She crossed the lawn, winding between the tombstones with a deliberate series of footfalls she was sure looked silly. Not at all stealthy.
Not at all like a slayer. But there were wet patches, and mud puddles, and the monks had blessed her with abnormally large feet, she was sure of it.
She should've brought homework. That was what Buffy used to do.
But, ugh,
math.
One Dawn plus one cemetery does not produce the same results as if her sister were in her position, now, at her age, on a school night. Obvious. She did, didn't, and couldn't remember the more mums-the-word days when Buffy had to leap from her bedroom window just to have to do this. Back when Mom was more try-too-hard-y, and things were less Scooby-friendly. Back during the days of killer-prom-monkeys and Oh-My-God-my-sisters-undead-boyfriend-could-go-Ted-Bundee-at-any-time-Oh-the-hormones-and-tragedy. Back when Buffy actually kind've, sort've had a life.
Hers wasn't the same. She couldn't say she wasn't jealous, especially now.
Not that the first day back wasn't so bad, barring on the totally expected demon episode. Kit was cool, and Carlos. She'd never had trouble putting on the Summers charm and fitting in with cliques, and now the year was sarting to look survivable... but even the basement excursion didn't seem to dull the relentless normality she'd both successfully joined and steered clear of.
It did nothing to curb her new hands- on involvement with all things of the slaying variety. On nights Buffy deemed too slow, she'd taken to going out herself. After lights out.
As time went on her sister's preference for clandestine strolls among the buried seemed to make more sense . It was quiet. She could toss the sordid events of the past few years up like autumn leaves. She could step on them. She could make them powder.
Her sister is the Slayer. A warrior mushed into the mix of sunny California.
She was the Key. A primeval energy stretched and sized to fit a forced life.
She could never unlearn that. But on a day to day basis, under the sun, it was easy to forget.
Sometimes it made her think of Justin.
Occasionally it made her think of the Angel/Buffy-pisodes.
It even had her thinking of her mother and Dracula. (In a purely comparative sense, because ew and what?)
Preternatural butterflies.
What must that have been like for her, for three whole years? To love something so dangerous?
Dawn stopped.
She'd hadn't heard anything. She'd been here for all of 15 minutes: no dust action. It was more like a sudden paralysis. An awareness that she was being observed, and carefully.
Who's got the power, Dawn?
I've got the power. Now, if she were about to fight for her life, that freakin' song would be playing in her head the entire time. Dawn slid the stake from her jeans pocket and inhaled.
She pivoted, hard, swinging wide and deadly-if not to make contact, than to at least seem in control. Instead her ankle (why'd she worn worn heels? Why?) sank an inch into the mud, twisting her shin. She openly squealed, winced, and nearly caved inward if not for a firm grip having taken her wrist.
Through the fresh tears of stupid pain on her stupid face she saw milk white, some pink, and a narrow, intent pair of blue. She felt fine hair on her own forehead, and the tip of a cold nose make a bridge with hers. No breath, no smell.
"Ow," she stated. The eyes searched her. It, the shape, sighed.
"You shouldn't wear shoes like that on a hunt." Dawn felt the clutch release her slowly, each finger lessening hold in sequence, and she moved to lock her other leg for support.
Still, she couldn't help but hiccup a chuckle. "H-yeah? I'm not the one making with the Michael Myers sneak-attack cliche." Dawn wiped her eyes with her jacket sleeve. "Anyway, I was armed."
He scoffed. "There were others. I took care of them before you could notice. You're welcome."
Dawn twisted her face incredulously. He was in perfect view now. A boy, her age. Skinny, toned. All annoying smirk and-okay-gorgeous eyes. "So you're not.."
"I know what you're thinking. But don't worry, I don't bite."
She crossed her arms and locked her hip, signature Dawnie pursed lips. "But you skulk?"
The boy shifted, straightening to full heighth. "I'm looking for the Slayer." He sized her up down the length of his nose. "Looks like I had the wrong idea."
Dawn gaped her mouth and shut it furiously."I could so be the Slayer! Go ahead, rush me again." She visibly tensed her stance.
He paused. And then instead, he began to circle her, predatory. She could only whirl to stay square.
"What brings you out here with a stake anyway? You don't look like the type to seek out a fight." The grace with which he crossed his legs was starting to get to her. If not a vamp, still definitely not human. Something with serious defiance of balance.
"What do I look like?" She was starting to get dizzy.
He stopped. "Fragile."
Dawn set her jaw. "Then try me, she dared lowly.
To this he replaced his smirk with a smile. It was a very human, very boy-like grin. He dipped his head. It was too dark to tell, but she might've imagined a blush. When next he looked up, he peaked at her through long bangs.
"I'll be seeing you."
He took a few steps back, rubbing his hands together as if he'd just closed a deal.
The sapphire glint in his eyes was doing evil things to her blood stream.
"Who are you?"
"A friend."
Authors notes: I love that at one point both of Connor's parents have made that reply. That is all.