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~*~

For once, she wished she was a weird Goth freak. Then maybe Tara’s funeral would be easier to dress for.

She settled on a simple black dress. It had a deep v-neck and a raggedly cut hem, which made it look a little less formal than was probably right for a funeral, but it was the only black thing she owned that was even remotely appropriate.

Buffy wiped a tear from her eyes. She had no idea why Tara’s grandmother’s death was affecting her so strongly—she knew it shouldn’t. She hadn’t even met the woman. But somehow…

Well, it was death, and she was super-depressed, anyway. It was really no wonder that she was crying. It had become her extracurricular of choice since she’d broken up with Spike nearly a week ago.

They hadn’t spoken since his outburst in the hallway. She’d stuck to Willow like glue, and though Buffy suspected the redhead knew why, she luckily didn’t say anything.

All of her other friends acted like they were walking on eggshells around her. She couldn’t really blame them; she was a shadow of who she’d been before the breakup. Even having her father verbally attack her wasn’t as bad as this.

And when she was around Spike, it was even worse. Forget eggshells; everyone acted like they were dancing on friggin’ needles.

It was, in a word, miserable.

The funeral just made things even more miserable. She felt awful about the lack of attention she’d been giving Tara’s troubles. Willow and the others had been visiting her house for hours at a time ever since the news had reached them, but somehow, Buffy couldn’t bring herself to go. She wouldn’t have been able to bear being in a presence that was even more grief-filled than her own was.

She sighed and slipped on the dress, pulling her hair into a bun, bothering with only a minimal amount of makeup. It wasn’t exactly a party, and anyway, she didn’t really care about how she looked anymore.

She didn’t really care about anything anymore…

No. Not gonna go there. She forced the depressed thought from her head and strapped on black sandals. Okay, she thought, picking up her purse. Here we go.

Buffy left her room and crept downstairs. Her parents were, as usual, arguing. She’d told her mother about the funeral, but she was betting that her mother hadn’t bothered telling her father. It would be good if she could just leave without talking to the bastard.

“Hold it, young lady.”

She froze, wincing inwardly. So much for luck…

“Where the hell are you going looking like that?”

“To a friend’s grandmother’s funeral.” Her voice was quiet; she lacked even the energy to fight with her dad, something that she would’ve gladly done just a few weeks ago.

“In that?” Hank’s voice was scornful. “Looks more like you’re out to fuck half the male population of Sunnydale.”

No one saw it coming, least of all Buffy. Her eyes had widened in hurt, he’d smiled cruelly, Dawn had gasped from her place on the stairs—

And Joyce had strode up to him and slapped him. Hard.

“If you don’t shut the hell up and leave my daughter alone, I swear to God I won’t wait for the divorce to come through. I’ll kill your sorry ass and leave it in an alley somewhere to rot.”

Buffy’s mouth fell open. Never in her life had she heard her mother sound so cold, so angry, so—

Protective.

Joyce turned around, a gentle, motherly smile on her face. “Buffy, honey, why don’t you just go on. You don’t need a ride, do you?”

Buffy forced her mouth to close. “Nu-uh. It’s—it’s just a little ways away.”

“Are you sure you don’t want someone to come with you?” Joyce’s kind tone wasn’t artifice; she and Buffy had grown closer over the past few weeks, and she knew what had happened between Buffy and Spike, and how much the funeral was affecting her daughter.

“Um, no. I’ll be fine. I’m meeting everybody there.”

Joyce nodded. “Okay, sweetie. See you later.” Buffy’s left as Joyce turned back to her husband with a malevolent look on her face.

The shouting restarted before she’d even gotten as far as the sidewalk. Poor Dawn, Buffy thought sympathetically before she started for the cemetery.

Willow, Spike, Faith, Oz, and Lorne were already waiting at the gate. Willow rushed forward and hugged Buffy, tears streaming down her face. Buffy comforted her friend as best as she could. “How are you holding up?” she asked the redhead quietly. Willow had known Tara’s grandmother fairly well; Buffy knew the death was hurting her badly.

Willow shrugged. “There’s a silver lining to every cloud, right? At least—at least it can’t hurt worse.”

“God, Willow.” Buffy hugged her friend again. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as they pulled apart.

“It’s not your fault,” Willow said with a faint approximation of a smile.

“It’s not anyone’s fault,” Oz pointed out. “Just the way it is.” He gave a minute nod. “Hi, Buffy.”

“Hi.” Buffy glanced briefly at Spike, who fortunately was studying the ground like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He was wearing a suit with a black silk shirt, and even in their surroundings, some part of Buffy acknowledge how, as always, just glancing at him made her body long to be closer.

“So…we’re waiting for Xander and Anya”

“Yep.” Faith nodded. “Been waiting awhile. Bet Xander couldn’t find anything black to wear.”

Buffy cracked a tiny smile. “Too bad neon colors are inappropriate.”

Everyone cracked a minute smile at her joke, smiles that faded rapidly. There was nothing in the world that could cheer them up for long, not right now.

And what they were feeling combined was only a fraction of what Tara felt. Poor, poor Tara. God, let her pull through, Buffy prayed silently.

A few minutes later, a small, beat-up car pulled up and parked. Anya and Xander got out and walked over toward the others, their faces solemn.

“Hey, guys,” Buffy said quietly, avoiding their gaze. It was really hard to be around your friends when most of them thought you were the biggest idiot ever.

“Hey, Buff,” Xander said. His nod lacked the warmth it had before she’d dumped Spike. Anya didn’t bother answering.

Buffy closed her eyes briefly. She deserved his coldness—hell, she deserved everybody’s. With every day that passed, the wondered more and more if ending things with Spike hadn’t been the meanest, stupidest mistake she’d ever made. When she’d been with him, it had been the happiest time of her life. Now that she’d pushed him away, she was miserable.

An image intruded: her mother, sobbing as her husband stared at her in cold silence, while liquid dripped onto broken glass in a corner.

No. I can’t risk that. I just…can’t. For what felt like the millionth time, she mentally hardened her resolve.

The hordes of black-clad people milling about suddenly began filing into the cemetery.

Faith took a deep breath. “We ready for this?”

“I’m thinking we have to be,” Oz replied. As one, the group entered the cemetery.

Buffy sat down in between Willow and Anya, squeezing her hands together in her lap tightly. She was near the end of the row of chairs; Spike sat almost directly in front of her.

It was cloudy overhead, but one of those days when the chance of rain coming is next to nothing. There was false grass laid down in the aisle and around the flower-covered coffin—God, she hated that stuff.

The solemn preacher took the pulpit and began speaking. Buffy caught the occasional word: “Special …distinguished…loved…missed…” but she couldn’t bring herself to pay as strict attention as she knew she should be.

Selfish though it might be, her thoughts just couldn’t leave Spike. Here in this place of death she was asking herself again and again why she’d broken things off with him. Part of her kept bringing her mother to mind, reminding her of the paralyzing fear that had led to her pushing Spike away—but the other part was arguing fiercely.

There’s no one who can say we’d end up like them. Tara’s grandma lived fifty years with the man she loved! My parents aren’t the only option for marriage!

She knew that. In a way, she’d always known that. But her parent’s marriage was the one she’d seen up close since she was born, and some part of her, deep down in the dark, dusty corners of her soul, was petrified that she was doomed to the same fate.

But…it was Spike! She loved him, and she knew he’d never, never hurt her!

So…why had she ended their relationship?

She was a coward. A nasty, pathetic little coward. People died every day, most not as hold as Tara’s grandmother had been—and she might die alone because she was such a coward.

And the sad part was that she knew she’d never have enough courage to be with someone like him.

~*~

The funeral was over relatively soon, much to Buffy’s relief. Being around Spike, even if she was several feet away and he wasn’t even facing her, was excruciating. The grief that she could feel emanating from everyone around her just made it worse.

Everyone milled about afterwards, giving the family their condolences and comforting each other. Buffy embraced a distraught Tara, whispering words of comfort. The gang stayed with her for awhile until she had to greet other attendants.

Buffy glanced around the circle her friends had made uncertainly. “I guess…I guess we should leave?”

Anya, her face tear-streaked nodded. “Yes, let’s. This display of grief is simultaneously heartbreaking and terrifying.”

It was strange—they were such a close-knit group, they almost always hung out together as long as possible. This time, though, it was like they couldn’t stand to be around each other. Buffy blinked and everyone was gone. Willow was heading off with Oz, Anya with Xander, and Faith with Spike.

When Buffy saw Spike leaving, something inside just snapped. She hurried over to them. “Spike!”

They both whirled around. Before Buffy even had a chance to ask to speak to him alone, Faith grinned and left them.

“Yeah?” Spike asked, his brow arched.

She swallowed hard, thanking God that the middle of a funeral didn’t count as alone. “I just want to say…I know you knew Tara’s grandma pretty well.”

“And?”

Buffy briefly closed her eyes. She summoned what tiny amount of courage she still had and, looking directly into his eyes, said, “I’m sorry.”

His own eyes narrowed. For a moment, Buffy was trapped in two deep pools of blue. Then he nodded curtly. “Thanks,” he said softly—and she knew that just as her own words had applied to more than the death of Tara’s grandmother, so did his.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t even a beginning, given that she herself had precipitated the end of their relationship.

But it was something, and as she fled his presence and walked home, Buffy comforted herself with that fact.

~*~

A/N: OK…that was the last chapter that’s completely angst-filled. To those of you who reviewed with something along the lines of “Buffy’s a dumbass, but I love this story!”—I tried to show in this chapter that she knows how dumb she’s being =D And please review, because I'm not sure how I like my portrayal of Tara's loss.





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