TITLE: Scars
AUTHOR: Amberina
RATING: R for language, self-mutilation and references to child abuse
PAIRING: Dawn/Wesley friendship
SPOILERS: S6/S3
SUMMARY: Wesley and Dawn have scars.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never was, never will be (probably.)
FEEDBACK: Oh, man. Please?
ARCHIVING: Shippers United, UCSL, Aurora, Summers Sun, Wesleyan Aria. Anyone else, please
ask first.
SCARS
By Amberina
Mental scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Dawn isn't real. She's a real mess, sure. But real? Nope, not Dawn.
Reality isn't something she's very familiar with, anyway. She likes
to close her eyes sometimes, and just imagine what it must have been
like to be swirling energy. She pictures herself mingling with the
stars against a backdrop of cold blackness. It chills her to the bone.
She killed her sister. Love for her killed her sister. Not real love
either, false love. Love implanted in her heart. Fake love. Not real.
Not real. Buffy died for what? So Dawn could live? Dawn never really
lived, just existed. Buffy came back. But she was cold, distant, and
Dawn felt like killing her again, so she could go back to heaven and
stop fucking Spike. Dawn wasn't worried about hell. She'd probably
just turn back into mystical energy when she died anyway.
But she didn't kill her, because when it all came down to it, Dawn
wasn't a murderer. Not even if the world would be better, or if Buffy
would be happier. She couldn't even bring herself to take her own
life. Coward, she called herself, whenever she'd look in the mirror.
Stupid, evil coward. Dawn wished she could just go away, disappear
into oblivion. She wished these people didn't have the false love
implanted in their hearts, so if she did go away, they wouldn't stop
her. They wouldn't try to get her help. They didn't really care, they
just thought they did.
****
Mental scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Wesley's a loser. He always has been. His father would tell him so,
and Daddy knows best, right? Daddy would tell him how horrible he
was, how bad. If he told anyone about what he did to him at night,
they would think he was lying. No one would possibly believe Wesley,
right? 'Not a bloody word out of Wesley's mouth is true,' his father
used to caution family friends. 'Don't believe a thing that little
bugger says.' Of course, when it came down to it, they believed
Edward Wyndham-Price, head of the Watchers' Council and all-around
model citizen. Wesley knew this from expeirince.
Wesley was asking for it, after all. If he wasn't so bad, then Daddy
wouldn't have to do that to him. That's what his father would say. If
he didn't get smart with him, he wouldn't have to do it. If he would
just stop watching the blasted television for long enough to do his
homework, he wouldn't have to do it. Wesley was asking for it. If
only he hadn't let it slip to his headmaster what his father liked to
do, Daddy wouldn't have had lock him in the cupboard under the
stairwell. Wesley was asking for it.
Of course, his headmaster hadn't believed him anyway, and by the time
he was thirteen, he went off to boarding school, and he only had to
suffer for his shortcomings on holidays. Wesley dreaded the holidays.
****
Physical scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Dawn has a long scar across her back, from where Doc sliced her open.
Sometimes she'll close her eyes and imagine herself back up there,
imagine that the knife is there again. Sometimes, just sometimes, but
sometimes nonetheless, she feels the cold metal of the knife scrap
her skin, feels the cool breeze tickle the back of her neck, feels
the warm, thick blood drip down her back.
Dawn has scars all over her arms. Short ones, long ones, light scars,
and deep ones. All are from her self-inflicted pain. Only one spot on
her arm is clear from any scars - her wrist. She can't bring herself
to let the knife touch that virgin skin. She's not sure why she does
it, she just knows that afterwards, she feels better. It's her
penance for destroying her sister's life, for destroying the lives of
everyone around her.
****
Physical scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Wesley has a long scar across his neck, from where Justine slit his
throat. Sometimes, usually when he has been drinking, he'll trace the
scar lightly with his own knife. Not hard enough to break the skin,
but oh-so lightly. It reminds him of his father. Because he had been
right. Wesley had fucked up once again, and he always had the scars
to remind him.
He had many other scars, as well. They riddled his body. Some were
from battle, some were from his father, some he had no idea where he
got them. He had burns on his inner thighs. He didn't like to think
about how he got those.
****
Wesley held Dawn as she cried, big sobs that shook her lithe body. He
softly stroked her hair as she burried her head on his shoulder.
"Dawn . . . " he began and let himself drift off. He wasn't quite in
the right state of mind to try to comfort the sobbing teenager. So he
just held her.
Every once in a while, she would babble something about Tara, death,
and loss, but he could only make out every other word.
Dawn had ran away when Tara got shot, that much he knew, but he
didn't know if anyone at all knew where she was or why in the world
she would come to him. All he knew was she was so small and
vulnerable in his arms, and she needed him for some reason. She
needed him. He didn't have a clue as to why, but that didn't reallt
matter.
Soon her tears ran dry and she looked up at him with wide, bloodshot
eyes. "What's that from?" she asked, running her finger across the
scar on his neck. As she did so, the sleeve to her shirt came up, and
he caught sight of her arms.
"My God," he gasped, studying the scars.
Dawn quickly pulled her sleeve down. "It's nothing."
Wesley looked down, not sure what to say.
Dawn sighed and stood up. "I'll go home tomorrow. Just please, can I
stay tonight?"
Wesley nodded his head slightly. "Are you hungry?"
Dawn shook her head. She knew she should probably be hungry, as she
hadn't ate enything since . . . well, she couldn't actually remember
when her last meal was. "Not really. But I should probably eat."
"May I ask you a question, Dawn?" Wesley asked, his eyes studying
Dawn's. When she nodded, he continued. "Why did you come to me?"
Dawn sighed. "Because I thought you would be able to understand me.
You seem very understanding. And you were really nice to me at
Buffy's funeral, so I figured it would be best to go to you. Are you
going to call Buffy or Giles? Because I know they're probably
worried. They aren't really, but they think they are."
Wesley looked perplexed for a moment. "You don't think they're really
worried?"
Dawn shook her head. "No, because they only think they love me. They
wouldn't give a damn if the stupid monks hadn't implanted love in
their hearts. They love me only because of that."
Wesley shook his head. "Dawn, you must know that is not true."
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's not," Wesley said, his voice on edge. "I know what it's
like - " he caught himself and tried a new way of getting through to
her. "Many people are truly unloved and abandoned. You are not one of
them. Your sister loves you, everyone loves you. Tara loved you."
The mention of Tara's name struck something within Dawn, Wesley could
tell. "Tara loved me. Because of me? Not because of monks?"
"Tara loved you because you are a bright and beautiful young lady."
"Beautiful?" Dawn asked, cocking her eyebrow. Apparently he had made
her feel better, at least.
Wesley lowered his head, a slight smile on his face. The smile felt
out of place, but not altogether unpleasent. "You know you are
beautiful, not like anyone needs to tell you."
"After we eat, will you take me home?" Dawn asked softly.
"Of course," Wesley said without any hesitantion. "It's where you
belong."
Dawn nodded. "It is, isn't it?" On pure impulse, she hugged Wesley,
and he was stiff for a moment, but then wrapped his arms around the
teenager. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome."
On the way out of his apartment building, they ran into Lilah in the
hall. Before she could get out the first syllable of Wesley's name,
he brushed past her, acting like she wasn't even there.
Scars. They both have them. Some from their past, some from their
present, but maybe, just maybe, they won't have any in their future.
THE END
AUTHOR: Amberina
RATING: R for language, self-mutilation and references to child abuse
PAIRING: Dawn/Wesley friendship
SPOILERS: S6/S3
SUMMARY: Wesley and Dawn have scars.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never was, never will be (probably.)
FEEDBACK: Oh, man. Please?
ARCHIVING: Shippers United, UCSL, Aurora, Summers Sun, Wesleyan Aria. Anyone else, please
ask first.
SCARS
By Amberina
Mental scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Dawn isn't real. She's a real mess, sure. But real? Nope, not Dawn.
Reality isn't something she's very familiar with, anyway. She likes
to close her eyes sometimes, and just imagine what it must have been
like to be swirling energy. She pictures herself mingling with the
stars against a backdrop of cold blackness. It chills her to the bone.
She killed her sister. Love for her killed her sister. Not real love
either, false love. Love implanted in her heart. Fake love. Not real.
Not real. Buffy died for what? So Dawn could live? Dawn never really
lived, just existed. Buffy came back. But she was cold, distant, and
Dawn felt like killing her again, so she could go back to heaven and
stop fucking Spike. Dawn wasn't worried about hell. She'd probably
just turn back into mystical energy when she died anyway.
But she didn't kill her, because when it all came down to it, Dawn
wasn't a murderer. Not even if the world would be better, or if Buffy
would be happier. She couldn't even bring herself to take her own
life. Coward, she called herself, whenever she'd look in the mirror.
Stupid, evil coward. Dawn wished she could just go away, disappear
into oblivion. She wished these people didn't have the false love
implanted in their hearts, so if she did go away, they wouldn't stop
her. They wouldn't try to get her help. They didn't really care, they
just thought they did.
****
Mental scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Wesley's a loser. He always has been. His father would tell him so,
and Daddy knows best, right? Daddy would tell him how horrible he
was, how bad. If he told anyone about what he did to him at night,
they would think he was lying. No one would possibly believe Wesley,
right? 'Not a bloody word out of Wesley's mouth is true,' his father
used to caution family friends. 'Don't believe a thing that little
bugger says.' Of course, when it came down to it, they believed
Edward Wyndham-Price, head of the Watchers' Council and all-around
model citizen. Wesley knew this from expeirince.
Wesley was asking for it, after all. If he wasn't so bad, then Daddy
wouldn't have to do that to him. That's what his father would say. If
he didn't get smart with him, he wouldn't have to do it. If he would
just stop watching the blasted television for long enough to do his
homework, he wouldn't have to do it. Wesley was asking for it. If
only he hadn't let it slip to his headmaster what his father liked to
do, Daddy wouldn't have had lock him in the cupboard under the
stairwell. Wesley was asking for it.
Of course, his headmaster hadn't believed him anyway, and by the time
he was thirteen, he went off to boarding school, and he only had to
suffer for his shortcomings on holidays. Wesley dreaded the holidays.
****
Physical scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Dawn has a long scar across her back, from where Doc sliced her open.
Sometimes she'll close her eyes and imagine herself back up there,
imagine that the knife is there again. Sometimes, just sometimes, but
sometimes nonetheless, she feels the cold metal of the knife scrap
her skin, feels the cool breeze tickle the back of her neck, feels
the warm, thick blood drip down her back.
Dawn has scars all over her arms. Short ones, long ones, light scars,
and deep ones. All are from her self-inflicted pain. Only one spot on
her arm is clear from any scars - her wrist. She can't bring herself
to let the knife touch that virgin skin. She's not sure why she does
it, she just knows that afterwards, she feels better. It's her
penance for destroying her sister's life, for destroying the lives of
everyone around her.
****
Physical scars. They both have them. From their past, from their
present, some even from their future.
Wesley has a long scar across his neck, from where Justine slit his
throat. Sometimes, usually when he has been drinking, he'll trace the
scar lightly with his own knife. Not hard enough to break the skin,
but oh-so lightly. It reminds him of his father. Because he had been
right. Wesley had fucked up once again, and he always had the scars
to remind him.
He had many other scars, as well. They riddled his body. Some were
from battle, some were from his father, some he had no idea where he
got them. He had burns on his inner thighs. He didn't like to think
about how he got those.
****
Wesley held Dawn as she cried, big sobs that shook her lithe body. He
softly stroked her hair as she burried her head on his shoulder.
"Dawn . . . " he began and let himself drift off. He wasn't quite in
the right state of mind to try to comfort the sobbing teenager. So he
just held her.
Every once in a while, she would babble something about Tara, death,
and loss, but he could only make out every other word.
Dawn had ran away when Tara got shot, that much he knew, but he
didn't know if anyone at all knew where she was or why in the world
she would come to him. All he knew was she was so small and
vulnerable in his arms, and she needed him for some reason. She
needed him. He didn't have a clue as to why, but that didn't reallt
matter.
Soon her tears ran dry and she looked up at him with wide, bloodshot
eyes. "What's that from?" she asked, running her finger across the
scar on his neck. As she did so, the sleeve to her shirt came up, and
he caught sight of her arms.
"My God," he gasped, studying the scars.
Dawn quickly pulled her sleeve down. "It's nothing."
Wesley looked down, not sure what to say.
Dawn sighed and stood up. "I'll go home tomorrow. Just please, can I
stay tonight?"
Wesley nodded his head slightly. "Are you hungry?"
Dawn shook her head. She knew she should probably be hungry, as she
hadn't ate enything since . . . well, she couldn't actually remember
when her last meal was. "Not really. But I should probably eat."
"May I ask you a question, Dawn?" Wesley asked, his eyes studying
Dawn's. When she nodded, he continued. "Why did you come to me?"
Dawn sighed. "Because I thought you would be able to understand me.
You seem very understanding. And you were really nice to me at
Buffy's funeral, so I figured it would be best to go to you. Are you
going to call Buffy or Giles? Because I know they're probably
worried. They aren't really, but they think they are."
Wesley looked perplexed for a moment. "You don't think they're really
worried?"
Dawn shook her head. "No, because they only think they love me. They
wouldn't give a damn if the stupid monks hadn't implanted love in
their hearts. They love me only because of that."
Wesley shook his head. "Dawn, you must know that is not true."
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's not," Wesley said, his voice on edge. "I know what it's
like - " he caught himself and tried a new way of getting through to
her. "Many people are truly unloved and abandoned. You are not one of
them. Your sister loves you, everyone loves you. Tara loved you."
The mention of Tara's name struck something within Dawn, Wesley could
tell. "Tara loved me. Because of me? Not because of monks?"
"Tara loved you because you are a bright and beautiful young lady."
"Beautiful?" Dawn asked, cocking her eyebrow. Apparently he had made
her feel better, at least.
Wesley lowered his head, a slight smile on his face. The smile felt
out of place, but not altogether unpleasent. "You know you are
beautiful, not like anyone needs to tell you."
"After we eat, will you take me home?" Dawn asked softly.
"Of course," Wesley said without any hesitantion. "It's where you
belong."
Dawn nodded. "It is, isn't it?" On pure impulse, she hugged Wesley,
and he was stiff for a moment, but then wrapped his arms around the
teenager. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome."
On the way out of his apartment building, they ran into Lilah in the
hall. Before she could get out the first syllable of Wesley's name,
he brushed past her, acting like she wasn't even there.
Scars. They both have them. Some from their past, some from their
present, but maybe, just maybe, they won't have any in their future.
THE END