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Summary: Dawn has a chance meeting while drinking in honour of those who have fallen. Due to me feeling depressed, No longer a one shot.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Television > Covert AffairsShezziFR1323,7173173,8518 Nov 1023 Sep 11Yes

Chapter One

A/N: A little one shot that wouldn’t leave me alone. Dawn and Auggie just insisted they had to meet. Hope you enjoy, if inspired please leave a note to let me know what you thought! love xx Shezzi (Oh and I don't own Covert Affairs or BtVS)

Dawn sat at a small table to the rear of ‘Alan’s Tavern’ alone, watching people move through the room. She sat with her back to the corner, everyone in the room in front of her. This wasn’t the type of place she usually came to do this, but she had been held up today and time was too tight to get anywhere else.

She reached for the bottle of tequila she had paid the bartender for, the two empty shot glasses sitting on the table, and filled them with a steady hand. It should be steady – she hadn’t started drinking yet. She checked her watch; 10 pm. Picking up her glass, she made a small movement, a slight salute to the second one, the one without anyone there to drink it, then knocked it back. “To those who are gone, but never forgotten. Buffy,” she whispered. She filled the glass again, and raised it. “Tara.” She knocked it back. “Spike. Giles. Xander. Willow,” she drank to each of them, the ones that she had lost. “Anya.” The untouched shot glass still sat in the middle of the table and she sat, looking at it. She wasn’t finished her list of names, but she just sat for a moment, looking at the glass that had no one there to drink it. “Not forgotten,” she whispered softly, staring at it with dry eyes.

She was still sitting, lost in thought, the two shot glasses full on the table, when the chair opposite her shifted and someone sat. She looked up to find herself being eyed up by a man who she supposed was at least moderately handsome. He was between five and ten years older than her, she could have guessed, wearing a suit shirt and slacks but no jacket, his haircut short and slightly spiky.

“Waiting for someone?” he asked, gesturing to the glass. When she didn’t respond, he shrugged, reaching for it. “Guess you won’t mind if I…” Dawn caught his hand before he could reach the glass, twisting his wrist just enough to seriously discourage him.

“Not the night for it, mate,” she told him, adopting an English accent. “Really, not the night for it.” She dropped his wrist. “Get lost.”

The man looked as though he might try something else, and she was preparing herself to take care of it, when a hand landed on her shoulder. “We good, sweetheart?” asked an unfamiliar voice, and she looked up to find the guy who had been occupying the next table now standing next to her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding a red and white cane as he stared blankly in the general direction of her unwanted company.

“Yeah, we’re fine, darling,” she replied, shooting daggers at the guy sitting opposite, who finally decided that it just wasn’t worth making trouble and left. “Thanks,” she muttered, and the blind man nodded. “Would you like to sit?” she asked. “I was just…”

“Drinking to lost friends,” the man said softly. “Sorry,” he apologized when he heard her slightly rough intake of breath. “It’s something I’ve done a time or two myself, although normally not alone. I could hear you,” he explained as he took the now empty seat.

“Yeah,” was the only reply she offered. She didn’t move to explain, explain the bomb that had destroyed the castle her friends, her family lived in, explain the phone call from Faith, who at this moment was sitting somewhere with her own bottle of alcohol, which had woken her in the middle of the night to tell her of the deaths of the world’s heroes at the hands of people who had feared their strength, strength that had only been used to protect.

There were now only a handful of Slayers left, moving around the world as a single unit. Faith led them, a Faith who had matured and taken responsibility. Dawn had gone back to college, content that Willow’s apparent paranoia had paid off in hiding her from anyone who might want to use her against Buffy, both in the mystical and the modern world. She had never been targeted by the people who took out her sister because according to the real world Dawn Summers did not exist. They had discovered this after they left Sunnydale, and it actually made a few things make sense, like the way her father had never even attempted to contact her.

When she left for college, Willow, acting under an odd presentiment, had given her a new identity. She was still called Dawn Summers, but according to her paperwork she was a British born American and had only spent part of her life in America. This was probably the only thing that saved Dawn’s life when the backlash from the calling of all the Slayers finally hit.

It surprised Dawn sometimes that they hadn’t been expecting it; it made sense. If two Slayers in the world could throw the Balance so far to the side of the light that the First Evil could find a foothold in their reality, what would a thousand do? But they had never expected the humans to be what was brought against them. The one thing Slayers weren't supposed to fight against? How could they be prepared for that?

Trying to force down the thoughts, she reached for the bottle of tequila, then turned towards the bar. “Can we get another glass over here, please?” she called, and one of the waitresses quickly brought one over. “Thanks.” Dawn quickly poured, then set the glass in front of the man. He was cute; only a couple of years older than her, with wavy hair and deep brown, sadly unfocused, eyes. “To those who fought the good fight. Gone but not forgotten.”

“Never forgotten,” he replied, finding the glass easily by the sound it had made when she set it down and throwing back the shot.

“Here’s to those who are still fighting,” now her unknown company raised his glass, and she quickly filled it for him before topping up her own. “Wherever they may be; may they fight with honor, and as many as possible come home safe.”

“With honor and bravery,” Dawn said, topping up the glasses, knowing any wish to come home safe could not pass her lips in honesty. The warriors she drank to would fight until the fight killed them, and new ones rose up to take their places. “And may those who fall find the rest and peace they deserve.”

Dawn drained the last of the bottle into their glasses, leaving the worm behind, and they drank one last time, Dawn reached out and, taking the still-full glass, tipped it over, setting it upside down on the table in a swift movement that captured most of the liquor within it.

“Well,” she said slowly. “I’m Dawn,” she introduced herself simply.

“Auggie,” replied her drinking buddy, reaching his hand across the table towards her. She took it, and they shook for a moment before both letting go.

“Thank you,” Dawn told him, standing, swaying slightly, and started to walk away.

“Dawn,” he called after her, just loud enough to be heard. “It was an honour.”

“The honour was mine,” she replied, beside him again, leaning down to speak into his ear. “Goodbye, Auggie. Remember; honour the dead by living; for they protected the living by their sacrifice.”
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