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Buffy sat on her bed, knees curled to her chest, wrapped in the largest sweater she had been able to find in her closet; funny how that had been her uniform all day, ever since she’d come home ‘sore and limpy and desperately confused’ Buffy. It just seemed easier to hide—from herself, from her friends, from her Spike (whatever he was to her now)—if she could bury herself in layers of fabric and an air of business-only purpose. Hair yanked back into severe braids, face bare of makeup and stark with her exhaustion, body shielding itself in reams of soft cotton, she had felt armored for what she had been sure would be a trying confrontation with Spike. But he had helped her—making with the snark and the innuendoes all the while, but he had honest to God helped her—and yet he hadn’t had even the grace to pretend to be fooled by her armor. He saw right through her—again. He knew that she wanted him, knew that her body hadn’t stopped craving him, knew that she still shook with unspent desire when she recalled even the barest touch of his hands against her flesh…

Her chest suddenly felt impossibly tight and she found herself overwhelmed by the odor of the garlic she’d strewn throughout her room; desperately grasping the cross in her hand as though it was her only tie to the world around her, she gasped for breath. She was deeply engrossed in her thoughts, so riveted by the frantic machinations of her brain that she rocked back and forth subconsciously to soothe herself as she scrambled to catch up with the events of the past 24 hours.

Just one day… one tiny day in the scheme of how many others… and it had completely shaken her world to the core. Not that her world was anything less than shaky even on its best day, not now that she’d been torn from heaven and brought back to earth to fight a battle that hadn’t been hers to fight for far too long. She wasn’t a warrior, not any more; she was an angel cast out of heaven who shouldn’t have to muddy her hands with vampire dust and demon gore night after night. But she was only that angel to Spike; she could see in the way that he protected her, shielded her, and comforted her that he knew with every fiber of his being that her presence in this world was wrong. He tried to make it better, to make the world less bright and less harsh; heaven help her, but the only comfort she could find in this hellish space was found in him. He just listened, he just held, he just took what she could give him and gave everything he had in return. He tried to put her back together nightly, brick by brick, carefully reconstructing everything that her friends had so thoughtlessly torn apart.

Her friends… her indelicate snort shattered the stillness of the room around her, and startled her into a complete cessation of motion. There was a mess than she didn’t even want to bother with. Xander and Anya and the endless nattering… could they really not see how grating it was? How shrill and uncomfortable and false things felt when she was with them? Tara… Tara was sweet—wonderful even—but she’d still helped with the spell, still let them rip her out of heaven, even if they didn’t know that’s where she was. Giles didn’t count, not anymore—if he couldn’t be bothered to stick around and help after she publicly begged him to stay, she didn’t need him, and right now she certainly didn’t want him. And Willow… God, who would have ever thought that sweet shy little Willow would start juicing herself up on dark power, much less abandon Dawn in a warlock’s den while she went to get her fix. And if the way she’d scrubbed herself bloody in the shower long after the water had turned cold was any indication, Rack hadn’t wanted money as payment…

Which left Dawn and Spike. Out of everyone in Sunnydale to whom she’d ever been close, she was down to two people that she could really, truly trust. Hands down, chips down—two people who were there. Her sister that really wasn’t her sister and shouldn’t even be a person, and a vampire with a chip and no soul. And why didn’t she feel that she’d been cosmically screwed in this bargain? Except that she hadn’t been, not really. Oh, it was far from normal; but then again, it was her life. Dawn may have been created by monks out of glowy energy, but she really did feel like her sister—Buffy certainly loved her like one, enough so that it survived Willow wiping their memories. Yeah, she was whiny and a pain… she was fifteen, the little sister of a slayer, and she’d found out she wasn’t even real and lost her mother and her sister in less than six months—that explained most of it. Whatever else she was, though, Dawn was also loyal and loving and trying so hard to be grown-up and brave and strong.

And Spike—well, he didn’t seem to be doing so shabby with only the chip and no soul. He had stayed and taken care of Dawn, grieved with her and treated her like an adult and not a kid; Buffy may have been lost in her own pain when she’d returned, but she hadn’t been blind. She’d seen the way he and Dawn were with each other the night she came back, and more nights since, and she knew that some major bonding had taken place while she was… away. And if she’d needed any other proof, she had the look on Spike’s face tonight when she’d mentioned Dawn’s name alongside Willow’s and Rack’s: the abject terror mixed with fury and an unwavering sense of purpose. And when they’d found Dawn, she had watched in wonderment as all of his harsher emotions seemed to drain from him as he focused only gentleness and concern on Dawn; with only a glance from Buffy, he had pulled Dawn into his embrace and taken her to the hospital while Buffy dealt with Willow. He always seemed to know exactly what to do, and just did it; she didn’t have to persuade him, to convince him—she said the word or gave him a look, and he had her back.

Which made last night and this morning so weird. The chip didn’t work on her, and he had attacked her. Not that she had been all moonbeams and roses with the taunting and the Bitchy Buffy routine since they’d kissed that first time, but still—he attacked her. But… but he didn’t kill her, did he? Suddenly, Buffy realized with perfect clarity exactly what their little pre-show in the alley and the house had been: he was tired of her treating him like some leashed guard dog that she could put back in the kennel when she was done. He had wanted her to see what he could do versus what he was doing; while he could hurt her, sneak up on her, kill her, drain her, turn her *Bad Buffy brain! Enough with the list!*… he helped her instead. Fought by her side. Babysat her little sister. Got drunk with her when she wanted to escape her life, and helped her to fight back against her enemies. Listened when she sobbed or talked. Watched in silent support and unwavering devotion as she stared at the floor, aching too much to speak.

*He loves me.* How funny that the realization would be so matter-of-fact when she’d always sworn it wasn’t possible for him to love her or anything other than himself; suddenly, however, it was the one thing she knew as clearly as her own name. He loved her, and the fight had been the only way he knew to prove it. He had to show her that he could kill her, so she would understand what it meant that he didn’t.

So then this morning… why had he been such an ass? All Big Bad swagger and lewd innuendoes… Except for the whole “the only thing better than killing a slayer” thing, which was so beyond uncalled for, it had really been kind of an awkwardly snuggly morning after the shock of waking up naked and together had worn off… until she had jumped off of him like he was on fire and called him a freak show, and convenient, and all those other nasty things she’d said… Oh god… no… she had been Angelus!

Buffy’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, and she felt like she might actually be sick. She didn’t really know yet how to describe how she felt about Spike… but there were more fluffy bunny feelings than sharpen stake feelings, so why had she said those things? She had always wondered what her face had looked like while Angelus had been taunting her, but she didn’t need to wonder any more… the hurt in Spike’s eyes this morning had given her a perfect mirror. She had done nothing less to him than Angelus had done to her, and she still ached from that betrayal.

But she didn’t want to hurt Spike… she didn’t want to see that look on his face again, and not just because it made her feel like a horrible person. He was her ally, her confidante, and now, she supposed, her lover. She cared about him in a way that twisted her insides into knots every time she felt him nearby, and knowing that she had devastated him… well, it ached. So she was going to fix it, but damned if she knew how. Suddenly exhausted, Buffy unwrapped herself and stood, rolling her eyes at the cross that had imprinted itself into her palm and tossing it across the room with a bark of sardonic laughter. Standing, she decided to take down the ridiculous smelly window treatments and get to bed; there’d be time enough for fixing everything else tomorrow.

And that plan held until she heard the tapping at the window.





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