The Drawing Board
The day after Halloween Dawn left the Flat before anyone was awake. Her goal had been to go to one of those big
gothic English cathedrals. Even though she was not Catholic, nor remotely religious, she had wanted to light a
candle in church. As a prayer. Like Maya suggested, she wanted to celebrate the lives of those lost.
But, lots of Catholic folk had turned up for exactly the same thing. Given the cataclysmic loss of lives the world
witnessed the previous week, Dawn reasoned that she should not have been surprised.
She was surprised, though. She felt a little left out. Everyone was grieving for someone. Everyone had
unanswered questions. Everyone, but not Dawn. She knew the answers, but couldn’t share.
Rather than fight the mourning hordes, Dawn slipped away. She wandered a while, half-blind and breathless as she
always felt in the presence of the ancient buildings of London. Her feet finally led her back to the Temple of the
Sisters.
Dawn found a park bench across Mercer Street. From it, she had a clear view of the crumbling façade of the
temple. She perched on the edge of the bench, took out a ballpoint pen and began a sketch in the palm of her
hand.
With her pen, she outlined with bold strokes the shape of the chapel, then filled in the edges with feathery cross
hatches. The image came to life in her hand – the light, shape and shadows forming into the most amazingly life-
like rendition.
Dawn drew a border of spiky grass along the fat of her thumb. Into the creases of her lifeline, she traced the
sun’s light lancing through clouds. When she finished, Dawn sat back to admire her flawless design. She closed her
hand and the image winked out like a candle quickly snuffed.
She smiled. Dawn splayed her fingers wide, stretching the image. And as she stared at the perfectly wrought
edges, a tiny sparrow flickered into the drawing.
Dawn closed her fist. She looked around at the quiet street, thinking that perhaps there were magics afoot.
Dawn opened her trembling hand again. The little bird was still there, bathing its soft pen-stroked feathers in the
dusty sideyard of the Temple. Dawn licked the fingers of her right hand and scrubbed them into her left palm until
she had completely obliterated her freaky little cartoon.
After that day, Dawn began to compulsively sketch. She bought a Bienfang Sketch Pad and a pack of Oriole No. 2
drawing pencils. Nothing had happened yet, not like it had the day she visited the Temple. But she kept trying
nonetheless.
When William left her, she was snoring. Actually snoring. Not the dainty breathy purring sound all girls think they
make when they sleep, but real log-sawing snores. Made him laugh. Which was saying something, considering the
morning they’d been through.
William did his best not to think of it. Buffy had slept then, too, but it had been a deeper sleep. She had fallen into
an unmovable kind of slumber - one that made her arms and legs like gooey taffy and her eyes roll loosely in their
sockets. She had not lost that much blood. He’d seen people down by several pints crawl up several flights of
stairs to…
William broke off that line of thinking. He wasn’t helping matters, hulking over her and digging up past dirties. She
was resting, and he would feel like a knob to disturb her now.
He went downstairs, feeling half useless and all afraid. He found Dawn at the kitchen table, committing furious
lines to a page in her sketch book. Across from her, Andrew was busily sorting through the front pages of several
UK newspapers. Beside him, his laptop hummed with a sense of great importance. Giles was at the sink, washing
out his tea cup with slow, methodical motions. None of them looked up when William came in.
Dawn’s drawing caught William’s eye. It was the crisp, clean-edged image of Connor in profile. Right down to the
flat mop of hair, smooth rounded jaw and moody glower.
“Huhn,” William said. The quiet noise startled Dawn from drawing. She carved a deep, dark line across Connor’s
cheek and swore.
She threw a sharp look at William.
“Now look at what you did,” she said, glumly.
“It’s a good likeness,” William said. He stepped around her.
“Was a good likeness,” Dawn complained. “Why do you still have to skulk around, anyway? Normal people make
sounds when they walk.”
“I am… normal,” William said. He went to the fridge for an IRN-BRU, but lingered, his fingers on the handle.
Dawn lowered her eyes, took out her eraser and started scrubbing away the stray mark.
“How’s Buffy?” Giles ventured. He turned halfway to Spike, but kept right on rinsing.
William turned slowly. “Um. Sleeping,” he said. “Good kind of sleep.”
Dawn said, “You look a little beat, too. Maybe…”
“No,” William said. He closed the refrigerator door firmly and joined Andrew and Dawn at the table. “Best I put
my energies here. What have you got there, Andrew?”
Andrew eyed William warily. He looked to Giles for help, but the librarian was clearly caught in a loop.
“I’m doing… research,” Andrew explained. “Looking up headlines and stuff for Giles about last week’s cataclysm.”
He made one-handed air quotes around the word cataclysm.
William held his breath. He could just taste the boredom. “Right. So. I’m going up to the roof.”
On his way out, he nearly collided with Xander. Xander, who had his bags packed and a 6:30 flight for Houston.
Xander, who was having doubts about leaving.
William skirted him. The tension in the room felt like a pervasive fog of surreality, and he’d had his fill of that at
Wolfram & Hart.
“You’re all packed?” Giles asked. He’d finally shut off the faucet, but stood now polishing his green mug to
squeaky brightness.
“I am,” Xander said. “I’m thinking… maybe I shouldn’t go.”
Dawn closed her sketch book and pushed away from the table with a frustrated sigh. “You have to go, Xander.
Maya’s…”
“An understanding person,” Xander weaved in. “She would get that I can’t come because of the hospitalization of
Buffy.”
“But Thanksgiving,” Andrew said. “Turkey and dressing and American stuff, like pie and congealed cranberry in a
can. And falling asleep on the sofa while fat old men watch football and eat leftovers, while your mom smokes in the
kitchen and complains to her sisters about how she’s getting varicose veins in her legs and how no one finds her
attractive. And your brother’s downstairs rewiring the house to accommodate his souped-up GPS tracking device
so he can spy on Rebecca Kinsey when she’s taking a shower…”
Xander held up his hands. “Are you trying to convince me to stay or go?”
“Go,” Andrew said. “Obviously.”
Giles’ shoulders sagged. He leaned against the sink and stared into his empty cup. “You should go, Xander.
There’s really nothing else we can do here. Nothing, but sit and wait.”
With her hip bones touching the scratchy tarred-black surface of the roof ledge, Buffy leaned over to look down
at the street. Above her a steady stream of sleet fell, but it evaporated before it reached the ground. Her breath
plumed silver in front of her face. She had awakened to tears that choked her. She came up to the roof for air.
When she heard the scrape of the door opening, Buffy turned to find Giles stepping out onto the rooftop to join
her.
She leaned against the ledge. “Hi,” she said. Then she swiped her hands over her face to get rid of the tears.
Giles walked over, his shoes crunching on the roofing tiles.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. Blunt. To the point. He could be that way sometimes. It irked her to no end.
“What is wrong with me?” she echoed. “Oh. Nothing.”
Giles took off his glasses. He polished them slowly on the tail of his shirt. “Now is not the time for sarcasm, Buffy.”
“Fine, Giles,” Buffy snapped. “You really want to know?
Giles replaced his glasses and nodded that he did.
Buffy paced. “To start, I'll be 25 in a few months… and nothing,” she said, gesturing wildly. The more she spoke,
the more frantic she became. “I'll be a 25-year-old college dropout. A 25-year-old college dropout unwed mother.
And nothing. Well. But at least I have my career. Oh wait… No, I don’t.”
“Oh,” Giles said. The image of calm. “That’s what this is about.”
“What is it about? Because I really don’t know, Giles.”
He said, “You’ll be a quartranarian.”
Buffy halted mid-pace. “A what-ernarian?”
Giles came to stand beside her. “It means you’ll be 25, Buffy,” he said. He hesitated at first, but then reached to
touch her hair. It was such a tender motion, Buffy felt the turmoil inside her start to dissipate a little.
She said, “I never expected to be any kind of –anarian, unless it was a Slayer-anarian.”
Giles smiled down at her. Buffy went on. “Now I am. Will be, anyway. Giles, what am I supposed to do?”
Giles tilted his head forward in a fatherly way. “Well, Buffy,” he said. “I guess you should have thought of that
sooner.”
Buffy stepped back, her anger like a bright red burn. “Are you serious? This is your Dad-ly advice. I lack in
planning. I wasn’t supposed to have a future, or much of one. Or did you forget?”
Buffy looked up at Giles’ glasses and caught a sudden patterned flash of light reflected in both lenses. She recoiled.
She heard the scrape of the door again, and this time William walked onto the roof.
He paused, though, watching her with care. “Is this a private rant, luv, or can anyone join?” he asked.
Buffy flicked a glance at Giles. “No. Feel free to hop right in to tell me how irresponsible I am and… and how
planning deficient I am,” Buffy said in a breathless rush.
William watched her closely, his head cocked to one side, lips parted as if he couldn’t find words to push through
them.
“What?” she shouted.
“There’s no one here, Buffy,” he told her. He moved forward carefully, as if he might startle her if he moved too
fast.
Buffy looked to the place where Giles had been and found vacancy. “What?” she said again, this time a baffled
whisper.
“Giles is downstairs, with Dawn and Andrew. I just left them,” William said. “Buffy, who was here? Who were
you…?”
Buffy ran at him with such force she almost toppled them both. She flung her arms around him and buried her face
in his chest.
“Spike, what’s wrong with me?” she cried.
William looked down at the top of Buffy’s head. “Spike?” he whispered. She hadn’t called him that in a long time.
He brought his arms around her. Her body was rigid as lamp posts beneath his hands, and he really hated to hear
her crying. But he had no answers for her. None at all.
The day after Halloween Dawn left the Flat before anyone was awake. Her goal had been to go to one of those big
gothic English cathedrals. Even though she was not Catholic, nor remotely religious, she had wanted to light a
candle in church. As a prayer. Like Maya suggested, she wanted to celebrate the lives of those lost.
But, lots of Catholic folk had turned up for exactly the same thing. Given the cataclysmic loss of lives the world
witnessed the previous week, Dawn reasoned that she should not have been surprised.
She was surprised, though. She felt a little left out. Everyone was grieving for someone. Everyone had
unanswered questions. Everyone, but not Dawn. She knew the answers, but couldn’t share.
Rather than fight the mourning hordes, Dawn slipped away. She wandered a while, half-blind and breathless as she
always felt in the presence of the ancient buildings of London. Her feet finally led her back to the Temple of the
Sisters.
Dawn found a park bench across Mercer Street. From it, she had a clear view of the crumbling façade of the
temple. She perched on the edge of the bench, took out a ballpoint pen and began a sketch in the palm of her
hand.
With her pen, she outlined with bold strokes the shape of the chapel, then filled in the edges with feathery cross
hatches. The image came to life in her hand – the light, shape and shadows forming into the most amazingly life-
like rendition.
Dawn drew a border of spiky grass along the fat of her thumb. Into the creases of her lifeline, she traced the
sun’s light lancing through clouds. When she finished, Dawn sat back to admire her flawless design. She closed her
hand and the image winked out like a candle quickly snuffed.
She smiled. Dawn splayed her fingers wide, stretching the image. And as she stared at the perfectly wrought
edges, a tiny sparrow flickered into the drawing.
Dawn closed her fist. She looked around at the quiet street, thinking that perhaps there were magics afoot.
Dawn opened her trembling hand again. The little bird was still there, bathing its soft pen-stroked feathers in the
dusty sideyard of the Temple. Dawn licked the fingers of her right hand and scrubbed them into her left palm until
she had completely obliterated her freaky little cartoon.
After that day, Dawn began to compulsively sketch. She bought a Bienfang Sketch Pad and a pack of Oriole No. 2
drawing pencils. Nothing had happened yet, not like it had the day she visited the Temple. But she kept trying
nonetheless.
When William left her, she was snoring. Actually snoring. Not the dainty breathy purring sound all girls think they
make when they sleep, but real log-sawing snores. Made him laugh. Which was saying something, considering the
morning they’d been through.
William did his best not to think of it. Buffy had slept then, too, but it had been a deeper sleep. She had fallen into
an unmovable kind of slumber - one that made her arms and legs like gooey taffy and her eyes roll loosely in their
sockets. She had not lost that much blood. He’d seen people down by several pints crawl up several flights of
stairs to…
William broke off that line of thinking. He wasn’t helping matters, hulking over her and digging up past dirties. She
was resting, and he would feel like a knob to disturb her now.
He went downstairs, feeling half useless and all afraid. He found Dawn at the kitchen table, committing furious
lines to a page in her sketch book. Across from her, Andrew was busily sorting through the front pages of several
UK newspapers. Beside him, his laptop hummed with a sense of great importance. Giles was at the sink, washing
out his tea cup with slow, methodical motions. None of them looked up when William came in.
Dawn’s drawing caught William’s eye. It was the crisp, clean-edged image of Connor in profile. Right down to the
flat mop of hair, smooth rounded jaw and moody glower.
“Huhn,” William said. The quiet noise startled Dawn from drawing. She carved a deep, dark line across Connor’s
cheek and swore.
She threw a sharp look at William.
“Now look at what you did,” she said, glumly.
“It’s a good likeness,” William said. He stepped around her.
“Was a good likeness,” Dawn complained. “Why do you still have to skulk around, anyway? Normal people make
sounds when they walk.”
“I am… normal,” William said. He went to the fridge for an IRN-BRU, but lingered, his fingers on the handle.
Dawn lowered her eyes, took out her eraser and started scrubbing away the stray mark.
“How’s Buffy?” Giles ventured. He turned halfway to Spike, but kept right on rinsing.
William turned slowly. “Um. Sleeping,” he said. “Good kind of sleep.”
Dawn said, “You look a little beat, too. Maybe…”
“No,” William said. He closed the refrigerator door firmly and joined Andrew and Dawn at the table. “Best I put
my energies here. What have you got there, Andrew?”
Andrew eyed William warily. He looked to Giles for help, but the librarian was clearly caught in a loop.
“I’m doing… research,” Andrew explained. “Looking up headlines and stuff for Giles about last week’s cataclysm.”
He made one-handed air quotes around the word cataclysm.
William held his breath. He could just taste the boredom. “Right. So. I’m going up to the roof.”
On his way out, he nearly collided with Xander. Xander, who had his bags packed and a 6:30 flight for Houston.
Xander, who was having doubts about leaving.
William skirted him. The tension in the room felt like a pervasive fog of surreality, and he’d had his fill of that at
Wolfram & Hart.
“You’re all packed?” Giles asked. He’d finally shut off the faucet, but stood now polishing his green mug to
squeaky brightness.
“I am,” Xander said. “I’m thinking… maybe I shouldn’t go.”
Dawn closed her sketch book and pushed away from the table with a frustrated sigh. “You have to go, Xander.
Maya’s…”
“An understanding person,” Xander weaved in. “She would get that I can’t come because of the hospitalization of
Buffy.”
“But Thanksgiving,” Andrew said. “Turkey and dressing and American stuff, like pie and congealed cranberry in a
can. And falling asleep on the sofa while fat old men watch football and eat leftovers, while your mom smokes in the
kitchen and complains to her sisters about how she’s getting varicose veins in her legs and how no one finds her
attractive. And your brother’s downstairs rewiring the house to accommodate his souped-up GPS tracking device
so he can spy on Rebecca Kinsey when she’s taking a shower…”
Xander held up his hands. “Are you trying to convince me to stay or go?”
“Go,” Andrew said. “Obviously.”
Giles’ shoulders sagged. He leaned against the sink and stared into his empty cup. “You should go, Xander.
There’s really nothing else we can do here. Nothing, but sit and wait.”
With her hip bones touching the scratchy tarred-black surface of the roof ledge, Buffy leaned over to look down
at the street. Above her a steady stream of sleet fell, but it evaporated before it reached the ground. Her breath
plumed silver in front of her face. She had awakened to tears that choked her. She came up to the roof for air.
When she heard the scrape of the door opening, Buffy turned to find Giles stepping out onto the rooftop to join
her.
She leaned against the ledge. “Hi,” she said. Then she swiped her hands over her face to get rid of the tears.
Giles walked over, his shoes crunching on the roofing tiles.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked. Blunt. To the point. He could be that way sometimes. It irked her to no end.
“What is wrong with me?” she echoed. “Oh. Nothing.”
Giles took off his glasses. He polished them slowly on the tail of his shirt. “Now is not the time for sarcasm, Buffy.”
“Fine, Giles,” Buffy snapped. “You really want to know?
Giles replaced his glasses and nodded that he did.
Buffy paced. “To start, I'll be 25 in a few months… and nothing,” she said, gesturing wildly. The more she spoke,
the more frantic she became. “I'll be a 25-year-old college dropout. A 25-year-old college dropout unwed mother.
And nothing. Well. But at least I have my career. Oh wait… No, I don’t.”
“Oh,” Giles said. The image of calm. “That’s what this is about.”
“What is it about? Because I really don’t know, Giles.”
He said, “You’ll be a quartranarian.”
Buffy halted mid-pace. “A what-ernarian?”
Giles came to stand beside her. “It means you’ll be 25, Buffy,” he said. He hesitated at first, but then reached to
touch her hair. It was such a tender motion, Buffy felt the turmoil inside her start to dissipate a little.
She said, “I never expected to be any kind of –anarian, unless it was a Slayer-anarian.”
Giles smiled down at her. Buffy went on. “Now I am. Will be, anyway. Giles, what am I supposed to do?”
Giles tilted his head forward in a fatherly way. “Well, Buffy,” he said. “I guess you should have thought of that
sooner.”
Buffy stepped back, her anger like a bright red burn. “Are you serious? This is your Dad-ly advice. I lack in
planning. I wasn’t supposed to have a future, or much of one. Or did you forget?”
Buffy looked up at Giles’ glasses and caught a sudden patterned flash of light reflected in both lenses. She recoiled.
She heard the scrape of the door again, and this time William walked onto the roof.
He paused, though, watching her with care. “Is this a private rant, luv, or can anyone join?” he asked.
Buffy flicked a glance at Giles. “No. Feel free to hop right in to tell me how irresponsible I am and… and how
planning deficient I am,” Buffy said in a breathless rush.
William watched her closely, his head cocked to one side, lips parted as if he couldn’t find words to push through
them.
“What?” she shouted.
“There’s no one here, Buffy,” he told her. He moved forward carefully, as if he might startle her if he moved too
fast.
Buffy looked to the place where Giles had been and found vacancy. “What?” she said again, this time a baffled
whisper.
“Giles is downstairs, with Dawn and Andrew. I just left them,” William said. “Buffy, who was here? Who were
you…?”
Buffy ran at him with such force she almost toppled them both. She flung her arms around him and buried her face
in his chest.
“Spike, what’s wrong with me?” she cried.
William looked down at the top of Buffy’s head. “Spike?” he whispered. She hadn’t called him that in a long time.
He brought his arms around her. Her body was rigid as lamp posts beneath his hands, and he really hated to hear
her crying. But he had no answers for her. None at all.
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends