The home of the Summers' family was dark, dreary and devoid of life, almost as though it stood in silent mourning. Night had fallen, adding its own brand of gloom to the bleak atmosphere. The first to enter the house was Giles. His face was haggard and his tread weary, as though the act of simply walking through the front door required supreme effort. He carried a shovel, traces of newly-turned earth still clinging to its edges. Thick dirt caked his jeans. He paused just beyond the threshold, frowning as he stared at the spade held in his tight fists, like it were a foreign object whose function remained an unsolvable mystery. He appeared to want to discard the implement, but at the same time unsure as to its proper place in the order of things. Frowning in confusion, he maintained his grip on the handle.

Xander followed Giles into the foyer. He too was showing signs of fatigue, his clothing stained with mud and grime. Xander's arm encircled Anya's waist and she leaned heavily on his shoulder for support, limping badly and trying not to put any weight on her bandaged foot. There was a nasty gash on her forehead, partially healed but still standing angry and raw against her pale skin. She took a faltering step and then inhaled sharply at the stab of pain.

"You okay?" asked Xander anxiously.

"No, I am not okay," was the curt reply. "My leg hurts, my head hurts, my everything hurts. Also, I don't think it's very appropriate for you to ask if I'm okay after a funeral."

"I'll bear that in mind for next time," Xander replied in monotone.

Anya gave him a look of concern. "You think there'll be a next time?"

Xander didn't answer, but his grim expression spoke volumes.

As the pair hobbled toward the living room, Willow and Tara appeared on the doorstep. Willow's complexion was blotchy and her eyes rimmed with red. Tears lingered on her lashes and continued to trickle down her cheeks, although she made no sound.

Tara was clearly drained. Purple smudges could plainly be seen beneath her eyes, as though she hadn't enjoyed a full night's rest in weeks. Her hand was in a cast but otherwise, she seemed in relatively good physical condition. Concern marred her features, however, and her worried gaze was focused constantly upon Willow, who seemed detached and barely holding onto reality. Beneath Tara's watchful eye, Willow shuffled to the couch and sank into the cushions. Once there, she made no further movement, fixating on the carpet by her feet and obviously lost deep within her own thoughts. Content that Willow was safe, for the moment at least, Tara made her way back toward the front door, ready to lend whatever aid she could to those who had yet to arrive.

But Dawn neither needed nor wanted assistance. Her expression was stoic and unfathomable. An aura of numbness surrounded her, yet she stood tall and her stride was more steady than any who had entered ahead of her. She missed nothing and seemed to be aware of everything.

"You hungry, Dawnie?" queried Tara gently. "I-I can make you soup or a sandwich or something?"

With a firm shake of her head, Dawn began to retreat, virtually becoming one with the shadows that hovered in the foyer. Tara reached out, but was interrupted by a figure stumbling across the threshold.

Spike lurched through the door. Dangling from one limp hand was a two-thirds empty bottle of alcohol. Given his appearance and air of intoxication, it wasn't hard to imagine what had happened to that missing two-thirds. Those in the house could do nothing but stare.

"Wassa matter?" he slurred. "You all look like your best friend died."

Raising the bottle to his lips, Spike giggled in a disturbingly insane high pitch and took a hefty swig, amber liquid running down his chin. Immediately, Xander was on his feet, eyes narrowed and gaze projecting nothing short of undiluted hatred. An expression of disgust invaded Giles' features and for the first time since entering the home, the Watcher became animated. His reaction too was instantaneous – this was something he felt equipped to handle.

"So good of you to finally join us," he clipped.

"Yeah, well, I spend so many working hours around the dead, I didn't much fancy doin' it on my off-time," returned Spike with enforced nonchalance. He spied Dawn and treated her to a nod of greeting. "S'pose you're the last one standing. Aren'tcha Nibblet?"

Not unexpectedly, the words brought Dawn no comfort. If anything, she appeared to shrivel just a little.

"You're drunk," accused Tara.

Spike gave her the thumbs-up. "Very good. Ten points for Team Scooby."

"If it's not that cheap swill you usually like, then stop hogging the bottle," snapped Anya.

With a broad grin, Spike staggered across the room to where Anya was sitting next to Willow on the couch. He relinquished the bottle into her waiting hand and Anya lost no time in taking a long pull.

"Cheers, love," said Spike with a wink.

Anya grimaced distastefully at the coarse alcohol and promptly returned the bottle to its owner. Spike waved it temptingly in front of Willow's face. Her eyes failed to register the offering. Indeed, she seemed to be unaware of Spike's presence. But then she began to take notice and slowly shook her head. With a careless shrug, Spike brought the bottle to his mouth once more as Giles' fingers tightened around the handle of the shovel, knuckles showing white. But before Giles had a chance to move, Xander had already invaded Spike's personal space.

"You're pathetic," he sneered with contempt, but Spike only chuckled. "You're pathetic," Xander repeated with venom. "Buffy trusted you, and you couldn't even be bothered to show up at her funeral? Guess we know just how much all your pretty words were worth in the end."

"Got me all figured out, do you?" asked Spike, head tilting to one side.

Xander's clenched fists were tight against his thighs. "Yeah, you know, I do. It was all crap. All the words, all the freaky obsession, the talk about love, it didn't mean jack. We loved Buffy. You don't even know what that means."

"Well, next time I need Lonely Hearts advice," returned Spike, taking a step toward Xander, "I know who has all the answers."

Willow glanced up. "Guys, can we not?" she urged, tone betraying her utter exhaustion.

It was with great reluctance that Spike and Xander each moved away. Spike took the opportunity to indulge in another hefty gulp from his bottle as an uncomfortable silence began to settle.

"So what do we do now?" queried Anya suddenly. Every head in the room swiveled in her direction, obviously unsure of her meaning. "Nobody but us know that Buffy's dead, right? But the unfortunate side effect is that all of the things that need Buffy's attention are going to keep demanding it." Vaguely, she waved her hand. "There's still a house, bills, and an underage dependant in need of constant care. Not to mention a Slayerless Hellmouth that I very much doubt will understand that we need it to stop churning out evil now."

Giles thought about this long and hard. "We can't allow word to get out that Buffy is dead. The- The chaos would be—"

"We know all that," said Anya, brushing off his statement. "Fear, death, hell on earth, blah blah blah. I'm talking long-term plans here. She's dead, she's buried. Now what?"

An expression of revulsion crossed Willow's face at Anya's summation, but she said nothing and neither did anyone else for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, Xander broke the hush.

"We keep fighting," he stated firmly. "The monsters, the vampires, the whatevers. Anything it throws at us." He paused for a moment. "It's what Buffy would do. She died for us. We owe it to her."

The assertion appeared to make sense and everybody nodded in agreement – with one notable exception.

"She didn't die for you, you git," scoffed Spike. "Buffy died because she was selfish and gave up."

Giles' eyes narrowed menacingly. "Shut up, Spike."

"Truth too bitter?" The response was cocky and far too self-assured.

Xander was on him immediately. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"She didn't die for me, or you," rejoined Spike acidly. "Not for the world or anybody in it but herself."

Within the shadows, Dawn winced.

"Or maybe," continued Spike, "she just couldn't stand being around you lot for one more minu—"

He never got to finish his sentence. A solid punch to the bridge of his nose sent Spike staggering. He lurched into an end table and there was the sound of splintering wood. Several items toppled to the floor, including a framed photograph of Joyce and her two daughters. The glass shattered upon impact. Reaching down, Xander hauled Spike to his feet by the lapels of his coat. Dawn's fingers twisted nervously as she watched with increasing distress. Breaking Xander's grip, Spike quickly recovered and retaliated with a blow of his own, abruptly crying out in pain as his chip fired.

"Stop it!" ordered Tara, but Xander was in no mood to listen.

He drew back his fist once more and Tara had little choice but position herself between the two men. The look in Xander's eyes remained murderous as he continued to glower at Spike but then, he glanced down at Tara. Although he towered above her, she was unyielding in her determination and it quickly became apparent that she wasn't going to budge.

"This is not the time," she instructed firmly.

It was a long, tense moment, but Xander eventually dropped his fist and took a step back. Although still wincing from the effects of the chip, Spike sneered at Xander's retreat, but he quickly became rigid at the sharp jab between his shoulder blades. Carefully glancing behind, he saw Giles at his elbow. The Watcher's expression was stony and his eyes glinted with underlying menace. In his hand was a sturdy fragment from the broken wooden handle of the shovel, its point leveled from the rear on a direct course with Spike's heart. Giles' features reflected not a shadow of doubt – he was no more than a fraction of a second from using the makeshift stake. When he spoke, his tone was low, calm and utterly collected.

"You had the opportunity to be part of this with us. You declined. You are no longer welcome." He roughly shoved Spike toward the front door. "Get out."

Spike looked first at Giles and then his gaze encompassed the remainder of the room. His face now displayed true pain creeping to the forefront.

"Not how it should be is it?" he protested contritely. "Nothing's how it should be. World shouldn't still be turning. Slayer shouldn't be rotting in the ground. S'not right."

Retrieving the bottle that he'd dropped when Xander hit him, Spike stumbled woefully toward the door. Much of the remaining alcohol had soaked into the carpet, but Spike seemed satisfied enough with what remained. Xander and Tara moved aside in order to give him a clear path.

From the foot of the stairs, Dawn watched him leave.

"Not right," Spike insisted again before making good his departure.

With an angry snort, Xander ran a hand through his hair as Tara quietly closed the door.

"That was unpleasant," Anya stated, leaning back against the cushions.

Giles placed the stake on a nearby table. "Yes, it was," he said with a sigh.

Everyone appeared to now be at a loss, not knowing what to say or do. It was an uneasy hush but Giles finally shattered the silence. "Xander's right."

"If this were any other day," replied Xander, lowering himself onto the couch between Anya and Willow, "I'd make you put that in writing."

Giles began to pace. "We'll continue the work that Buffy has started. With dedication – and no small amount of luck – perhaps we can ... can create the illusion that Buffy is still here, that she isn't ..."

He removed his glasses and fished for a handkerchief. He couldn't seem to find one and he couldn't seem to bring himself to complete his sentence either.

"Dead," finished Anya flatly.

Giles nodded. "Yes."

Tara perched on the arm of the couch closest to Willow, reaching out and claiming one of the redhead's cold hands. "Do you think that will work?" she asked the room. "I mean, the demons and stuff, they aren't stupid. If nobody ever sees Buffy, won't the rumors pretty much do the rest?"

There was no immediate rebuttal.

"That's certainly a risk," admitted Giles thoughtfully. "But I'm not sure what other options we have. We need—"

"Buffy."

It was the first time Willow had spoken since entering the house. Her authoritative tone seemed at odds with her frail appearance, but she pressed onward with certainty.

"Tara's right. This won't work."

"Actually, I sort of just asked," Tara attempted to correct. "I didn't—"

Willow squeezed Tara's fingers. "We need Buffy," she reiterated firmly.

Looks were exchanged, and Xander turned to Willow.

"Buffy's dead, Will," he told her, not unkindly but with a degree of resolve.

Willow prepared to speak, but she stole the briefest of glances at Giles, and then seemed to change the words that came out of her mouth.

"I know," she assured after a pause. "But there- there has to be some way we can ..." A frown creased her forehead as her voice trailed away. Then, a glimmer entered her eyes as an idea visibly took shape and form. "The Buffybot! I-It wasn't too damaged in the fight. It'll take me a little while, but I bet I could fix it."

"It was decapitated," reminded Anya curtly, "and very morbid."

Willow nodded. "Yeah, but a little soldering and good as new." Her face became animated with increasing excitement. "She already has the Slaying routines programmed in. I just need to do a little work. You know, delete some of the ... less PG-13 features, and reprioritize her functions ... but once that's done, voila! Instant Slayer!"

She beamed and squeezed Tara's fingers even tighter. Her exhilaration was infectious.

"Do you think you could do it?" asked Giles, his own level of fervency beginning to rise.

"I think I should try," said Willow.

"No," came the objection from the shadows.

Every eye turned toward the entrance to the living room, registering surprise to see Dawn standing on the threshold. It was as if her presence had been forgotten.

"You can't just build another Buffy." Her voice was shrill. "You can't have that ... thing walking around and pretending it's her."

Willow's enthusiasm was dampened a little. "It'll be weird, I know," she tried to comfort, "but ..."

She looked to the others for much-needed support and Giles was her immediate champion.

"I understand how you feel Dawn, believe me," he sympathized, "but the Slayer—"

"Slayer this, Slayer that," said Dawn scornfully. Her lower lip began to tremble. "She's not just the Slayer! She's Buffy!"

Giles visibly flinched at the brutal accusation and his head hung low an admission of shame. As Giles wilted, so did Dawn's demeanor. She made a valiant effort to blink back the tears and choke down the lump in her throat, but the opening of the floodgates was unavoidable and she sobbed in her wretchedness.

"She has to be more than the Slayer because ... because if she's not then what am I?"

Tara scrambled to her feet. "Oh, honey ..."

She moved to gather the distraught teenager into her arms, but Dawn wasn't about to allow herself to be placated. She swiftly eluded Tara's attempted embrace.

"No, you don't get it!" she protested through angry tears. "I was Mom's daughter, but Mom's dead. And Buffy's sister, but Buffy's dead. And I was the Key, but I'm not that anymore either, so what am I?"

The demand reverberated with a hollow sound as Dawn's fixed gaze challenged each person in the room. She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. Her expression grew desperate.

"Please, someone tell me," she begged. "What am I?"

What?

Dawn opened her eyes.

"What?"

Tara's face swam into her line of vision and Dawn realized she was being shaken into consciousness.

"Finally, sleepyhead," smiled Tara.

With an expression of utter confusion, Dawn looked around and noted she was in her bedroom. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand, its dial indicting the time to be a little after 9 a.m.

"I figured you didn't want to spend your whole Saturday sleeping in," Tara informed her brightly.

Dawn emphatically shook her head. "No. That's a waste of a weekend."

"Exactly," confirmed Tara. "Besides, you've got some kissing up to do to your sister."

Dawn squirmed beneath the covers and groaned but Tara harbored little sympathy for her situation.

"Well then next time," she advised, "think before you Key out."

"Okay, Mom," murmured Dawn ruefully.

With a grin, Tara jerked away the comforter.

"Now hurry up, your breakfast is getting cold."

It was with much reluctance that Dawn literally rolled out of bed. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't seem to keep her eyes more than halfway open. Dragging her feet across the carpet, she peered wearily into her closet and then arbitrarily selected a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. After what felt like an eternity, she was finally ready to face the world - or at least as ready as she was going to be. Shuffling out the door, she took a step toward the stairs and then heard her cell phone start to ring. Blinking herself more fully awake, she returned to her room and picked up the mobile charging on her desk. Her face broke into a delighted smile as the familiar tone finally penetrated her consciousness.

"Hey!" Dawn grinned happily at her reflection in the mirror. "Aww. Are you trying to charm me?" She giggled at the response. "Well maybe a little." Picking up a brush, she dragged the bristles through her hair and then winced upon snagging a tangle. "Don't let it go to your head," she advised sweetly, tossing the spiteful hairbrush onto her bed. "Today?" She frowned and glanced toward the door. "I have to..." Dawn's voice trailed away as she thought for a moment. "No, you know what? I don't care." She nodded her defiance. "The weekend's our time to spend however we want. How I don't want to spend it is with Buffy and Giles breathing down my throat. I wanna have fun." She paused before adding, "With you."

She listened to Grip's enthusiastic response and then grinned.

"Okay then. I'll be there in like an hour. Okay. Bye."

Disconnecting the call, Dawn took a deep breath in order to prepare for what was sure to come.

"But before fun," she grimaced, "we have ..."

Notepad and textbook open in front of her, face set in stern disapproval, Buffy occupied one end of the dining room table. Far at the opposite end, at what seemed an impossible thirty feet away, sat Dawn. Almost self-consciously, she nibbled from her plate, eyes constantly glancing in her sister's direction, but Buffy didn't so much as acknowledge Dawn's presence. Several minutes passed, minutes that were heavy in their distinctly uncomfortable quietude.

"I like the silent treatment," Dawn eventually commented. "Very first grade."

"Maybe next time I'll just leave in the middle of a conversation," clipped Buffy, focus remaining on her assignment.

As anger began to rise, Dawn opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. She sighed. Much to her chagrin, Buffy had a point. "Cheater," she pouted with no hint of accusation.

"Curse me and my nefarious logic," Buffy simply replied.

Dawn's pout grew more pouty as she jabbed her fork into a maple-drenched waffle. "I already apologized like all last night."

"Yes, you did," acknowledged Buffy, still not looking up.

"So doesn't that mean anything?"

"That you only have about 17 hours of real-time groveling left to go."

With a huge groan, Dawn threw back her head. "I'm sorry," she declared. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry ..." Every iteration was delivered with varying inflections and tones, but the overall feeling was one of a boring albeit necessary chore.

"I'm sorry, I'm sor—"

Buffy frowned. "Dawn."

Clamping her jaw in mid-sentence, Dawn blinked at her sister. This time, Buffy looked her in the eye.

"The running off thing." Buffy tapped her pencil on the table. "Not cool."

Dawn had the good grace to appear ashamed. "I know."

"And pretty pointless," continued Buffy with tight lips. "Trust me, I've tried and it doesn't solve anything. Plus you scared me half to death, and really, do I need more death in my life?"

Closing her textbook, Buffy moved to Dawn's end of the table and took a seat.

"So we're gonna make a deal here: you don't just ..." Lacking the verbage, Buffy vaguely waved her hand at Dawn, "...and I won't kill you and hide the body."

"I was just sick of being treated like something slimy on a microscope slide," Dawn told her with a sigh. "How long do I have to put up with this stupid 'testing'?"

"However long it takes," said Buffy, holding up her hand to stave off any words that might accompany Dawn's aghast expression. "Giles can get crazy-obsessive sometimes, I'm with you there an unequivocal hundred-percent. But it's not pointless. We don't know what you can do, and until we figure that out ..."

"School, train, school, train," muttered Dawn disgustedly. "There's more to life, right? I'd sorta like that 'more' a whole lot."

The Slayer chuckled quietly. "Wow. It's like someone's enjoying a big bowl of Buffy Karma right about now."

But Dawn wasn't interested in the quirky humor of fate. "I have plans today," she stated firmly. "Plans that are not train-oriented."

Buffy affixed her sister beneath a penetrating stare, and Dawn shifted uncomfortably. "You said you're not a kid anymore, right?"

"Yeeeahh ..."

"Then you have to stop acting like one." Obviously this was not a topic open for debate. "It sucks, I know," continued Buffy, "but part of being an adult means doing stuff you don't want to." She paused to convey the full weight of her words. "Part of being a Scooby means giving everything up to do it."

She watched as Dawn began to wilt in her seat, and Buffy's features seemed to do the same.

"Now I can't help with the first part," she said slowly, "but with the second ... If you don't want—"

"I want," Dawn hurriedly interrupted. "I want." The reiteration was given with a tad less enthusiasm, but no less honesty.

Soberly, Buffy studied her sister, then nodded.

"Give Giles this weekend. Whatever stupid thing he wants you to do, do it, without complaint." She tucked a strand of hair behind Dawn's ear. "I know that's like asking you to gargle molten lava, but stomach it for the weekend and then I'll talk to him." Buffy grinned and shook her head. "You're right, life should be about more than school and training, especially your senior year. There's parties, and college, and inevitable heartbreak and blowing up your school." That got a chuckle, and Buffy squeezed Dawn's shoulder reassuringly. "We'll get it all balanced out."

Realizing that Buffy was absolutely serious, Dawn's face broke into a broad smile. "You rule," she announced gleefully.

"I know," admitted Buffy with a self-satisfied shrug of acceptance. "Now get to Slayer Central. The Taskmaster awaits."

Shoveling another waffle wedge into her mouth, Dawn pushed back her chair and then bolted from the table.

"Hey, dishes!" called Buffy.

But the slam of the front door told Buffy that it was already far too late for that. Frowning, she stared at Dawn's plate and sighed. She dragged it toward her and poured more maple syrup over the remaining waffle morsels and, with a shrug, set about cleaning it in her own special way.

As the door slammed behind her, Dawn jogged down the path leading away from the house and began digging in her pocket for her cell phone. Busily scrolling through the stored numbers, she didn't notice the shadowy but glowing activity taking place behind the curtain of Dr. Joseph's side door. Upon arriving at Grip's name, her thumb hovered over the SEND button as she made her way along the sidewalk, however something else caught her attention. From the corner of her eye, she glanced into her neighbor's front garden and spied a body sprawled upon the small patch of lawn.

The phone call instantly forgotten, Dawn rushed toward the fallen figure. "Dr. Joseph!"

She was at his side in an instant. The elderly man's face was pale and ashen. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and he appeared to be critically ill. She checked his breathing and found it labored and shallow.

"Dr. Joseph, are you okay?" she asked worriedly. "Can you hear me?"

Much to Dawn's relief, she was greeted with a muted groan as the old gentleman's eyelids flickered.

"I'll get help," she quickly assured. "You just stay there."

Depressing CLEAR, she waited impatiently for Grip's number to vanish from the display. The second it was gone, she punched '9-1,' but got no further before a hand reached up and seized her wrist.

"No need ... for that ruckus," panted Dr. Joseph, obviously short of breath. "Just ... need my medicine."

Uncertainly, Dawn hesitated, but Dr. Joseph was insistent.

"Please. It's just inside there." With a trembling finger, he pointed toward the side door. Dawn glanced over her shoulder. There were no flickering lights beyond the curtain, no evidence that anything was other than it should be. "Please, Dawn," he urged.

Still unsure that such was the best course of action, Dawn reluctantly agreed and hurried to the door. She turned the knob but it refused to open.

"Under the flowerpot," gasped Dr. Joseph urgently.

Looking down, Dawn spotted the solitary flowerpot at her feet. Pushing it to one side, she retrieved the key, swiftly inserted it and then turned the lock.

There was a loud click as the tumblers fell into place, followed by the abrupt disappearance of the key. Immediately, a brilliant green glow flowed smoothly through the now empty keyhole. Dawn's eyes widened as she turned to look at Dr. Joseph. She visibly started to see him standing right behind her, so close, he was almost touching her elbow. He no longer appeared to be in desperate need of medical attention. In fact, he no longer appeared to be ill at all. The air of frailty was a thing of the past, as was the demeanor of a kind and benevolent grandpa. His eyes shone like deep pools of black India ink and he favored Dawn with an unpleasant smirk.

"Thanks, kid."

He winked, and the door burst open with a massive thrust of energy that sent Dawn flailing backward through the air. She landed heavily upon the ground, crumpling like a rag doll. Struggling to maintain consciousness, she focused upon the door and upon Dr. Joseph. He was rubbing his palms together joyfully, keeping a watchful eye on the shapes now coalescing from the open portal.

Dawn's battle against oblivion was all too short. Despite her best efforts, she soon slipped unwillingly into the beckoning darkness.