New fic -- Dawn and Tara, post-"Grave."
Here is the promised Dawn and Tara story.
Title: After
Author: Elisabeth
Rating: G
Length: 1,500 words
Summary: You can pack up someone's apartment, but you can't get rid of their voice. Dawn and Tara, set after "Grave."
The last thing you steal is her ring, an amethyst in a silver band with delicate vines carved around the ring, endless. Though, when you hold it in your hand or twist it, idly, on your thumb, you will wonder if it counts as stealing if a the owner's ghost tells you to take something.
That was later, of course.
After the morgue came to take Tara away; the attendant seemed almost surprised that she had been shot. "Most of the deaths we get are from neck injury," he said, lifting her body into the waiting hearse.
After the police officer came by, and looked at Buffy with hard eyes, and quizzed her for half an hour - trying, you thought, to trip her up. Finally he put his pad away and said there was no evidence to make an arrest, but he'd put an APB out for Warren Mears. "You be well, Miss Summers," he said. "This house does seem to attract its share of trouble."
After the morgue made it clear that they wouldn't release Tara's body without permission from the Maclays, and Giles volunteered to call them. When he got off the phone, his eyes were red with anger. "Her father-" Giles spat the word - "said, 'Those that live in sin, will die in sin,' and that he, quote, didn't care what we did with her but that if she had any money he wanted it. But he agreed to call the funeral parlor, so..." he sighed, another duty done.
After you stood by the grave, Buffy on your left and Xander on your right, the morning before Giles and Willow left for England. You all shuffled their feet and sobbed as the representative from the funeral home talked about Jesus calling Tara home.
After Tara's landlord called and made it clear that she was so sorry and it was a terrible tragedy, of course, but Tara's stuff absolutely had to be out of the apartment by the end of the week so she could repaint it and lease it by June first.
You surprise yourself and volunteer to be the one to pack it up. Buffy looked concerned. "Are you sure, Dawn? I feel like it should be my job."
You nod, feeling sorry for your sister in her grease-smelling uniform. "It's no big, Buffy. It'll help me say goodbye. Besides, you're working all the time, and I'm just hanging out watching Saved By the Bell reruns."
"Getting more than your RDA of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen?," Buffy smiled. "Okay, I'll drop you off there on my way to work tomorrow. Xander can pick you up after."
The studio apartment seems smaller without Tara in it. For the first time, you notice that some of the Christmas lights around the ceiling were burnt out, that the green Indian cloth on the futon had yellowed in the sun. The room is small, almost bare - you can tell that Tara never really thought of it as home.
First things first: You take a deep breath and open the trunk that served as a combination chest of drawers, coffee table, and desk, and put the neatly-folded sweaters and t-shirts into a bag for Goodwill. A pink jersey shirt with bell sleeves makes you waiver, and you consider taking it home, sleeping with it, because you could picture Tara in it the last time you went out, beautiful and alive and giggling with you over French fries.
You bite your lip and consign the shirt to Goodwill.
Next, the closet. A few skirts, some jeans, far more shoes than you expected, a couple of jackets. A dark gray suit Tara had bought on sale to wear for a job interview. She had modeled it for you once, face strange under makeup, hair in a bun. "Think I look stern and corporate?," she asked. You giggled.
She would have gotten the job, a summer internship working in the office of a school for children for special needs. You know that. You like to imagine her, humming as she glided around the office, hands as capable of filing papers as they were of mixing a potion or comforting you. But Glory sucked her mind out before the interview, and then it was the summer Buffy was gone, and - you can't think about it, stiffing the suit quickly into the bag for Goodwill.
All of the clothes disposed of - you keep some shirts and a pair of boots that might be Willow's, a skirt you know Anya coveted (If Anya comes back, I'll give her this) - you go to her bookcase. She mostly shared things with Willow, or left them with her; all that's on the shelf are a few textbooks, some magic books, and some well-thumbed fantasy -- Octavia Butler and Madeleine L'Engel. You box them to take home, considering which ones you'll read. Willow might want the others, you think. Or Giles.
A quick sweep through the kitchen - you throw out the yogurt, cereal, soup, hundreds of soy sauce packets, something growing fur inside a Tupperware tomb. Two plates, a green glass bowl and IKEA silverware go into the Goodwill bag, wrapped in newspaper.
All that is left is the bathroom. Mechanical, you're sweeping everything from under the sink into the trash (okay, almost everything - you keep her vanilla body spray, reasoning that Willow might want it, but really just wanting to keep Tara's scent around a bit longer) when you hear her voice.
It is so soft you cannot be sure whether it is her, or your own breath, a radio in a neighbor's apartment.
Dawn, she says. Hello.
"Hello," you say, more curious than scared.
A beat, then: Don't be afraid. I miss you.
"I miss you, too," you say, tears stinging your eyes. "Where are you? Are you okay?"
Laughter like the tinkling of distant bells. I am at peace, she says.
"Are you - have you seen my mom?"
It's not like that here, she says. I can feel her love for you, though.
"Love, that's, that's good…"
She watches over you. So do I. And Dawn, she says. I needed to tell you something.
"What?"
My jewelry. It's mostly my mom's. I hid it under the ice in my freezer - I was always so afraid of losing it. So afraid. And now …. I just want you all to have it, Dawn. You and Buffy and Willow and Xander. The amethyst ring is yours, if you want.
"That's all? Jewelry?"
Another laugh. That and that I love you, she said. And I forgive Willow. Goodbye.
A rush of air around her, warm and vanilla-scented, kissing your forehead, and then you are alone again.
You scurry to the freezer, dig under the ice until your numbing hands feel plastic. You pull out a plastic baggie with a black cloth bag sealed inside. Dump it out onto the counter, and it is as Tara said; a few necklaces, a ring, a beaded bracelet that looks like jade.
You pocket the ring, feeling guilty without knowing why, put the rest of it into the box of things you're taking home.
You hear footsteps on the stair then, and then Xander is in the apartment. He is unbearably large and warm; you hug him tight.
"Great welcome, Dawnster, but you're cutting off my oxygen," he says. You smile, and step back.
His eyes sweep the room. "Looks like you got this all packed up. And thank you, by the way - I know this wasn't easy for you."
"It was nothing. Glad to help," you say, almost meaning it. You touch the bump the ring makes in your jeans pocket and smile as brightly as possible.
Halfway down the stairs, arms full, you ask: "Xander, do you believe in ghosts?"
"I'm a Sunnydale kid. I pretty much think anything is possible," he says. Neither of you say anything else until you're putting their boxes and bags into the back of his car. Then he asks, "Did - did you see Tara, Dawn?"
You hesitate. You want the story to be yours more than you want the relief of telling it, you decide.
"No. I just felt her presence, you know?"
Xander nods. "I had this buddy when I was about your age. Jesse. He - we lost him." He lets go of the boxes he's fiddling with and looks right at you. "I avoided thinking about him for a long time. Then last month we got a job to build an addition on the house next door to his. His parents moved out a long time ago. But the whole time I was there, I could swear I was hearing his voice. Even saw him once or twice, climbing up this tree he liked. I bet it was just the wind and my imagination, but - it helped me let go of him, you know?"
You nod, knowing all too well.
It's almost a relief to get home.
Title: After
Author: Elisabeth
Rating: G
Length: 1,500 words
Summary: You can pack up someone's apartment, but you can't get rid of their voice. Dawn and Tara, set after "Grave."
The last thing you steal is her ring, an amethyst in a silver band with delicate vines carved around the ring, endless. Though, when you hold it in your hand or twist it, idly, on your thumb, you will wonder if it counts as stealing if a the owner's ghost tells you to take something.
That was later, of course.
After the morgue came to take Tara away; the attendant seemed almost surprised that she had been shot. "Most of the deaths we get are from neck injury," he said, lifting her body into the waiting hearse.
After the police officer came by, and looked at Buffy with hard eyes, and quizzed her for half an hour - trying, you thought, to trip her up. Finally he put his pad away and said there was no evidence to make an arrest, but he'd put an APB out for Warren Mears. "You be well, Miss Summers," he said. "This house does seem to attract its share of trouble."
After the morgue made it clear that they wouldn't release Tara's body without permission from the Maclays, and Giles volunteered to call them. When he got off the phone, his eyes were red with anger. "Her father-" Giles spat the word - "said, 'Those that live in sin, will die in sin,' and that he, quote, didn't care what we did with her but that if she had any money he wanted it. But he agreed to call the funeral parlor, so..." he sighed, another duty done.
After you stood by the grave, Buffy on your left and Xander on your right, the morning before Giles and Willow left for England. You all shuffled their feet and sobbed as the representative from the funeral home talked about Jesus calling Tara home.
After Tara's landlord called and made it clear that she was so sorry and it was a terrible tragedy, of course, but Tara's stuff absolutely had to be out of the apartment by the end of the week so she could repaint it and lease it by June first.
You surprise yourself and volunteer to be the one to pack it up. Buffy looked concerned. "Are you sure, Dawn? I feel like it should be my job."
You nod, feeling sorry for your sister in her grease-smelling uniform. "It's no big, Buffy. It'll help me say goodbye. Besides, you're working all the time, and I'm just hanging out watching Saved By the Bell reruns."
"Getting more than your RDA of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen?," Buffy smiled. "Okay, I'll drop you off there on my way to work tomorrow. Xander can pick you up after."
The studio apartment seems smaller without Tara in it. For the first time, you notice that some of the Christmas lights around the ceiling were burnt out, that the green Indian cloth on the futon had yellowed in the sun. The room is small, almost bare - you can tell that Tara never really thought of it as home.
First things first: You take a deep breath and open the trunk that served as a combination chest of drawers, coffee table, and desk, and put the neatly-folded sweaters and t-shirts into a bag for Goodwill. A pink jersey shirt with bell sleeves makes you waiver, and you consider taking it home, sleeping with it, because you could picture Tara in it the last time you went out, beautiful and alive and giggling with you over French fries.
You bite your lip and consign the shirt to Goodwill.
Next, the closet. A few skirts, some jeans, far more shoes than you expected, a couple of jackets. A dark gray suit Tara had bought on sale to wear for a job interview. She had modeled it for you once, face strange under makeup, hair in a bun. "Think I look stern and corporate?," she asked. You giggled.
She would have gotten the job, a summer internship working in the office of a school for children for special needs. You know that. You like to imagine her, humming as she glided around the office, hands as capable of filing papers as they were of mixing a potion or comforting you. But Glory sucked her mind out before the interview, and then it was the summer Buffy was gone, and - you can't think about it, stiffing the suit quickly into the bag for Goodwill.
All of the clothes disposed of - you keep some shirts and a pair of boots that might be Willow's, a skirt you know Anya coveted (If Anya comes back, I'll give her this) - you go to her bookcase. She mostly shared things with Willow, or left them with her; all that's on the shelf are a few textbooks, some magic books, and some well-thumbed fantasy -- Octavia Butler and Madeleine L'Engel. You box them to take home, considering which ones you'll read. Willow might want the others, you think. Or Giles.
A quick sweep through the kitchen - you throw out the yogurt, cereal, soup, hundreds of soy sauce packets, something growing fur inside a Tupperware tomb. Two plates, a green glass bowl and IKEA silverware go into the Goodwill bag, wrapped in newspaper.
All that is left is the bathroom. Mechanical, you're sweeping everything from under the sink into the trash (okay, almost everything - you keep her vanilla body spray, reasoning that Willow might want it, but really just wanting to keep Tara's scent around a bit longer) when you hear her voice.
It is so soft you cannot be sure whether it is her, or your own breath, a radio in a neighbor's apartment.
Dawn, she says. Hello.
"Hello," you say, more curious than scared.
A beat, then: Don't be afraid. I miss you.
"I miss you, too," you say, tears stinging your eyes. "Where are you? Are you okay?"
Laughter like the tinkling of distant bells. I am at peace, she says.
"Are you - have you seen my mom?"
It's not like that here, she says. I can feel her love for you, though.
"Love, that's, that's good…"
She watches over you. So do I. And Dawn, she says. I needed to tell you something.
"What?"
My jewelry. It's mostly my mom's. I hid it under the ice in my freezer - I was always so afraid of losing it. So afraid. And now …. I just want you all to have it, Dawn. You and Buffy and Willow and Xander. The amethyst ring is yours, if you want.
"That's all? Jewelry?"
Another laugh. That and that I love you, she said. And I forgive Willow. Goodbye.
A rush of air around her, warm and vanilla-scented, kissing your forehead, and then you are alone again.
You scurry to the freezer, dig under the ice until your numbing hands feel plastic. You pull out a plastic baggie with a black cloth bag sealed inside. Dump it out onto the counter, and it is as Tara said; a few necklaces, a ring, a beaded bracelet that looks like jade.
You pocket the ring, feeling guilty without knowing why, put the rest of it into the box of things you're taking home.
You hear footsteps on the stair then, and then Xander is in the apartment. He is unbearably large and warm; you hug him tight.
"Great welcome, Dawnster, but you're cutting off my oxygen," he says. You smile, and step back.
His eyes sweep the room. "Looks like you got this all packed up. And thank you, by the way - I know this wasn't easy for you."
"It was nothing. Glad to help," you say, almost meaning it. You touch the bump the ring makes in your jeans pocket and smile as brightly as possible.
Halfway down the stairs, arms full, you ask: "Xander, do you believe in ghosts?"
"I'm a Sunnydale kid. I pretty much think anything is possible," he says. Neither of you say anything else until you're putting their boxes and bags into the back of his car. Then he asks, "Did - did you see Tara, Dawn?"
You hesitate. You want the story to be yours more than you want the relief of telling it, you decide.
"No. I just felt her presence, you know?"
Xander nods. "I had this buddy when I was about your age. Jesse. He - we lost him." He lets go of the boxes he's fiddling with and looks right at you. "I avoided thinking about him for a long time. Then last month we got a job to build an addition on the house next door to his. His parents moved out a long time ago. But the whole time I was there, I could swear I was hearing his voice. Even saw him once or twice, climbing up this tree he liked. I bet it was just the wind and my imagination, but - it helped me let go of him, you know?"
You nod, knowing all too well.
It's almost a relief to get home.