Title: Her Father's Daughter
Author: Jedi Buttercup (jedi_buttercup @yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: All your Buffy are belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy & Etc.
Summary: 400 words (quadruple drabble). Buffy learns a rather startling fact about Dawn.
Spoilers: Post-Chosen; AU?
Feedback: It's the coin of the realm
Notes: I know, I know. But I just couldn't resist! (Originally written June 2, 2004)
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"So," Dawn announced one day, entirely out of the blue. "Did you ever wonder who my father is?"
Buffy blinked at her sister, astonished. "Isn't Mr. AWOL-In-Spain the obvious choice? Unless you mean Key-wise, in which case ..."
"No, really," Dawn interrupted, a trace of imp in her smile. "Remember? The monks said I was made from you. But obviously ..." she eyed the Slayer from her greater height, "... I'm *not* a clone. Which means some of my genes *had* to come from someone else."
Buffy's thoughts stuttered to a halt. She usually tried to block the subject of Dawn's origins from her mind as best she could ...except for that day at Glory's tower, of course. The Buffy-Dawn connection had been all-important then, but she hadn't exactly had the time to try and define the word 'from'. "Uh, I thought they meant ...maybe my soul ...?" She trailed off, uncertainly.
"Nope," Dawn said, smile widening. The impishness was more than a trace, now; she was actually *bouncing* where she stood, more exuberant than Buffy had seen her since Sunnydale's collapse. "I mentioned it to Willow yesterday when she was here, and she did this test like on CSI, except that she used magic. It said I had half your DNA, and half someone else's, which means ..."
"You're my actual *daughter*?" Buffy blurted, stupefied. She'd been playing Mom for years now, but she'd always felt like she was only a substitute: the bossy elder sister in Joyce's empty shoes.
Dawn's hand darted out; Buffy's jaw clicked shut again, encouraged by strong, ink-stained fingers. The younger Summers had taken to college like any demonic research session: curiosity and big brain deployed in equal measure with anticipation. It tended to result in smudges of ink and graphite on fingertips, cheek, and nose, but was above all endearingly cute.
And very much not-me, Buffy thought, reassessing features and mannerisms in a new light. "Oh God," she gasped, realizing. "Please tell me your father isn't ... He had sex with Mom! She called him a *stevedore*!" The words squeaked out through a suddenly tight throat.
Her sister rolled her eyes, laughing. "Add responsible, totally supportive, younger than half your boyfriends. And loaded, since he found the Old Council's funds. Think he'd give me a car, if I told him?"
"Told who what?" a cultured British voice inquired.
Murphy's Law, Buffy thought, groaning. "Uh, Giles ...you better sit down."