A short, balding man with an exasperated expression glared at her. "Can you ring this up?"

Dawn took the man's credit card, ran it through the machine, and waited for the print out as the man grumbled about how rude she was. Yeah. So what? He wasn't winning customer of the year.

Dawn handed him the ticket. "Sign this."

He stared at her.

"What?" she snapped.

"I need a pen."

Could he *be* any more annoying? "Here." When the man handed back the receipt, Dawn slipped it into the slot in the register and returned to her busy afternoon of staring into space.

He coughed. She ignored him.

"Excuse me."

Was he still here? "What?!"

The guy gazed pointedly at his purchase still sitting on the counter.

Okay, so she hadn't bagged it. Big deal. Dawn pulled a bag from under the counter and dropped the Eau de Slug candle into it wondering why anyone would buy an Eau de Slug candle. Did slugs even have a smell? And who would want to smell them anyway? And if Anya was knew *anything* about marketing wouldn't she call it "Eau de Escargot?"

The man took his bag and growled. "Have a nice day."

Was he mocking her?

"Sure. Whatever." Dawn didn't try to sound sincere and refused to pursue hypocrisy far enough to force a smile. She wasn't Miss Customer Service.

The bell rang behind the customer as he slammed the door, but Dawn hardly noticed. She sat dry eyed, wondering whether she should invest in a couple of bottles of Visine. She had no tears left. She had nothing. Dawn guessed that at some point she must have blown an internal fuse and the emotional lights had gone out.

Buffy was dead. Xander was dead. Willow was the true evil dead, and Spike. . .Dawn's thoughts skittered away from Spike. She didn't want to think about him. She didn't want to think about any of them. She just wanted to sit still and go unnoticed, let the world go by without her.

It was funny in a horrible way--very Alannis Morisette ironic-that for so long she had wanted nothing more than to be noticed, and now she wanted to curl into a ball of nothingness. She didn't want anyone looking at her and wondering where all her emotions had gone. . .not that it was a problem here.

At school there were teachers and counselors (the non-demon kind) who had worried expressions and sympathetic words, but in the Magic Box there was only silence and numbness. She, Anya, and Giles had swept up the glass, repaired the door, and put the merchandise back on the shelves, but that was the easy part, the unimportant part. They had reopened the store, but nothing was fixed-not really. The repairs were superficial because what had been broken here had been more than windows.

"I think we can close early today," Anya said in a distracted voice.

Six months ago Anya never would have said that. She would have been thinking of ways to keep the store open twenty-four hours a day because you never knew when someone might need bat brains or chicken feet or mandrake root. But that was six months ago and things had been different then. Now, Anya gazed out the window with a far away expression eyes and considered going home early.

It felt ridiculous that after everything, Anya was all Dawn had left -- Anya who had hurt Buffy with what she had done with Spike, Anya who had returned to her old demon self, Anya who was. . .well. . .Anya. But vengeance demon was grieving, too and she mostly left Dawn alone which was what Dawn wanted most these days.

At some point she and Anya had decided to live together, although 'lived' was too animated a term. It would be more correct to say they co-existed. Most of the time Dawn and Anya wandered around their two-bedroom apartment behaving like near-silent strangers. They could go hours without looking at other or saying anything more important than, "Have you seen the remote?"

The apartment was nice, though. It was brand new. It even smelled of fresh paint and carpet, and Anya had nice taste. She had chosen soft, cheerful colors and there was something comfortingly feminine about the place. But more important than decor was the fact that the apartment had no past and no memories attached to it. No way could Dawn have returned to Revello Drive, and Anya categorically refused to enter Xander's apartment. It would hurt too much, so in the end they had found someplace new and furnished it with all new stuff. Even the Magic Box's appearance had changed. The black-and-green vinyl tile floor had been replaced with wood and the painted wood shelving was now tung-oiled maple. It looked different, and different was good. Anything was better than the past.

Although Dawn hadn't wanted a *complete* break with the past, at least not a big enough break to go to England with Giles. She gave Giles credit for trying to make one more go of it in Sunnydale, but Dawn had seen that it was killing him. Anya had urged him to go-not because she wanted the store for herself any longer, but because she said looking at Giles be sad made her more sad, and Anya had all the sad she could take.

Dawn had agreed. Giles *had* looked sad. He had become a ghost of himself. His Slayer was dead. . . again, and he had ignored the warning signs with Willow. He blamed himself for just about everything which led to him drinking too much and staying alone at his apartment too long. Finally both Anya and Dawn had told him to go. He had tried to arrange for Dawn to go with him, but Dawn refused. Sunnydale might be hell, but it was home.

She had dismissed out of hand any thought of going to Hank Summers, who wasn't *really* her Dad and who would have been a bad one even if he were. In the real world-- and not just her monk manufactured memory one-- Dawn had never met the man. It seemed stupid to turn her life over to a stranger, and the only other option had been foster care. No way would she agree to that, so out of all the choices open to her, Dawn picked the one requiring the least effort and emotion.

A single wish to Halfrek had been enough to seal the deal. The paperwork had been handled instantly, the details magically fixed. Any protests anyone may have raised were prevented by mojo which told them there were no questions to be asked. Everyone accepted the situation with supernatural serenity.

In late June Dawn's and Anya's listless solitude had been interrupted by the arrival of Wesley Wyndham-Price. Giles, in an effort to break the last of his ties to Sunnydale, had sold his share of the Magic Box to the younger Watcher, and to everyone's surprise Wesley had fit right in.

Wesley seemed so much older than Dawn remembered. He was more quiet and more calm, and he seemed to shoulder some kind of oppressive grief of his own. Wes didn't talk much about what had happened in L.A., about Angel's son, Angel's disappearance, or what had happened to Cordy, but it was clear it bothered him. He had also made clear that he wouldn't discuss any of it -not that Anya or herself made much effort to discuss anything.

They all had their secrets.

When Wesley had arrived in town, Anya had begged Dawn to keep the secret about her "demon" situation. It was one thing for Dawn and Giles to know. Anya trusted Dawn and Giles, but the Council frightened her, and she didn't know Wesley.

Sure. Fine. Whatever. Dawn didn't care. If Anya didn't want to reveal that beneath her pretty face she was really all veiny, Dawn saw no reason to bring it up. Dawn didn't want the Watcher to know how her and Anya's living arrangements had come about so she could see why Anya might not want her own . . .uh. . .*situation* to be known--especially with a new Slayer in town. Or was that the old Slayer?

Faith was back. She was the main reason Wesley had agreed to buy into the Magic Box. Slayers moved to the hellmouth. Faith was the Slayer, and, although Dawn didn't know the details, she had gotten the impression that Faith had insisted that if she had a Watcher, her watcher had to be Wesley.

Reportedly, Wes had balked at the idea. Who wouldn't? *Faith* was involved, but Wesley had hinted that Faith wasn't the problem. He had pointed out that he was no longer part of the Council. Eventually, however, Wesley had given in or the Council must have given in. *Someone* must have given in because here he and Faith were sitting alongside Anya and herself in dreary silence. They were four people studiously ignoring one another and existing in bubbles of private misery.

"Do you think we should close early?" Anya asked again. No one had responded to her earlier statement.

Wesley looked up from his book. "Yes, Anya, I believe it would be acceptable to close fifteen minutes early." There was an edge to Wesley's voice that Dawn didn't remember from the days when he had worn dorky suits and too much hair gel, from the days before he had a scar stretching from his Adam's apple to just below his ear.

Anya nodded. "Yes, I think we can close early." Had she even heard Wesley's answer? Dawn didn't know, and, despite what she was saying, Anya still made no move to lock the door. She simply stood at the window watching the fading light. Dawn wasn't the only one who spent too much time staring into space.

The silence was broken by Faith slapping her hands on the table and moving to stand. "It's almost dark. Think I'll head out for patrol." And Dawn watched her back as Faith moved to go.

Faith looked mostly the same as Dawn remembered--even though it was a fake memory. Considering the kind of damage Willow had done to her, Faith looked pretty good. Her hair was a little shorter --it had been singed in the Willow fight and had needed to be cut-but now it was shoulder length and as enviably thick as ever. You'd never know that Slayer healing powers aside, Faith had spent more than a week in the hospital, the first day in the ICU. Now, the only noticeable indication of the hurt she'd endured was the smooth, pink scar that twisted from the back of Faith's left hand to the under side of her forearm.

The bell over the door rang as Faith walked out the door, and, finally, Anya locked it behind her.

Silence again. It was so silent that Dawn thought she could hear the ticking of the clock and Wesley and Anya's breathing. Dawn couldn't take it. She understood why Faith had needed to stand and go. She needed to be anywhere but here.

"Where are you going?" Anya asked when Dawn also moved to go.

"Out." The words came out more harshly than Dawn intended.

Anya frowned, and some lingering emotion from the days when she could still feel things made Dawn relent. "Dinner and videos with a friend," Dawn explained. "I'll be back later."

She walked into the back room to get her stuff and heard Anya say to Wesley, "She doesn't cry. I cry all the time, but Dawn doesn't cry. I don't think it's healthy. Do you think that's healthy? All those emotions bottled up. She could pop or spontaneously combust or something. I've seen that happen, you know."

Dawn slipped out the back door telling herself that Anya was wrong. There was no bottled up emotion. There was no emotion at all. She looked at the sky. It wasn't dark yet, just kind of pink and purple with enough daylight left to convince Dawn she had time to trace a familiar path.

She used to make this trek all the time, just to hang out with Spike and listen to his stories or watch his beat-up TV. It used to piss Buffy off, and Dawn had sort of enjoyed doing that. Pissing Buffy off had once been motivation in and of itself. Once.

It had confused Dawn why Buffy would become so angry about her hanging out with Spike. After all, it was Buffy who had taken her to the crypt in the first place. Looking back, Dawn was still kind of. . .okay, a *lot* confused by whatever had gone on between Spike and Buffy. It made no rational sense, but Dawn guessed it didn't matter much. Not now that Buffy was gone. Not now that Spike was gone too. Clem was around though, and he was easy company--nice and not too depressed which was rare in Sunnydale.

Dawn reached the crypt and jiggled the handle on the door. It had a tendency to stick, so she wasn't worried. But when a hard push still didn't budge it, she began to think this time might be different. This time the door was locked. Spike had never bothered to lock it, but Clem had a bigger problem with people barging in unannounced. He usually ended up with potato chips or Fritos scattered all over the floor. =Plus, Clem doesn't get off on being dragged into a fight without warning.=

Dawn huffed, crossed her arms and leaned against the wrought iron gate that barred the door. Now, what was she supposed to do? She didn't want to go back to the Magic Box, and she didn't want to go ho-to the apartment she shared with Anya. Maybe she could just hang out here and wait for Clem.

Dawn almost convinced herself that staying was a workable plan until she allowed herself to become aware of just how dark it had become. Dark in Sunnydale equaled 'not good.' The creepy-crawlies came out. The street lights were turning on, and the mist was rising from the ground like one of those old black and white horror movies that aired in marathons on Halloween. Goosebumps rose on Dawn's skin. It wasn't safe to stay here. Not without the protection of the crypt or a floppy eared demon, or a snarky, overly emotional vampire who had become her unlikely friend.

Hugging her jacket close, Dawn hurried out of the cemetery. She was beginning to hear sounds, scary sounds, the creaks and groans of coffin lids lifting and tomb covers being toppled. . .or at least the sounds created by her imagination running wild.

Wild imagination. Right. That's all it was. That explained everything. It was just her imagination, not cold undead creatures popping out of their graves, and. . .um. . .she really should be on her way because Dawn didn't think the sounds were just her imagination. They were- Dawn frowned. Fighting?

Ducking behind a tombstone, Dawn cautiously peeked over the granite and gave a sigh of relief. It was Faith, and she was fighting as skillfully and efficiently as ever. A fledging vamp didn't stand a chance against a Slayer. Hell, *no* vamp stood a chance. . .unless, of course, the vamp's name was Spike.

Then Dawn noticed that Faith's opponent had a familiar moonlight blonde head.

"Spike!"

* * *

=This vamp knows how to fight.= Faith had noticed that right off. Normal graveyard vamps were usually newbies and as such were easy kills. That was the reason Faith had chosen to patrol the cemetery.

In places like The Bronze, collateral damage was always a possibility. Sometimes people got in the way. They messed up the fight and got hurt. . .or worse. Faith could testify that. When fists and stakes were flying it was often difficult to tell the difference between human and vampire. Faith had made that mistake once. She was trying not to make it again. So, whenever possible, Faith stuck to the graveyards. Here, the vampires were easy to spot. The guy or girl jumping out of a grave was a vampire. No questions asked. No doubts needed--not that it was impossible to find a human wandering around a cemetery at night-though in Sunnydale it would take an incredibly *stupid* human to do that-but with a nearly empty cemetery and little to no interference-- Faith could trust her instincts.

A Slayer could feel the presence of vampires. It was an odd sensation and hard to describe. Things just felt. . .different. Faith couldn't put her finger on it, and she couldn't articulate it. She just knew it when she felt it, and she was feeling it now.

This one was old. Faith could feel that too. Newbies felt --- Faith searched for a way to articulate it even to herself and the best she could think of was 'tight'. Somehow in her Slayer senses they were like balloons with too much air. Demons were the evil helium and the person was the stretchy shell. Maybe that's fledglings walked around in game face all the time; their demons didn't quite fit. And maybe that's why they went 'pop' so easily.

But old ones were different -- not that they didn't also go pop -- it was just. . .they fit. The helium did whatever it was that helium did, and where the balloon had once been too full, it wasn't any more.

Of course, most of this was speculation based on the oldest vampire Faith had ever met -- Angel. He hardly set off her Slayer senses at all. There was something different about him. He fit. Faith had always thought it had been his soul, but now she wondered if it was because his vamp "fit" too.

Faith spun on her heel. The kicking motion was fluid and powerful. She was quite proud of herself but the vamp deftly dodged the blow. Faith attacked and he defended. It was almost as if someone had choreographed this fight because the vamp seemed to anticipate Faith's every move.

Something whispered in the back of Faith's mind that this vamp might actually have a shot at killing her even as she struck a glancing blow off his shoulder. He caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her in a way that in less deadly struggle would have demanded her yelling "Uncle!" She stomped his foot-not the most warrior-like move but it worked.

He let go of her, shouting, "Bloody hell!" And Faith blinked and turned to look at the vamp-really look--for the very first time.

Usually she just processed 'vamp,' and didn't go further Looking too closely at her target would mean assigning them an identity which only made them harder to kill. But this one. . .this one she recognized.

A memory resurfaced. Faith had been dancing at The Bronze, but she hadn't *quite* been herself. Actually, she had been Buffy. She had stolen Buffy's face, Buffy's life, and . . .other things that had belonged to Buffy. The music had been pounding and Faith had been having a hell of a time, using drink and noise to drown the ache, anger, and loneliness inside her. Then she had bumped into a man whose striking bone structure somehow surpassed 'handsome' and landed in the territory of 'supernaturally beautiful'. . .in a masculine kind of way. And he had recognized her--or at least he'd recognized Buffy.

"You're a vampire," Faith had said.

"Yeah and soon as I get this chip out of my head I'll be a vampire again." His accented voice had been filled with exasperation. "But until then I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree so why don't you sod off and let me enjoy the lack of ambiance?"

"Okay."

He had looked offended. "Oh, fine! Throw it in my face! Spike's not a threat anymore. I'll just turn my back. *He* can't hurt me -"

The name had been familiar. "Spike." The Slayer killer. Faith's first Watcher had told her the name because this particular vampire was notorious. The Council used him as a cautionary tale. Spike was different, dangerous. Most vamps avoided the Slayer if they could, and, if they did seek to kill her, they would do so in packs. No one faced a Slayer *alone*. . .except Spike. This vamp had single handedly fought several Slayers and not only unlived to tell the tale, but had bested two. He could fight and win. And he was not helpless any more.

When Spike had twisted her arm, he had not so much as flinched. He was free. The chip no longer worked, and Faith started to fight in earnest.

Faith had no intention of dying this night, but it was all too clear that Spike knew what he was doing. He knew Slayers well. When she tried to strike him with her stake, he parried the thrust. They moved in tandem. It was like a dance. Two steps forward. One step back. Kick. Duck. Turn.

She heard Spike chuckle, and Faith saw red. She raised her arm and realized she had left her right side undefended. And she saw the moment he realized it too. She could see it in his eyes. She was vulnerable to attack and he knew it. He could win. He could kill her. . .and he pulled his punch.

What?

Faith couldn't quite believe it. Spike had let the opportunity go. He continued the dance, but he had passed up the opportunity to win.

An insane thought teased her. A possibility Faith should never consider hovered around the edges of her thoughts, and, before she had made a conscious decision, Faith dropped another punch, left herself open for another attack. . .and waited to see what he would do.

Spike ignored it. He didn't take the opening either. Faith was stunned. Was this some trick, some mindgame she didn't understand? What was he doing? She wasn't winning, but Spike wasn't allowing her to lose. =What the hell?=

Faith was in mid-motion when she heard the scream. "Spike!" And a coltish, brown haired girl threw herself between Faith and Spike.

=Oh God!= Memories of how she had messed up before flew through Faith's mind. She tried to divert her attack. She didn't want to stake Dawn.

Diverting her momentum caused Faith to tumble to the ground and, as she hit the dirt, she noticed the vampire had the same problem. With preternatural grace he had moved to avoid hitting Dawn -- which was shocking and impossible and undeniably true-but graceful or not the it was too late. Like herself, the act of pulling his punch caused Spike to fall to the ground.

"Bloody hell," he muttered just before Dawn tackled him.

As Faith sat up, she watched Dawn wrap her arms around the vampire's neck, and the vampire awkwardly, tentatively enfold the girl in his embrace.

Dawn was crying. In all the months Faith had been in Sunnydale she hadn't seen Dawn cry once. "You came back. I knew you would come back."

Faith saw the vamp gently caress Dawn's hair. "Bit-"

Then Dawn pulled back and slapped him. "Where were you?"

"Bit-"

"Don't 'Bit' me! Where were you? You left us, and we needed you!"

He sighed. "It's complicated."

"Not complicated. We *needed* you. 'To the end of the world,' remember? You were supposed be here."

Spike looked frustrated. A muscle worked in his jaw and his voice sounded impatient. "Dawn-"

"She's dead!"

Spike blanched. Faith didn't know a vampire *could* blanch, but he did.

Tears streaked Dawn's face and her voice was hoarse and choked. "Buffy's dead." And it was like someone had sucked the sound out of the air. Everything was still and quiet and eerie.

The vampire took a breath and asked, "How?"

The teen punched the him in the shoulder. "It's your fault. You weren't here. Why weren't you here? I hate you!" Dawn hit him again and again. Pummelling him but the vampire didn't seem to notice and never raised a hand in his own defense.

"Buffy. . ." He choked.

Dawn pulled away, roughly rubbing away her tears with the back of her hand she told him to go. "Leave!"

Spike looked at Dawn with pale blue eyes filled with pain. "Niblet. . ."

"No! Get out!" Her high, insistent, ear splitting cry was enough to raise the dead. . .or at least convince one to leave. Spike stumbled to his feet. "Go!" Dawn screamed, and Spike disappeared into the night.

Faith watched him go because she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. What was she supposed to do about any of this? For that matter what the hell *was* this?

Dawn wrapped her arms around herself as she sank to the ground and gave a shuddering -she was someone else, she would reach out to the girl. But she couldn't imagine Dawn would want that, not from her. And besides, Faith didn't know how.

Thank God a trio of vampires stupidly chose that moment to attack. The first one didn't even have a chance to get a few good punches in before Faith dusted him. "I don't-" She firmly planted her stake in the sternum of the second vamp who exploded in a brown-gray cloud. "-have time for this." The last vampire met a dusty end as well before Faith turned around. "Now, Dawn. . ."

Dawn was gone.

"Damn it!"

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