safe haven

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They are the property of Joss Whedon. I just borrow them. No copyright infringement is intended nor implied.

chapter six

If Dawn could win a million dollars, she would return to Europe, splurge on a castle, conjure a Scourge-proof protection spell, and shut out the world. Only problem with her plan was she’d been completely luckless all night long.

She scooted her aching butt cheeks around on the hard stool at the blackjack table in the MGM casino and stared at the dissolving ice cubes swirling in her glass. Good fortune just wasn’t meant for her, she decided. Clearly, hers was the plight of the tiny Li demon doomed to a confrontation with the last Yahka beast in the world. The fable went that, lost and desperate, the Yahka stumbled upon the Li, invisible to all other eyes but his, and devoured it before falling to its death. One last feed. That damned Yahka was the only creature in the universe that could stomach the taste of the Li.

Poor little slug demon, thought Dawn. It was all about bad luck. It had found Dawn just like that Yahka had found that Li.

Dawn rubbed the heel of her hands over her eyes and massaged her tired face muscles with her fingertips. She should’ve known it was going to be a bad night. After she and Faith had left the Terrazza Restaurant amidst a hailstorm of profanities and condemnations, there was no other place for the evening to go but downhill.

Faith had been the one shouting obscenities and accusing Spike and Wesley, mostly, of trying to manipulate them, and of being Wolfram and Hart puppets. Her words, if Dawn recalled them correctly, went something like “as long as there’s a breath of life in my body,” she’d never do anything to help Wyndam-Pryce. Then Faith had added for clarity, “I only did your bidding one time and that was to save Angel from Angelus. But Angel’s dead, and you and Soul Boy version two, with the two-time disappearing act, haven’t shown me shit. No way am I risking my life or my girl’s for either one of you.”

She’d grabbed Dawn’s hand possessively, pulled her out of her seat and half-dragged, half-thrown her out of the restaurant.

Dawn had surprised herself by behaving in a very un-Dawn like manner and had stayed calm when the pissed off Slayer feigned ownership. She hadn’t snatched her hand from Faith’s or told her to go to hell as she was being led away. She hadn’t outwardly objected in any way to being woman-handled. Nor had she joined Faith in cursing Wesley’s lineage, debasing his ancestry as a bunch of stiff upper-lipped fairies that did the King’s bidding at the turn of the century. She'd also kept her mouth shut when Faith added that it was this trait that made Wesley enjoy getting fucked in the ass by Wolfram and Hart in 2010.

But no, Dawn hadn't joined in on the shouting. As she was being yanked from the restaurant, her eyes sought out Spike's eyes. Why hadn't he told her about the mission before? She wanted to scream at him, or at least punch him in the arm. But as he returned her gaze without flinching, Dawn saw something in his eyes she hadn’t expected. He was remorseless. He knew he’d hurt her, but he didn’t seem to care. This mission was more important to him than she was.

She dropped another chip on the table as the dealer raked in her losing cards. Draining the contents of her glass, she nodded to the waitress, and ordered vodka on the rocks.


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The casino was packed at 3 a.m. Anxious demons and demon hunters and carefree humans lined up, three deep, waiting for a seat at the poker or blackjack tables. They weren’t patient about it either. They pressed their elbows into her back as they edged in close to peer over her shoulder and see how well or how poorly she was doing. It was getting harder to ignore them as she pulled out another hundred-dollar bill and set it down on the table. The bowl-shaped dealer gave her two fifty dollar coins, and arched his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“Still in?” he said.

“What do you think?” She matched his raised eyebrow with two of her own.

Dawn wasn’t leaving. She’d been sitting in this spot since Faith had left her in the casino lobby after they’d returned from the disaster-fest of a dinner at Caesars Palace. Faith couldn’t deal right now, and needed to go do what she needed to do, she’d said. All vague with the minimalist response, Faith had said only a few last words before departing. She reminded Dawn that Herschel would be in Vegas to pick them up the next afternoon. She then rushed away in a flurry of motion, her dark mangled hair, and frantic angry eyes swirling about as she escaped.

It was just as well, Dawn had thought. No point in being a part of tonight’s Slayer breakdown. Faith had been too calm and easy-going, and when she snapped, she really snapped. Wesley had gotten to her like no one Dawn had ever seen. Not even Buffy could push Faith’s buttons the way the Watcher had. When they got back to Cleveland, after things had returned to normal, she’d have to ask Faith about that.

The waitress finally showed up with her drink. The ice cubes had melted into slithers, if they’d ever been anything more than that, but Dawn was just glad to have another drink in her hand. Made her feel all girly to gamble and drink and smoke and be slutty. That was a surprise. Thinking about being a slut. She hadn’t been slutty, in like ever.

“Fuck it,” she grumbled. Since Spike had screwed up her safe haven, she’d at least end the trip in style. She looked around the table. There was potential here. But Dawn’s brain kind of crumbled for a moment as she tried to focus on the girl seated next to her. She had dark hair, pulled back in a high ponytail. Her large brown eyes shined as her face melted into a broad wide grin. She had really big teeth, thought Dawn. But she was very pretty.

Dawn closed her eyes. The black-haired girl reminded her of someone. That friend of Buffy’s she could barely remember. What was her name? Chloe? No, she was a dead potential. Cordy! That was it. She looked like Cordelia. She grimaced and turned away, forcing her attention back to her chips and her drink.

Was everything Sunnydale going to haunt her all night long or what?

Shaking her head, she rolled the chips in the palm of her left hand. They felt cold as the tumbler of vodka in her right hand turned hot. She’d been gulping down the clear booze for an hour and losing fifty-dollar chips to the blackjack dealer for more than three. That might explain the flashbacks.

“Hey darling, you want another card or what?”

The dealer looked stuffed into his gold and silver threaded vest, the last two buttons strained to remain closed. His gut spilled from under his cummerbund, which was failing miserably at holding him together. Cummerbund? She surprised herself by even knowing the term. Dawn had never gone out with a guy in a tux let alone a guy in a tux wearing a cummerbund. She hadn’t gone to prom or dressed up in more than a pair of jeans or a short skirt since third grade, except for Xander’s wedding or almost wedding. And most definitely, that moldy green disaster of a thing could never be thought of as any kind of a dress in a million years.

Her first and only frock (she giggled at the sound of the word in her head); she’d worn when her Mom and Dad had taken her and her pre-Slayer big sister to something called a lawn party. They’d searched for colored eggs and chocolate-covered candy bunnies hidden in miles of green grass covered by a sea of kids in blue suits and white dresses with bright yellow bows tied around their waists (the girls that is). There were flowers and punch and cookies, and lots of parents, laughing. Good times, she smiled. Fake memories or not.

“Hit me,” she gestured to the dealer with her forefinger, still holding on to the half-filled glass of vodka and melting ice.

“Twenty-One,” he announced.

The Cordy look-alike on the stool next to Dawn yelped, “Way to go, babe. Bout time.” She gave Dawn a lippy pout and a sympathetic flutter of her eyelashes. Or did that expression mean congratulations? Dawn couldn’t really tell.

The pretty girl grinned at Dawn and grabbed the arm of a passing waitress. “Want another glass of water or does that have a little more of a burn going down, darling?” Her voice was low as she inched her stool closer to Dawn.

Totally not a cool move at the blackjack table, thought Dawn. The girl who looked like Buffy’s friend might be trying to see Dawn’s cards. But what the hell? Dawn had been losing all night anyway.

“Definitely not H two O.” She returned the girl's smile and then gestured to the waitress. “Vodka and double me up.”

She gulped down her drink and dropped the empty glass on the waitress' tray. Nothing more could go wrong tonight, she figured, as her eyes shifted from the girl's face to the chips she held in her hand. Then his features etched their way into her mind. Nothing could be worse than the look in Spike’s eyes. “Damn, why does bad shit keep happening?"

“What kind of bad is that, dear?” Dawn looked at the girl, and realized she’d spoken aloud. She wondered why she'd done that? Maybe she'd had too much to drink and her thoughts were splintering into fragments.

Faith’s voice was suddenly in her head and she was letting Wesley have it for daring to give them orders. Who the hell did he think he was? She'd yelled. Then she'd turned and unloaded on Spike. How come the bastard had kept the fact that he was alive and well from Buffy for an entire year? He knew she loved him and missed him and what the fuck did he do? Play superhero and get killed again, except whoops, not dead. Except by then everybody else was fucking dead.

Spike had looked away. Unreadable. Wesley’s expression hadn’t changed. He was all business. He’d reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper as if he was about to take notes.

Damn, cursed Dawn. Where was the drink she'd ordered? She shook her head, clearing the memories from her mind as she turned to the girl languishing next to her.

“Oh, the bad shit? Nah, nothing in particular. Just thinking out loud. Can't help it. These cards are kicking my ass.” She smiled awkwardly, certain that she looked goofy doing so. She averted her eyes and pointed to the dealer, indicating she wanted another card.

“Twenty-one,” said the round man.

Dawn looked at the cards on the table in front of her. He’d been referring to her hand. She'd won. Amazing.

She pushed a stack of chips to the center of the table as the waitress delivered her double shot of vodka on the rocks. Taking a big sip from the cold glass, she waited for the dealer to deal.

“Looks like your luck’s changing, blue eyes.” The Cordy chic placed her hand on Dawn’s thigh as the man said 'twenty-one' again.

Dawn glanced at the girl sideways. Yeah, she was hitting on her. No doubt. Blinking slowly, Dawn tried to look at the girl without seeing two of her, as she mentally ran through Faith’s rules of engagement for this kind of situation.

"Don’t fuck anything you can’t beat up, even when you’re dead drunk," she had preached. "Don’t fuck anything prettier than you are. You’ll be pissed when get out of bed and see your worn expression in the mirror compared to their soft glazed look of joy."

"You’d be amazed," Faith would say, "how a face that looks better than yours in the morning can be a real buzz kill."

“And oh, yeah,“ Faith had added in a serious tone. “Don’t wait for anyone. No standing around twiddling your thumbs, patiently waiting for them to arrive while the pain in your head grows until you feel like you’re about to burst. No matter how much you care about them. Never wait.”

That was Dawn’s problem. She’d been waiting for Spike for hours.

“You want another drink?” offered the girl.

“Sure." Then Dawn leaned close to the girl and whispered, “I know we get our drinks free as long as we’re playing the game. So don’t’ think I’m at all wowed by your generosity.”

“No, just hoping you might be wowed by me.” Her smile was bestial, thought Dawn. The Cordy girl looked at her as if she'd found her morsel for the night. Dawn had been feeling the pull of the Li demon for hours, and now she was facing her own Yahka beast.

Then the thought hit her—since the day Buffy had been killed, she'd been desperately and utterly without good fortune. Except for the night she'd first seen Spike in Vegas, she'd had nothing of that thing called luck in five years. Yeah, she was alive. She'd kept Faith alive, too. But no...good surprises. Nothing that could make a drowning man smile. She looked at the entranceway and winced. There would be no strong-armed creature charging up on a white horse and throwing her a rope. Dawn was sinking to the bottom of the sea fast—and with a girl she’d probably call Cordy all night long.

She stared at the water spots on the battered green felt table and wondered what it would feel like to be the saved instead of being the savior. She lifted her gaze and let her eyes slowly search the casino, from the archway to the far wall, past the roulette tables and the slot machines.

No white knight on her dance card tonight.

Then suddenly he was there, and she saw him walking toward her, emerging from the crowd near the poker tables opposite the high-rollers' den. His long black leather duster fanned open, exposing his black jeans and fitted black t-shirt, as he glided across the floor. She could see his fingers stretching from beneath his coat sleeves and flexing. He was grabbing the air as he moved.

An instant later, he was standing next to her and she had to stifle a gasp.

“About damn time,” she managed, surprised her voice sounded so grown-up despite her vodkas-on-the-rocks haze.

Spike glanced at the glass in her hand and the stack of chips in front of her on the table. Then he looked into her eyes, and chuckled. "Been waiting for me, pet?"

Yeah, thought Dawn, except she wasn't going to say it out loud.

To be continued…