![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
myfeetshowit.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
gen_storytellerTITLE: The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico - Ch.15: by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
myfeetshowit
Characters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Chapter 15
We now come to the crux of this tale, the meat and the heart of it, where all the elements are in place, the characters juxtaposed, and motivations, both petty and noble, aspire to give birth to their desire.
The events about to unfold are not events of grand passion but of love twisted by everyday, petty concerns. They are neither earth-shaking, nor apocalyptic, merely painful. Yet Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn both emerge from them changed, not to the eyes of the world, but to themselves. Both will ever look back upon these events with a pang, a sour twist to the stomach.
In the end, consequences are consequences and does it matter whether the cause is a bad vampire, seeking to rise above his own limitations, or good humans having lost sight of their moral compass, who fall below their own expectations? Does it matter that all involved were at fault or that none meant harm? Does it matter that Miss Dawn acted through motivations born as much from teenage angst as from reaction to the tragedies in her life, or that the adults in this story acted with love for Miss Dawn but allowed baser instincts to guide their actions?
Miss Kitty Fantastico, with whom we opened this tale, is perhaps the only true innocent involved in this denouement and as such, while the only one physically scarred, is the one least wounded. It is only mete that we begin the chapter with her presence.
***
There is a predator lurking within every cat, no matter how fat and loving they may be whilst cuddled upon your lap and purring. Any cat born on the Hellmouth learned to hone their hunting skills, if only to better understand the demons that pursued them.
Miss Kitty Fantastico was no exception. As a cat in the household of the Slayer, she was a particular prize to many and her continued existence was testimony to cunning and common sense.
She had divined that the heavenly aroma ascended from the small bag lodged between the porch step and the bushes. The magicks placed upon the kitten’s body confused her and she believed the kitten still lived.
Visions of the other cat marched through her head, and she watched it rolling upon the burlap, purring and glutting itself on the treasures that were tantalizing her even now. She imagined it sleeping, gorged on moldy meats and replete from its feast. If she had come upon this bag elsewhere she would have passed it by no matter the enticement, but now it was here - in her territory – and it was hers.
Even a Hellmouth-raised cat could only endure so much. That intruder was on her property, invading her garden and had obviously eaten booty that belonged to her. Miss Kitty flowed forward, her primitive feral gaze a match for the most potent of modern lasers. Alert for the slightest movement she advanced until she touched her nose to the burlap bag that shrouded the kitten’s body.
Driven to near madness by the combined scents of rotten meats and territorial imperative Miss Kitty took unwarranted action and she grasped the bag and pulled.
***
Dinner passed by pleasantly enough. Miss Dawn, as befitted one who is fifteen, bounced in her seat, pouted with princessly hauteur, and presided over the table in a polite and mature manner. The adults, among whom we do not include Mr. Spike despite his age, were dizzy within moments.
She was elated at her power.
For once, her adults did not flee as she whipped through her alternate teenage identities but rather smiled tenderly at her bounces, attempted to coax her out of her pouts and resided quite nicely as she presided.
Mr. Spike, of course, bounced, pouted and preened right along with her, throwing in a snarl and occasional sneer. He was in every way her peer, and a stranger observing their interaction, would have no doubt judged Mr. Spike to be her fond and somewhat immature older brother. In many ways, and in the only ways that truly count, such an observer would have been correct.
What they would not have realized was that Mr. Spike was like a mature cat reverting briefly to kitten behavior. He was a deadly predator being playful while Miss Dawn was a young girl growing into herself. He could swap between play and predation at will while she was at the mercy of hormones and her own inexperience.
The three men, in honor of the occasion, limited their arguments to the slightest of jabs and jibes, well-laced with humor, if not good humor. Perhaps their stares were inclined to become glares but Miss Rosenberg and Miss MacClay were quick to detect and deflect any hostilities.
Whether it was good company, good food or the feeling that his duties were nearly discharged, Mr. Spike became increasingly buoyant. His natural optimism began to overcome worry. The more time that passed before Mr. Giles pressed him for proof of purchase, the more he felt he could conjure up a story that would explain the crossbow. He began to think he had worried too much.
If nothing else, he could bully Clem into lying for him. Who could doubt Clem?
He relaxed into the warmth of Miss Dawn's happiness and put aside grief, worry and thoughts of his further duties for the evening. He looked at her smiling face and smiled in return.
This was Dawn's time.
***
Cats can be patient but this does not mean their temper is not tried. Miss Kitty was decidedly disgruntled. Her tail twitched in stiff little jerks and fur stood up along the ridge of her back.
The kitten fought back, at least to Miss Kitty’s feline way of thinking. In fact, the bag had caught upon a sharp branch, which pierced the bag and released new gusts of brilliantly rotten odor. She considered this a taunt and she reacted with rage, rending and reaving and ripping the bag free of hindrance. The bag tore and the cans clattered and Miss Kitty had her prize.
The piquant reek of rancid fish and fowl permeated the bag and the taste exploded against her tongue. She considered rolling and perfuming herself with this most excellent perfume but she knew all manner of menacing beasts would be attracted to such plunder as this. The kitten was still present if strangely quiescent. It must be dealt with and the treasure taken to a safe haven.
She grasped the bag firmly in her teeth and scuttled backwards as fast as she could go, whipping her head and bouncing the bag as she went. Her efforts were rewarded. The great rip in the bag widened and the kitten’s head was born from within the burlap.
***
Despite the peace that held sway over dinner, rancor arose as presents were opened. Somewhat sleepy from the meal and perhaps a bit stressed from keeping up with Miss Dawn, the Scoobies males became increasingly aggressive in manner. As the group moved to the living room, Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles moved into a flanking formation, herding the females before them and separating them from Mr. Spike. They claimed the seating nearest Miss Dawn and carefully aimed the ladies at surrounding seats. As usual Mr. Spike was left to haunt the outskirts of their carefully formed herd.
It is difficult to say whether such behavior was planned or even conscious. Mr. Spike was a vampire and both Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles devoted much of their energies to fighting vampires. They had in the past, fought Mr. Spike, in fear for their lives. His presence pulled at their innermost protective instincts.
The present opening ceremony began and as each ill-chosen present was unwrapped, and Miss Dawn’s depression was deepened so too was the tension between the males. Miss Maclay’s wise and perfect present brought a moment’s respite that was totally overturned by Mr. Harris’ doll, more suited to an eight year old than one of fifteen.
An ill-timed quip garnered a curt reply whose response required a raised voice and all three males were locked into brutal argument. It little matters what was said. It had all been said before and would surely be said again.
Do not be fooled into thinking Mr. Spike a hapless victim in these proceedings by any means. Refreshed and rested, restored to some semblance of his natural state of snark, Mr. Spike was beginning to feel more himself. One of a predator’s greatest joys is circling the herd, snapping at heels, feeling the flock tremble at his pretend attack.
Miss Dawn could have stopped Mr. Spike, ended the quarrel at any moment. Her pleas to Mr. Giles or Mr. Harris might have gone unheard and unheeded but Mr. Spike would have come to heel at her merest frown. She was the female he sought to impress.
She was not unaware of this and so she also must bear some blame. Although none of the males in question was interested in the young Miss Dawn in a sexual way, she was incontestably the prize over which they fought this night. A young fifteen year old could not help but feel heady with such power. She knew in her heart that any prize would have been as hotly defended but she allowed herself the warmth of feeling wanted.
Rather than rein Mr. Spike in, she relished his championship and threw him glances of bright-eyed adoration. Mr. Spike felt a rush of pride at each such glance and was further resolved to slay her dragons, metaphorically speaking.
The other Scoobie females were also aware of the dynamics swirling around them. They had long ago learned to let the males bellow and strut and puff out their cheeks in red-faced display. Unless the interaction threatened to intensify into physical violence they stayed seated, calm, and watched the show with an even mixture of irritation and titillation. Their sly smiles and flashes of admiration at a deft comment, their frowns and glances of approbation were fuel and encouragement to the men.
A reasoned argument from the ladies or the threat of leaving could also have stopped the sniping and the slings, but the ladies were as lost as the gentlemen. Though they preferred peace, they also found release in seeing a representative of their common enemy being brought down.
This was a scene oft-played during the summer of Miss Buffy’s death. Fashioned into an ill-formed party of heroes, struggling to perform the duties for which a Slayer was bred and born, all of these people, vampire and human alike, were stretched and beaten into a twisted semblance of themselves. They ran on fumes - on fuel comprised of sheer will and stress. Ill-humor and dislike took second place to the necessities of fighting on the Hellmouth but with the least relaxation, the lifting of life-threatening forces and all the resentment and fear and petty hate came tumbling forth. The aggression to which they had become accustomed in their fights remained, while the restraint was removed.
It was not surprising the subject turned to the crossbow. Mr. Spike may have thought he was given a reprieve but in truth Mr. Giles had already determined the course of events. It did not matter that he was correct in his assessment – Mr. Spike could have done little to change his mind even had he been able to prove the crossbow was gained by legal and approved methods.
So too was Mr. Harris confirmed in his conclusions. The crossbow was grist to his mill, merely another means of keeping this vampire, who was needed but not wanted, in his place. Another excuse to allow himself to release the aggression that was increasingly difficult to keep bottled up.
“Anyone with a brain would know you don’t get a fifteen year old a crossbow designed to bring down a bear but then – living dead, brain dead – same thing, isn’t it?”
“That would still be more brain matter than you’ve got, Harris. Anyone with half a brain would know you don’t get a fifteen year old a walkie-talkie doll with eyes that open and close. And it would take a crossbow designed to stop a bear to take down most of the demons round here. Course, if Bit threw the dolly at one, it might bust a gut laughin’ but I wouldn’t depend on it.”
Mr. Harris flushed. Mr. Spike had scored a palpable hit. He had noticed the eye-roll that Miss Dawn had quickly hidden and replaced with a patent leather smile. “That doll’s a collectable. It’ll be worth something some day. Anya says…”
“Anya isn’t even here! That’s how much she cares.”
“She had that neighborhood business meeting thingie… she’ll be here as soon as… that’s not the point! That crossbow won’t be any more use than the doll because Dawn won’t be able to use it. She’d probably ruin her back trying to set it or… or shoot herself in the foot or something!”
Mr. Spike registered Miss Dawn’s look upon hearing this statement. “Well, don’t you have a high opinion of our girl? Modern crossbow like that—s’more technique than brute strength. Dawn’s got a good head on her shoulders…”
Miss Rosenberg could not allow this to pass. “Spike, technique only does so much. Strength’s important too… and… well, size does count. Crossbows are dangerous. Dawn could lose a finger!”
Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn gave matching sighs at this overstatement and rolled their eyes.
“She’s fifteen not four…”
“And I’m right here! You’re all talking about me like I’m not even here!” Miss Dawn stood, pushing aside her gifts. Her gaze panned across the Scoobies. “None of you see me! Spike’s the only one who does. You all act like I’m a baby!”
Miss Dawn did not help her case in this wise. Her voice was pitched to hysteria, her face flushed and she barely looked her fifteen years.
Mr. Giles pursed his lips, and spoke, the very voice of aged, learned reason. “Dawn, this really isn’t the point. You and I both know that Spike stole this crossbow or got it from someone who did. Even if Xander and Willow were wrong in their assessments — and they are not — it wouldn’t matter. We shall make an attempt to find the rightful owner. I suspect if I look through the paper a few days back, I shall see something about robbery at one of the local…”
“Why not give the Bit a chance to prove she can handle the crossbow? Let her try nocking it while all you learned professionals are present and see what she’s made of?” Mr. Spike should have been ashamed of himself in this moment for he was, in essence, siccing Miss Dawn onto Mr. Giles. He knew full well how she would react to this challenge and hoped to turn the conversation away from talk of robbery.
“That would work! I can show you. I know I can do it. I’ve been watching all of you for years.”
“Dawn, that isn’t the point.”
“It’s the only point, Ru-pert. Dawn can either handle the thing or she can’t. If she can then you got no right to deny her the protection…”
“ENOUGH!” Mr. Giles shed his watcher persona and allowed Ripper full rein, not a thing he did lightly but reason had become wearisome and Ripper took far more enjoyment out of strife and chaos. It was a complete and certain sign that the Watcher was at the edge of exhaustion and sanity. “We’ve already covered this ground and I’m not about to go around in circles. Spike, I think it’s time for you to go.” His stance and glance and smile made it clear he hoped Spike would not go.
There was silence. Even the Scoobies tread lightly when Ripper was on the prowl. Even Miss Dawn knew that her tantrums would only bring savage sneers and cruel remarks. Even Mr. Spike knew that his very life was in danger — Mr. Giles was human and Mr. Spike could not fight him. Ripper was quite capable of following through on threat.
Mr. Spike’s jaws clenched tight and the muscles twitched from the tension. Normally, he would have pushed despite the real danger, unable to give in without some snark to let one and all know that he wasn’t afraid, even though he was a bit. Tonight, he was sensible that it was Miss Dawn’s birthday and he didn’t want her to remember it as the night that Ripper dusted her best friend. He was also aware that he needed to leave soon anyway. His appointment with the Bastets beckoned and it was time he headed for it.
“Happy Birthday, Niblet.” With a nod of his head, Mr. Spike made to go.
Normally, Mr. Spike would have gone back through the kitchen but at this moment Miss Jenkins made her arrival and the Scoobies seized upon her as a means to dispel the thunderheads of tension that pervaded the room.
As one the adults gathered round her, to her surprise and gratitude, welcoming her and making much of the fact that she brought yet another gift. Ripper melted away, and Mr. Harris also allowed his better nature to emerge. They neither noticed Mr. Spike exiting through the front door or Miss Dawn sliding into the kitchen.
***
Miss Kitty was enjoying all the benefits of heaven.
The kitten lay still a few feet away and Miss Kitty was bathing in the most perfect perfume. The intense taste of total rottenness gushed against her tongue as she lapped at the bits clinging to the cans and the rough burlap massaged her gums as she chewed on the bag.
She didn’t understand why the kitten fought no further to protect such bounty but she didn’t care. It was hers and life was good.
***
It was a sign of Miss Dawn’s immaturity that she ignored Mr. Giles’ argument concerning the crossbow’s questionable provenance and she thought only of Mr. Spike’s challenge. She knew Spike was right — she could handle the crossbow. It was a sign of her maturity that she could harness what she had seen over the years, could remember and analyze and reason through memories and apply them to her situation. She saw, she assessed and she acted.
The crossbow lay upon the table – unwisely - given the wide open door next to it. Miss Dawn approached and swiftly scanned the architecture of the bow. It was very similar to others she had seen. She identified the trigger and the safety. Mr. Spike had strung the bow earlier, fondly imagining that his Bit would want to try out her gift.
Miss Dawn did not have Slayer strength but she was formed from the Slayer. She was never given formal training but had emulated her sister’s exercises, clumsily but with some success. She had, over recent months lived a life of uncertainty and violent action and had learned to use every bit of strength she had, to use her mind where strength failed and to push past the point where another adult, let alone another child, would have given up.
In short, Miss Dawn accurately positioned the crossbow with an aplomb that would have befitted a seasoned professional. She placed the cocking stirrup on the ground, placed one foot in the stirrup and steadied the stock end of the crossbow against her thigh. She pulled the string into place with a strength born of desperate desire and unfathomed fear and a deep determination to prove herself. She pulled evenly and she used her arms and her back and every muscle she had. It was not so very long before she heard the click that let her know the string was securely in the trigger mechanism. She slid a bolt into place and admired her handiwork.
A complete and absolute sense of accomplishment washed away the ache in her shoulders and lower back, a feeling of empowerment and maturity suffused her very being as she looked upon her work and knew that she had made manifest the truth of Mr. Spike’s words. He had believed in her and she had proven his belief was warranted.
“Now, were the devil did Dawn get to?”
Mr. Giles’ voice, his question at her absence snapped something inside her, and her sense of fulfillment was gone on the moment. The memory of Ripper and that other argument, the knowledge she had disobeyed an adult, all combined and crashed upon her and she was little Dawnie and she was panicked. She couldn’t allow Giles to see that she had been playing with the crossbow.
You have probably already seen the flaw in Miss Dawn’s knowledge. In all her years as the younger Slayer’s sister, she had seen the Scoobies making ready for battle, seen them gather and arm themselves, knew how to load and set up all manner of weapons. Too, she had seen them come back, weary and worn, with weapons emptied and watched them clean and repair and put the weapons back in their place. On occasion she had even been allowed to help with this. But at no time, whether in battle or training, had Miss Dawn been allowed to see those weapons discharge. She had been left at home, or surrounded and made safe whenever any action took place.
For all her familiarity with the use and care of weapons, Miss Dawn had no real conception of their power. As with the notion of adulthood itself, she only dreamed of the benefits to be accrued and had the hazy idea that she would be safe if she were grown-up and allowed to use weapons.
She knew that the best way to unload a crossbow was to discharge it, but she didn’t understand the mechanics of a discharged bolt. She didn’t visualize a bolt as something that rended flesh and tore through muscle and bone. She hadn’t considered the responsibility that was hers from the moment she laid hands upon a weapon.
The only thought in her mind when she loosed the bolt was that the bow be empty and back on the table by the time Mr. Giles entered the room. If she thought at all where the bolt might land, it was to think that she could sneak out later and take it off the porch and hide it. She never believed the bolt could fly through the open door and slice through the air well past the porch. She never considered that a living being might be outside and within the path the bolt would take. She never meant to hurt anything – especially her beloved Miss Kitty Fantastico.
***
Have you ever heard a cat scream? It is an unearthly, drilling sound that claws into your brain, more felt than heard. It scratches down into your nerves, drawing shudders from your muscles and causing goosebumps to bead across your skin.
Miss Kitty’s tail was dancing in delight, arched high over her back in playful pride and it was very nearly removed as the bolt scraped along the middle of her back, removing fur and skin and flesh and spraying blood across the yard.
***
Miss Dawn was unaware that it was Miss Kitty that was wounded. She only felt that horrible screeching wail scrabbling into her brain and knew that her bolt had found a mark. She was immediately convinced she had killed someone and her own scream hit a high note remarkable even for Miss Dawn.
Mr. Spike was still at the front of the house, having paused to slaughter an innocent wheelbarrow, when he smelled the blood and heard the screams. Somewhere in his mind the scent told him Miss Dawn wasn’t bleeding but he only registered ‘blood’ and ‘Dawn’ and it was a testimony to his fear and vampire speed that he arrived in the back yard moments before the Scoobies made it through the kitchen door.
He understood all, almost immediately. His night vision plainly showed the kitten’s body, the ripped bag, and the spent bolt lying a few feet away. He recognized the scent of Miss Kitty’s blood and the extent of it and knew that she was not dead but that she had run off into the night. He was confident of his ability to track her down and bring her home safe and sound.
He realized that Miss Dawn had tried out the crossbow and he was proud of her accomplishment.
It was testimony to his inability to fully understand human sentiment that he underrated the level of Miss Dawn’s distress. He could hear her sobbing but believed once he explained that Miss Kitty still lived the upset would be over. Usually perceptive to Miss Dawn’s every mood and desire, he was still a vampire and just could not perceive the horror behind believing you had killed something.
He entered the house, a smile of mingled sympathy and pride for his Bit upon his face and looked benevolently upon the humans huddled around Miss Dawn, who were still trying to understand her choked and garbled explanation. They had discerned that the crossbow was involved in her upset and if the white heat of anger were more closely related to sunlight, Mr. Spike would have been ash decorating the doorway.
“Bit, s’all right…” Mr. Spike’s explanation was allowed to proceed no further. Miss Dawn threw off the helpful hands of her adults and threw out her own, finger pointed in an arc as deadly as any arrow, straight through Mr. Spike’s heart.
“This is your fault! You should never have given me that crossbow. I hate you. I hate you!” And with that little Dawnie turned and ran to security of her bedroom, leaving the irate adults to glare at Mr. Spike.
He did not care about their looks. Their looks meant nothing to him, especially after the shock of Miss Dawn’s utterance. He was already backing off the porch. How had this happened? He had already forgiven the Bit for her words – in truth, it did not even occur that there was anything to be forgiven. He did not care that Miss Dawn was seeking to evade her own culpability and throw all blame upon his shoulders – he felt that was just part of caring for her, that she not have to take responsibility.
And there was the thought bubbling in his brain beneath his anguish. It had not yet fully formulated; it was such an alien thought to his vampire processes. He was at fault. In part? In whole? He just could not exactly understand how. He just knew he had failed again. Failed the kitten, failed the Bit, failed Buffy. He was no good as a vampire, a miserable joke as a white hat – how had he ever thought he could amount to anything?
All the weariness of the past few days descended once again upon his shoulders, confusing his feet and tilting at his balance and he stumbled like one drunk.
Miss Rosenberg, coming out to deliver the threat of imminent frogdom should Spike darken their doorway again, was stilled by the abject misery that poured off of him. She watched silently as he picked up a still form, a cat that she assumed was Miss Kitty and it is possible that a few of the tears that slid down her face were for Mr. Spike.
myfeetshowitCharacters: Spike,Dawn,Clem
Summary: Buffy is dead and Dawn’s fifteenth birthday is coming up. A penniless Spike wants to get her the greatest present ever. It proves to be harder than he expected. He encounters kittens, and Clem and nosehairs and learns some valuable lessons about life.
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings/Notes: A Sunnydale version of a Victorian Morality Play. Inspired by Kipling’s ‘Just So’ stories and served with a side dish of Dr. Seuss. A mixture of humor, angst, and reflection upon the foibles of a vampire who wants to be a good man.
Chapter 15
We now come to the crux of this tale, the meat and the heart of it, where all the elements are in place, the characters juxtaposed, and motivations, both petty and noble, aspire to give birth to their desire.
The events about to unfold are not events of grand passion but of love twisted by everyday, petty concerns. They are neither earth-shaking, nor apocalyptic, merely painful. Yet Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn both emerge from them changed, not to the eyes of the world, but to themselves. Both will ever look back upon these events with a pang, a sour twist to the stomach.
In the end, consequences are consequences and does it matter whether the cause is a bad vampire, seeking to rise above his own limitations, or good humans having lost sight of their moral compass, who fall below their own expectations? Does it matter that all involved were at fault or that none meant harm? Does it matter that Miss Dawn acted through motivations born as much from teenage angst as from reaction to the tragedies in her life, or that the adults in this story acted with love for Miss Dawn but allowed baser instincts to guide their actions?
Miss Kitty Fantastico, with whom we opened this tale, is perhaps the only true innocent involved in this denouement and as such, while the only one physically scarred, is the one least wounded. It is only mete that we begin the chapter with her presence.
***
There is a predator lurking within every cat, no matter how fat and loving they may be whilst cuddled upon your lap and purring. Any cat born on the Hellmouth learned to hone their hunting skills, if only to better understand the demons that pursued them.
Miss Kitty Fantastico was no exception. As a cat in the household of the Slayer, she was a particular prize to many and her continued existence was testimony to cunning and common sense.
She had divined that the heavenly aroma ascended from the small bag lodged between the porch step and the bushes. The magicks placed upon the kitten’s body confused her and she believed the kitten still lived.
Visions of the other cat marched through her head, and she watched it rolling upon the burlap, purring and glutting itself on the treasures that were tantalizing her even now. She imagined it sleeping, gorged on moldy meats and replete from its feast. If she had come upon this bag elsewhere she would have passed it by no matter the enticement, but now it was here - in her territory – and it was hers.
Even a Hellmouth-raised cat could only endure so much. That intruder was on her property, invading her garden and had obviously eaten booty that belonged to her. Miss Kitty flowed forward, her primitive feral gaze a match for the most potent of modern lasers. Alert for the slightest movement she advanced until she touched her nose to the burlap bag that shrouded the kitten’s body.
Driven to near madness by the combined scents of rotten meats and territorial imperative Miss Kitty took unwarranted action and she grasped the bag and pulled.
***
Dinner passed by pleasantly enough. Miss Dawn, as befitted one who is fifteen, bounced in her seat, pouted with princessly hauteur, and presided over the table in a polite and mature manner. The adults, among whom we do not include Mr. Spike despite his age, were dizzy within moments.
She was elated at her power.
For once, her adults did not flee as she whipped through her alternate teenage identities but rather smiled tenderly at her bounces, attempted to coax her out of her pouts and resided quite nicely as she presided.
Mr. Spike, of course, bounced, pouted and preened right along with her, throwing in a snarl and occasional sneer. He was in every way her peer, and a stranger observing their interaction, would have no doubt judged Mr. Spike to be her fond and somewhat immature older brother. In many ways, and in the only ways that truly count, such an observer would have been correct.
What they would not have realized was that Mr. Spike was like a mature cat reverting briefly to kitten behavior. He was a deadly predator being playful while Miss Dawn was a young girl growing into herself. He could swap between play and predation at will while she was at the mercy of hormones and her own inexperience.
The three men, in honor of the occasion, limited their arguments to the slightest of jabs and jibes, well-laced with humor, if not good humor. Perhaps their stares were inclined to become glares but Miss Rosenberg and Miss MacClay were quick to detect and deflect any hostilities.
Whether it was good company, good food or the feeling that his duties were nearly discharged, Mr. Spike became increasingly buoyant. His natural optimism began to overcome worry. The more time that passed before Mr. Giles pressed him for proof of purchase, the more he felt he could conjure up a story that would explain the crossbow. He began to think he had worried too much.
If nothing else, he could bully Clem into lying for him. Who could doubt Clem?
He relaxed into the warmth of Miss Dawn's happiness and put aside grief, worry and thoughts of his further duties for the evening. He looked at her smiling face and smiled in return.
This was Dawn's time.
***
Cats can be patient but this does not mean their temper is not tried. Miss Kitty was decidedly disgruntled. Her tail twitched in stiff little jerks and fur stood up along the ridge of her back.
The kitten fought back, at least to Miss Kitty’s feline way of thinking. In fact, the bag had caught upon a sharp branch, which pierced the bag and released new gusts of brilliantly rotten odor. She considered this a taunt and she reacted with rage, rending and reaving and ripping the bag free of hindrance. The bag tore and the cans clattered and Miss Kitty had her prize.
The piquant reek of rancid fish and fowl permeated the bag and the taste exploded against her tongue. She considered rolling and perfuming herself with this most excellent perfume but she knew all manner of menacing beasts would be attracted to such plunder as this. The kitten was still present if strangely quiescent. It must be dealt with and the treasure taken to a safe haven.
She grasped the bag firmly in her teeth and scuttled backwards as fast as she could go, whipping her head and bouncing the bag as she went. Her efforts were rewarded. The great rip in the bag widened and the kitten’s head was born from within the burlap.
***
Despite the peace that held sway over dinner, rancor arose as presents were opened. Somewhat sleepy from the meal and perhaps a bit stressed from keeping up with Miss Dawn, the Scoobies males became increasingly aggressive in manner. As the group moved to the living room, Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles moved into a flanking formation, herding the females before them and separating them from Mr. Spike. They claimed the seating nearest Miss Dawn and carefully aimed the ladies at surrounding seats. As usual Mr. Spike was left to haunt the outskirts of their carefully formed herd.
It is difficult to say whether such behavior was planned or even conscious. Mr. Spike was a vampire and both Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles devoted much of their energies to fighting vampires. They had in the past, fought Mr. Spike, in fear for their lives. His presence pulled at their innermost protective instincts.
The present opening ceremony began and as each ill-chosen present was unwrapped, and Miss Dawn’s depression was deepened so too was the tension between the males. Miss Maclay’s wise and perfect present brought a moment’s respite that was totally overturned by Mr. Harris’ doll, more suited to an eight year old than one of fifteen.
An ill-timed quip garnered a curt reply whose response required a raised voice and all three males were locked into brutal argument. It little matters what was said. It had all been said before and would surely be said again.
Do not be fooled into thinking Mr. Spike a hapless victim in these proceedings by any means. Refreshed and rested, restored to some semblance of his natural state of snark, Mr. Spike was beginning to feel more himself. One of a predator’s greatest joys is circling the herd, snapping at heels, feeling the flock tremble at his pretend attack.
Miss Dawn could have stopped Mr. Spike, ended the quarrel at any moment. Her pleas to Mr. Giles or Mr. Harris might have gone unheard and unheeded but Mr. Spike would have come to heel at her merest frown. She was the female he sought to impress.
She was not unaware of this and so she also must bear some blame. Although none of the males in question was interested in the young Miss Dawn in a sexual way, she was incontestably the prize over which they fought this night. A young fifteen year old could not help but feel heady with such power. She knew in her heart that any prize would have been as hotly defended but she allowed herself the warmth of feeling wanted.
Rather than rein Mr. Spike in, she relished his championship and threw him glances of bright-eyed adoration. Mr. Spike felt a rush of pride at each such glance and was further resolved to slay her dragons, metaphorically speaking.
The other Scoobie females were also aware of the dynamics swirling around them. They had long ago learned to let the males bellow and strut and puff out their cheeks in red-faced display. Unless the interaction threatened to intensify into physical violence they stayed seated, calm, and watched the show with an even mixture of irritation and titillation. Their sly smiles and flashes of admiration at a deft comment, their frowns and glances of approbation were fuel and encouragement to the men.
A reasoned argument from the ladies or the threat of leaving could also have stopped the sniping and the slings, but the ladies were as lost as the gentlemen. Though they preferred peace, they also found release in seeing a representative of their common enemy being brought down.
This was a scene oft-played during the summer of Miss Buffy’s death. Fashioned into an ill-formed party of heroes, struggling to perform the duties for which a Slayer was bred and born, all of these people, vampire and human alike, were stretched and beaten into a twisted semblance of themselves. They ran on fumes - on fuel comprised of sheer will and stress. Ill-humor and dislike took second place to the necessities of fighting on the Hellmouth but with the least relaxation, the lifting of life-threatening forces and all the resentment and fear and petty hate came tumbling forth. The aggression to which they had become accustomed in their fights remained, while the restraint was removed.
It was not surprising the subject turned to the crossbow. Mr. Spike may have thought he was given a reprieve but in truth Mr. Giles had already determined the course of events. It did not matter that he was correct in his assessment – Mr. Spike could have done little to change his mind even had he been able to prove the crossbow was gained by legal and approved methods.
So too was Mr. Harris confirmed in his conclusions. The crossbow was grist to his mill, merely another means of keeping this vampire, who was needed but not wanted, in his place. Another excuse to allow himself to release the aggression that was increasingly difficult to keep bottled up.
“Anyone with a brain would know you don’t get a fifteen year old a crossbow designed to bring down a bear but then – living dead, brain dead – same thing, isn’t it?”
“That would still be more brain matter than you’ve got, Harris. Anyone with half a brain would know you don’t get a fifteen year old a walkie-talkie doll with eyes that open and close. And it would take a crossbow designed to stop a bear to take down most of the demons round here. Course, if Bit threw the dolly at one, it might bust a gut laughin’ but I wouldn’t depend on it.”
Mr. Harris flushed. Mr. Spike had scored a palpable hit. He had noticed the eye-roll that Miss Dawn had quickly hidden and replaced with a patent leather smile. “That doll’s a collectable. It’ll be worth something some day. Anya says…”
“Anya isn’t even here! That’s how much she cares.”
“She had that neighborhood business meeting thingie… she’ll be here as soon as… that’s not the point! That crossbow won’t be any more use than the doll because Dawn won’t be able to use it. She’d probably ruin her back trying to set it or… or shoot herself in the foot or something!”
Mr. Spike registered Miss Dawn’s look upon hearing this statement. “Well, don’t you have a high opinion of our girl? Modern crossbow like that—s’more technique than brute strength. Dawn’s got a good head on her shoulders…”
Miss Rosenberg could not allow this to pass. “Spike, technique only does so much. Strength’s important too… and… well, size does count. Crossbows are dangerous. Dawn could lose a finger!”
Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn gave matching sighs at this overstatement and rolled their eyes.
“She’s fifteen not four…”
“And I’m right here! You’re all talking about me like I’m not even here!” Miss Dawn stood, pushing aside her gifts. Her gaze panned across the Scoobies. “None of you see me! Spike’s the only one who does. You all act like I’m a baby!”
Miss Dawn did not help her case in this wise. Her voice was pitched to hysteria, her face flushed and she barely looked her fifteen years.
Mr. Giles pursed his lips, and spoke, the very voice of aged, learned reason. “Dawn, this really isn’t the point. You and I both know that Spike stole this crossbow or got it from someone who did. Even if Xander and Willow were wrong in their assessments — and they are not — it wouldn’t matter. We shall make an attempt to find the rightful owner. I suspect if I look through the paper a few days back, I shall see something about robbery at one of the local…”
“Why not give the Bit a chance to prove she can handle the crossbow? Let her try nocking it while all you learned professionals are present and see what she’s made of?” Mr. Spike should have been ashamed of himself in this moment for he was, in essence, siccing Miss Dawn onto Mr. Giles. He knew full well how she would react to this challenge and hoped to turn the conversation away from talk of robbery.
“That would work! I can show you. I know I can do it. I’ve been watching all of you for years.”
“Dawn, that isn’t the point.”
“It’s the only point, Ru-pert. Dawn can either handle the thing or she can’t. If she can then you got no right to deny her the protection…”
“ENOUGH!” Mr. Giles shed his watcher persona and allowed Ripper full rein, not a thing he did lightly but reason had become wearisome and Ripper took far more enjoyment out of strife and chaos. It was a complete and certain sign that the Watcher was at the edge of exhaustion and sanity. “We’ve already covered this ground and I’m not about to go around in circles. Spike, I think it’s time for you to go.” His stance and glance and smile made it clear he hoped Spike would not go.
There was silence. Even the Scoobies tread lightly when Ripper was on the prowl. Even Miss Dawn knew that her tantrums would only bring savage sneers and cruel remarks. Even Mr. Spike knew that his very life was in danger — Mr. Giles was human and Mr. Spike could not fight him. Ripper was quite capable of following through on threat.
Mr. Spike’s jaws clenched tight and the muscles twitched from the tension. Normally, he would have pushed despite the real danger, unable to give in without some snark to let one and all know that he wasn’t afraid, even though he was a bit. Tonight, he was sensible that it was Miss Dawn’s birthday and he didn’t want her to remember it as the night that Ripper dusted her best friend. He was also aware that he needed to leave soon anyway. His appointment with the Bastets beckoned and it was time he headed for it.
“Happy Birthday, Niblet.” With a nod of his head, Mr. Spike made to go.
Normally, Mr. Spike would have gone back through the kitchen but at this moment Miss Jenkins made her arrival and the Scoobies seized upon her as a means to dispel the thunderheads of tension that pervaded the room.
As one the adults gathered round her, to her surprise and gratitude, welcoming her and making much of the fact that she brought yet another gift. Ripper melted away, and Mr. Harris also allowed his better nature to emerge. They neither noticed Mr. Spike exiting through the front door or Miss Dawn sliding into the kitchen.
***
Miss Kitty was enjoying all the benefits of heaven.
The kitten lay still a few feet away and Miss Kitty was bathing in the most perfect perfume. The intense taste of total rottenness gushed against her tongue as she lapped at the bits clinging to the cans and the rough burlap massaged her gums as she chewed on the bag.
She didn’t understand why the kitten fought no further to protect such bounty but she didn’t care. It was hers and life was good.
***
It was a sign of Miss Dawn’s immaturity that she ignored Mr. Giles’ argument concerning the crossbow’s questionable provenance and she thought only of Mr. Spike’s challenge. She knew Spike was right — she could handle the crossbow. It was a sign of her maturity that she could harness what she had seen over the years, could remember and analyze and reason through memories and apply them to her situation. She saw, she assessed and she acted.
The crossbow lay upon the table – unwisely - given the wide open door next to it. Miss Dawn approached and swiftly scanned the architecture of the bow. It was very similar to others she had seen. She identified the trigger and the safety. Mr. Spike had strung the bow earlier, fondly imagining that his Bit would want to try out her gift.
Miss Dawn did not have Slayer strength but she was formed from the Slayer. She was never given formal training but had emulated her sister’s exercises, clumsily but with some success. She had, over recent months lived a life of uncertainty and violent action and had learned to use every bit of strength she had, to use her mind where strength failed and to push past the point where another adult, let alone another child, would have given up.
In short, Miss Dawn accurately positioned the crossbow with an aplomb that would have befitted a seasoned professional. She placed the cocking stirrup on the ground, placed one foot in the stirrup and steadied the stock end of the crossbow against her thigh. She pulled the string into place with a strength born of desperate desire and unfathomed fear and a deep determination to prove herself. She pulled evenly and she used her arms and her back and every muscle she had. It was not so very long before she heard the click that let her know the string was securely in the trigger mechanism. She slid a bolt into place and admired her handiwork.
A complete and absolute sense of accomplishment washed away the ache in her shoulders and lower back, a feeling of empowerment and maturity suffused her very being as she looked upon her work and knew that she had made manifest the truth of Mr. Spike’s words. He had believed in her and she had proven his belief was warranted.
“Now, were the devil did Dawn get to?”
Mr. Giles’ voice, his question at her absence snapped something inside her, and her sense of fulfillment was gone on the moment. The memory of Ripper and that other argument, the knowledge she had disobeyed an adult, all combined and crashed upon her and she was little Dawnie and she was panicked. She couldn’t allow Giles to see that she had been playing with the crossbow.
You have probably already seen the flaw in Miss Dawn’s knowledge. In all her years as the younger Slayer’s sister, she had seen the Scoobies making ready for battle, seen them gather and arm themselves, knew how to load and set up all manner of weapons. Too, she had seen them come back, weary and worn, with weapons emptied and watched them clean and repair and put the weapons back in their place. On occasion she had even been allowed to help with this. But at no time, whether in battle or training, had Miss Dawn been allowed to see those weapons discharge. She had been left at home, or surrounded and made safe whenever any action took place.
For all her familiarity with the use and care of weapons, Miss Dawn had no real conception of their power. As with the notion of adulthood itself, she only dreamed of the benefits to be accrued and had the hazy idea that she would be safe if she were grown-up and allowed to use weapons.
She knew that the best way to unload a crossbow was to discharge it, but she didn’t understand the mechanics of a discharged bolt. She didn’t visualize a bolt as something that rended flesh and tore through muscle and bone. She hadn’t considered the responsibility that was hers from the moment she laid hands upon a weapon.
The only thought in her mind when she loosed the bolt was that the bow be empty and back on the table by the time Mr. Giles entered the room. If she thought at all where the bolt might land, it was to think that she could sneak out later and take it off the porch and hide it. She never believed the bolt could fly through the open door and slice through the air well past the porch. She never considered that a living being might be outside and within the path the bolt would take. She never meant to hurt anything – especially her beloved Miss Kitty Fantastico.
***
Have you ever heard a cat scream? It is an unearthly, drilling sound that claws into your brain, more felt than heard. It scratches down into your nerves, drawing shudders from your muscles and causing goosebumps to bead across your skin.
Miss Kitty’s tail was dancing in delight, arched high over her back in playful pride and it was very nearly removed as the bolt scraped along the middle of her back, removing fur and skin and flesh and spraying blood across the yard.
***
Miss Dawn was unaware that it was Miss Kitty that was wounded. She only felt that horrible screeching wail scrabbling into her brain and knew that her bolt had found a mark. She was immediately convinced she had killed someone and her own scream hit a high note remarkable even for Miss Dawn.
Mr. Spike was still at the front of the house, having paused to slaughter an innocent wheelbarrow, when he smelled the blood and heard the screams. Somewhere in his mind the scent told him Miss Dawn wasn’t bleeding but he only registered ‘blood’ and ‘Dawn’ and it was a testimony to his fear and vampire speed that he arrived in the back yard moments before the Scoobies made it through the kitchen door.
He understood all, almost immediately. His night vision plainly showed the kitten’s body, the ripped bag, and the spent bolt lying a few feet away. He recognized the scent of Miss Kitty’s blood and the extent of it and knew that she was not dead but that she had run off into the night. He was confident of his ability to track her down and bring her home safe and sound.
He realized that Miss Dawn had tried out the crossbow and he was proud of her accomplishment.
It was testimony to his inability to fully understand human sentiment that he underrated the level of Miss Dawn’s distress. He could hear her sobbing but believed once he explained that Miss Kitty still lived the upset would be over. Usually perceptive to Miss Dawn’s every mood and desire, he was still a vampire and just could not perceive the horror behind believing you had killed something.
He entered the house, a smile of mingled sympathy and pride for his Bit upon his face and looked benevolently upon the humans huddled around Miss Dawn, who were still trying to understand her choked and garbled explanation. They had discerned that the crossbow was involved in her upset and if the white heat of anger were more closely related to sunlight, Mr. Spike would have been ash decorating the doorway.
“Bit, s’all right…” Mr. Spike’s explanation was allowed to proceed no further. Miss Dawn threw off the helpful hands of her adults and threw out her own, finger pointed in an arc as deadly as any arrow, straight through Mr. Spike’s heart.
“This is your fault! You should never have given me that crossbow. I hate you. I hate you!” And with that little Dawnie turned and ran to security of her bedroom, leaving the irate adults to glare at Mr. Spike.
He did not care about their looks. Their looks meant nothing to him, especially after the shock of Miss Dawn’s utterance. He was already backing off the porch. How had this happened? He had already forgiven the Bit for her words – in truth, it did not even occur that there was anything to be forgiven. He did not care that Miss Dawn was seeking to evade her own culpability and throw all blame upon his shoulders – he felt that was just part of caring for her, that she not have to take responsibility.
And there was the thought bubbling in his brain beneath his anguish. It had not yet fully formulated; it was such an alien thought to his vampire processes. He was at fault. In part? In whole? He just could not exactly understand how. He just knew he had failed again. Failed the kitten, failed the Bit, failed Buffy. He was no good as a vampire, a miserable joke as a white hat – how had he ever thought he could amount to anything?
All the weariness of the past few days descended once again upon his shoulders, confusing his feet and tilting at his balance and he stumbled like one drunk.
Miss Rosenberg, coming out to deliver the threat of imminent frogdom should Spike darken their doorway again, was stilled by the abject misery that poured off of him. She watched silently as he picked up a still form, a cat that she assumed was Miss Kitty and it is possible that a few of the tears that slid down her face were for Mr. Spike.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}