Witching HourWord count:
Spike, DawnAuthors Notes:
Written for open_on_sundays
' challenge, clock
Spike wished Dawn hadn’t gone to bed. It was right and proper for the Niblet to get her nine hours, of course, but it was easier when she was around. Not easy, never easy to meet her blue eyes with their bruised shadows; but it was her pain that mattered, then.
Five to twelve: it was nearly the witching hour. The shadowed hour of night that used to send adrenaline shooting through his dead veins. The time when monsters thrived and men cried.
He didn’t like it anymore.
The clock chimed midnight. It had been thirty-eight days since Buffy died.