Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through The Gift/ There's No Place Like Plrzt Glrb
Summary: Angel and Dawn cope.
Notes: I know it's been done before. So what? Anyway ... this is my last fic for a *really* long time (well, probably like a year) because I'm moving and won't really be able to write. So, sorry it sucks and I didn't get to finish all the other fics, but that's life, eh? Thank you to everyone who has sent me feedback and reminded me that I have things to finish. Special thanks to Sara-Lee and Deb. This is completely unbetaed, but I don't really have time right now.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The song is Jamie O'Neal's "I'm Still Waiting". Great CD, go buy it.
Ok ... so I tried to send this like TWICE and my damn comp wouldn't send it. I do apologize if this ends up coming through like six hundred times.

What I'm feeling
Time is going to heal it
I've been hearing that for so long now
They say I'll move on
Got to try and be strong
Life will go on
I'll get through this somehow
Oh but how?
~

Angel had been a vampire for over two centuries, and the sickest he had ever felt was that raw need in the pit of his stomach when he hadn't had blood for a few days. He had never been *actually* sick, in human terms. He didn't even know it was possible, until Willow showed up.

The look on her face told him everything. She didn't have to say anything, which was fortunate because she looked too stricken to speak. Buffy. The only thing that could put that look on her face was Buffy. Buffy's death. "It's Buffy," he said needlessly, and his coworkers quickly filed out, leaving him standing with the redheaded witch in an uncomfortable silence.

"Angel --" Willow finally began at the same time Angel choked out, "Willow --" Normally, Willow would have giggled over the fact that they both spoke at the same time, but this time she just whispered, "Go ahead."

"I'm --" Angel stopped then, because his stomach jumped into his throat and he remembered what being sick felt like. He turned and heaved, choking on blood and tears over the trash can. This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not now. Not to *his* Buffy.

Willow stumbled over to him, sitting on the floor beside him and leaning into him, her eyes filled with tears. She hugged him tightly, murmuring apologies against his sweater.

"How?" Angel choked out. He could barely speak, pain was flooding his body and his throat was constricting. Hot pokers through his stomach by Spike's hand were nothing compared to this.

"There was a god," Willow told him. Her voice was nearly monotone, a tearful drone. "The god needed Dawn to destroy the world. Buffy s-s-sac-scarified herself instead." The floodgates opened at that moment and she was sobbing against Angel, unable to breathe.

Angel was numb. He knew he was crying, because he saw the tears splash onto Willow's hair, but he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything, then, because she was gone. His beautiful Buffy ... the one who kept him fighting with her will to live and win. It was her strength and courage that lifted to him up in his darkest hour, her love and friendship that kept him believing he could survive in this tumultuous world. It was her success that kept him fighting the good fight, because he knew that if a normal, tiny 20-year-old could win the battle, he could, too.

But she hadn't won. She had lost. Barely 20 and she had lost.

"She lost." Angel closed his eyes, unable to really process that Buffy was gone.

"She lost for us," Willow cried, "She lost for the world and we never did anything for her."

Angel stood up, looking at Willow dumbly. "Start the car. I'll be there." With that, he turned and stumbled out of the room, clutching onto the walls and tables for the support he needed to stand.

Cordelia, Gunn, and Wesley were all sitting in the office, fidgeting nervously. Cordelia was tearing papers into tiny shreds while Wesley paced around the office and Gunn snapped pencils in half. When Angel walked in, they all stopped, jumping up and turning to him.

"What ... what is it?" Cordelia asked, so softly that Angel almost couldn't hear her. It didn't matter, though, because he knew the question.

"Buffy's dead." The words rolled off Angel's tongue easily, but it all seemed so scripted. It couldn't possibly be true, the news he was relaying. The truth felt so unreal, the words felt foreign even as he said them without hesitation.

Cordelia shrieked, collapsing against Gunn, who held her tightly, unsure of how to comfort her. Wesley sank into his chair and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Dear God. Angel, I'm so sor--"

But Angel was already gone.

~
When I'm still waiting
For you to come back
If you could only come back
I'm aching
For you to walk through that door
Hold me once more
But you won't
Still I go on waiting
~

"Soup?" Tara stood in the doorway to Dawn's room, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

Dawn shook her head, not saying a word.

"You need to eat, Dawnie," Tara said gently. "You haven't said a word in two days."

Dawn shrugged, turning on her side. She was at least five pounds thinner and completely blanched. The circles under her eyes were so dark that she looked as though she had been punched, and her hair was matted around her face. Tara wasn't sure she even had the ability to stand up.

Tara put down the bowl of soup and carefully sat down next to Dawn, stroking her hair tenderly. "I have some new pajamas," she tried to keep her voice as cheerful as possible. "I haven't had the chance to wear them yet. Do you want to wear them, Dawn?"

Dawn shook her head, closing her eyes tightly as tears streamed down her face.

There was a knock on the open door then, and Xander stuck his head in. "Bath's all ready."

Tara nodded, giving him a small smile. She turned back to Dawn. "How about a bath?"

Dawn shrugged, but still didn't say anything.

"Let me try," Xander implored, taking Tara's seat as she stood up. He took Dawn's hand, rubbing it between his own hands. "Your hands are pretty cold, Dawnmeister. What do you say you try that bath? It'll warm you up. Okay?" Before she could answer, he scooped her up, carrying her down the hall and into the bathroom. He left her sitting on the closed toilet seat with Tara and Anya by her side.

"Hey, Dawn," Anya murmured, her voice compassionate for once. "Ready for that bath?"

Dawn just stared at her.

"Well, that looks like a yes to me," Anya chirped, but her voice was anything but happy. She turned to Tara, who nodded and helped Dawn unbutton her pajama top. As Tara did that, Anya attempted to make comforting small talk with Dawn. "Look what I found, Dawn." She held out a small bottle filled with a reddish gel. "It's raspberry bubble bath." She twisted the top open and began to pour it into the bath water.

"NO!" Dawn suddenly screamed, jumping up and knocking Tara backwards. She grabbed the gel from Anya, clutching it tightly to her chest. "NO, NO, NO! That's Buffy's! That's Buffy's favorite bubble bath, you can't use that! She's going to want that when she comes back!" Dawn was sobbing hysterically now, holding the bottle so tightly her knuckles were white. "Don't touch Buffy's stuff! She's not done with it!"

Tara and Anya were both crying quietly as they tried to restrain the hysterically girl. Dawn fell to the ground, shaking and screaming, her arms flailing everywhere. She was nearly convulsing against the hard tile floor as the two women tried to talk to her.

"No, no, no, no, no," Dawn cried over and over again. She leaned over, choking like she was going to throw up. She gasped for breath as she dry-heaved. Tara and Anya finally just let her cry, because they could do nothing else.

~
It was a Sunday
We buried you in the rain
I never knew pain
Till that first night alone
Opened your closet
Breathed you in and lost
The truth of it
Baby finally hit home
No you're not coming home
~

**

Angel was hit by a wave of nostalgia when he opened the door and stood in the foyer of Buffy's house. He hadn't been inside her house in two years. Everything was too orderly, too clean and in-place for it to be her house. Her house had always had little quirks. A coat tossed over a chair, shoes in the hallway. Little things that said someone lived there. But now, even with everyone who was at the house, it was neat and tidy and looked more like a house out of a magazine than a real house that people lived in.

Not that anyone would be living there for long. Dawn couldn't possibly stay there alone. Dawn. Buffy's sister hadn't even crossed his mind since he had heard the news. She had lost her mother and her sister within a month of each other, she was only 14.

Angel's eyes focused on a picture on the drawer, a photo that was probably a year or so old, of Buffy and Joyce hugging and smiling. They both looked so carefree and happy, and then it really hit Angel. They had no idea their death was coming. It had just ... crept up on them. His mind flashed to a month ago, when he sat beneath a tree with Buffy, and she pathetically asked him to stay forever.

He turned to Willow, grabbing the banister so hard that the wood nearly splintered. "I should have said yes."

"Yes what?"

"When she needed me to stay, Willow. After her mother. I should have been here, I should have stopped this."

"It's not your fault," the witch whispered. "You couldn't stop it, Angel. No one could."

He turned sharply away, taking the stairs two at a time as he headed towards the part of the house he was the most familiar with. He could hear crying before he was even halfway up, it was Dawn. He remembered how she used to cry, years ago when she was just nine or ten, always wanting to go out with Buffy and always, Buffy said no. And Dawn would sob and scream, running to her mother, who would promise her an ice cream and give Buffy a stern look. Barely sixteen, Buffy had been. Barely sixteen, with her whole life in front of her.

He found Dawn on the floor of the bathroom, bubble bath gel all across her shirt, her eyes red and bloodshot from crying. She wasn't screaming, though the look on Tara and Anya's face made him think she probably had been earlier. She was merely lying there, sobs hitching in her throat, her body shaking ever-so-slightly.

"Dawn."

Dawn shot up at his voice, trembling. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was so hoarse from shouting and crying that he had to strain to hear her.

"I heard about -- your sister," he managed, suddenly unable to say her name.

"She jumped for me," Dawn whispered, and then fell into Angel's arms. She didn't cry this time, or scream or shake. She just supported herself against the vampire, until he picked her up like a young child and carried her back into her room.

He wanted to cry again, because the whole house, too-perfect as it was, reminded him of Buffy. He could remember walking the hallway with her, waiting outside her mother's door as she tried on various lipsticks from her mother's make-up bag, reading Dawn a bedtime story one night when he had helped Buffy baby-sit. Though he tried not to, he glanced at Buffy's bedroom. The door was shut, no light peeked out from underneath. It was ... dead.

Angel tucked Dawn into her bed, holding back tears. Nothing had ever hurt him so badly, but he couldn't cry in front of Dawn. She was too little, too vulnerable. She needed everyone around her to be strong, he knew, because her strength had died with her family.

"Sleep, Dawn," he pleaded softly, kissing her on the forehead.

"Angel?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ... do you love my sister?"

"Always, Dawn." He flipped off the light and closed the door behind him.

Buffy's door was big and looming at the end of the hallway. He stood in front of it for several minutes as time seemed to stand still before finally opening it.

Her room was so very dark, was the first thing he noticed. Dark, but comforting, because he could see how messy it was. Neat wasn't Buffy's style, but neither was messy. It was comforting for him, though, to see how lived-in her room had been. He turned on the light and shut the door, sinking into her soft bed.

Angel looked out the window, studying the large tree that swayed in front of it. How many times had he climbed that tree? How many times had he just sat on the overhang, just watching her? How many times had he actually come in, and sat on the very same bed he was on now, holding her slight form in his arms? The number was so unfathomable that he didn't even try to count.

He scanned the room, taking in everything familiar. Her bed wasn't made, the flowery comforter bunched at the end of the bed. She had pillows stacked high against the headboard, and on her corner table were a few trashy romance novels under a thick book about gods. A half-finished cup of water, pink lipstick around the rim, was balanced precariously on the edge, right where Buffy had left it. She had clothes strewn on the floor, over the chair, across her desk, hiding thick textbooks that hadn't been opened in weeks. A crossbow was leaning against the wall, and a sharp butcher knife was resting on the windowsill. Everything was just so ... Buffy-like, that it made Angel's unbeating heart ache.

He stood up, moving to her closed closet door. He remembered from their time together that she typically kept everything truly personal either hidden in the back of her closet, or on a box on the shelf. He pulled the doors open and just stared for a moment.

She never threw out anything when it came to clothing. Clothes she didn't wear were hung in the back, clothes she did wear in the center, and clothes she might wear on the other end. He could see tank tops and sweaters and pants and tiny dresses, all hanging side-by-side in her overstuff closet. Her gorgeous lavender prom dress hung alongside the leather jacket he had given her, one barely touched, the other well worn. Rows and rows of shoes lined the floor. He stepped forward, almost into the closet, and inhaled deeply.

Vanilla. Every last item of clothing smelled like vanilla. He ran his hands down a soft Angora sweater, nearly as soft as her skin always was. His hand caught on a hole, and he looked more closely at the item. The pearly color was slightly marred by a faded blood stain around the stake-sized hole. Angel pushed the sweater aside and looked at another shirt, but saw the same thing. Blood stains.

Suddenly, he couldn't see anything else. Almost all of her clothing was either torn or blood stained, it seemed, and then it hit him. This was what she had died for. She had died so she wouldn't hurt anymore. She had died so her family wouldn't hurt anymore. So her friends wouldn't hurt anymore. She had died so there would be no more blood, no more pain, no more anguish. She had died for him, for her, for her sister, for the girl next door, for the war veteran, for the teacher, for the mother, for the child. She had died for them all, she had died for the world, so no one else would have to go through what she did. She had died so they could live.

But as he inhaled the vanilla, now keenly aware of the scent of blood, he realized she had been slowly dying since she was fifteen years old, a tiny ditz of a Slayer in the city of angels.

Angel collapsed onto the floor of her closet, sobbing earnestly. His memory was sharp, and everything he looked at reminded him of something, right down to the pair of gloves tossed into the far corner of her closet, the same ones she had worn ice skating with him.

He picked up a knee-high boot, holding it gently as he remembered how her tiny size-7 foot would fit perfectly into it, and how she had perfected using the heel to break a vampire's jaw.

What had happened? When had she stopped being the Vampire Slayer and started being the world's martyr?

He remembered the first time he had been in her closet, years ago after saving her from

The Three. She had been so helpless and innocent then, compared to how she was when her life ended. His eyes focused on a book in the corner, and he picked it up. It was her diary.

He started to open it, then stopped. Dead or alive, it was still her personal diary. Instead, he stood up and put it on her bed. Willow could decide what to do with it.

He stepped back, surveying her room again. It seemed almost too lived in, as though she were putting on an act. As though she had gone through great strains to try to be the perfectly normal girl with a perfectly normal lived-in bedroom, and knowing Buffy, she probably had.

He picked up a skirt off the floor, ripped up the side and coated in a blood that was definitely not human. He clutched it to him, sliding onto the ground, crying deeply into it. She wasn't come home. The whole thing had been so surreal, so impossible. But seeing everything how she had left it, so familiar, yet so foreign ... she would never, ever be back. She would never finish that glass of water, or hem up her skirt, or break a vampire's jaw with her boots. She was no longer the vampire Slayer, because she was no longer anything. She was just ... dead.

~
But I'm still waiting
For you to come back
I'm aching
For you to walk through that door
And hold me once more
But you won't
And still I go on waiting
~

The morning found Dawn on the floor, wrapped in her blanket and crying in her sleep. Willow watched her from a chair by the doorway, not wanting to wake her from the few hours of sleep she had gotten in the past few days. She tried to read a magazine, but her eyes drifted back to the svelte, weeping girl without fail.

"How long has she been doing that for?"

Willow jumped. "I didn't hear you," she whispered to Angel. "She's been crying since I came in an hour ago. I - I don't want to wake her up, she hasn't slept --"

"Have you taken her to Buffy's grave?"

"We didn't want to make it - to make it harder," Willow told him, almost defensively.

"At dusk, we're going to the graveyard."

"But --"

"Willow." His voice was gentle, but firm. "She needs it. I need it."

*

Dusk drew quickly, finding Dawn still sheathed in many a blanket in bed, as Willow and Angel sat in chairs opposite her bed, watching her closely.

The minute the sun fell behind the clouds, Angel was up, gently shaking Dawn, pleading with her to get up.

"No, no," she moaned, half-asleep. "No, no."

"Get up, Dawn." Angel carefully lifted her into a sitting position, kneeling on the floor so they were eye-to-eye. "We're going to Buffy's grave."

Dawn's eyes widened, and she drew back sharply, recoiling against the wall. "No, no! You can't ... no!"

Angel didn't argue with her, not verbally. He reached down and grabbed beat-up clogs from under her bed, sliding first one and then the other onto her thin feet. He looked her straight in the eye as he told her softly, "We're going to see Buffy's grave now, Dawn."

Dawn didn't nod or shake her head, instead she stood slowly and followed him, confused and scared, like a lost child.

He drove quickly to the grave, as he knew exactly where it was without ever having been there. He stopped the car against a curb and took Dawn's hand, leading the uncertain young girl towards the looming stone.

When they reached the grave, so fresh that the dirt rectangle was still utterly soft, Dawn turned to Angel, fear shining in her eyes by way of tears. "Angel ... I don't know what to do."

Angel bent down to kiss her gently on the forehead. "Talk to her." He left Dawn at the grave then, moving backwards several feet to lean against a tree and give her some privacy. His vampire hearing could, of course, make out every word she was saying, but he dutifully focused his attention elsewhere.

~
Wish you could talk to me somehow
Tell me what do I do now?
I'm still waiting

I'm still waiting
For you to come back
I'm aching
For you to walk through that door
And hold me once more
But you won't
Waiting
~

Dawn collapsed onto the ground, dirt marks stretching across her clothing. She placed her cheek against the cool ground as tears streamed down her face and sobs wracked her body. "Buffy ... Buffy, I don't know what to do."

Dawn pulled herself into a sitting position and ran her hand along the cold engravings. "You were the strong one, Buffy. You were the one who made life real. I was never real. Never, ever. Not even if I had been Mom's own daughter ... not even if I had been your own sister. I would never be real like you. You always knew what to do. Even when you didn't ... you came up with something. You made it work. Remember that time when we were supposed to go to Myrtle Beach, but Mom and Dad got in that huge fight and Dad didn't come home for two days, so we were stuck home? And I was so upset because I had never been to South Carolina and I really wanted to go to the beach. And you filled the bathtub up with water and blue food coloring and put a bunch of toy boats and, and we put on our bathing suits, and you told me not to be sad because this was better than any beach in South Carolina, because it was our beach."

Dawn leaned against the headstone, choking back a sob. "I wish I knew what to do now, Buffy. Willow and Tara are great, and - and Angel's here, but it's not the same. It's empty. The house is empty. God, Buffy, why'd you go and do that? That should have been me! You were real! You existed! Now there's nothing! Now all this family has left is a fabricated girl, Buffy. Why?"

Dawn stopped then, suddenly moving backwards and away from the gravestone. "I love you, Buffy. I love you so much. But I can't do this. I can't hurt like this anymore. Goodbye, Buffy." She stood up then, and kissed the top of the tombstone gently. "Goodbye."

She walked slowly back to Angel, her arms limp at her sides. "I'm done," she said thickly.

He looked up, at her tear-streaked face, her sad eyes, and hugged her reassuringly. "Go wait in the car, Dawn." He handed her the keys. "Here, you can put on the radio or the air conditioner or whatever you want."

Dawn took the keys wordlessly and left, leaving Angel to his thoughts and good-byes.

He moved slowly to the gravestone, not making a noise. He knelt down, placing a hand on the fresh grave. "Hey, Buffy.

"I wish I had gotten to see you more recently, before you ... passed away. You're so brave, sweetheart ... what you did was so brave. Dawn is lucky to have a sister like you. We're all lucky to have known you. It's strange, Buffy, to know that if I need to call you, you won't be there. I miss you so much. I didn't even see you that much, but there wasn't a day when I didn't think of you. I miss you, Buffy. I miss the smell of your hair, like strawberries and vanilla. I miss your laugh, it was always so happy, Buffy, even when you didn't mean it. I miss your voice. You had a beautiful voice. I could listen to you for hours on end and never tire. I miss your little quirks, the way you had to have six tablespoons of sugar before you would touch your coffee, but if a grain of NutraSweet got in it, you would throw the whole thing out. The way you bought the same coat in seven different colors, just so your coat would match your outfit. The way begged for a driver's license, but you were too afraid of getting hurt and leaving your mom and Dawn alone to ever try to get one. You were so caring like that, Buffy.

"I'm lost without you. Even when you weren't there, you were my guiding light. My reason to go on ... you were the reason I believed I had a shot at redemption. Wesley found a prophecy last year. It said that eventually, I would earn my redemption. I would be human. I wanted to tell you, sweetheart. It doesn't matter now."

He shrugged to himself, then ran his hand over the words on her gravestone, his fingers lingering on her name. "Tell me what I should do now, Buffy. I don't know what to do anymore. The world doesn't make sense without you in it."

Angel stood up, staring down at the gravestone. "I wish you could talk to me, sweetheart. I miss you. ... I love you." Then, like Dawn, he kissed the top of the stone and turned back towards Dawn and the car.

~
I'm aching
For you to walk through that door
And hold me once more
But you won't (you won't)
Yeah, I know (I know)
That you won't (you won't)
Still I go on
Waiting
~

The ride home was mostly silent, until Dawn spoke up, however meekly. "Angel?"

"Yes?"

"It hurts."

Angel reached over and tugged her hair affectionately. "I know it does. But you'll be OK. We both will."

Dawn inhaled deeply. "I'm glad I ... I talked to her. I felt like she could hear me, you know? I'm glad I got to say goodbye, but - but -"

"It still hurts," Angel finished, and Dawn nodded.

"I know it does, Dawn ... it's always going to hurt. She was something special, one of a kind. But you have to push through it ... you have to remember her how she was. She wanted you to live, Dawn, not die inside."

"And if I can't? What if I can't make it without her? What about when it hurts too much?"

"Then you'll have me. It's going to be rough for a long, long time. We'll take care of each other, Dawn. I'll take care of you. I promise. We're going to be just fine."

He pulled up in front of her house and they both got out of the car slowly. Dawn turned to him, tears in her eyes but a sense of understanding looming behind them. She ran to him, impulsively, and hugged him. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "My sister loved you a lot."

As they both entered the house, Willow and Tara greeted them at the door.

"So?" Willow asked softly, worry in her eyes as she looked at Angel. "How are ... things?"

Both Dawn and Angel were silent for a minute, as the younger one stared at the ground and the older one stared at her. Finally, Dawn spoke, as she breezed past Willow and into the house.

"We're going to be just fine."

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