Dawn knows something about death.
You don't grow up (or remember growing up) with The Slayer as your big sister and not become somewhat acquainted with it, no matter how hard everyone tries to shield you from the worst parts. It's commonplace here, something that comes with the good-versus-evil territory that defines their lives. Win some, lose some, accept the casualties, move on. Because when you deal in Life and Death, as Buffy does by calling and as the rest of them do by association, there is a casualness about it. There has to be, or they might just decide that the fight isn't worth the pain. And where would that leave a world so naively dependent on their efforts?
For most of her life death had played by their rules. It took the ones Buffy wasn't quick enough to save, or the ones she never even knew needed saving. Or the ones who messed up, made stupid decisions like walking in graveyards alone at night (and oh the shit Dawn had taken from Spike on those occasions when she'd gotten caught doing the same).
But, you see, they knew better, Buffy and her band of pseudo-warriors. They knew how to live in Sunnydale, and because of this inside knowledge and because they were heroes of a sort, they were untouchable. Or so Dawn had thought … until Mom. (Mom … had an accident. Or, um … something went wrong. From the tumor…)
Still, they would have lost her anyway, anywhere; it was a horror that, for once, no one could blame on the Hellmouth. Xander had tried and failed to follow that line of illogic. The rest of them took it for what it was: tragedy. Unavoidable, despite Buffy's self-flagellation and Dawn's childish but ingrained blame-Buffy default when something goes wrong because she's Buffy.
Even before her knees buckle and spill her heavily to the floor next to (not Tara, NOT Tara, it can't be her because she's the best one of us) the limp form of her friend, she's screaming Buffy's name. Her high-pitched, ragged shouts are edged with hysteria, and she knows it and the sound ratchets up the panic even more. She clings to it, because fear eclipses grief, and the former she knows well, can handle okay, when she has to.
But maybe … maybe there's no need for grief. Maybe she's just hurt, and what the hell is Dawn doing wasting precious time when she might still be able to do something? She reaches for Tara's shoulder, presses her fingertips against the blue fabric of her sweater. Soft. Like Tara. (Soft voice, soft eyes, soft words, soft essence, that is Tara and that's why she has to stay with us, because everything else is too damned hard…)
Steeling herself, Dawn applies a little pressure, thinking that if she can just roll her the rest of the way over, maybe stop the bleeding? …that all is not lost. So she presses a little on Tara's shoulder, and there is some give but she's so cold. And Dawn's been here before, too.
(Where'd she go?)
A child's question without an answer. She can't stop the bleeding because there is no bleeding, anymore. She's too late.
When she takes her hand away Tara's shoulder rolls to the side again, and a curtain of hair falls down over her face. Dawn gasps, a little hitch of breath that sounds like a sob, but she can't cry yet because … it can't be over.
Gotta keep the fear. Hang on to it. It's all you got.
A breeze whispers against her skin and she glances up at the window. The broken window. She doesn't want to put the puzzle together, so she doesn't even try.
She suddenly, desperately, wants Spike. He would sweep in and take the situation in hand, fix Tara because he can fix anything, call Dawn by an endless assortment of nicknames that she always pretends to find tiresome, maybe tell her she'd been bloody brave, a compliment that, considering the source, would be something to cherish for all time.
It's praise he'd bestowed once, soon after they lost Buffy. Dawn had flung herself through the door of his crypt in hysterics, having just narrowly escaped becoming a midnight snack for one of Sunnydale's Walking Dead. Without a word, he'd steered her over to his tattered comfy chair, parked her there, and stalked out into the cemetery. When he returned five minutes later, he was dusting his hands off and swearing furiously at her in almost unintelligible British.
"I had to get out of there," she'd said quietly when he seemed to be running out of steam and she was fairly certain he wasn't going to make good on any of the awe-inspiring threats he'd delivered. "They look at me like—" She'd paused, glancing up at him, relieved to see that his blue eyes had softened considerably and that his head was tilted slightly, which meant he was listening, the way he does. "You don't look at me the way they do."
"I don't see you the way they do."
"What does that mean?"
"They look at you and they see her. Don't do that, 's not your fault, Bit. But it's not that way with you and me, right? Never will be."
Dawn had frowned, not sure she understood what he was getting at. "Because I'll never be her."
"Stop that. Not what I meant and you know better."
Ignoring him, Dawn continued. "You all got stuck with the consolation prize. Some prize, huh? She was the hero, Spike. I— I could have fixed this, prevented it, but I was too afraid up there on that tower. I waited too long. I kept hanging on hoping someone would save me instead of just doing what had to be done. Buffy is dead because I'm so weak."
He had taken Dawn by the arm, drawing her up out of the chair. Placing a finger under her chin, he forced her face up until she met his eyes. "Bollocks," he said. "Takes more than a bit of courage to keep playing with the hand you've been dealt."
When she rolled her eyes and tried to look away, he gave her a firm little shake. "Not saying this for the warm fuzzies, Bit. You listen. Bloody brave you are, sweetheart. Buffy'd be proud. I am." Probably to curb the tears that had suddenly sprung up in Dawn's eyes, he went on in a louder, harsher tone, "Bloody stupid, too, wandering around a graveyard in Sunnyhell all alone in the middle of the night. And if that happens again it's me you'll need to run from to save your scrawny ass … But yeah, you got guts, Niblet."
Guts.
She doesn't feel bloody brave now, kneeling next to Tara and fighting sobs that want to wrack her body. And it's daylight. Spike won't swoop in to save the day.
She backs up to the wall, eyes glued to Tara and heart pounding sickeningly against her ribs. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she waits for someone to come home.
