It hurt to think. The smell of dirt hung in the air of the house’s threshold, making it feel unclean, odd. She glanced to the doorway as though expecting to see muddy footprints on the carpet. Instead there was nothing. Hazel eyes, stinging from lack of use, flowed seamlessly down the staircase. She felt as though there should be someone there, her mother perhaps. The scent of Joyce’s perfume still permeated the rooms like a faint mist that Dawn was unaware of. Buffy envied her. The welcoming arms of her mother had been so recent that Buffy could barely think for the ache which coursed through her. Wherever she had been, it was peaceful. She had been finished.
Now… the sense of completion had been replaced with the sickening thud of her heartbeat; testament to the fact that she was alive. This nightmare was real.
It felt like her insides had been scraped away when they had taken her. A hand, torn from breaking free of the coffin, moved across her stomach, partly wishing that it was true and she would soon return. Everything was too strong here, filled with emotions that completely washed away her sense of self. The house, her home, reminded Buffy with determination, did not feel owned. She was a visitor to it. It’s sanctity that had been hers, had been replaced by the larger than life bodies of Willow and Tara. Buffy smelled the air, Joyce mixing with the scent of cigarettes, leather and bourbon. She struggled to match the name with azure eyes, a strangled “Spike” falling out of her mouth. He had been here in this place that was no longer hers. Buffy quailed at the warmth which flooded through her at the thought. It was too soon. Far too real.
Everything was incredibly garish, white the colour of bones left out to bleached in the sun, covering the walls. Her hands were a raw red which had seeped into her clothes. Dawn’s hair reminded her of the shade of her mother’s coffin, all of it overwhelming her. Buffy’s eyes traveled down the button down shirt, feeling confined and alien.
The slam of a door and a British accent jolted Buffy from her trance, causing her to look up in surprise. She could swear that she had felt emotion then. For the briefest second, a connection. Her sister hurried past her, kissing her cheek with a brush. It felt too warm. Buffy moved her palm to wipe it away before she grimaced at the shift of torn skin. At the edges of her consciousness she knew it was pain. Could even feel the sting. Entranced she pushed it against her cheek, watching in something akin to fascination as the wounds separated further under the pressure. That was definitely the sensation of pain.
Buffy repeated the action.
The hushed whispers from downstairs called to her finally. Buffy raised herself from the bed, surprised that her limbs could move, even after running from the sight of what had been her, smashing open in a crash of electricity. Part of Buffy knew it was the bot, a manufactured creature made to give Spike the acceptance and affection that she had refused to. The notion that she had rejected him clawed inside of her. It was foreign, stupid but somehow intensely right.
Spike had been so lost. Perhaps it was the Powers That Be way of atoning for her to connect with him, see him.
Buffy brushed a finger along her knuckles, squinting at the thick clots which coated the skin. It was blood.
A flashback to Dawn’s sliced flesh shot through her, seizing Buffy’s body in a moment of surrealism. She had been garbed in some stupid outfit and ready for sacrifice when Buffy had climbed the tower. The dress had been stained with the thick lobbing of Dawn’s cut. She coated it over her fingers, feeling the texture. It was soft, comforting.
Like Spike.
Moving slowly Buffy made her way to the top of the staircase. Her face was drawn and composed, untouchable to everyone. Dawn had come back up and gestured with her hands to Spike as though she was on show.
Perhaps I am.
The intense look of love and shock which covered his face tore into Buffy. The urge to cry was so sudden that she faltered for a moment. Pain in her chest from harming him was definitely an unexpected sensation. She kept one hand to the railing, each step downward a metaphorical one to reality. This was all she had for now: a magic constructed sister and Spike…
Tears wobbled unsteadily, thankfully not running down her face. It was a relief to know that he’d had no part in this ‘rescue’. He had wanted her to be happy. Buffy shook as he took her hands, seating her on the same couch Joyce had been found on. The house was a haven for death. The pale colour of the seat, deepened slightly as she fell into it, Spike never letting go of her hands. He opened his mouth as though to say something, turning her knuckles up so he could examine them.
Only love and a devotion she had previously ignored showed. His whispers washed over her, 147 days seeming a foreign way of explaining the contentment she’d felt. They stayed like that, linked by their hands for only a few minutes. Her fingers, dug into Spike’s gentle grip, making them hurt with the intensity and arousing a stare from him. He understood, holding them that little bit tighter and reinforcing her security. Pain and him were the only things that made her real.
The bursting in of the Scoobies shattered the moment. Instantly Buffy felt herself withdraw, wanting to hold onto Spike but knowing she would be stopped. They didn’t know how to reach her, the words to say. Xander, large and beaming stood next to Anya, some obtuse remark threatening to spill forth. Buffy felt her insides shiver, wrapped in cold at Willow’s look. It had been her. Sweet, once innocent Willow had stolen her away.
She had expected the betrayal to hurt.
Buffy watched Spike from the doorway. Their gazes interlocked, a comforting smile from plush lips making her want to grin back. She tried for a moment, teeth grinding in an effort to fake emotion. It was a struggle just to gather enough feeling and express it.
Willow’s words jarred her gaze away from him. The girl was telling all about how they had brought her back, none mentioning that they had left her to rot once more in the coffin. Their expressions of delight felt odd and hurtful to look it, Buffy instead staring down at her hands. To them she would always be untouchable.