A/N: This story is a response to a challenge on Elysian Fields; categories will be added as the story progresses, and the rating will go up. It won't be anything triggering, though, I tend to keep things on the vanilla side, and I always give people a head's up at the start of chapters when necessary.
There is a character's death warning for Dawn. This starts a bit dark, given the premise of the story. Nothing beyond what we saw Buffy go through when she was pulled out of Heaven, though. A huge thank you to Lilly for her beta work; all remaining mistakes are mine!
AWAITING SERENDIPITY
CHAPTER ONE
The sound of metal hitting soft flesh resonated in the air at a steady, unnerving pace, punctuated by huffs of exertion.
Only minutes ago, these noises would have been completely drowned out, swallowed by the many sounds of battle. What remained of Glory's minions had been knocked down by Willow's spell, all of them now scattered on the ground, near the staircase. The rest of their group was concealed between debris and bags of plaster, helpless to do more than what had already been done.
Dawn still hadn't been saved. Something was up there with her, something strong enough to throw Spike off the tower only moments ago; none of them would be a match, only Buffy, who was still busy crushing Glory's face in with her hammer.
Giles watched the scene from the shadows, biding his time, seemingly unperturbed by his Slayer's wrath. In his right hand, the syringe felt heavier than it was. It had been Buffy's idea. Not to use tranquilizer per say, but to find a way to contain Ben, was he to reemerge.
"Xander had a point," she'd said, only minutes away from leaving the Magic Box. "I know it's unlikely Ben will show his face again tonight, but if he does, we need to keep him down without actually killing him."
Willow was furthest away in the room; she had been working on the Buffy Bot, oblivious to Anya's frequent (and somewhat febrile) comments about how/if the robot survived the battle, Willow should reprogram it to walk around the town, advertising the shop to possible costumers. And despite Giles having asked him a dozen times today alone not to do it inside, Spike was smoking cigarette after cigarette, slumped against a bookshelf.
Giles had offered Buffy a brief, understanding smile, "I'll take care of Ben if he shows. You worry about Glory and Dawn."
And she'd done so, brilliantly, as he knew she would. She'd beaten Glory to a pulp, so lost in the action that she'd administered a couple more blows before she realized the body she was smashing had morphed into its human counterpart.
At the exact moment she stilled her arms, the sky exploded with light.
Giles did not waver. He'd been expecting it, more than he was dreading it. Stepping out of concealment, he approached Buffy from behind, aware he only had seconds to act, as she was temporarily mesmerized by the sight overhead. In a smooth and swift movement, Giles plunged the needle into her neck, piercing through scar tissues left by sharp teeth and hungry men, pouring the entire content into her veins. Buffy gasped and tensed up.
But that was all.
Her body went limp, falling back against him. He lay her down onto the ground almost reverently, far away enough from Ben, murmuring a soft "I'm sorry," meant for himself more than for her. The dose was strong, strong enough to kill a man – more precisely the dying man who lay only meters away from her, but not a Slayer at the top of her strength. She would be unconscious for a couple of hours, maybe, and by then…
By then, it would all be over.
There was no more silence punctuated by odd noises. The sky had been torn open, lightening flashed and zapped, creating doors after doors, forcing dimensions to collide. In this chaos, no one saw Giles's action, neither betrayal of both Summers girls, girls he'd come to love as his own.
There was no other way. No one else would do this job, the dirty one, the one that would fragment his soul a little more.
Soon, he had joined Dawn at the top of the tower; she was crying in earnest, tied up by the wrists, slumped forward as blood trickled from her bare feet and into the pool of energy beneath them. When she saw him, she let out of sob of relief, but remained quiet.
Giles didn't hesitate, using the element of surprise to his advantage, launching himself forward and pushing the demon into the void. When he regained his balance and turned to face Dawn, however, he started approaching her more slowly than anyone hoping to rescue her would have.
Something must have shown on his face, because all traces of hope vanished from her body language, replaced by pain and despair.
"You're not going to untie me, are you."
It wasn't a question.
"I have to untie you," he corrected softly.
"But you won't…save me," she whispered, more tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping from her chin the way blood still dripped from her feet. She shook her head. "I know about the ritual, she told me about the blood. About how…it will stop it. You're here to kill me."
He could have lied, but what would have been the point. It certainly would not comfort either of them. "I am," he said. "I'm sorry," he repeated.
This time, it was meant for her more than for himself. There would be no redemption for him.
But Dawn shook her head again, another silent sob shaking her body, turning into a whimper of pain. "You don't…have to," she wept.
"I do," he said, "I have to stop this."
She shook her head once more. "No, I mean…you don't have to kill me. I'll do it. I'll jump."
Giles remembered his Slayer, all these years ago, crying the way Dawn was. Telling him she was too young to die. She'd silently begged for her life, before willingly walking to her death to save the world.
Dawn was more than a fabricated sister made from Buffy's blood, after all.
She was truly hers.
Without another word, Giles untied her, before taking a few steps back, giving her space to do…what had to be done.
"Will Buffy be okay?" Dawn cried, clutching at her sides. "Will she…"
Giles nodded. "She will be all right." After another pause, he added: "I believe that once the portal is closed, memories of your existence will simply…cease to be. She won't suffer the way you both did when your mum died. She will find peace, and so will you. She will live, thanks to you," he concluded.
If anything else, that last part was true.
Dawn nodded, crying too hard to be able to speak. She turned around to face the rising sun. Staring into the emerging light, she steadied her breathing, regaining control.
Readying herself.
"Tell her I love her, okay?"
And she let herself fall.
…
The air smelled of cotton candy.
It smelled of late summer afternoons, when stifling heat-waves have receded, making place to warm twilight and its shifting skies. There even was a cool breeze rustling nearby trees, bringing forth the sounds of laughter and…another smell. More floral than sweet, although bitter than it used to be.
On and on it went, round and round, and round and round.
Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
She could hear her laughter every time it came around, closer, nearer, almost within grasp…yet she remained out of reach, just slightly, the carved animals losing shape, losing consistency.
"She's okay, Buffy."
Buffy looked away from the blur of the merry-go-round, away from the unsubstantial glow from which the laughter was coming, her vision sharpening as she met her mother's eyes.
Kind, warm, and loving, with a barely concealed worry in their depth, the way they'd always been.
"I'll look after her, until the carousel stops turning," Joyce said. "I'll look after her for you. One-four-seven rounds to go."
Buffy woke up.
…
Her first conscious thought was that she was alive; therefore, so was the world.
For one thing, there was a buzzing in her ears she'd come to associate with apocalypses nearly averted, when everything became too quiet again after being so loud.
That, and the feeling of two hands having reached down inside her chest, squeezing and squeezing upon her heart and lungs, until she had no more breath, no more anything.
Buffy sat up upon her bed, her whole body quivering as a wave of nausea washed through her, her brain struggling with the sudden change in position. She grimaced, eyes closed shut, clenching at the bedding for support, commanding her metabolism to steady itself, now aware as well of the headache that pulsed within her skull, following the rhythm of her heart.
She made to stand up, but two warm hands pressed down upon her shoulders. The fact that these evidently small hands managed to keep her seated said a lot about the state of her muscles.
"Easy there, Buffy. Give yourself a minute."
Buffy shook her head, which did nothing to ease neither headache nor nausea. She opened her mouth to speak her sister's name, but no sound came out, the fists clutching her lungs having moved up to her throat, twisting her vocal chords.
She forced herself to breathe as deeply as she could, forced the air down through her constricted windpipe, only half-aware of Willow's hands on her shoulders, her touch softer now, comforting more than it was restricting.
Moments passed. Minutes, maybe. The ringing in her ears felt deafening, even behind the thumping of her heart. Yet her breathing was so loud that she could hear it all, every inhale and exhale.
When she moved again, hunching her shoulders inward, Willow heard her silent request, letting her go.
"Where is she?" Buffy eventually managed to whisper, eyes still closed. "Where's…"
…the body, she couldn't bring herself to say.
Not yet, not again.
She didn't need to be told Dawn was gone; Willow understood that, too. The world was still here. That was proof enough.
When Willow did not answer, Buffy wasn't surprised. When she heard what appeared to be sniffling, however, she opened her eyes at last. Not that it was wrong for her friend to be crying. After all, she'd loved the girl, too.
There was an odd quality to her grief, though. Even detached as she felt, Buffy knew something was wrong.
"Will?" She insisted.
Willow shook her head, unable to meet her eyes, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "We didn't…" she tried, unsuccessfully trying to wipe her runny nose, letting out a loud, wheezy breath. "There was nothing, Buffy. We looked everywhere, I even did…a locating spell. There's nothing. She's just…gone."
Another moment stretched, not a silent one, as Willow was crying in earnest now, fighting to get a hold of herself, and failing miserably. Stuck in a familiar limbo where all was numb, Buffy could only stare at her best friend.
"No body?" She asked, at last.
Willow bit down on her lip, hard enough for the skin to pale, hard enough to hurt, surely. She shook her head repeatedly before taking what appeared to be a steadying breath, finally meeting Buffy's eyes.
"There's no more Dawn at all, Buffy."
…
Buffy stared at her mother's sewing equipment, experiencing the most uncomfortable feeling of dejà-vu of her life. She'd been having prophetic dreams since she was fifteen; she was used to living through moments she'd envisioned before. This was different, though.
More real, somehow, despite her lack of focus.
She wasn't under the influence of any spell this time, yet the alternate version of the room kept on flashing across her eyes; one moment, she saw the room as it was now, full of unused machines, of discarded boxes overflowing with hoarded materials, the air stale from the door and windows having been kept shut for weeks, if not months. But then she'd blink, and everything would shift, replaced by an unkept bed and a slightly tidier wardrobe; bookshelves full of books, including a couple of singed journals; papers, textbooks and half-finished homework scattered all over the desk.
It was as if traces of her sister were trying to bleed through.
No more Dawn at all.
The sound of wood splintering briefly took her out of her trance, drawing her gaze to the doorjamb she'd been grabbing at. She stared at the crack that had formed on the frame on either side of her hand, not really seeing it at all.
"Where are the others?" She asked to the darkness within the crack.
"They're…" Willow began feebly, somewhere outside the crack. "Tara's in your mom's room, she's, well, she's back, but tired, drained, really because I..." She let her voice trail. "Xander took Anya to the ER. She has a concussion, from the looks of it. Giles…he helped bring you here, but he went back for Spike. It got…kinda sunny, and he was…sorta bruised."
At the mention of her Watcher's name, the crack expanded, both on the jamb and deep within.
"He did it," she said in a flat voice.
"Who, Spike?" Willow said, confused. "He wouldn't. He couldn't, we saw him fall from the tower before the ritual started, he was –"
"Not Spike," Buffy interrupted her with an odd edge to her voice – of course it could never have been Spike, not after Glory. "Giles killed Dawn."
"He…" Willow tried, at a loss, her breathing becoming wheezy again. "N…no, Buffy. He would never…" She stopped, maybe remembering Giles's words only hours ago, in the Magic Box.
Buffy, the only way is to kill Dawn.
"He said…he said he untied her and she…jumped…"
Deeper and deeper the crack went. Darker and darker.
"He killed her," Buffy repeated, and then she said no more.
It didn't matter, that Willow believe her or not, just as it didn't matter, what had happened up there; how it happened.
Buffy knew her body. That was part of the curse, from being a Slayer, to be aware of her own body, of its strengths and its weaknesses at any given time, no matter the state of her mind. She'd recognized the effects the moment she woke up.
She'd been drugged, one efficient way to prevent her from climbing the tower. And only one person in their midst could have had both the ingenuity and the ruthlessness to come up with such a plan.
She'd been drugged by her Watcher.
Again.
He'd stopped her from going up there, from protecting her. Stopped her from saving the last piece of herself that still held a hint of innocence, a chance at a normal life. The last piece of herself she'd been able to love.
It should have been her gift, that much she understood, now. She should have died for Dawn.
There should have been peace, and warmth; completion.
Now all she had left was emptiness.
…
The sodding Watcher wouldn't budge.
In Spike's opinion, he'd already overstayed his welcome about thirty seconds after helping him inside the dimness of his crypt. How he'd not burst into flames a couple dozen times between the site and the cemetery was a bloody miracle in itself, considering who'd taken it upon themselves to drag his broken arse back here. Nothing but shock and grief could have made the male Scoobies actually discuss how to get Spike safely away from a sunbathed construction site and not be having a laugh about it.
Not that it mattered, any of it; not his many broken bones, or the throbbing stab wound in his back.
The Little Bit was dead.
Erased from this reality, even, to quote the sad old bloke who'd yet to leave his crypt.
Spike wanted to be left alone. He couldn't do anything about the guilt and overwhelming sense of failure already brewing in the depth of his being, but he sure as hell knew a good twelve hours spent in total darkness with a pint or two of blood would go a long way in healing his damaged body.
"What's it that you want, Rupert," he finally gave up pretending he didn't feel the human presence only meters away from him.
"Anything numbing will do."
Spike rose his head from the tombstone, surprised by his honesty. "Left side of the fridge," he offered, dropping his head back down with a groan. He followed the Watcher's movements, his footsteps even heavier than usual, heard him rummage through his pile of rubbish and empty bottles until he found the right one.
The next sounds indicated he was having quite the swallow.
"Hey, don't down the bloody thing," he protested.
Only silence followed. Silence, and more swallowing. Spike sighed – for dramatic effect.
"You're not needed here," he spoke with another grunt. "Slayer's got to be coming around soon."
He didn't say more, but what he meant was clear enough. The Watcher should be at Buffy's side when she woke up.
So that one of us can give her some comfort.
"I won't be going back," Rupert said, an odd, heavy resignation in his voice. "If I do, she'll probably kill me. Not that I can blame her."
Spike rose his head again. "For letting the Nibblet jump?"
Another long swallow. Damn, he was gonna down the whole thing.
"And for preventing her from getting to Dawn," he corrected, sounding almost detached. "The portal had opened. Worlds were colliding. If Buffy had made it up there…she would have jumped instead."
It only took Spike a moment to understand what he meant; despite the shock that travelled through his broken body at the revelation, some part of him had expected it. The whole story'd been sketchy from the moment the old chap had reappeared at the bottom of the stairs. How he'd untied Dawn and she'd 'jumped'. Spike had assumed the girl hadn't given him much of a say in it – with her being a bloody Summers and all; self-sacrificing bravery and general pigheadedness ran in the family.
He'd also assumed Buffy'd been knocked down by the Hell-bitch, because nothing in this dimension or the thousands that had briefly bled through this one could have prevented her from getting to her little sis, except a concussing blow.
Or…
"You…" Spiked growled as he tried to sit up, indignation, disgust and loathing coursing through his blood. But his broken bones wouldn't allow it, causing him to slump back heavily against cold stone. "You sodding…"
"Would you rather this had ended with Buffy's corpse at the bottom of that tower?"
Rupert's words were cold, calculated, and once again too detached for someone who'd successfully betrayed both his surrogate daughters in the worst possible way. It filled Spike with a desire for human blood he'd not felt in quite some time. Not the desire to feed he still quelled on a regular basis.
This was a visceral need to hurt and to kill, to grab at his neck and apply pressure until he heard bones snap.
The feeling was too raw to know if it was meant on Buffy's behalf, or on the Bit's. Another thing that didn't matter.
And yet…
And yet, there was a horrible truth to the Watcher's words.
There'd been a moment, only seconds, at that, when Spike had seen Buffy's body on the ground and thought her dead…before Harris checked her vitals and exclaimed that she was alive. Spike had wanted to push the wet noddle aside and check for himself, get close enough to her that he could hear and feel the rushing of her blood through her veins, the thumping of her heart.
Truth was, he'd rarely felt this relieved in his entire existence, all hundreds plus years of it.
"It wasn't your bloody choice to make," Spike said anyway. "All she's done for you and your sodding gang, and you go stab her in the back."
"I'm quite certain I don't need to be lectured by a cold blooded killer."
Spike huffed. "Bollocks. You're no better than me, Ripper. 'Cause if we're looking at numbers alone, you've killed more people than me in recent history. Maybe they chipped the wrong Brit."
There was a whoosh, and the sensation of something flying past his head, before glass shattered on the ground.
Spike knew the Watcher was skilled enough to hit a target at such a close range. He'd barely tried at all.
"I did what had to be done," Rupert said, in that same hollow voice, as if he hadn't just had a little fit.
Spike tasted iron, having bitten the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. "You killed the only family she'd left." In comparison to the Watcher's tone, his voice was low and sorrowful.
"Dawn wasn't her sister," he said, speaking words that were even emptier than they'd been back in the Magic Box the previous night, although there was a hint of something else now. Supplication, maybe.
She's me. The monks made her out of me. She's the only part that I…
"Doesn't make a bloody difference," Spike spoke quietly, yet not quietly enough to conceal the growing thickness of his voice, every inch of him that had nothing to do with his bones or flesh hurting at the thought of Buffy in the aftermath of this mess. "No more mother, no more father, and no more sister…You've stripped her bare, Rupert. Keep on telling yourself you saved her all you want, if it helps you go on with your life. Truth is, you and I both know you've just killed her. You've killed your Slayer."
The old sod didn't say anything.
There was nothing left to say.
TBC...
A/N: I already have a few chapters written, so updates should be ~weekly. Reviews are always appreciated! ;-)
