Three days after the world didn't end, I woke up screaming. When they asked me what the dream had been about, I lied and said I didn't remember. I'm sure they drew their own conclusions about that, and thought they were oh-so-subtle with their glances across the room like I was five years old, or just incurably clueless. Some things never change.
Spike wouldn't have done that. He didn't treat me like a kid, or a freak, or an outsider. I should have told him I noticed.
Someone handed me a glass of water. I gripped it so hard my fingers went white and I thought it might just shatter in my hand. There would be spurting blood and gasps—not sincere ones but obligatory ones, because no one among this group of jaded warriors would be really shocked, and some would even be relieved for a break in the tension. Xander would maybe make a weak and not-even-remotely-funny joke once he ascertained my general okayness, Willow would be softly concerned but still fall way short of the maternal comfort Tara could've offered, Buffy would snap into triage mode. And Angel, standing over there by the door, looking for all the world like he wanted to be anywhere else, would probably be all noble and tortured and leave the room so that I didn't start looking like—what was it Spike used to say?—a Happy Meal with legs.
I squeezed the glass even harder. Stop thinking about him. Stop.
"It's going to take some time," Buffy said soothingly, and I was surprised because there was this vulnerability in her voice that made me think she was talking about more than just almost getting killed and watching our Hellmouthy hometown collapse into nothing—as if it had meant nothing. But when I tried to catch her eyes she looked away too fast for me to be sure.
I nodded like I knew what she meant, even though maybe I didn't, or maybe she didn't. Even if she meant what I thought she might mean, she'd never admit it.
"Oh bloody hell, Bit, ever try makin' sense? Give me a headache talking like you do. All this 'she said that he said that he didn't want to take her to the buggering party' … Gonna put me in an early grave with that, you are."
"Early dustpan, you mean?"
"Ha bloody ha."
"Besides, I have never in my life used the word 'buggering.' I'm not even sure what it means."
"Prob'ly better that way. Now come on. Deal the buggering cards. And finish your story already. Did Janice the brainless wonder say she'd go out with this wanker, what's-his-name, Chris?"…
How much pressure would it take to shatter cheap hotel glass barehanded?
Breathe, Dawn. God, breathe! This is stupid, and pointless, and too late. And everyone is looking at you. So just stop.
Buffy suddenly reached over and pried the glass from my fingers. "Dawn, are you—"
Maybe she thought better of finishing that. Am I okay? Are you okay? Is anyone in this room okay, with the possible exception of Kennedy, standing there all possessively next to Willow, as if she belongs with us? She may be just hunky-dory. No one else is. Or should be.
I gave Buffy a look that came off as reproachful, even though I didn't really mean it that way. She blinked and looked away before I did, a guilty and unexpected reaction that kind of made me feel bad for her. But then, at the last second, I didn't. And then, I felt bad for not feeling bad for her. Spike was right. I should try making sense sometime. I flinched at the thought, and seriously? When your own thoughts make you flinch, it's time to stop thinking.
So I yawned and stretched and fake-smiled for all I was worth, even though it was kind of discordant under these circumstances, and I tossed out some not-so-subtle hints that all boiled down to "get out"—which, at the right volume at the right octave, generally does the trick of clearing the room if the hinting doesn't work. There was a ragged little murmur of hesitation, like they were all itching to go but not quite sure they should, but when Buffy turned and gave them a collective look of dismissal they went plenty fast enough. She stayed though, and there was that tension again, thick and heavy over us. And yeah, it had a name.
"You blame me, don't you?" she asked, making me look up from the lint I was plucking off my pajama top.
A little. I'm sorry, Buffy, it's just a little, but I do.
"Of course not." My voice came out harsher than I meant for it to.
She nodded in a way that made me sure she didn't even almost believe that.
"I do." She reached across me to set my resolutely unbroken water glass down on the night table. "I'm not even sure why."
My hand drifted toward hers, hovered awkwardly over it for a moment before landing back in my lap, where it resumed its search-and-destroy lint mission. "Well then give yourself a break. It's been hard. For everyone."
"It's been hard for everyone," she agreed. "It's the first time after winning that it feels more like—like losing. You know?"
My eyes locked to hers. It was close now. He was close. I didn't trust my voice to come out steady enough, so I kept quiet.
"All those girls … Anya … It doesn't seem fair, that we had to sacrifice so much just to …" She trailed off, smiling sadly at me as her hand moved up to smooth a lock of hair behind my ear. It was one of those Buffy things, a gesture of affection that reminded me sharply of Mom, and the hurt swelled up again and I had to look away.
"I don't want you to hate me, Dawn. I don't think I can— I mean, blame me if you need to, for whatever you need to. I've earned that, at least. But just … just don't hate me, okay? Dawnie?" The weakness in her voice rattled me.
Oh. Oh, no. This isn't what I wanted.
I knew I should probably hug her but I still wasn't ready for that, I was still clinging to the illusion of strength. Couldn't they let me have that, even?
"I don't hate you," I managed, and I could hear the razor edge in my voice, and I wanted to soften it some but I didn't really know how. "And I don't blame you. I just wish things could have been different. I wish you could have made it better. For him."
And there he was, appearing so matter-of-factly between us that the avoidance of the last few days seemed meaningless.
Buffy's eyes closed just for a second, and then she looked up and I saw that there were tears in them. They'd probably stay there, if I knew my sister, but the fact of their existence was something. Something.
"He loved you so much, Buffy."
She bit the corner of her lip and stared at me, and I could almost read her mind. Are you punishing me? What's the use, now that it's too late? Now that I couldn't make it better, even if I wanted to? Why are you trying to hurt me?
Because you hurt him, I might have said, but didn't. Instead, on impulse and with a stab of guilt, I reached out and stroked a lock of hair behind her ear. It was the closest I could come just then to apology, or acceptance.
I was right about her tears. They never did fall, at least in front of me. She tucked me in and told me to call if I needed her, reminding me that she was right across the hall. I assured her I was too tired to dream anymore that night, which was a lie, but a harmless one. She didn't tell me then what I learned later, about their final exchange, and I don't know if that knowledge would have made me feel better or worse, more or less bitter.
I had a feeling that we all lay awake for a long time, all in our respective beds, in these unfamiliar rooms. If I walked into Xander's room, I knew I'd find him sitting up, nursing a six-pack, a marked lack of good humor twinkling in his unpatched eye, and that alone would be unbearable. Next to a sleeping Kennedy, Willow would be staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend she didn't wish it was Tara beside her. A couple of doors down, Giles would be pouring another glass of whatever well-educated British men drink and listening to classic rock, probably dwelling on what he might have done differently, better, what course of action might have saved more lives, been more efficient or effective. And Buffy. Hopelessly awake, for probably the third night straight.
"I love you."
"No you don't. But thanks for sayin' it."
I wondered how long our ghosts would keep us company.
xXxXx
The End