom. We can run you a nice bath, make you some
tea?" Yeah, that'll wipe away the horrors of the grave. Damn, Buffy's not
sure what to do with someone who has risen from the grave, usually they
require staking, not comforting, not reintegration. "And then you look like
you could use some sleep."
"Oh yes," Dawn agrees, swiping the back of her hand across her face, takes
Joyce by the hand, "Don't worry mom, we'll take care of everything." And the
three-person procession makes it way upstairs.
When they reach the bathroom, Buffy notices the crusting of dirt under her
mom's nails, and knows there are orange sticks here somewhere-tiny little
wooden cuticle implements. More than once when she was soaking after a
particularly heinous patrol, she'd imagined a Slayer Barbie stalking Vamp
Ken. And why does she have such strange train of thought moments? She shakes
her head.
Dawn is leaning over; hair swinging as she inspects the various bottles
ringing the side of the tub. The slayer takes a moment to watch her mother.
Joyce is facing the mirror above the sink, engrossed. Buffy steps forward
quickly, lowering her voice in an effort to comfort her, "Don't worry mom,
you'll feel like a new person in about an hour. I promise." Buffy rests her
hand on Joyce's arm, and turns her head to meet her mother's eyes in the
reflection of the mirror, but realizes her mother was never interested in
the first place. She's been staring at a spot on the wall about three inches
to the right of the mirror. When Buffy tears her gaze away from their
likeness and looks in confusion at her mother, she notices that Joyce's
pupils seem unnaturally large, nearly blacking out the irises.
Dawn giggles to herself as she stands up, bottle in hand. "How about
Raspberry? I never know whether to bathe in it, or put it on top of ice-
cream."
"Mom?" Buffy questions out loud, hoping for any kind of response. She gets
nothing, and starts to fight a growing sense of panic.
"It's okay mom," Dawn offers, filling the awkward silence. "Bubbles are
optional. You'll love it. Trust me." The pipes grind as she twists the
faucet knobs. A gush of water, and the room is soon filled with steam. The
youngest Summers has towels tucked into the basket at the side of the tub
before she turns and realizes her mom is still standing in her burial garb.
She seems momentarily surprised, but recovers quickly, undoing buttons and
pulling the blouse over Joyce's head. "I'll help you."
The possibility seems too cruel, but unarguable as Dawn pats Joyce's thigh,
encouraging her to lift it and step into the tub. Buffy's head swims with
the steam of the room and the unfairness of her suspicion, and she feels
dizzy when she steps to the front of the tub, looking down at her mother and
sister.
As Dawn gets their mom settled in the water, Buffy asks, "What was it like
mom, where there a lot of bugs and stuff down there?" Her voice is sharp,
blunt with the bitterness of despair, as she has to raise her voice to be
heard above the splashing filling the tub.
Dawn gasps and swings her head around, mouth agape in shock. "Morbid much?
What is wrong with you?" She turns around and presses a soapy washcloth into
Joyce's hand. It lays limply from her fingers, but Dawn doesn't seem to
notice. "You don't have to answer that mom. She's just pouting. She's been
in a terrible mood ever since you..." Buffy can see Dawn's lips tighten as she
bites off the last of her statement.
Buffy swallows once. "Yeah, it's really been a bitch since you died."
There is no expected parental disapproval over the word, one of the words
Joyce Summers has always demanded never be used in her house by one of her
daughters. Even Dawn's shoulders stiffen in anticipation of the reprimand
that never comes.
"Dawn," Buffy says calmly, and wonders where that even tone of voice is
coming from, because she feels like screaming. "Something isn't right. I
think there's something wro..."
"Shut up!" Dawn screams, whirling around. Buffy can see the tears clinging
to her lower lashes, and the first streams of glistening mucus running from
her nose. "Shut up and stop trying to ruin this. THERE. IS. NOTHING. WRONG."
Even as she shouts the last four words, she's already turning her back to
the slayer, turning off the water.
Dawn takes a cup from the side of the tub, fills it with water and gently
pours it along Joyce's hairline. The stream slides over the surface of their
mother's face, tiny trails of bubbles running into her open eyes, and Dawn
whispers, "Mom, close your eyes."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawn is rattling around at the stove, cooking in that haphazard,
unnecessarily complicated way that people who don't do it often do. Every
pan is lined up along the counter, spilling into the sink as she tries to
make French toast for dinner. Buffy could help her, but she feels weighted
down, unable to carry out the simplest tasks. Plus, she'd have to stand by
the thing that Dawn's conjured, and she's been trying to avoid that ever
since last night.
It's deteriorating rapidly, falling apart right before their eyes. And Dawn
is still insulated in her denial, keeps it sitting at a barstool next to her
as she cooks.
Something is going to have to be done about it, but Buffy's still tied by
its resemblance to her mother. Instinct and calling clearly tell her
strategies, techniques, 101 ways to kill the undead. She knows what should
be done, but can't bring herself to that point yet.
Matricide. She can already feel herself morphing into Giles as her lips move
along to the syllables. She has to kill her mother, well not her mother,
this zombie thing Dawn's living in fantasy with. She knows her watcher would
agree, if she'd told him, but she couldn't bring herself to make the call
last night. One long, sleepless night staring at the phone and wondering how
to phrase a nightmare come to life- she has to watch her mother die again.
Dawn stayed home from school today, she refused to go and leave 'their
mother', so the three of them had locked themselves away, barricaded in the
house with the phone turned off. The pretense of normalcy is very fragile,
protected only by Dawn's overly cheerful voice, and Buffy's silence.
There's a knock at the backdoor, panes of glass rattling prove how tense the
slayer is when she jumps at the sound. "What now? I don't have anymore dead
relatives." Spoken just soft enough so Dawn can't hear. (She glares at her
big sister anyway.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The minute she answers the door, he knows it was stupid to come here. It's
very dangerous to be around her right now, relying on his poker face while
he waits for one word from her, one word that will bring everything down
around him. Can't get the nightmare of five odd feet of slayer fury facing
him with hands on hips, asking aloud, "what did you have to do with this?"
out of his mind.
Because of course she'd believe that he just wants to do something to make
her life a little bit easier. No tickertape parade, or ride down Main Street
on Scooby shoulders. He just wants something simple, just one thing. To.
See. Her. Smile.
Oh pathetic.
And so much easier when the girl involved would giggle at the site of a
severed head, or a handful of messy, dripping entrails. Easier when someone
looked at him with the eyes of a lover, and he'd already proven to them what
lengths he'd go to. Not this endless cycle of trying to prove himself only
to be shot down, constant rejection tossing him back and forth between
maudlin self-pity and frustration.
Somewhere deep inside, he would like to just reach out and crush her
delicate throat in his hands- the faint stirrings of the demon coiling low
in a place he hasn't been able to reach himself since he came back to this
Godforsaken Hell Mouth. The demon tells him that the only way he'll ever be
free of her is if she's dead, but it knows he's not capable of that. So
instead, it slides through his belly, mocking him for loving her. The
archaic syllables of its language call for her death, or his. It's not used
to this imprisonment, not after more than a century of sovereignty in his
psyche.
But he won't...or can't...or something. He's unable to play the role of
archenemy anymore, so he's stuck being the hero- a role he never really did
get the hang of. Luckily, she doesn't accept or expect it from him.
"What do you want? Did I send out my misery sonar again and you came
running?"
Just because she's opened up to him once or twice, why does he think that
would ever soften her? Not likely. At least she steps back to allow him
entrance to her house. And now all he has to do is justify his presence.
"Heard through the demon grapevine that it's free lunch out there. No patrol
tonight. Thought I'd check in with you." Spike tries to keep the nervous
shuffling of his right foot still, shoves his hands in his pockets because
he's afraid he might just reach out to touch her and try to heed the demon,
unleash it. If he didn't think she'd get mad, he'd smoke, but girlies always
did get weird about that sort of thing.
There's no denying it. He's turned into a sniveling jackass. Next, he'll be
handing her slips of paper- Do you like me? [check yes or no.] She's staring
at him, chewing her lip as she contemplates something and it's all he can do
not to sway towards her and kiss her. Thinks he just might take the beating
she's bound to give him if he tries it.
He's thankful for a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, swings
his head around in desperation to find something to focus on besides the
slayer. "Dawn."
He can feel the tired energy all around her, lines of stress about the
corners of her eyes. Little bit should have a few more years of living
before those appear, and he wonders if the conjuring didn't work out.
"There's kind of...a thing...that happened." Buffy stammers behind him, drawing
his eyes back to her.
"A thing?" Spike questions.
"Well, um. My mom, she's back. She came back last night." Buffy's wringing
her hands, and he doesn't remember ever seeing her this nervous before.
"A resurrection just like that huh? Well good news for the Summers then
'eh?" This isn't exactly the reaction he envisioned when he agreed to help
Dawn, but then he's not sure what he really had expected? His whole
insistence at anonymity had scratched out a deliriously grateful slayer
throwing herself at him in his mind's eye. Maybe just a smile-the kind that
actually reached the corner of her eyes?
"Dawn brought her back, she did a spell." Slayer's voice sounds over his
left shoulder, he can feel that she's taken a step closer to him and he
closes his eyes, partly in self defense to mask his feelings and partly in
concern that a young girl like Dawn shouldn't see the evil, lustful natures
of men- or vampires anyway. Bit knows the theory of his feelings for her
sister, but not the practical application. It's so fucked up he doesn't
understand it much either.
"A spell huh? Hard to keep that right note of surprise in his voice, and
when he looks at the youngest Summers, he tries to warn her not to spill
their secret. Proud to see her stoic improv, gives her a slight nod of
approval before he asks flippantly, "Living La Vida Wicca now?"
"There's something...she's...she's not right."
Dawn's stare switches defiantly to her sister at the sound of the
accusation, squinting at what's obviously a fresh point of anger between
them. "Mom's back," Dawn says with stifled satisfaction as she steps away to
reveal Joyce sitting behind her.
He can't help but jump, and gasp softly at the true mask of death that
greets him, frozen facial muscles and cloudy, opaque lenses that cover
Joyce's irises with a milky fog. The fluorescent lights of the kitchen
glance across their dull surface. She shows no recognition, or understanding
of anything going on around her, and try as he might, he can't detect any
bit of life force in her.
This isn't quite the gift he's imagined, but should have known. The laws of
magic are chaotic, with a perverted sense of humor. This just wasn't
something he'd ever wanted to see.
"Dawn, that's not Joyce."
"Now you're taking *her* side?" She glares at her sister, and asks
incredulously, wide mouthed at what she sees as his betrayal.
"Dawn," he tries to reason, "That's a thing, a zombie or whatever. It's not
your mum, it's not even human."
"It's her, I know it's her," Dawn insists stubbornly.
He doesn't nearly have the stomach for what he's about to do, but he reaches
out and strikes the corpse across the face. The soft crunch is sickening, as
the vertebrae twist with the force of his blow. He's hit it too hard though,
and it careens into Dawn, taking them both to the floor. He moves quickly to
free her from the weight of the thing lying on top of her, but she's already
squirmed away from it, squatting two feet away from it, as far as she can
get, her back is against the cupboard behind her. And she glares at him in
hate and shock.
He turns to Buffy, wincing at what she must think of him now, and whispers,
"I'm sorry." before addressing Dawn, "See, no pain. You know I couldn't do
that if it was."
Dawn's just crouching there shell shocked, tears swimming, and he wonders if
he's pushed her over the edge. She covers her mouth with her hand, the first
fat drops of moisture rolling off of her lashes as she just stares in
terror, seeing for the first time what she's been unable to accept. The
grotesque angle of the now broken neck, the sightless eyes, the complete
lack of response to violence as it just lays there passively on the kitchen
tile. Endless minutes ticking, and he can't bear to slap her out of it, just
stands helplessly, wondering what kind of a hell they've all fallen into.
It's a long stretch of time, but Dawn seems to snap out of her catatonic
state. With her free hand, she struggles to pull a photo out of her pocket,
looks woodenly at it for a second, then tears it in two.
The body disintegrates, leaving no trace. Typical hell mouth. Buffy moves
in, bends over and offers her hand, which Dawn rejects and struggles to her
feet of her own power. "Are you happy now? I have nothing."
Buffy straightens up at the verbal and physical insult. "What do you mean?
You have me."
"I'm just a nuisance to you. You can't even stand to look at me."
The slayer's eyes narrow in confusion. " That's not true."
Dawn's attack is hoarse, " Yes it is. Mom ... died, and it's like you don't
even care. You didn't even want her to come back."
The Slayer's shock is evident. "What in the hell are you talking about?
What do you think I've been doing? I've been killing myself here, trying to
get through this."
" You haven't even cried," Dawn shouts." You're glad she's dead, then you
get to run around and boss everyone. Putting on this brave, martyr act. You
love the attention."
Dawn's head snaps back when the slayer's hand connects with her cheek.
Instantly, Buffy realizes what she's done, and puts her hand over her mouth
in horror. She's starting to cry too. "Dawn, I have to do these things..."
It's hard to mistake the similarities between them when Dawn mirrors her
sister's pain. "No! You've been pushing me away."
"Don't you think I wanted her back?" Buffy asks incredulously. "God, when I
saw her at the door, that was the happiest moment of my life, but that
wasn't her. It wasn't fair to her to..."
Dawn's mouth forms a stubborn little moue at what she perceives as another
lecture.
But the slayer takes a different track, sounding weary, frightened." I don't
know what I'm supposed to do; I have no idea how to take care of things. I'm
trying. Dawn, I am, but I feel like such a failure- I'm not mom."
Dawn exhales a frustrated denial; " Nobody's asking you to be Mom."
Spike has to force himself not to step forward to try and comfort the slayer
as she raises her voice, answering her little sister in a voice thick with
pain," Well, who's gonna be if I'm not? Huh, Dawn? Have you even thought
about that? Who's gonna make things better? Our own father doesn't even
care." Her voice breaks, and Spike wonders if she'll be able to continue.
She takes a breath. "Who's gonna take care of us?"
Dawn's wavering "Buffy" drowns out his own whispered, "I will, Slayer."
Dawn sniffles, attempting to talk," Every time I need you, if I try to touch
you, or talk to you, you're so far away. I can't get close to you. We're
like two strangers living in this house, afraid to talk about anything but
the weather."
Buffy has to swallow several times before she can speak, and he doesn't
think she's going to last much longer. "I'm not trying to push you away. I
have to be strong, I couldn't let you see me. Oh god, Dawnie... what are we
going to do?"
Two Summers women standing so awkwardly, still unable to connect. Buffy
fights the string of mucus starting to drip from her nose. Bites her lip as
she decides whether to speak her next sentence, " I'm scared Dawn." The
slayer begins to sob, and Dawn comes forward and hugs her.
"It's okay," the teenager soothes as she pulls her sister to her. They sink
to the floor, holding each other tightly and crying. Dawn just keeps
repeating, " It's okay. "
He's intruding here. Spike slips out the front door knowing Dawn's right. It
will be okay, because he's going to make sure it is.
|
|
|