It started with little things.
Dawn blamed it on stress at first; rolled her eyes and smiled when she had to remind Nick to do the dishes, then scolded the children for forgetting to take out the trash even after she had told them twice.
"Twenty years we've been married," she would laugh with Buffy on the phone, "and suddenly it's like they can't even hear me anymore."
After the third month, she began to grow worried. She spent hours surfing the information network, digging up articles on Alzheimer's and dementia, trying to persuade Nick to go to the doctor. Every time she asked, he gave her a smile and promised to call for an appointment, and every time he forgot to do it.
It wasn't until much later that she understood what was happening.
It started with little things.
The bedroom was still pitch black when Dawn woke up. She lay still for a few moments, trying figure out what had woken her. When she held her breath, she could hear the quiet murmur of the early morning traffic and the humm and whirr of the house breathing around her. But deep inside she knew she was just fooling herself, the understanding filling her veins like ice water.
Nick snorted in his sleep, and she smiled and brushed her hand through his hair.
It wasn't at all like she had imagined - feared - all those years ago. She had tried to imagine it so many times during those first few months, coming up with dozens of different scenarios, each one more frightening than the other. But there was no searing pain of being torn apart, no photograph to watch herself disappear from.
It was just... It just was.
She thought about calling Buffy, waking Nick, or leaving a letter to Spike, but she knew that like everything else, it would be for nothing. And so as the first rays of sunlight crept across the window sill, she leaned down to press a kiss on Nick's forehead and then just sat, and watched the world around her fade into the dawning light.
Nick woke up with a start. He frowned, trying to figure out what had stirred him, feeling the slight disorientation of having woken up in the middle of the dream. It had been a good dream, that much he could remember, even if the actual details were already fading fast.
He peered at the antique clock radio on his bedside, rubbing his eyes until he could make out the dim red numbers in the read-out. It was just at the break of dawn, still more than an hour until the alarm would go off. Nick settled back on the bed, trying to fall asleep again, trying to catch that dream he could almost remember. After ten minutes he gave up, slipped on his robe, and went to the kitchen to make breakfast, setting the table for one.