All right. Making it stop 4. I've done three different drafts, none of them alike, but this was the only one I could finish. Inspired in equal parts by Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue", The Clash's "London Calling", and the death of my beloved blue betta fish that I had been blessed for twoand a halfyears with, Sid. He was an asshole, just like his counter-part, but loveable all the same. He will be missed, and I loved him. I don't own any of the aforementioned, or Buffypeople,not even Sid, who just graced me with his presence.

Always love,
a slightly grieving,
Tequila Sunrise.

I don't know why, but it's different tonight, the Jack is cruising through my system, slowly burning away everything that doesn't belong. Or maybe it belongs, I'd just rather it didn't. It amazes me I can still get drunk, this drunk. I know better. The leaden weight of my limbs, while my head is in the clouds she has to be in... It's magnificent, and I can't recall why I don't do this more often.

Staring down into my lap, looking at my hands, I remember why, and it's hard to not resent her. And worship her. It's incredible how the others pass her over, like she's not of great import, like she's a nuisance. She was chosen. Maybe not by some higher power, but it hardly matters. She was saved. To be the son Abraham would sacrifice to save all else. And all right, maybe it's just a little sacrilegious... But she was saved.

But she didn't need someone to die for her, I know it. I know it, and I hate it... She needs someone to live for her. That's not something anyone's been willing to do so far. Something she hasn't even been willing to do for herself lately.

I'm climbing the steps to her room before my mind registers it. I've kept close eye on her, since she took to playing with sharp objects. She's sleeping, my pretty pretty princess Duchess Dawnie sleeping. Christ, I'm drunk. I'm shaking her before I realize it, pulling her blankets off, laying next to her. God, her heat. She's never hot. Just... warm, snuggling blanket on cold winter days I can barely remember anymore, except for the comfort, and I kind of hate her for making me worry that it'll go away.

She's making sleepy-whine noises at me, burying her face in my chest, and I'm pulling her back up, kissing her forehead. "Good morning, sweet bit," I croon.

Her eyes flutter open, and she knows. You can see how safe she feels with me, but I'm not interested in her being safe from the world tonight. "You're drunk."

I simply shrug, pulling her by her hands to a sitting position, handing her a hoodie and flip flops. "You would be, too, kitten. Up, up, poppa Spike's got something to teach his little girl."

She's rubbing the sleep from her eyes, sitting on the edge of her bed pulling on her soft pink hoodie over the blue tank top and underwear she sleeps in, covered in little rainbows and clouds. Deceptively juvenile. She thinks they're cute. Are, I suppose, in a pervy kind of way. I shrug, crouching, sliding the poor excuses of shoes onto her feet, kissing the top of her exposed left foot.

We hold hands down the stairs, and I think Dawn feels it's more for me. Her Spike is drunk tonight, and it makes her a little nervous, a little resigned. When I pull the keys to that fuckin' SUV down from the rack, though, Dawn puts her darling size 8 foot down.

"No. You don't drive when you're drunk. It's against the law." Can see the worry in her face, could wreck, could be hurt. S'me she's worried for, couldn't give a shit less about herself.

Her face between my hands, I whisper into her ear, "Been driving since they made these things. Been drinking longer. Besides, could never wreck with cargo as precious as you." Can feel her smile stretch the skin under my hands, and I've won.

She resigns herself, and I sit still while she straps us both in, and watches idly out the window, palm trees, stars, and suburbia slipping by. She's got one foot up on the seat, resting her cheek against her knee. Shit. Was a little too drunk, kitten doesn't have britches. S'all right, she won't need them soon enough.

I hate it that she doesn't even ask where we're headed. If she'll like it, if anything could go wrong.

I love it that she doesn't even ask where we're headed. If she'll like it, if anything could go wrong.

In less than fifteen minutes, Dawn is still staring out the window, scenery changed to the highway, hand over mine on the gearshift, and her hair is still whipping around her face, big blue eyes watching me carefully.

There's an old song on the radio, and usually I'd turn the shit off. Dylan. Wanker has an undeniable storytellin' skill, but he's also got an undeniable whine around the edges if he's not careful. If Dylan is anything, it's precise, but not in any way careful. It's a song about a woman, and I can't help but croon along a little bit, and even I know there's a charm to his twang, his plaintive noise, though mine's softer, it's there. Her fingers slid between mine, and the line makes me ache.

"I seen a lot of women, but she never escaped my mind... And I just grew... tangled up in Blue." Her lips curve softly. Even though there's a beautiful recklessness to Dawn, that makes her rave for Iggy, and Gen X, and the Clash more than the Ramones, and the Pistols more than Siouxie. But there's a softness that she's tried hard to shed- not shed. Tear. Tear off of herself, ripping and screaming every inch of it. But it's there. And that part of her, a little blend of the gorgeously painful mess inside of her, makes her love this man. That he makes her smile is enough for me to call him a genius of his age.

But Dylan's got a point. The great loves... You can't escape them. You can move on, and up or down, or sideways if you please, but you still stay tangled up in them. Rest of your life, however long it is... You always see them, in your mind, in your heart, where ever.

But we're there now, and Dawn is dozing again, head lolling against the back rest. Turning the car off, unbuckling us both, and opening the doors doesn't wake her. So I lift her out of her seat, carrying her easily- sweet thing hasn't put on a pound- and walk.

I love the ocean, especially from the pier. You can't see the land beyond you and the water is all there is. It's enormous, and can take you anywhere. And it smells brilliant. Holding Dawn, smelling the ocean is... completing and amazing.

I toss her far away from me, the loss of arms around her jerking her from sleep, form twisting, inarticulated scream ripped from her. I arch an eyebrow as she disappears beneath the black water, and light a cigarette.

She sputters to the surface, a soaked, pissed off kitten. "What the FUCK, Spike?" She's floundering a bit. Not really great at swimming. I'm watching her as she swims in to the pier, struggling to get a hand up. "You drunk son of a bitch!"

Quirking my lips at her, almost a sad smirk, I squat next to where she's clawing, and shove her under again. See if she'll do it. Fight like she should. She's taking a breath under the water, pulling it into her lungs, and she's pulling, hand over hand up my arm. Drawing in a deep breath, real air, choking, coughing, eyes wild. Just for good measure, I push her under again. It makes me uncomfortable, but I stay passive, and as soon as she fights to the surface again, I yank her up by her arm, then her shoulders back onto the pier.

She's still coughing up water, when I jerk her face to mine. Wrestling to bring air into her body. "Do you see what you're doing, kitten?" I ask. "You're breathing. You fought for every breath you took out there."

Her blue eyes are furious, and my world is burning, shooting flame at its servant, but she's silent. And listening, I can tell. "The living's hard, baby doll, and no ones gonna do it for you. But you had your taste of what the other would be like. And you fought for yourself." I can hear the relief in my voice, and if it were anyone else, I'd be embarrassed.

Her breathing is regular, but her eyes have cleared. My duchess nods once, then slams her fist into my jaw.

As I rub it, and look at her in bewilderment, she cradles her hand, rubbing her knuckles and shaking it out, gently. She looks up at me, and cracks a smile. A real smile. A real smile from a dripping wet, tangled brown hair, rainbow-underwear wearing, drenched pink hoodie, fifteen year old girl with baby blue bewitching eyes. My gorgeous human bit of sweetness is smiling at me.

"You owe me a pair of flip flops, you dumbass. Those were my favorite pair."

And with a flip of that sodden brown mess, she's walking back to the car, settin' her wet ass on the seat, like I told her not to-

"DAWN! Don't you get that seat wet!"

Her laugh taunts me, and I hear the engine turning over, and after a brief shuffle, "London Calling" getting cranked up. I laugh, relieved, and head back to my baby.