Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I wouldn't be this mean.
Rating: PG-13, maybe light R (language, adult themes)
Spoilers: "The Gift"
Author's Notes: Sorry if this doesn't make much sense. I wrote the first half at three in the morning and the second the next morning, after six hours of sleep. Plus I've never really written Dawn before. The song is "Babybird" by the Wallflowers and this hasn't been beta-ed, so excuse any mistakes please.

I was in New Orleans when Spike came to get me. Or was it New York? Those days are still a blur . . . Better that way, really. I don't think I'd want to remember. It was somewhere big, where you could walk on the streets at night with hundreds of people around you, and bright lights and music. Where you could find any of a hundred drugs on a street corner, and wake up three days later without any idea of where you were. That was my objective. That was always my objective. Well, one of them.

There was a club, I remember. This guy (one in a thousand, all a long blur of faces and smiles and offers I never refused) with curly blond hair, and some really good cocaine that we snorted in the corner. He had a hotel room, or an apartment, and we spent some time there (they always wanted to). More clubs, bright lights, a city gone crazy. I sobered up in a hotel room (the same one? A different one?) with the guy unconscious on the bed. I dressed, splashed my face with water and left.

I told him my name was Buffy. I always did that. Never really could say why; they always laughed and asked what kind of a name that was, and I pretended to be offended. I always thought it was weird, myself. Whether this was my way of making sure it was remembered or tarnishing it forever, I didn't know. But I always said my name was Buffy.

Come back babybird
With your dirty wings in tatters
Come home where you belong
Nobody knows you better
Now bring back your velvet heart
And we'll make you brand new feathers
Sleep through the morning light
With your arms around your brother

I don't know how Spike found me. I was in a motel of my own, getting ready to go out again. He knocked on the door. "I didn't order room service!" I yelled, knowing there was no such thing in a dump like that. He broke the lock on the door and came in. I spun when I heard the door open, and stood there staring at him. He looked, of course, exactly the same. His stare was more intense, and equally blank. I almost laughed, imagining what he must be seeing, thinking. He hadn't changed, but I had. So very much.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demanded, too shocked to immediately throw him out, which is what I should have done, or would have anyway if I'd been thinking.

"Perhaps I should be asking you that question," Spike half-laughed, eyes running up and down me in that appreciative way all men have. I felt nauseous. I wished, for a minute, that I had her strength; I would have like to beat Spike into a pulp just then, for that look. It was okay when any other guy did it. It was welcome. But not him. He was mocking me.

"It's none of your fucking business," I snarled. "Get out."

"Nu-uh, babybird. I'm here to take you back to the nest."

I stared at him incomprehendingly. After he ran off I assumed he'd never be back; never contact any of them ever again. Apparently I'd been wrong. Unless they'd sought him out, hoping he could succeed where they'd failed so spectacularly. "You're not taking me anywhere. You can't touch me."

"Actually, luv, I can," Spike informed me. "For one thing, carrying you isn't likely to count as harm. But that doesn't matter anyway, 'cuz I've got the bloody chip out. Aren't you happy for me?"

I wasn't afraid. I should have been, but I wasn't. Instead I felt this insane surge of joy. No, not insane really. I'd wanted to die for a long time, I just didn't have the strength to do it. "Kill me Spike," I beckoned. "I should have died, remember? Kill me now, and maybe you'll get her back."

Babybird
come back home
Babybird
you were never really on your own

He looked at me with something akin to pity. Pity From him. And then he shook his head. "Not tonight chick," he said quietly. "I told you, I've come to take you home."

"I don't have a home," I told him fiercely, though my anger was draining away, replaced by . . . what? Despair? Hope? I wanted him to kill me. I wanted the drugs to kill me. I wanted one of the random guys I hooked up with to kill me. None of them were obliging.

"There are some as would disagree," Spike reminded me. "And I'm afraid I'm currently . . . in their employ? Anyway, the government would too, so if you struggle, I'm allowed to turn you into the police and have you shipped home. Disadvantages of being seventeen you know."

I hated him. "Leave me alone," I snarled. Spike shook his head again and shrugged.

"Truth is, I've been watching you for a while. Kinda keepin' an eye out, y' know? And I don't like what I'm seeing. You've been playing with fire, and you're likely to get burned one of these days."

"Maybe I want to."

His eyes sparked for a moment, and I was reminded that he was over a hundred years old, that he had killed two Slayers and he used to torture people with railroad spikes for fun. I was reminded that he knew more of fire than I ever could, no matter how long I lived, how many drugs I snorted or men I fucked. I could never be death.

"Are you going to come, then, or will I have to drag you?" he asked. I crossed my arms and glared. He moved towards me, suddenly, and I tried to dart away, but the next thing I knew was oblivion, blissful, if only temporary.

Now outside faces cry
With the tears of lonesome orphans
And behind every mask
is the face of another
Wherever you have been
wherever you took cover
No arms that pulled you in
could hold you like your mother

I woke in pain. Withdrawal, of course. I had no idea where I was, except that Spike was there, talking to me in a soothing tone sometimes, making wisecracks others, while I screamed obsenities at him until I lost my voice and finally passed out.

The second time I woke it still hurt, but not as bad. I was in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity, but it was probably only a few days. Sometimes the world around me was moving, sometimes it was still. It was always dark. Spike was always there. I kept hating him, as my body screamed, rebelled, screamed more.

It wasn't as painful as other things I had experienced, though it was unasked for and therefore hated. Some of the men . . . some of them had been mean. I'd hoped to die, afterwards, but I never had. Some of them had been sweet, too sweet. I didn't want to lie in anyone's arms afterwards. None of them made me feel warm. None of them made me safe. None of them made it all okay.

When I woke up clearheaded, it was light. Sunny. I was in a little room with cream-colored walls and pretty curtains. I stared. I hadn't seen anything like it in years. It was like I'd been transported to another world; familiar, but removed. My old world.

I thought about climbing out the window, or looking in the drawers of the desk for a letter opener or something I could cut myself with before this all got to be too good. My body felt like my own again, which it hadn't for a long, long while. But my surroundings were not mine. Not of my choosing anyway. My clothes were gone too, I was dressed in a pair of boxers and a faded T-shirt that said UC Sunnydale on it. Willow's, I guessed. I wondered if this was her house, or Giles'. I didn't recognize the room, but then I'd spent a long time blocking out that part of my life.

The door opened finally, after a moment or an hour, I wasn't really sure. Willow walked in, carrying a tray with a large mug on it and steaming plate. Food. I thought about refusing to eat, pretending to be asleep still, something . . . anything . . .

"Welcome back," she said softly and sat down beside the bed, setting the tray on the bedside table. My stomach revolted at the thought of holding out for freedom or any other reason. She must have seen my hungry look, because she handed over the food immediately, and the coffee. I don't even remember what it was, except after perhaps a week of not being able to hold anything down and two years of scanty, badly cooked meals, it tasted like heaven.

"You can't make me stay," I said once I'd cleaned the plate. She accepted it from my hands and put it back on the tray.

"I can't make you do anything," she agreed. "But I'm a little older than I was, and hopefully a little smarter. And I've got you here. We've got you here. So we're hoping not to let you go again."

I didn't look at her; I didn't want to see her. Didn't want to know what was in her eyes, or wasn't. Didn't want anything to do with her, or any of them. I'd spent two years forgetting, drowning myself, trying to drown myself, and now here I was, in this brightly lit, homey room, with an older version of a woman I'd once known, telling me that she was going to help me. No one could help me. The last time someone had was the day I died.

Babybird
come back home
Babybird
you were never really on your own

I tried to leave, later. The window, I found, was painted shut, or sealed with magic or something. I thought about breaking it, but that would make noise and bring attention. I went to the door instead, and opened it so slowly, carefully, not making a whisper of noise. The hallways outside was dark and unfamiliar, quiet. I slipped into the hall and found myself face to face with Spike.

"Not so fast, luv," he laughed at me. "You just got here. And a lot of trouble it was too."

"You have no right to control me," I snarled at him, keeping my voice low in hopes of not waking whoever else was in the house and somehow . . . somehow getting by.

"We're not trying to control you," Spike said mildly, leaning back against the wall. He still wore his leather duster, and those beat up black jeans. A new pair, I wondered?

"How did you find me?" I asked, ignoring his obvious lie.

"I caught up with you in Chicago, oh . . . a year ago? Something like that. Been following you since. You left quite a trail, and once I realized what name you were usin', it wasn't hard to keep track of you."

I glared at him, daring him to challenge my right to it. He didn't. "Why? What right do you have . . . why do you care?"

I don't know why I asked. I knew the reason already: for her. It was always for her. The only reason anyone ever loved me was for her, and why shouldn't that be true? All I was was a shadow of her, some stupid mockery of what she'd been. I'd stolen her memories, her family, her life . . . her name now, too. I was nothing except what she made me. I was no one. I had no one except those that loved her. I had always been alone.

He didn't say what I was expecting him too. "Don't like the thought of you getting hurt, is all," he muttered with a shrug.

"Because of her," I insisted, to make him admit it, say it to my face. We never spoke her name. He looked up and met my eyes. My vision had adjusted to the dark, and though it was not as good as his, I could make out shadows there, and truth.

"Nah, babybird. Because of you."

Maybe it was a lie. Probably it was a lie. But it made me cry anyway.

When all my colors fade
And my wings, they've turned to leather
I'll know the reasons why
God let me get older
When all my days are through
And I fly these hills no longer
I'll lay beneath the stars
And I'll watch you flying over

The next day they did some kind of Intervention thing. Xander, Anya - pregnant, I noted, and didn't say anything about it - Willow and Tara, Giles and Spike gathered in the living room of the big pretty house. It was Xander and Anya's . . . new. They were decorating the nursery.

"Dawn, we know what you've been doing," Willow said softly, "and we know you don't want to be here. But we all care about you. Too much to let you keep hurting yourself like this."

I was vulnerable, after my conversation with Spike the night before. Usually I would have turned away their words with a sarcastic comment, but my heart was already open and bleeding, so I said, "What you're trying to say is I don't deserve this life. I'm screwing it up. She didn't die for that." I was trying to hurt them, but it didn't seem to work. Tara's hand tightened around Willow's, but that was the only visible sign of any distress.

"Maybe that is what we're saying," Xander said slowly. I flinched and tried to hide it. "Buffy gave her life for yours. What have you done with her gift?"

I was trying, of course, to give it back, but I couldn't find the words to tell them that. "I didn't ask for it," I said defensively. "She took my death. She shouldn't have bothered."

"But she did," Giles reminded me quietly. "That is, however, not entirely the point. Buffy's dead and gone, and that's all there is to it. You are quite alive, and you've got the rest of your life ahead of you. Do you really want to live like you have been?"

I didn't. I hated living like that, but it was all I deserved. I hated every minute of it; the constant craving for drugs, the off feeling of sobering up in a strange place, with a strange man. The mean ones, the sweet ones, the ones that didn't even care and fell asleep as soon as they'd had their fill. I hated the darkness, the emptiness, the coldness. But at least it was my life. Not hers. Not Buffy's. Mine.

"Dawnie," Willow whispered, slipping away from Tara and coming to sit on the couch beside me. She was so close, I could feel her warmth. No one had called me that in a long time. Buffy was the last one. I closed my eyes, and let her fold her arms around me. "We love you. You're not her, you don't have to be her, but that doesn't mean you should destroy your life. Yours. You don't have to live for her, or for us, but please, live for yourself. Please let us help you."

I can't remember the last time someone had hugged me before that. People tried, at the funeral and afterward, but I pushed them away, escaped. The last time someone held me, their arms strong and warm and comforting, like they could take care of me, make all the problems go away. I couldn't stop trembling, like a bird, their wings all a-flutter. But I didn't want to fly away. I wanted to stay right there, and be held again by arms that loved me.

Babybird
come back home
Babybird
you were never really on your own

It's still hard. It's been months and I still get cravings. I'm in drug counseling though and . . . and other kinds. It's strange how quickly things can chance. Suddenly I'm turning eighteen and getting my GED and going to community college next year, as if I had graduated with my class and not missed the last two and a half years of high school.

I move around, between various houses, and work at the Magic Box in the afternoons. Anya's on bed rest, which is driving her (and everyone else crazy). Spike comes to my window at night, wherever I happen to be and we talk. I don't know what his deal is anymore; does he hunt, now that he can? We never really talk about it. He's different than he used to be, but then so am I.

It's strange being back in my body all the time. For two years I lived, or rather, didn't live, in a haze of dark and bright. My mind was never really my own, or my body. I barely knew what was going on, where I was. When I sobered up enough to think, I left town, went somewhere new, where I could lose myself again. I never had to think about Buffy, or my mother, or any of the people I had left behind. I never had to think about me.

I still don't understand why I survived and she didn't. Or why Mom died, so needlessly. Why despite everything I did, every way I found to hurt myself, I'm still on my feet and the people I loved, who did everything right, are not. I doubt I'll ever understand. I don't think anyone really does. This whole thing - life, death - is so screwed up, incomprehensible. It makes no sense. Could Mom or Buffy explain it to me? Maybe . . . Maybe wherever they are they know why now. I wish I did.

Sometimes it feels like they're watching me. I was looking for something in Willow's closet the other day. Rummaging through this box I found Buffy's cross necklace and wondered if she was trying to tell me something. Not about God - I don't know if I believe. My drug counselor keeps trying to get me too, but . . . I don't know - but about her. Like she's protecting me.

It sounds stupid. Half my life now is taken up with maudlin sentimentality, the other with drug cravings and attempts to remember how to live a normal life. I stop sometimes and look around me and realize that no one else in the world is like me, that however much they love me or care about me, I will always be alone. And then Willow will come in and ask if I want a sandwich, or Spike will tap on my window or Giles will tell me about the new shipment we're getting in and I don't feel like that anymore. I don't feel alone.

After Buffy died I was consumed with a desire to run away. It took me a while to get around to it, but it filled my mind from the moment I saw her jump into that portal. I thought that if I somehow had wings, that if I could fly out of that stupid town, I could forget, I could be someone new. I could be a person of my own, and not a part of Buffy. But I don't have that desire anymore. I'm . . . maybe not happy, but I'm okay where I am. And I realized that if I'm a part of Buffy, she's a part of me too. And I don't want to fly away from that.

Babybird
come back home
Babybird
you will never be all alone

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