Some days Dawn is quiet and Spike knows that she’s thinking about Buffy – missing her, angry, the two are always mixed together – grief is like that, he knows. He doesn’t touch her on those days, not the way a man touches a woman; he just watches her as she wraps her arms around her knees and stares at the television or the wall. And he waits for the day to pass.
It always does and with it always comes the quick-blooming flower of heat and sex that makes him wonder just what sort of Key she was supposed to be, anyway.
“Are you sorry?” he asks, many days after she last went still and silent. “Do you miss…?” He doesn’t say her name, but they both know who he means – the girl they fled from after she’d caught them doing what she so badly wanted to.
Dawn doesn’t answer. Instead, she smiles wickedly with that sweet mouth of hers before she fills it with something no good girl ever would.
There are no more quiet days.