"I never thought this was the apocalypse we'd have to worry about." Buffy's voice is soft. She stares out the window as the ash drifts down.

Dawn draws her knees up to her chest and turns her gaze inward. There's not much you can do about a nuclear holocaust. Not when the people pushing the buttons are in D.C. and who knows where else in the world.

Sunnydale had been lucky, if you could call it that. When Buffy had gone to L.A., all she'd found was a glassed-over crater. Heat of a thousand suns; Angel would've been dusted. And then she'd come back all blistered and puking, her hair falling out in clumps, and Dawn had been afraid she'd lose her again. But Slayers were designed to heal from anything that didn't kill them outright.

Dawn knows it was only a temporary reprieve. Buffy will try again, and again and again until she doesn't come back. Because Slayers don't just sit at home and watch the world wind down.