TITLE:  Final Wish
AUTHOR:  Kate Bolin
EMAIL: dymphna@dymphna.net
SITE:  http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/
SUMMARY: Joyce has a final wish.  Dead Letters.
RATING:  PG, for mentions of slash.
FEEDBACK:  Privately, please.  It saves annoyance, and you're
more likely to get a reply.
ARCHIVE:  My site, list sites, otherwise ask.
DISCLAIMER:  The characters and universe herein are the
property of Joss Whedon, 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy,
Sandollar, and Kuzui Productions.  This piece of fan-written
fiction means no infringement.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Spoilers for S5 of Buffy, but only vaguely, because,
well, all I have *are* vague spoilers of Season 5 of Buffy.  It's
not like anyone fills in the details for me, no...
Another Dead Letter, which can be found at http://www.dymphna.net/deadletters/
with my new wannabe-Damien Hirst picture.
For information on "Family Affair," mentioned in this story, visit
http://timvp.com/familyaf.html .
And finally, for Selena, Faithtastic, Dolores, and Roz, who, aside from 
being my usual UK crew, are also die-hard Joyce junkies.  Get out the hankies,
dears, it's time for a good cry.


Final Wish

	If you're seeing this, it's finally happened.  It seems
silly to me now, writing a letter that my daughters will see
after I'm dead, but, well, I needed to get everything in order,
and, hopefully, you won't see this for *many* years to come.
	But I don't think that'll happen.  So I have to say
these things now.
	Buffy, you were named after the youngest girl on
"Family Affair."  I never told you that before, because I didn't
want you to be ashamed of your name.  It wasn't the name of
a friend of mine, it wasn't picked out of a baby book, it was
because for the last month I was carrying you, I spent a lot of
time in front of the TV and I was watching "Family Affair"
obsessively.  And now you know why I always wanted to
take a picture of you when you were at your grandmother's
house and holding my old Mrs. Beasely doll.
	And if you were a boy, you would've been named
Quincy.
	Dawn, you were conceived in the backseat of our old
station wagon in a MacDonald's parking lot while Grandma
Ann kept an eye on Buffy in the play area.  Buffy, don't
laugh, because it was the only reason you didn't get in trouble
for escaping Grandma's eye and running off to play in the
Burger King play area next door.
	And besides, you were conceived on Grandma Ann's
back porch swing.
	Buffy, you also once managed to slip between the
railings on Grandma Jean's second-story balcony and fall
onto some bushes below.  That's where that little scar on
your forehead came from.  You obviously weren't killed by
the fall, and you obviously weren't killed by me.  But I came
pretty close to it.

	Mr. Giles, take care of my girls.  I set up all the
custody arrangements for Dawn the same day I wrote this,
and I know that, despite the sudden shock at becoming the
father of two girls automatically, you'll take good care of
them.  Buffy, help him.  He only had to deal with you part-
time, and even though Dawn's not going to be as much
trouble as you were, I think she'll manage to wear both of
you out.
	And tell both Willow and Xander that they were
always welcome in my house.  If we could have, I would've
had them live with us.

	And, I suppose, this is where I should make a
confession.  It's a bit more difficult to write about this than it
is to write about your childhood incidents, but I suppose I
should say this.
	Buffy, I want you to visit Faith.  I want you to tell her
what happened.
	You hate her.  I know.  You hate her for everything
she did to you, to us, to your friends.  You can never forgive
her for what she did.
	But you have to.
	You have to for me.
	That one Christmas, when the snow fell, and Faith
came over for dinner, we...
	Well, you were gone, and Dawn went to bed...
	And Faith and I...
	I was lonely.  She was lonely.  And, that one night,
we stopped being lonely.
	I know this is a shock, and you're probably having a
hard time dealing with this, but despite everything she did,
she once gave your mother a night that no one else could.
	She loved you, you know.  She said that, after...well,
afterwards.  She told me about everything that she felt, that
she wanted, and how you were...
	Well, you were the one thing that she really cared
about.
	I want you to talk to her.  I want you -- *you* -- not
Giles, not Angel, and most definitely not a letter -- to tell her
what happened.  I want you to tell her that I died, and that I
told you about what happened that Christmas.
	I want you to tell her that I forgave her before I died. 
I want you to try to forgive her as well.

	I'm sorry.  I know that it's a lot to ask for right now. 
But it's my wish -- my final wish.
	Because I loved her.
	And because I love you.