ficpost: "Snow White in Wintertime" Buffy/Dawn
Title: "Snow White in Wintertime"
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Dawn
Warnings: Incest and a hint of necrophilia.
Rating: PG-13 for the aforementioned themes.
Notes: For my partner in mild misdemeanor hermionesviolin in the Dawn II round of femslash_minis.
Summary: And they all lived happily ever after (Dawn's pretty when she's dead).
Wordcount: ~500
Snow White in Wintertime
"She does make a lovely corpse," Anya says helpfully, Willow is on speaking terms with Osiris, and Tara's all ears "if you ever need to talk", but Buffy hardly hears them over the constant buzz of grief that sometimes becomes a roar, more incoherent than rage, just catastrophe exploding in her head. Dawn is dead. It's all her fault. If this is a bad thought habit, she's entitled to some unhealthiness after years of slaving over the slayage and school, months of cooking and bills. There are things that the universe shouldn't allow, sacrifices that she can't make, and she's not interested in listening to anyone who doesn't accept that. So she slays automatically (she should have trained Dawn better, started sooner, kept her safer), lets the others examine the books (including the pile Dawn had opened to concoct that last goddamn potion), tries not to develop mopey habits but finds herself wanting more graveyard time, looking for unwinnable fights and keeping vigil by the coffin, because Anya's right. Dawn is beautiful dead.
Buffy does not have a thing for dead people. Undead, maybe, but dead, definitely not. She's seen too many mangled bodies that are All Her Fault to think there's anything romantic or redeemable about death, but Dawn is different, because Dawn's changed. She seems little, no longer taller than Buffy, no longer growing up, up, and away (and of course, she's not, since the dead do not grow, except fingernails and hair, shiny and thick with the passing weeks). She's shrunk down to manageable size, and Buffy, no longer in charge of discipline and math homework, can take the time to observe Dawn's cheekbones, hair, and shiny lips, curved into a smile that might almost mean "I'm glad to be dead."
She knows that Willow and Xander and far away in England, Giles, are looking askance at her glass coffin, vigil, and fairy tale vision that Dawn might come back. But Dawn is Buffy's sister -- Buffy felt her heartbeat the day she was born, walked her to school against the trembling terrors of LA, held her close when Mom died -- Buffy knows Dawn deeper than blood, deeper than monk magic, deeper than bone. Buffy knows Dawn in marrow and mucus and membranes, they are bound together at hip and hair and heart, and Buffy has lost too much, loves and comforts, for any sane demon, death not excluded, to think that she will lose her sister without a fight.
"So, here's the deal, little sister," Buffy says. "I'm going to give you one last fairy tale chance, and if you don't wake up, I will kick your butt until you do." The first sunlight of morning hits the coffin just as Buffy's fist does, and it shatters in golden brilliance and broken glass around Buffy's bloodied knuckles. Buffy kisses Dawn's brow, her cheek, her lips, and Dawn sits up, coughing, a sliver of poisoned apple and Dawn's tongue tongue worming together, warm and unwelcome, into Buffy's mouth. Buffy's too surprised (disgusted, delighted) to object. Later, lectures, later, "Dawn, you were messing with dark magic, weren't you, and you know that love spells never work out," but right now, she has miles to go, and lessons to teach, and beautiful pale hands tangling her tawny hair.
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Dawn
Warnings: Incest and a hint of necrophilia.
Rating: PG-13 for the aforementioned themes.
Notes: For my partner in mild misdemeanor hermionesviolin in the Dawn II round of femslash_minis.
Summary: And they all lived happily ever after (Dawn's pretty when she's dead).
Wordcount: ~500
Snow White in Wintertime
"She does make a lovely corpse," Anya says helpfully, Willow is on speaking terms with Osiris, and Tara's all ears "if you ever need to talk", but Buffy hardly hears them over the constant buzz of grief that sometimes becomes a roar, more incoherent than rage, just catastrophe exploding in her head. Dawn is dead. It's all her fault. If this is a bad thought habit, she's entitled to some unhealthiness after years of slaving over the slayage and school, months of cooking and bills. There are things that the universe shouldn't allow, sacrifices that she can't make, and she's not interested in listening to anyone who doesn't accept that. So she slays automatically (she should have trained Dawn better, started sooner, kept her safer), lets the others examine the books (including the pile Dawn had opened to concoct that last goddamn potion), tries not to develop mopey habits but finds herself wanting more graveyard time, looking for unwinnable fights and keeping vigil by the coffin, because Anya's right. Dawn is beautiful dead.
Buffy does not have a thing for dead people. Undead, maybe, but dead, definitely not. She's seen too many mangled bodies that are All Her Fault to think there's anything romantic or redeemable about death, but Dawn is different, because Dawn's changed. She seems little, no longer taller than Buffy, no longer growing up, up, and away (and of course, she's not, since the dead do not grow, except fingernails and hair, shiny and thick with the passing weeks). She's shrunk down to manageable size, and Buffy, no longer in charge of discipline and math homework, can take the time to observe Dawn's cheekbones, hair, and shiny lips, curved into a smile that might almost mean "I'm glad to be dead."
She knows that Willow and Xander and far away in England, Giles, are looking askance at her glass coffin, vigil, and fairy tale vision that Dawn might come back. But Dawn is Buffy's sister -- Buffy felt her heartbeat the day she was born, walked her to school against the trembling terrors of LA, held her close when Mom died -- Buffy knows Dawn deeper than blood, deeper than monk magic, deeper than bone. Buffy knows Dawn in marrow and mucus and membranes, they are bound together at hip and hair and heart, and Buffy has lost too much, loves and comforts, for any sane demon, death not excluded, to think that she will lose her sister without a fight.
"So, here's the deal, little sister," Buffy says. "I'm going to give you one last fairy tale chance, and if you don't wake up, I will kick your butt until you do." The first sunlight of morning hits the coffin just as Buffy's fist does, and it shatters in golden brilliance and broken glass around Buffy's bloodied knuckles. Buffy kisses Dawn's brow, her cheek, her lips, and Dawn sits up, coughing, a sliver of poisoned apple and Dawn's tongue tongue worming together, warm and unwelcome, into Buffy's mouth. Buffy's too surprised (disgusted, delighted) to object. Later, lectures, later, "Dawn, you were messing with dark magic, weren't you, and you know that love spells never work out," but right now, she has miles to go, and lessons to teach, and beautiful pale hands tangling her tawny hair.