"You have to take care of them, now. You have to take care of each other."
It was over. The Slayer had fulfilled what she considered her destiny: saving her sister and the world and sacrificing herself.
Seven people huddled around the supine form that lay sprawling on the pile of debris, their faces twisted into disbelieving masks of grief.
Tara supported her lover, Willow, as she reeled from her loss, her hands clawing and grappling desperately at Tara's clothes as the hot, thick tears coursed down her face.
Xander had scooped Anya up into his arms. He hadn't had a chance - what with the world almost ending and all - to look her over and see how badly she was injured. The innards of a building, blasted apart by a vengeful bolt of lightning, had fallen on her and he could see the smudges of dirt and blood on her face.
Giles clenched and unclenched his left hand, the thumb smoothing over into the palm, rubbing, as though he expected something to be there, but his eyes never left that frail form in the rubble. He'd crossed his own boundaries, broken many rules in the heat of the fight - not just the Council's, but God and man's as well, for good measure.
Dawn gripped the railing tightly, feeling the bits of rust and chips of paint biting into her palm. Every inch of her body hurt - the pain radiating from her heart and outward, encompassing those fastidiously careful, shallow cuts that Doc had inflicted upon her. The cuts that had opened the portal, the cuts that had ultimately killed her sister. Her legs were shaking so badly she thought that if she tried to make her way down the last few steps, she might fall. In the midst of debating her position, Dawn's body made the decision for her. She fainted, knees buckling out from underneath her, and fell back, slumping on the metal stairs, impossibly long chestnut hair fanning out beneath her, slipping into the space between the stairs to be caressed by the slight breeze in the air.
That sound pierced the silence, popped it like a rubber balloon. The sounds of dirt and grit shifting, settling - labored breaths and hitching gasps in between sobs. That sound caused Spike to lift his head, extricate himself from his own agony - physical as well as emotional - and seek out the origins of it. His ashen face was like a map - limned with blood and dirt, the vivid streaks of the former drew new, perpendicular boundaries to the fine bones of his face, the latter appearing in smudges, as if demarking new towns or cities.
Gathering himself up from the ground, Spike winced as his left leg nearly gave out underneath him. He knew he was hurt - a fall from 20 stories up would do anyone damage, but, depending on your living - or unliving - status, as the case may be, the injuries would differ in severity.
His own injuries forgotten, he limped over to the metal staircase at the foot of Glory's great tower. Spike couldn't help but find it mildly ironic; when they'd first arrived, the tower had seemed such an intimidating structure - it was nothing more than a tool to conjure the means to Glory's end - but now, it stood as a beacon of failure. Glory/Ben's failure to open the portal and escape to the hell dimension they so dearly missed, his own failure to stop Doc from hurting Dawn - opening those tiny cuts that started the deadly chain reaction - Dawn's failure to convince her sister to let her go, to do what she was meant to do as the Key.
Steadying himself, gripping the rail so tightly he swore he could hear his knuckles pop, Spike made his way up the stairs. It was slow going, seeing as he had to hop up onto each one using his good leg, but thankfully, the Nibblet had collapsed only a few steps away from the bottom.
He eased himself down on the step beside Dawn, the used and abandoned Key, with streaks of tears and dust marring her sweet face. What was she, now? Now that Glory's ritual had been stopped, now that her sister had gone in her place, staunching the flow of Summers blood and quieting that ravenous, swirling vortex that her own blood had opened up beneath her bare feet. Was she human? Or did her ancient, otherworldly incarnation remain?
The Watcher had said that Dawn, as the Key, would be 'poured' into the proper place at a certain time, thus unlocking and dispelling the fragile membranes that existed between the universes. In his mind, Spike reasoned that perhaps all that was the Key had been poured into that keyhole and nothing more of it remained, for the word 'pour' implied that, at some point, the flow would stop. Giles had said that the ritual would only end once that flow did cease - when Dawn had bled to death. Still, the flow had been stopped - not by Dawn, but still - she had served her purpose. Might some aspect of her other form have remained?
When Spike looked at her, he could only feel what he'd felt when he had always looked at her - she was a charming, bright, yet still frightfully young girl who had experienced a great deal of pain and loss in a very short time. Very much like her big sister, he realized grimly.
"C'mon, pet, let's get you up off these stairs. You'll ruin your pretty frock," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he slipped his arms beneath her body and gathered her up, holding her to him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain that roared to life in his left leg - for he could not carry her properly if he was hopping about on one leg - Spike turned slowly on the stairs and began to ease himself down them. He braced his elbow against the railing, using it to keep his balance.
"I'm tired, Spike." Dawn's whisper caused him to start and he looked down at the precious bundle in his arms, at the dirty face with large, liquid brown eyes gazing up at him. "I'm so tired."
And she did sound tired - and old, he thought. Physically 14-years-old, metaphysically six months gone, in actuality thousands of years old - and emotionally caught somewhere in between. At that moment, she seemed as old as time, itself.
"I know, pet," Spike replied, voice catching stubbornly in his throat as he concentrated on making it down to the last step and the solace of the solid ground just beyond.
The others had finally snapped out of their daze, or at least Giles had seemed to, and was striding over to the two of them, purpose plain in the set of his shoulders and jaw.
"Give her to me," Giles said as he approached, holding his arms open so that Spike could transfer his armful over to him.
"No," Spike shook his head, arms tightening around Dawn. He had to remind himself not to hold her too tightly - she was human and fragile and he could hurt her, even if he didn't mean to.
At the sound of Giles' voice, when his words finally registered with her, Dawn wrapped her arms around Spike's neck, whimpering like an injured animal, burying her face in his duster, her entire body wracked with involuntary tremors.
"No, Spike, please don't let me go," she pleaded, sounding as though she was on the verge of breaking down again.
"Wouldn't think of it, Nibblet," Spike assured her, hitching her up in his arms, firming his grip on her, to descend the last couple of steps. He looked up and met Giles' hard stare with one of his own.
"She's hurt and so are you," he sighed. "Stop being a selfish, stubborn nonce and give her to me."
"I said no," Spike growled as the soles of his boots finally touched the powdery earth. "I made a promise to Buffy and I bloody well intend to keep it."
"Be that as it may, Buffy's... she's... she's gone," Giles said, words coming out in a strained rush.
"Yeah... but I'm not," he said, eyes boring into Giles', flecks of gold flashing, revealing the depths of his upset. "You send Floppy Boy off, tell him to go get his car and bring it back here. We've gotta get the Bit to a hospital and I'm not lettin' her go until she's bein' wheeled away on one of them trolleys. Understand me?"
Giles opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated, troubled green eyes darting from the young girl huddled in Spike's arms to her sister, still lying perfectly still just a few feet away. A shaft of new sunlight had fallen on the spot, making her golden hair glisten - a devilish trick of the light, making there appear to be life where there no longer was.
The other children - even though they were no longer truly children, they would always be such, to him - were still frozen in place. They were all injured in some form or fashion and would have to be seen to by a professional - if, for no other reason, than to patch up the external hurts and make sure there was nothing seriously wrong with each of them.
He also knew that Spike would wait here all day, clutching Dawn in his arms, until the sun set and it was safe for him to venture out with his burden on his own.
"All right," Giles said finally, shoulders sagging but for a moment as he sighed. "At least let me help you."
Spike's keen blue eyes raked over his face for a moment, searching for any signs of deception. Finding none, he nodded.
"Yeah, all right," he said with a small, rueful quirk of his lips. "Could do with a hand." Their grudging acceptance of one another, their transient pact for truce now sealed.
Another sigh, this time of relief, from Giles as he came to stand by Spike's side, wrapping his left arm around Spike's waist. He leaned over and brushed a soft kiss to Dawn's forehead before placing his right hand on Spike's shoulder, steadying him.
Together, the three of them made their slow ways over to the others.