Judy Barton In Missoula (Leland Says You're Going Back)
by Jennifer-Oksana

Little sister's playing dress up.

There's a whole wardrobe of shiny and not-so-shiny new clothes presented to her by her knight in blood-stained armor, laying them across the bed and telling her they were all for her, everything she liked. Every last piece, from knickers to overcoats, are all so pretty and expensive. And he says she's more beautiful than the morning as he watches her try them all on.

"Not that one," he says as she tries on a peach top, watching her with eagle eyes from the overstuffed leather chair he's lounging in. He's so goddamn hot. Perfect. Scruffy but not too scruffy. He'd wash her feet in blood and rosewater--he said so. Wes knows how to treat a woman, and Dawn's so happy to be the woman he's treating. She'll wear the clothes he wants and not ask too many questions. He's right. It doesn't really matter to her when everything's this nice.

"But I like it. It's silk," Dawn replies, twirling with her arms out. Armani, DKNY, Prada, Calvin and Anne Klein, Versace--all the kind of stuff she could only afford in the old days if she got it at a five-finger discount. Back when that was wrong, wrong, wrong, and put a thrill in her tummy.

Now she doesn't ask, because it doesn't matter. She wants it. He gets it for her. Because he's her guy and it's all for them.

"The blue top I chose for you is silk as well," Wesley says sternly. "Dawn, don't be difficult--"

Dawn sighs and puts the blue top on. It feels nice sliding over her skin, and she wishes she could see how she looks right this second. But no more mirror for little sister. Maybe that's for the best. She'd cried and cried at how short he'd had the stylist cut her hair when she saw it in the digital camera, and then the blonde streaks he'd put in himself were just insult to injury.

"I don't look like me anymore!" she wailed. "My eyebrows look funny."

"They look classic," Wesley said. "Don't be absurd."

Dawn thought maybe that was it, that she'd leave him then. But then Wesley had made it up to her: a dozen roses and the flower girl for dinner. She hadn't been as sweet as the Potentials--what could be sweeter than feasting on the blood of the bitches who invaded your home and whined all the way? But she had been passable. More than passable.

Dawn loved it, listening to all the special special girls scream as she sank her fangs into them and filled her stomach with their blood. The weakest baby vamp could take them out; some potential they had.

"You've got a talent for it," Wesley had said, lifting his teeth from Vi's arm. "We could make a very interesting team, Dawn..."

Spike had been right (had Spike told her that? Or had Buffy quoted Spike to warn Dawn off?): the blood of a Slayer, even a crappy Potential, was a powerful aphrodisiac. Her head had started swimming and Dawn had almost fallen right into her sire's lap (sire. Stupid word. Father, maybe? No, that was just creepy. Just Wes was best. Her Wes. They were for each other, really.) when he'd offered her a taste of girl after girl, squealing, crying, begging them to stop.

They'd waited for Angelus to finish Buffy. As Wesley said, it was only right. Bad, smirky, annoying Angelus. Dawn hated him still. Wes had told him to beat it afterward, go find Faith or something. Which probably Angelus did, because Angelus was so the type who would break into a prison just to eat Faith even though there was a whole world of emerging darkness to feed on.

Dawn thinks she should maybe feel bad about Buffy. Buffy was her sister. But Buffy had been--oh, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Dawn was sick of Buffy and her speeches and there had been something about the whole experience...

"It's better this way," Wesley had promised Dawn, pulling Buffy's neck back so she could see the veins under fine pale skin. "The First can't prey on the weakness in the Slayer line if Buffy's dead. And you don't want the world to suffer, do you?"

...but all that's secondary. Dawn has new clothes and a man and a whole new outlook on life.

"How's this?" Dawn asks, adjusting the blue top. There's a faint miasma to it. It's not entirely new like most of the other clothes. This belonged to someone else, someone human. Someone female. Dawn likes the smell of woman and the way it makes her veins ache for their next meal, but the set-up makes her curiosity itch. "Do I look right now?"

Wesley was very precise about these things. High heels by Manolo Blahnik, black. The nicest nylons Dawn has ever seen, fresh out of the package. Givenchy. Slim skirt, made for someone with more hips and butt than Dawn, but not all THAT much more. Blue top. Suit jacket. Curls in her hair and Chanel behind her ears. He's very specific, is Wesley.

He stands up, looking feral--more feral than usual. His smile is sharp and bitter, as though there's some kind of joke. Dawn hates that smile. Usually Wes is cooler; he treats her like--well, not like a fairy princess. Like an equal. Someone he enjoys and appreciates. Right now he's looking at her like...

"Alfred Hitchcock would not be amused at the sacrilege, love," Wes says cryptically, walking toward her with that look in his eye and Dawn smiles and thinks of feasting. The taste of sweet blood on her lips and Wes running his fingers up and down her arm, asking her if she's had enough yet. He says she's greedy. Maybe she is. "Though he would understand."

"Where are we going to go tonight?" Dawn asks. She's not sure who Hitchcock is. The fat guy who did the movies, like, um. The Birds. The monks didn't make her a movie buff, though, so it's beyond her recall. "I mean, I got all dressed up. We're going to go show off, aren't we?"

Wes shakes his head and inclines his head to her neck, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Dawn shivers. He makes her crazy. Dress her up to keep her in? And then those kisses--God, he always makes her all shivery and happy with the kisses. They burn. They make her want him so much she almost forgets to think about feeding.


"I have a present for you in the living room," he murmurs, pulling her hair away from her face. "And then I thought we'd finish the game we're playing."

"Is she young?" Dawn asks, leaning against her literal demon lover and feeling hot and cold the way that she wouldn't have ever guessed as a silly little girl. "Is she pretty?"

"Very pretty. Exactly the sort of thing you prefer," he answers, leading her toward the living room.

Sometimes Dawn thinks that perhaps Wes doesn't quite see her. That he dresses her up and undresses her with some other picture in his head. He makes it so good, from the taste of blood to the feeling when he puts his head right there and licks, but it's all a game to him. He puts her in braids and kisses her gently, telling her that no one will ever hurt her again. He dresses her in expensive suits and rips them all off, calling her a whore, and he makes it hurt and makes it so hot and good that Dawn can't help but scream and beg. He puts her in red lingerie and they eat schoolchildren before going at it for a day straight.

Sometimes it seems like he doesn't know her at all.

But the girl on the floor--oh, the girl on the floor. Exactly what Dawn likes. Everything she wants. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, snub nose, skinny and short and frail-looking.

Maybe Wesley knows her better than she thinks, as Dawn giggles and approaches her present.

"You approve?" he asks, a knowing look in his eye.

"Duh," Dawn replies, licking her lips and turning to the girl. "Hey, big sister. What's your name?"

The girl shivers. Wes kneels next to her. "I believe my Dawn asked you a question," he says in that voice that's so soft and gentle and makes Dawn's stomach thrill. His Dawn. "Tell her your name."

"H-h-hannah," the blonde girl whimpers, hands and ankles bound. "Please don't kill me."

"It's not Hannah," Dawn says, lifting the girl with one hand. "It's Buffy. Your name is Buffy and you're my sister. And you keep hiding from me."

She's always hiding from Dawn, and she has to be punished. It's only right, and Wesley approves. Wesley keeps finding Buffy for her, and it makes Dawn love him more.

Tears stream down Buffy's face. They always do. "I don't know you! You're not my--"

"Yes, I am," Dawn says. "And I'm going to make it all better. Because you're my sister and I love you."

"You're not my sister!" Buffy had cried the first time, and Dawn had rocked her back and forth, taking them down, down, down. "Dawnie, don't. Dawn--"

Just the way that Wes loves me, Dawn thinks, giving the girl a kiss before tearing her throat out. Just. Like. That.


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