Title: Distinctly Not Fluffy
Author: Scy
Feedback: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I couldn’t help it. Really. 
Rating: R: may contain material that disturbs some. 
Improv: 27 homophones
Pairing: Dru/Spike/Dawn 
Spoilers: The Gift. 
Author's Notes: Some of this may have to do with the fact that I think Dawn is utterly useful, if you let her be hurt and yet vicious. ‘Cause, what if you don’t exist, does what you do matter at all? And who is going to care about the *not there girl*? Kita, your babble, or my babble to you and the response helped loads. If I don't make sense, blame me, I tend to be that way. 
September 2001

*
Dru likes her fresh scent, fluffy towels just washed skin and youth that she is bereft of now.

Dawn had curled herself up against the female almost at once. The lack of warmth didn’t other her, nor was the slightly rough skirt of her dress annoying.  The sole concern the young girl had was to touch.  Anything that was normal could not be relied on, but the odd or quirky might give her a feeling like safety once had.  Royalty, that’s what she was now. Special and deserving of prezzies. 

She and Dru had tacitly decided that they would cram themselves into the front seat with their driver.  They didn’t fight over the radio stations so much as they quietly nudged one another out of the way or hinted silently as they asked for a song that they wanted.   Their taste in music ran surprising parallel, sometimes over what constituted decent listening. However, both of them had agreed that certain selections of Spike’s were not tunes that they were going to tolerate for a long period of time. When Spike tried to throw spangled ditties with harsh guitars and scraping at them, rapping his knuckles on the dashboard, they rebelled and shoved his hands out of the way, Dru with lips drawn back from teeth that, unsharpened still had a danger, and Dawn giggled when Spike only muttered about 'Damned females,' before subsiding.  

****

A vague attitude of Mother about the female vampire so inherent and yet obviously learned that Dawn cannot find it in herself to strike back as she thinks she should. Her sister would have, and wanted her to, but that is not who she is anymore.  She never was able to take care of herself, and now she is learning how, slowly, night by night, with less and less sunlight to remind her of where she came from.  

And she knows that there are rules about mothers and daughters, and that in her relationship with Joyce, she has to refer to her by appellation now, there had been times when it was not alright to touch, even though they had been unusually close, in some ways more than Buffy and her. 

  But here, Mother means caresses of fingers that are chilled, and the sweep of a dark cloud over her at bedtime, that she knows is Drusilla’s unbound hair kissing her in its own way.  All of her is alive, curiously for a dead thing, icy balm for her soul, and naught but eager to touch and taste every part of her new child.  

Beautiful hands and so /done/ to say that, even if it is true.  Poor blood circulation to the fingers is the only sensible explanation, though that in no way explains Dawn’s unending need to be close to those hands., with veins pumping the blood of others to bring her magic  to ever higher terraces of the mind.

  And Spike isn’t so much Father as all the things she was afraid of and now loves, the danger and stance that mother warned her of, and now she has it, to share with Mother who doesn’t mind the exchange of the blond, and only smiles welcomingly when Dawn enters their room at first light of the sun.  She likes to watch as Drusilla learns each bit of her personality, it is like opening presents, she gets something for giving to the vampire, and that family is one which is never going to go away.  

She takes the clothes of their victims, blouses, shirts and jackets, some very ‘in with the trends’, others not so much.  She doesn’t mind, is just engaged in sampling fabrics, the different textures on her skin.

  Thinks of how sick it is to travel with them, how in books it was supposed to be some grand adventure that both made sense and was easily discarded with youth. This is neither, has nothing else to go back to, nothing that matters.  But that is one of the premiere moments, watching the tow of them tussle with decisions about food, sometimes she settles an argument by saying that she needs a new coat, or ‘would that look good on me?’  Some bizarre parenting book could be written about how one will kill for her easy, but rolls his eyes when she wants shoes.

Dru understands, not just he beauty of slingbacks, the way that they are impractical and then how much she needs them. The regret and ‘that outfit could have’s’ that would undoubtedly follow not-purchasing them.  And so Dru pouts a little, clear for a glowing instant as she decrees that they go and get some new footwear.

Getting Spike outfitted in clean garments is nearly impossible, so they do not often trouble themselves, but when his clothes are too stinky to bear any longer, something must be done, there is a consensus and Dru sets the jacket aside, coat of armor, de Slayer that he loves and Dawn burns the rest.  She has become adept at handling flame, matches and cleanup.  Funny, she’d not lit a candle without Joyce offering safety tips in her days Before, now she has a kit of her own to take care of bodies. 

Certain towns are more deserted than others and long stretches of pavement are surround by cast ground with sagebrush, tinder for her eager fires.

  The other two are not so fond of fire, Spike will not speak of being confined, Dawn learned through rhymes doled out by a half-lucid Dru, who whimpered about ‘Daddy was furious with his Darling daughter, and Grandmummy burned wick bright.’ 

  She wonders who ‘Daddy’ is, but doesn’t care to upset Dru. 

        She is pleased, at some not telling part of her being with the clothes that she wears now, picked by hand, and the way that she is very nearly able to blend into every background that a city can conjure out of landscaping and disrespect for nature.

      And that fits somehow, because she is unnatural as well, and it makes sense that she fit in with things that do not belong, just like her new family is not normal or right under any power that ever existed, neither is she.  She has this stupid desire to prove herself, to be dominant, which she knows is impossible, she is a victim, and the only way to protect herself is shove into a bunch of likewise crippled hunters and make them into a pack of their own kind of power. 

A growl, like the kind that she used to watch Nature programs at night for, Mom was disturbed about all of the predators, especially the ones with the large teeth, and Dawn had to make excuses about class assignments to get a good look at canines that were white or stained or otherwise enhanced. 

  She knows that she isn’t what is the romance novel wording?  ‘Well-endowed with willing female flesh,’ or whatever, but she has the buds of mammalian power under her clothing, and inside too.  And she can tell that it appeals, her still-developing body. She may be molded, just with the right pressure.

And when, one night, Dru nuzzles up to her, asking for warmth in the car that Spike has found for them; they approved it together, sort of the pack bitches looking over their love nest, if they were going to let him touch them, the vehicle had to have the right kind of ambience, and this only definitely does.  A large car, wide and sprawling in a way that the more modern versions are unable or unwilling to strive for, which is why Dawn likes so much of the past more than the now, where things were wide and there were discoveries to be made still, now all people want to do is live forever, when that should only be given to those selected for it, not just all of the shmucks that are able to knot a tie around their pudgy throats.   

She will learn about all things of nighttime someday. Tomorrow is already said, she has read too many tomorrows, she likes the evenings, and tall the moonrises are hers.

Fin