RATING: G-PG NOTES: This ficlet was originally written as part of the epilogue to Chain. It was cut from that story, but it stands pretty well on its own as a further exploration of Dawn's character. It takes place the day after the events of the season 6 finale, Grave. One major difference from canon is the room where Tara died.
	The day after the world didn’t end… None of them had slept yet. Too many things were going on all at once. Phone calls were placed. Arrangements were made. Bags were packed. And there was discussion after discussion over what was to be done. What will come next. None of it, of course involves her. She sits through it all, off to the side, quietly out of the way. Giles, wearing a loose shirt over bandaged ribs, winces every so often as he lays out the best course of action. Buffy crouches next to his chair as they go over the itinerary he has painstakingly laid out on an empty page of Dawn’s Geography notebook. Buffy is nodding along so much she looks like one of those bobble-head dolls. She hovers protectively over him, her hand resting absently on his shoulder as they speak. They have this whole nonverbal comforting/drawing comfort thing going on. Dawn can’t remember ever seeing them touch like that. Not in a gross way or anything. Just… quietly reassuring themselves that the other is there. It’s so beautiful to watch, Dawn actually starts to tear up. Of course, it could just be because she hasn’t slept yet and her eyes are tired and she keeps yawning about every fifteen seconds. Okay, correction. One of them has gotten some sleep. Xander’s sitting there on the sofa, snoring quietly with his head tilted down to his shoulder and his mouth hanging open. There is some drool involved. Any other time, she would have taken a picture by now. This particular night, she lacks the will to actually get up and grab the camera. Or to do anything much at all. Several hours ago, she had gotten up and made some sandwiches for everybody. They’re all still just sitting there, piled up on a little plate on the coffee table. Nobody else was hungry either. That’s okay. Making them is what had been important. Next to Xander, Willow sits all stiff and solemn, with tears streaming silently down her face. She has Xander’s hand clenched in her own. Like if she lets go of him even for a second, it’ll be the end of the world or something. Maybe it would. Neither of them have moved for hours. Willow hasn’t said a word since Xander brought her back. She looks terrible. Older. Sick. Broken. She’s been crying since they got here. Sometimes she’ll stop and just stare blankly at the coffee table for an hour or so and then just burst into tears all over again. Xander has stayed at her side this whole time. Just sitting with her, letting her grip his hand like a lifeline. Dawn isn’t sure if she could do the same. Even when she brought in the sandwiches and laid them down, she still kept a good, safe distance. Not like any distance would actually be safe. But still, distance. All the planning and fuss is about how to help Willow. She gets that. Willow needs help. And she wants her to get better. Really, she does. Because Willow was always really nice to her… before she wasn’t. Willow was her friend, right? Or… is. Is. Not like she’s dead. And when you think about it, Dawn’s not sure what she would have done to slimy-assed Warren if she had had the power that Willow has. Deep down, she suspects it might have been something worse. But Willow had hurt her. Her friend. Really hurt her. Like, for an instant, when Willow had her cornered, she had felt herself being pulled apart – had felt the weird tingle of her molecules rearranging or whatever. A feeling like falling. It had just been a few seconds, but she had felt it. Willow had nearly made her not exist anymore. In those few seconds, Dawn had been completely terrified. Like an animal caught in a trap, wanting to chew its leg off or something… anything to get away. Not able to get away. And even worse – part of her not wanting to get away. Part of her had wanted it – wanted to return to some other state of being that didn’t have friends or family or… anything to connect to at all. Part of her had wanted to slough off Dawn Summers, dorky little human kid, like she was nothing but a tight-fitting shell. And she had been powerless to stop it. Any of it. She had been stuck crying in a corner waiting to be killed. Again. Without a word, Dawn gets up and goes to the stairs. Buffy looks up and gives her a quick, tired smile before turning back to the current mission. Nobody else moves or notices. Dawn climbs up the stairs and gets ready for bed by rote, washing her face and brushing her teeth automatically. Pulling back her bedcovers, she hesitates, turning back and going into Buffy’s room. She keeps the lights off and takes a giant step over the threshold. She doesn’t want to see or touch the stain that’s still there on the carpet. Apparently the police and stuff don’t take care of those things. You have to clean up the blood of the people you love all on your own. Moving quickly, wanting to get out of the room as fast as possible, she drags Buffy’s spare weapons chest out from the floor of the closet and opens it. She pulls out a blade. Nothing fancy. But sharp, and solid in her hand. She’s not sure if it’s a kind of dagger or a short sword or what. She wants to know though. And she’s going to make sure that Buffy teaches her. She carries the weapon with her, back to her bedroom. Placing it on the nightstand next to her clock radio and Hello Kitty lamp, she slides into bed and pulls up the covers. Turning her head to the side, she stares at the blade. Just in case. Because she’s not just some dumb kid. She’s not some worthless energy key or whatever either. She’s not really sure what she is, but she does know one thing for sure. She’s not gonna cry in the corner any more. END

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