disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
-----
THE KEY

She heard Giles moving around downstairs before she was
aware enough to care. He had been staying since... Since
Buffy.

The smell of his morning tea drifted up the stairs and
tempted her nose out from underneath the smothering pillow.

Buffy's pillow.

She eased her eyes open and swatted her brown hair out of
her face.

It was comforting sleeping in Buffy's bed, smelling Buffy's
lingering scent. Her favorite strawberry scented shampoo,
combined with that disgusting moisturizing lotion she always
used in order to keep her skin kissably soft.

With a reluctant groan, she dragged herself to her feet and
stretched.

Another day in the life of the Key.

Another day in the death of Buffy.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

< Be brave. Live. For me. >

She sank to the floor and cried. Buffy, why did you have to
go and die for me? I was ready... I was ready to go. I'm
not even human...

A Slayer died for me.

A Sister died for me.

Her whole body was racked with sobs. Ribs slid along
underneath her skin. Nauseous. She flew to the bathroom,
but she didn't make it. Spasms. Wrenching spasms.

Vomit was all over Buffy's beige carpet, its acrid scent
bringing her to shame as she sat there trembling. She wiped
her mouth on her shirt sleeve, unable, for a moment, to
bring herself away from the rug. The smelly, discolored
stain spread out as the carpet absorbed her previous stomach
contents.

Another hitching sob. Fumbling, she made her way to the
hall closet and grabbed some bath towels. Paper towels were
downstairs.

Underneath the watchful eye of Giles.

She didn't need to talk to Giles right now. He had his own
grief to deal with. And it was all her fault. She doubted
she was his favorite person right now.

Her fault.

Her vision blurred for a moment but she regained enough
equilibrium to throw the towel down onto the floor and
collapse on top of it. Another bout of sobs.

Three days.

Buffy had only been gone for three days. Gone. For some
reason, she couldn't bring herself to say dead. Buffy had
only been dead for three days.

That sounded wrong.

Sniffle.

She could see Buffy's eyes staring at her, turning towards
the sunrise with that strange look of hope, and then back to
her. Buffy had _wanted_ to die. She'd _wanted_ it.

All because of her.

If she hadn't have been made, Buffy never would have met
Glory, and she would have been happy with Riley and... Mom.
Mom would still be dead. That didn't have anything to do
with Dawn...

Did it?

At least Buffy would have still been there.

Another sob.

She sat up and drew the towel to her, mindless of how soiled
it was now. She just cried. Cried into it to muffle the
sound. It stank, and it burned the back of her throat, and
she deserved it. She inhaled its scent, sucking it inward
with each devastating sob.

The doorbell rang downstairs, but she didn't care, until
Giles actually answered it. "Angel, Cordelia, Wesley, good
of you to come," he said cordially, but Dawn could tell his
heart wasn't in it. Why would it be? He and Angel had
never really gotten along too well, after... After.

She stood up abruptly.

Angel.

Dawn hadn't known that Angel was coming. It hadn't even
occurred to her.

She immediately felt stupid for not knowing. Angel, of all
people, would come. And he would be devastated, just like
everyone else.

Her fault.

Snippets of strained conversation disappeared into the
kitchen as she sat in front of the vanity, brushing her hair
into its normal, straight, knotless hang-style.

She brushed, and brushed, and brushed.

She didn't know why. It wasn't like she was planning on
going downstairs.

She wasn't planning on going downstairs.

Angel.

Not going downstairs...

And yet, there she was, standing at the top of the stairs,
gazing down below. Something, something was drawing her
downstairs.

Angel.

She could talk to Angel.

She had always been able to talk to Angel.

But could she, now, knowing that his pain was her fault?

Her socked foot started moving of its own volition, and
there she was, standing in the living room with only two
socks and a t-shirt on. Two socks, a t-shirt, and two
puffy, bloodshot eyes.

She could hear Giles, Cordelia, and Wesley having muffled
conversation in the kitchen. Angel wasn't with them. He
was sitting there on the couch by himself, staring off into
space. There were gauze bandages wrapped around his hands,
which were both laying relaxed at his sides. No tension.
Just... space. He was off somewhere in the o-zone.

"Angel," she whispered as she crept over to him and curled
up at his side.

She saw him swallow. Once. Twice. Again. "Hi, Dawn.
How. How are you holding up?" he asked as his slack arm
wrapped around her and hugged her to him, grunting as he
struggled to retain composure. She could almost feel the
weight of sadness that was pushing his broad shoulders into
a strained and breaking slump.

She inhaled his scent. He was always impeccably clean.
Always reminiscent of soap. Always Angel.

Whimpering, she snuggled further into his chest. Like a
big brother. She had missed him when he had gone. He was
like Riley had been to her, except he didn't treat her like
a kid. That was the major difference.

And it was all the difference in the world.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry I wasn't there..."
Eyes, staring into space. Eyes always staring. "I should
have been there to help. I could have..."

His voice faded off into nothing.

Something soft and wet hit her on the cheek, and she looked
up. He quickly brushed the tear track away. She didn't
think she had ever seen Angel cry. Scratch that. She
didn't think, she _knew_ she had never seen Angel cry.

His grief. Her fault.

It was odd to see that.

"It was my fault," Dawn whispered, hugging him tighter.
Waiting for his words of condemnation to come. You killed
my Buffy! You killed her! YOU KILLED HER!

She almost wanted someone to blame her. She wanted it.
"STOP BEING NICE TO ME!" she wanted to scream. But only
she seemed to be aware of how much she deserved it, and the
words never came.

Angel's other arm snaked around her, ensnaring her in an
unforgiving embrace. "Oh, Dawn," he groaned. She couldn't
help but notice that he never called her Dawnie. No kiddy
nick-names for her. Always Dawn. And, he sounded funny.
Like he was sobbing, but he wasn't. Like someone was raking
his words over a keening bagpipe. Weird. "Did you push her
off that ledge?"

"No," she sniffed. "But--"

He cut her off. "Did you make the cut that opened the
portal?"

She stared ahead at her, built in protests bleeding from her
lips. "No... but--"

Angel paid her objections no mind. "Did you want to get
cut? Did you _try_ to get cut?" he asked vehemently.

Her hand flew to her eyes to wipe away a tear. "No..."

"Then it wasn't your fault." A statement. Neutral.
Neither condemning, nor forgiving. Analytical, but
friendly.

And yet, she still felt the need to fight it down to the
wire. "IT'S MY FUCKING FAULT!" she wanted to scream. To
finally let it out. "But I screamed for Spike. That guy
wouldn't have seen him coming if--"

"Were you scared?" Angel asked abruptly.

Dawn was confused by the sudden change in conversation.
"Yes," she moaned as new, fresh tears began spewing forth.
Like her eyes were rapids and her cheeks were the
waterfall. Yes, she had been scared. She remembered that
fear, burbling inside her until all she wanted to do was
cry, and scream, and sob, and pray that Buffy came to save
her... She had been a coward. A coward sister to the
Slayer. She should have been brave and not said a word
when--

"Then I don't blame you," Angel whispered.

"But I shouldn't have been scared."

She was caught in that unblinking stare of his. That stare
to end all stares -- the kind he gave you and you just
wanted to die in front of him, to give him your soul...
"It's not your fault."

"But..."

He grabbed her firmly and brought her around so she was
sitting on his lap, facing him. "It's. Not. Your.
Fault," he enunciated firmly, shaking her a bit with each
belted syllable.

The feeling was odd, that weight lifting from her chest.
"You don't think so?" she whispered, almost refusing to
believe it. Her own, hopeful voice sounded strange to her
ears. Like a whining child. Like Dawnie. Not Dawn.

A hitching breath made him shift. "No."

Tears again. Angel was crying. It frightened her. A lot.

She hugged him back this time. Hugged him desperately,
almost clawing at his black cotton shirt. Black. He always
had to wear black. Except he really was in mourning this
time. "Please don't cry," she begged him.

A dry laugh. "It's not something I can really help."

"You never cried before..."

He shrugged. Shoulders drooped even lower. Weary look.
"Wasn't sad enough."

"Oh." She looked down into her lap for a moment.

Silence.

"What happened to your hands?" she asked, pointing to the
gauze bandages for the first time.

He looked down at them casually. "I was scared," he paused,
regarding her, "Just like you were."

More weight lifting. A sad smile crossed her face and she
fell against him, breathing a sigh of weariness. Angel
heaved another mighty, staggering breath, as if he were
struggling to stay upright, and his arms wrapped back around
her as she settled into his cool embrace.

"How long are you staying?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I really don't know." He sounded as
confused as she felt.

And surprised as she was by it, she found it rather
comforting. She let out another soft, gentle sob into the
cotton over his chest, and just lay there. A black,
friendly sanctuary in a field of confusion.

continue