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Fic: Love and Blackmail
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good__evil 's Art-a-thon and is inspired by the absolutely gorgeous banner by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
ducktheduck . It's kinda fanon and less angsty than my usual stuff, and even though the plot is sheer Spuffy, Dawn's the hero here. Maybe I have a weakness for her because I have a little sister that I would be willing to die for like Buffy did for Dawn. Maybe because I can so easily understand how frustrating it is to be treated as though you're much younger than you are (just watch the show. The Scoobies treat her like she's 8. She's fourteen during S5! It's angers me the way they treat her!). Maybe I've just gotten so annoyed at having to defend her (she really is the single reason S5--in my opinion the best season, even if it isn't necessarily my favorite--works so well) that I've gotten to the point that I just adore her. Either way, she's such fun to write, and I loved giving her her first starring role.
I'd love to bounce a few ideas for the next parts off of someone if anyone would like to volunteer by sending me a PM. And of course, I welcome all thoughts on the story so far.
Title: Love and Blackmail
Fandom: Buffyverse
Written for:
good__evil Art-a-thonRating: PG-13
Timeline: post-"Not Fade Away"
Characters/Pairings: Dawn, Buffy/Spike, Andrew, the Immortal, OC Slayer
Warnings: Dawn worship. You heard me.
Installment: One of a probable three.
A/N: Title and summary quote come from "The Pomegranate" by Eavan Boland, one of my favorite poets.
Summary: "Love and blackmail are the gist of it." Dawn knows exactly what her sister needs in order to move on after Sunnydale--and exactly how to make it happen.
“Nothing gets past you, Little Bit,” Spike used to say admiringly back in their good times before Buffy came back from the dead (and she’s more than aware of how messed up it is that the best times she had with Spike were the time they were both in hell). Of course, there were also times when he said it in annoyance when she caught him in the middle of an action of questionable morality, but even then, his affection for her shone through the words. She likes to think about that now, about the good times, spending almost as much time as her sister reliving the happier (or at least more crowded) times back in Sunnydale (with Spike, with Tara, with Anya. With Mom).
Unlike Buffy, however, Dawn knows how to keep living without veering between staying curled up in bed fantasizing about the past and going on manic shopping/dancing/dating sprees. Dawn still pays attention to the moment, and that perceptiveness that Spike so praised hasn’t abandoned her at all (although it’s pretty much the only thing that came out of Sunnydale alive, so there you go).
Which is why, when Andrew gets back from his mission to
Buffy doesn’t notice, of course. She doesn’t notice much of anything at all, between wallowing in bed with a pint of gelato and being squired around town by the Immortal, though every week or so she’ll remember that she’s neglecting her little sister and shower Dawn with attention for a day or two. At fourteen, this pattern would have infuriated Dawn; she would have been certain that the “sister bonding times” were only prompted by guilt. But she doesn’t think that anymore. Buffy’s just mourning, and even if she’s doing it in ways Dawn doesn’t relate to, at least she has the chance. Buffy’s never had time to mourn before.
And honestly, Dawn is a bit relieved that her sister has become so unobservant, because it means that she can grill Andrew herself and then take care of things. She needs a new project. She’s getting soft (although that could just be the massive amounts of pesto and biscotti she’s been consuming. She loves Italian food).
So after twelve days of Andrew squeaking with nervousness and lying outright whenever Dawn asks him about his trip to L.A. (she can tell by the way his eyes go all shifty and his fingers twitch, not to mention the more frequent mentions of the Green Lantern and Captain Kirk), she decides the time has come to take extreme action.
Three minutes of dangling his signed copy of Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing over the paper shredder and Andrew starts to sweat. Thirty seconds of holding his Boba Fetta action figure over the toilet with a threat of flushing and he starts to babble. The mere suggestion of destroying his Doctor Who VHS collection and the whole story comes out.
Dawn cries.
And then she gets mad.
And then?
She starts to plan.
--
Things don’t go as smoothly (read: quickly) as she hoped. For one thing, she knows she has to get the Immortal out of the way first, and that’s going to take some doing.
Dawn had taken one look at the “man” who called himself the Immortal and known that she’d found her nemesis. She stood there with him in the living room of the apartment (comfy-cozy in size when it had been just her and Buffy; far, far too small now that Andrew’s moved in, too) while Buffy bustled around in her room fixing her makeup and changing shoes for the sixth time, and she turned the full force of the Dawn Summers Glare on him.
Sure, he was good-looking, all dark hair and well-cut suit and just enough cologne. But Dawn smiled smugly because she knew that Buffy still cried over bleached-blond helmet hair, black t-shirts, and that cool nearly earthy aroma only the undead possess (besides, Spike had a smile that made his eyes crinkle, and even through the long months when she clung to her bitterness at what happened in the bathroom between him and her sister, she gloried in the fact that she knew she was the person who’d seen him smile—really, genuinely smile—the most. So she has nothing but disdain for the Immortal’s plastic charm).
Dawn crossed her arms and lifted a brow. The Immortal didn’t stand a chance. Buffy would get a good dinner, a good dance, a goodnight kiss, but then she’d kick this poncey bastard to the curb (the Spike-in-her-head started ranting as soon as she first laid eyes on the guy, and her thoughts of him are always accompanied by British insults).
It doesn’t actually work out that way. Night after night, Buffy goes out to the best restaurants, best clubs, best performances and comes back reeking of cologne and cigarette smoke, and Dawn realizes that she might have to take overt action. The only reason she waits as long as she does is that the
But days turn into weeks, and Dawn gags every time she finds her sister and Mr. I-Use-Too-Many-Annoying-Italian-Pet-Name
There’s only so much she can take.
Time to put her plan into action.
--
She starts small. It’s always best to build your foundation carefully, after all. So she makes sure to always be there when the Arch-Nemesis arrives to pick up Buffy, and she makes sure to drop all sorts of hints about how horrific Buffy is to live with whenever her sister darts out of the room (“Say, did you know that Buffy gets really horrible morning breath? Totally true.” “Gee, I hope Buffy remembered to take a shower after she got back from training. You know how she is—she can be a little lax when it comes to personal hygiene.” “I can’t believe how long I had to wait in line at the pharmacy today. I was picking up Buffy’s prescription. Oh, you know: the one for the rash? Oh, she hasn’t mentioned it? Yeah, she tends to be a little hush-hush about it.”).
That doesn’t exactly work (he just smirks at her, like he knows exactly what she’s doing. Which, knowing him, he probably does). Not that she really expected it to. That was just to soften him up while she works on the real plan.
As Andrew reminds her, every superhero needs sidekicks if she’s ever going to defeat her Arch-Nemesis, so Dawn calls a meeting. Of course, the meeting consists of Andrew sprawled out on her floor flipping through a copy of SFX that he has shipped all the way here every month, Dawn herself sitting cross-legged on her bed painting her fingernails, and Lessie stretched out beside her idly braiding a lock of hair.
Andrew is prattling on about demons, of course. “….or I could summon a Crasdadon demon. Sure, the Immortal is a pretty great fighter and has all kinds of bodyguards and anyone in
“Yeah, Andrew, and how are you going to keep it from doing to
“Children,” Lessie says firmly, sitting up and tossing her curls out of her eyes. Lessie is really good at the hair-tossing thing. Men like it. They also like her dimples. And her thickly-lashed eyes. And her perfectly curvy figure. Alessandra Di Luca might be her (other, Andrew constantly reminds her) best friend, but sometimes Dawn really hates her. “This is why you should listen to the Slayer,” she says in her perfectly grammatical but gorgeously accented English. “You are making this far too complicated!”
Dawn rolls her eyes. “All right, your highness. You have a better idea?”
Andrew pipes up from his place on the floor. “Actually, Alessandra, I’m a Watcher and Dawn’s studying to be one. And Slayers are supposed to always listen to their Watchers. So you should listen to us.”
Lessie ignores him. It had taken Dawn a while to convince her that the Immortal wasn’t all he appears to be. Fortunately for Dawn, she quickly discovered that both Lessie and Andrew (who has a crush on the Immortal nearly as big as the one he had on Spike) had the same weakness: they love plotting. Nothing less could have gotten them to turn on the Immortal and his perfection, but the young Slayer and the former super-villain swore their assistance when Dawn made it clear that this was going to be very special-ops. Ever since, Lessie’s been almost as consumed by planning as Dawn herself.
“It’s very, very simple, Alba-mia,” Lessie says now. “Blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” Andrew squeaks, sounding both horrified and skeptical—and like he thinks a Godzilla-sized demon prowling around
“Blackmail,” Dawn echoes, drawing the word out, savoring it, flashing back to the thousands of times she held something over Buffy’s head: “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me borrow your new sweater.” “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me have the last of the double fudge ice cream.” “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me go with you.” Blackmail. The weapon of choice for little sisters everywhere. Dawn is very good at blackmail.
She bounces up onto her knees. “Lessie, you’re a genius!”
“I know,” Lessie giggles, instantly transforming from cool, sophisticated older girl to adorable, sweet companion. Yet another reason Dawn sometimes hates her: Lessie has mastered both personas, and Dawn has yet to manage either one. She still so often feels like the coltish, whining girl she knew everyone saw her as back in Sunnydale, crushing on older guys and having to be constantly rescued by her sister. She’s not sure she’s figured out who she really is yet, and it can be painful to be around someone who has. “Blackmail is always the answer,” the Slayer says, sweeping up the polish bottle before Dawn’s bouncing can knock it over and stain the bedspread.
“I thought love was always the answer,” Andrew points out, still looking dubious.
“Well, one or the other. Usually, they go hand in hand,” Lessie allows with a shrug.
But Dawn has quit bouncing because something has occurred to her. “But how can we get anything on him? Everyone loves him.”
“Exactly. Everyone loves him, and so when you want to talk about him, they will be happy to oblige.”
Dawn begins to grin again. “So just let them talk long enough and sooner or later someone is bound to say something incriminating.”
“We only have to talk to the right people,” Lessie nods with an evil little smile.
Dawn vaults off the bed, grabbing her bag as she heads toward the door, Lessie right on her heels.
“Guys, I don’t know that this is such a good idea,” Andrew whines from the floor. “I still think the demon plan is the best one. Guys?
“...Guys?”
--
Lessie was right. It really is that simple. Dawn has never been so glad that Giles gave her a Watcher’s Council I.D. card. Of course, he gave it to her so that she could study in the Vatican’s libraries—no one has as many rare, ancient, and priceless manuscripts, and as the world authority on exorcisms, many of them deal with demons—but he’d be surprised at how many other uses she’s found for it (of course, he’s never going to know. There are some things he doesn’t need to know for his own good).
Of course, then comes the boring part. Dawn, sometimes with Andrew beside her, more often joined by Lessie as soon as the young Slayer escapes from Buffy’s training sessions, informs her contact that the Council is considering bringing the Immortal into the fold and making use of his considerable talents. Seconds later, the person is raving.
Of course, that’s the challenge: staying awake long enough to separate anything useful from praise of the Immortal’s hair, his fashion sense, his cars, his shoes, his palace, his singing voice, his athletic prowess, his impeccable manners, his fighting abilities, his cologne, his choice of wine, his diplomatic skills, his mastery of languages, his eyes, his sense of humor—and, above all, his skills at lovemaking. That’s the thing that freaks Dawn out: every single one of them praise to the heavens his abilities in bed. I mean, I guess if you were immortal, she thinks as she listens to the thirty-third person launching into detail about just how attentive a lover the prat is, you’d have time to get around. But still! Every person? Maybe I should suggest to Buffy that she actually check for that rash I was lying about.
“I just don’t get why anyone would want to be with someone that perfect,” she complains to Lessie as they leave the office of one of the world’s most famous fashion designers, his voice drifting after them still extolling the Immortal’s style and relating the time he absolutely saved his fashion show from ruin. “I mean, wouldn’t that make you feel horribly, horribly incompetent? Especially Buffy. She’s a mess! I always thought that’s why she ended up with Spike, anyway. He’s the only one who could make her look like she had it together.”
Lessie shrugs. “I suppose that if someone who is perfect desires you, that implies that you are worth something, no?”
“I guess. But still. He’s got that too charming to be real thing going on.”
“Still, it makes people eager to talk about him. We can be thankful for that, at least.”
And it’s true. Because slowly but surely, she’s building a list of ammunition. She keeps it on an Excel document on Andrew’s Mac, protected behind six different passwords (Buffy would rather face down another hell-god than take a look at Andrew’s computer—and Dawn doesn’t blame her for being terrified of what she’d find there—but the passwords make her feel more secure, not to mention more Bond-like. And yeah, she guesses that makes Andrew Q), and with each addition added, she can feel herself closer to her goal: Buffy’s happiness.
Most of the informants (as Andrew insists on calling them) don’t even notice they’ve said anything questionable, so Dawn just listens for a few more minutes, nodding and uh-huhing until she can slip out and go chase down whatever hints they’ve given her. The few who do realize they’ve slipped up always look either horrified or penitent and Dawn magnanimously swears herself to secrecy, assuring them that of course she wouldn’t dream of telling anyone about anything so delicate.
Dawn, like all little sisters, is a very good liar.
--
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m brilliant.”
“Whatever, Lessie. You may have come up with the idea, but I’m the one who executed it.”
“And I provided invaluable technical support!”
“Be quiet, little boy. Alba-mia, you know you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with the Ambassador if it were not for me flirting with him, and his little tidbit is one of the juiciest we found.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you over this. When I said, ‘What do you think?’ what I meant was, ‘Are we ready?’.”
“Definitely.”
“Dawn, I still don’t think trying to blackmail the Immortal is such a good idea. He’s like Bond and Han Solo combined! If Han Solo were a Jedi.”
“Andrew, get over it. We’re ready. And I’m going to do this thing tonight. The Immortal’s gonna be history. And then it’ll only be a few short days till Buffy’s smiling again—smiling like she means it.”
“Can we have code names?”
--
It had been surprisingly easy to get Buffy out of the apartment. Dawn had relented and let Andrew summon one of his demons—but a smaller one, a Fyarl—and Dawn had given an Oscar-worthy performance as “terrified little sister.” Buffy had held out for a while, reminding Dawn that she had a date and that there were other Slayers to take care of these things now. But Dawn had done the half-flattery, half-guilt trip performance she’s so very, very good at, and her sister had caved.
However, things had almost gone pear-shaped, as Spike would have said (she’s never understood that phrase and always meant to get around to asking him about it, but she never had the chance) when Buffy had picked up her cell phone to call the Immortal and cancel the date.
“No!” Dawn had winced at the vehemence in her voice. Swallowing and speaking nonchalantly, she continued. “I mean, he’s probably already left by now. You run out and take care of this, and when he gets here, I’ll let him know that you’re running a bit late. Then you can get a quick shower when you get back, and you’ll still have time to go out dancing, okay?”
With a huff, Buffy agreed and raced out the door, grabbing her scythe as she went and admonishing Dawn to Be nice before disappearing, leaving Dawn to pace frantically.
Buffy hasn’t been gone fifteen minutes when Dawn hears a knock on the door (and, God, how annoying is it that he even knocks perfectly?). She forces herself to walk over to it, her hands sweaty, her heart thumping in her chest. This is for Buffy, she reminds herself for the thousandth time. So she’ll mean it when she smiles. So she’ll be able to find some peace again. So she’ll be happy. If she can die for you, you can take down the Immortal for her. With a deep breath, she opens the door.
And instantly, all her nervousness is gone, evaporating at the sight of the Immortal’s annoyingoverdoneembellished perfection. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit, teeth too white, face too gorgeous, accent too sexy when he greets her. He looks more plastic than the Buffybot ever dreamed of being, and not for the first time, Dawn wonders why no one else seems to be able to see it.
She feels a smile—an evil smirk Spike would be proud of—spread across her face as confidence thrums through her. Oh, yeah. This wanker is going down.
“Hey. Come on in,” she waves her hand magnanimously, gesturing him into the sitting area. “I’m afraid Buffy’s going to be a bit late. Slayer business, and all that. You know how it is.”
“Well, carina, I can step out, attend to some business while I wait for your lovely sister—“
“Oh, no need. I actually had a few questions for you, if that’s cool with you.”
The Immortal settles himself on the coach like he’s posing for a painting, and she can’t help but compare his posture to Spike’s boneless sprawl. She sits down across from him, crossing her legs, picking up a folder from the table and lounging comfortably as she flips through the papers inside. The Immortal arches an eyebrow, and Dawn feels powerful.
“Of course, carina. Anything for the sister of my beloved Buffy.” God, she hates the way he says her sister’s name, making it sound foreign and ridiculous (the one time Buffy has mentioned Spike since Sunnydale she said that she missed the way he always said her name like it was the most gorgeous word in any language, like it was a prayer, like it was worship. Dawn never actually heard him say it that way, but she’s pretty impressed that anyone could make a name as ridiculous as her sister’s sound that way. Yet another reason Buffy needs Spike back instead of this git).
“Fabulous. You know I’m a scholar, and I always want to learn everything that I can. So let’s start with something simple, all right?”
“Of course, carina.”
Dawn pins him with a look. “Just why didn’t you tell Buffy that Angel and Spike were in town? Considering that she thinks Spike is dead and that she still gets all worked up whenever Angel’s mentioned, I would have thought she would have been interested in that information.”
The Immortal merely looks amused, but that’s alright. This is just her opening salvo, to let him know she’s on to him. The juicy stuff comes later. “Now, carina, what benefit would it have been to your sister to know such things? Those little boys are part of her past. She has moved on and has no need for them holding her back any longer. Why shouldn’t I allow her to continue to be as happy as she is now?”
You’ve never seen Buffy happy, bastard. “Yeah, well, that’s not what I really wanted to ask you.”
“No?”
“No.” She leans forward, handing him the folder. “One of the most valuable things you learn living on a Hellmouth is to keep your eyes open.” He takes the folder from her and flips it open. “You never know when someone seemingly innocuous is going to turn out to be incredibly…evil. And that’s one lesson I’ve learned very, very well.”
She settles back in the chair, lazily playing with a lock of hair and smirking as he flips through the pages she’s assembled. She’s never felt so confident, so absolutely certain that everything will unfold exactly as she planned it. It feels good.
The Immortal finally raises his too-beautiful eyes to hers. They still contain amusement, but there’s a hint of respect there now that was never there before, as well as a glint of something she can’t name because no one has ever directed it at her before. “What is this, bella?”
“That,” she says, straightening a bit, “is all the dirt I could find on you. Of course, that’s only over the last thirty years or so. I’m sure I could find some more if I looked back far enough. After all, you’ve been in
“Well.” He sets the folder aside, steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and smirks back. “You’ve certainly got me in a corner, haven’t you, bella? What is it that you want?”
Bingo. She rises, moving to pace around the room, not in nervousness this time, but in giddy victory. “I want you to break things off with Buffy. Tonight. I want you to do it gently and kindly. Maybe buy her a pretty piece of jewelry or something. Tell her she’s wonderful and that’s she’s far out of your league.” He looks a bit taken aback by that demand, but she continues. “And then I never want you to see her again. Never contact her. If you hear of some threat or some sort of stirring evil that requires a Slayer’s attention, you get in touch with either me or Rupert Giles. And in a couple of weeks’ time when you hear that Buffy is back with William the Bloody, you aren’t to do a thing about it. As a matter of fact, leave Spike alone.” Then, a bit more grudgingly, “Angel, too. I want you out of all of our lives, got it?”
After a stretch of silence, he rises perfectly gracefully, studying her solemnly for a moment.
“Well? Any questions, or have I made myself clear?”
And then a smile breaks across his face. But it isn’t the kind that she’s used to: synthetic and annoying. No, this is a real, genuine smile of absolute delight, and it shakes her a bit. For a moment, she can almost understand what it is everyone sees in him. “
Huh? He’s supposed to be storming out, yelling at her, or sorrowfully admitting defeat, not taking her hand in his and dropping a sensual kiss on her palm. Ugh! But she doesn’t jerk her hand back.
“And you know, bella? I do not even mind losing. Or giving up your sister, as delightful as she is. Not now that you have defeated me so absolutely. I prostrate myself before your lovely feet and admit my surrender.” He drops to one knee and kisses her hand again, then releases it. She stares at him, slightly dazed, as he rises.
“I will wait for your sister below and follow every word of your instruction, my little Minerva, my Diana.” He pauses when he reaches the door and turns again to face her, that real smile stretching across his face. “But in a year or two, my Venus, when you have grown up a bit….” He trails off suggestively, letting his eyes rove appreciatively over her body. She gapes at him as he continues. “And in the interval, should you ever need any assistance, should I ever be able to provide anything of benefit to you, merely get in touch with me, and I will ensure that you receive what you want if it is within my power. Anything you want.” He winks at her. “Ever.”
Then, with a Goodnight, bella, he steps out and closes the door behind him.
Dawn collapses into her chair. Yeah, she got what she wanted all right, so why does she feel so confused?
--
Later, Dawn is jarred out of deep thoughts by the sound of her door opening and shutting, a shadow slipping into the room. She hasn’t been able to sleep a wink. She’d paced some more after the Immortal left, then made some cannoli she hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to eat, flipped through every channel on the TV, picked up a half dozen books and magazines, only to toss them aside. She’d leapt to her feet again when Buffy returned home, but her sister’s reaction was a little anticlimactic.
“Well, Dawnie,” she said with a little sigh, “you’ll be glad to know you won’t be seeing him again.” She rested her scythe against the wall by the door and shook her head when Dawn opened her mouth to protest. “You don’t have to lie, Dawn. I know you never liked him. But it’s over now, and I doubt he’ll come around. He made it seem pretty final. Now, if you want to go to that new exhibition tomorrow, you’d better head to bed.”
And Dawn had done so, though she hasn’t been able to relax enough to come anywhere close to sleep. There are too many emotions rushing through her: relief that Buffy seemed to take the breakup in stride. Jubilation at having pulled off her plan so smoothly. And a lot of confusion at the Immortal’s reaction to it.
But she doesn’t like to think about that last, so she’d turned her thoughts back towards planning the next stage of what Andrew has taken to calling Mission: True Love (yeah, he’s every bit that cheesy. He even has a theme song to accompany it: the song at the end of The Princess Bride. He’s taken to humming it whenever Buffy is in the room, and the Slayer has threatened to kill him more than once if he doesn’t shut up). Yeah, things have gone great so far, but the next phase of the plan will involve a number of people who are known to throw off every plan involving them.
But she shoves those thoughts aside, too, as the shadowy figure makes its way over to the bed and settles on the edge.
“Move over,” Buffy whispers in a watery voice, and Dawn does, allowing her sister to climb under the covers beside her.
“Buffy? What’s wrong?”
Sniff. “Nothing.”
But Buffy’s laid her head on Dawn’s shoulder, and the younger Summers woman can feel tears soaking through the fabric of her t-shirt.
“Buffy…”
“It isn’t supposed to hurt this much!” And then she’s really crying, her face buried in Dawn’s shoulder, and Dawn is overcome with a sudden rush of panic. She wraps her arm around her sister, pulling her close.
And it’s at that moment that she first starts to feel guilty.
It hadn’t even occurred to her that Buffy might actually feel the loss of the Immortal. After all, it was clear to anyone that she was using him as the rebound guy, as a distraction from remembering that her whole hometown, her whole way of life, her lover and the graves of her friends and family were swallowed up in just a few moments’ time. Surely she couldn’t take any guy who wore that cologne and smiled that charmingly and called himself the Immortal seriously…could she? (A memory of his real smile flashes through Dawn’s mind, but she rejects it violently.) She’d thought that Buffy might be upset about yet another relationship ending—Dawn’s heard her lament that she can’t keep a man often enough—but after her reaction when she got home, Dawn had thought she was in the clear.
“I miss him so much!” Dawn’s shirt sleeve is soaked through.
She scrambles for a way to explain. The last thing she ever meant to do was to cause her sister more pain. This wasn’t supposed to happen… “Buffy, I didn’t mean to—“
“He was always there. And I told him to go so many times—and sometimes I even meant it—but he always stayed.” The Slayer breaks down in tears again, and now Dawn is almost lightheaded and dizzy with relief, the feeling of it spreading warm through her, because she knows now that Buffy isn’t talking about the Immortal at all. She’s finally, finally talking about right guy, finally thinking about the right guy. Took her long enough.
“I counted on that, you know? I couldn’t count on things that other people could, like the sun coming up or the sky being blue, because in my world, the laws of nature could change in a moment. But I could count on an apocalypse every spring, something crazy happening on Tuesday, and him being there.”
Dawn rests her cheek against the top of Buffy’s head. “I know.”
“I keep expecting to see him. To have him stroll up while I’m patrolling and start snarking about my technique or to find him outside waiting for me when I leave at night or for him to butt in in the middle of a Scooby meeting, and he just doesn’t. And I feel so lost. Like I don’t know which way is up anymore.”
“I know.” She runs her fingers through her sister’s hair in that soothing way that Mom used to.
“And now I don’t even have someone to distract me! Now I’m going to have to feel this hole in me all the time! Dawn, what am I going to do?”
Dawn’s always been the more pragmatic of the Summers sisters. Might as well keep the reputation, right? “Well, I was thinking about
Buffy sniffs, but her sobs have died down. “I guess.”
“We can go shopping there—you’ve just about conquered everywhere in
“I can finally throw out that stupid English-Italian dictionary,” Buffy agrees with a watery, shuddering laugh. “All right. I’ll book us a flight when we get up in the morning. Two tickets to
“Uh…four?”
“What?”
“Can we get four?”
“Dawn,” Buffy says warningly. “You better not be about to say what I think you’re going to say.”
“But we can’t leave him alone without supervision! Andrew has to come with us! And Lessie was telling me just the other day that she wants to see more of the world. We can enroll her at the Slayer school as soon as we get there. Please, Buffy?”
“Fine,” Buffy says with a sigh. “But I’m getting my ticket at the front of the plane and putting Andrew all the way in the back. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Then they lapse into silence and, snuggled up to her sister, she finally relaxes enough to drift toward sleep. She’s smiling as she does.
The first phase of her plan? Complete. Now. On to the next one.
TBC
no subject
(I have a policy against reading WIPs - thus the lateness. But this was worth the wait.)
This line was great:
But I could count on an apocalypse every spring, something crazy happening on Tuesday, and him being there.
:)
(...and I'll get to the rest of it shortly.)
no subject
(I have a policy against reading WIPs - thus the lateness. But this was worth the wait.) I have a similar policy--mostly. So I totally understand.
Again, you picked out one of my favorite lines. Thanks so much!