She'd gotten as far as the living room before she made her decision. Apparently Spike had made it home, only he hadn't gotten any further than the couch. He was passed out, still fully clothed—boots and all—and Buffy remembered when she'd first known him and he'd been nothing more than her unwanted houseguest.
After they'd become a couple, Buffy had been able to rationalize his earlier behavior, especially as it became less commonplace. Spike still drank, but it wasn't every night and the nights when he would go overboard became less and less frequent as their relationship progressed. She'd been able to pass it off as how he'd dealt with the way his life had been before her, but that having her in his life now had lessened his need to go out and get completely plastered.
Apparently, she'd been wrong.
This was twice in a row now, and the fact he'd done this after the fight they'd had made it all the worse for her. His way to handle her being upset with him for getting drunk and yelling at her was to go out and get drunk again?
Buffy leaned against the wall, watching him and being at a loss for what to do. Yesterday, she'd thought it could be an easy fix. She thought she could just comfort him, assure him of her love, and everything would go back to normal. But what could she do if he wouldn't let her do that?
A sob lodged in her throat, but Buffy wouldn't let it escape. She felt like all she'd done over the past week was cry, and she was sick of it.
She needed fresh air. If she could just breathe a little, find time to collect her thoughts, then maybe she could handle things better. Buffy went back down the hall and got dressed before leaving the apartment.
Spike woke up with a splitting headache and no sign of Buffy anywhere. He started to go out and look for her, but stopped short when he saw what time it was. With a muttered curse, he realized he was going to be late getting into the studio if he didn't leave right then. He wanted to keep searching for Buffy—she couldn't have gotten far without having a car—but with the way things had been going for the band, he knew he needed to get in and get to work.
Ignoring both his pounding head and the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Spike grabbed his keys and his wallet and left.
Buffy had gone to a café near their apartment for breakfast, hoping the fresh air she could get sitting out on the patio would do her some good. Maybe it did, but it was marginally enough that she didn't really notice.
She went back to the apartment still feeling depressed, and she wasn't sure if it helped or not to find Spike gone. On the one hand, they needed to talk, but on the other, she didn't think she was ready. All she could do was hope the next time she saw him, he was sober.
With a sigh, she flopped down on the couch and picked up the remote, flipping through the channels before she finally settled on something distractingly mindless.
She'd been sitting on the couch, staring at the television for a while, when the phone rang. Buffy considered not answering it for a moment, but decided it could be something important and she probably should. With a soft sigh, she reached over to the table beside the couch and picked up the cordless phone.
"Hello?"
"Buffy? It's your mother."
Hearing Joyce's voice on the other end of the line shocked Buffy for a moment, and it wasn't until her mother said her name again that Buffy replied. "Hey, Mom. Is everything okay?"
"Yes, it's fine. I went in this morning to see the doctors and discuss the treatments with them, and they're being very optimistic about everything."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it," Buffy said with genuine relief. Quickly, however, her confusion returned. "So why are you calling?"
"Because you need to ask that," Joyce replied, her voice tinted with sadness. "Buffy, I know I'm the one to blame for a lot of the strain in our relationship, and coming so close to death, well, it made me realize how much I miss having my daughter in my life. I… I'll completely understand if you say no to this, but I wanted to ask. Would you be willing to come back to Sunnydale this weekend, spend some time with me when I'm not in a hospital bed? I mean, I won't be able to run a marathon or anything, but I thought maybe we could talk a little? Catch up?"
Conflicting emotions rolled around inside of her as Buffy tried to decide on her answer. She loved her mother, and she wanted a relationship with her again, but she wasn't sure it was possible. Then again, how would she ever know if she didn't give it a try? If she went to Sunnydale and Joyce was serious about trying to mend things between them, then maybe this could start them on the right path. And if things were the same as they were before, well, Buffy could turn right back around and go home. Getting to Los Angeles from Sunnydale wasn't particularly difficult, and it wouldn't be like she was trapped there.
"Yeah, I can do that," Buffy replied. "I don't really have anything going on here today, so I could really go ahead and come if you wanted. I'll take the bus, so Giles doesn't have to leave you and Dawn alone."
Joyce's voice perked up when she replied, though Buffy could still hear how tired she was. "Buffy, thank you. It means so much to me that you're willing to do this."
"I know. I'll call you back after I figure out the bus schedule, all right?"
"All right. I'll have Rupert pick you up at the bus station."
"Okay. Talk to you in a little bit then, Mom. Bye."
"Bye, Buffy."
Buffy turned off the phone when she heard the dial tone. The mood in the apartment was so tense even with Spike gone, that maybe this could be good. She could take a few days to get away, reconnect with her mother, and get a breather.
She just hoped she wasn't making a mistake by opening herself up to Joyce again.
When the band stopped for a break, Spike went outside, needing to escape the claustrophobic feeling he was getting inside the studio. He sat on a set of concrete steps, his hands hanging between his knees.
He hadn't been out there long before he noticed Oz sit down beside him, and Spike figured the bassist must have followed him out. "I know you're not much of one for small talk, Osborne, and I've never liked beating around the bush, so if you've got something to say to me, go ahead and say it," Spike said, not turning to look at his bandmate.
"Whatever your problem with Buffy is, you need to talk to her."
Spike blinked, the topic not the one he'd expected at all, and now he did turn his head towards Oz. "What?"
"I doubt this is a concept you're too familiar with, Spike, but when you spend most of the time with your mouth shut, you get good at reading people. You're stressed, and it's more than Brian or the other album stuff. It's girl problem stress. And since the only girl you notice is alive these days is Buffy, then it's obvious your girl problem is in fact a Buffy problem," Oz replied.
"Might be," Spike said, only willing to concede that much. Oz's eyebrow arched, and Spike sighed, giving in. "Fine, it is. I've acted like a bloody wanker, and really, I don't think just talking to her is going to do much good."
"Have you tried it?"
"No," Spike admitted.
"Then it's a start. Trust me on this one. Talk to Buffy, tell her what's going on in your life, let her know where your head's at."
"I can't lay all my shite on her right now," Spike replied. "She's got her own problems dealing with her sick mum."
"A working relationship isn't all about one person's problems. Whatever one of you is going through, it becomes a collective burden whether you want it to or not, and you can either face that and work through it together or you can try to ignore it and let it fester. Either way, both your problems and hers are going to between the both of you."
"For a man of few words, you sure can be philosophical when you do open your mouth," Spike said.
"It's all about the observation." Oz clapped Spike on the shoulder, then got to his feet. "Talk to her, man. Really—before things get out of hand."
Spike nodded, and Oz left him alone to think.
"Buffy? Pet?" Spike called when he walked into the apartment that evening, frowning as he noticed all the lights were off. Surely she'd come home at some point since that morning, hadn't she?
Then, he realized he hadn't actually seen her since their short, yet unpleasant, conversation in the kitchen the morning before. What if she'd left him? What if Buffy had already been gone for almost two days and he hadn't even noticed?
God, how bad of a boyfriend was he?
Spike flipped on the light in the living room, both relief and dread hitting him when he saw a piece of paper with his name written on it in Buffy's handwriting taped to the television. Relief at knowing she hadn't disappeared without a word and dread at the fact that she was gone and had left him a note.
His hands trembled as he peeled the tape up and unfolded the paper. Was she telling him good-bye? Surely after all they'd been through together, she'd at least dump him in person. Unless maybe she was really that upset with him… Did Buffy hate him now after how he'd treated her when she got back from Sunnydale?
He took a deep breath and started reading the note, feeling a wave of relief tampering down his worry.
Spike—
Stop panicking. I'm not leaving you. I know you're probably all hyperventilating right now, but calm down, I'm not going to break up with you.
She knew him well, his Buffy. Spike continued reading.
My mother called this afternoon and asked me to spend the weekend with her, and I thought it was something I should do, given the circumstances. And I know it's sort of a chickeny thing for me to do, leave and not tell you in person, but I needed a little breather. You hurt me a lot when you yelled at me the other night, and, well, waking up this morning and seeing you'd been out drinking when I'd been waiting up for you didn't help matters much either.
Spike stopped for a moment, his eyes closing as his jaw grew tight, his anger directed not at Buffy for leaving like this, but at himself. She'd been waiting up for him last night. Bloody hell, he was a tosser. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned his attention back to the note.
I'll be back next week, and we can talk. And don't start panicking again, that's not the "we need to talk" that's code for dumping you. We need to talk so we can make this work. Something's obviously going on here, and I'm not sure what it is. I don't know if you know either, but maybe together we can figure it out. I'm going to take this weekend to reconnect with my mom, but also to give myself a little space to try to sort some things out in my mind. Hopefully when I come back, we can work everything out and go back to the way we used to be. I miss that, Spike.
Love,
Buffy
P.S.—I'm really, really not dumping you, so don't spend the next couple days in a tizzy, okay? I love you.
Her little post-script made him smile even as it brought tears to his eyes. She was worrying about him even after he was the one who had hurt her and made her feel like she needed space from him to think. He'd been a right monster to her these past couple of days, and the thought of it made him feel horrible.
Spike knew what he shouldn't do, and he knew what he should. He shouldn't give any thought to the bottle of whiskey he knew was in the cabinet and he should go on to bed, try to get some of the rest he probably needed.
Yet as soon as he had started trying to make himself head off to bed, he switched to rationalizing. Buffy was already gone—at least for the weekend. What difference would it make if he drank just a little, a nip to help him sleep? As much as his emotions were in turmoil right then anyway, it wasn't like he'd be able to get any rest on his own. He needed a drink.
Spike let his feet carry him in to the bottle.
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