Like a soldier preparing for battle, she went through each day with regimented detachment. Eat, train, eat, rest, train, eat, sleep.
The others were there – on the periphery – watching, whispering, never really a part of her life, but never fully removed either.
She made no effort to change that. There was no point. She let herself love before – Angel, her mother, Willow, Tara – and where had that gotten her? She wouldn't have to mourn if she didn't let herself care.
She was reaching for an orange at the center of the table when another hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist. Looking up, she saw Xander watching her, and narrowed her eyes in warning. "Let go."
"No." His eyes were deep and inscrutable, and the lack of any underlying fear or uncertainty gave her pause.
"I said, 'let go'."
The others had stopped eating, all eyes on the altercation.
"Not until you show Giles your hands." His voice matched hers for determination, and her tactical mind began to run through the possibilities. She couldn't fight Xander, but she couldn't let him dictate the terms either.
She saw both watchers – Giles and Dr. Davis – moving with forced nonchalance, each ready to step in and intervene.
Giles spoke first. "Xander, let go of her," and just as Buffy shot him a triumphant glance, added, "Buffy, your hands."
Trapped, she held them out, feeling a twinge of shame as Giles pulled them closer, her bruised, scraped knuckles bared to scrutiny for all assembled. "What's this?"
"Scraped my knuckles," she answered, refusing to meet his eyes. "Gloves aren't broken in yet."
"The gloves are fine," Giles said a hard edge in his voice. "How long are you training?"
"Dunno," Buffy mumbled, "an hour or two, maybe."
Xander snorted, and everyone at the table turned to look at him. "Try four or five."
"Nobody asked you," Buffy's voice was as hard edged as Giles' had been, her rage a finely honed weapon, but the emotion also blinded her, causing her to swing at anything in her path.
"Y'know, I think I should probably go . . . study . . . or something," Dawn announced and cleared her plate. "Xander, Anya, do you think you could help me?"
"Sure thing!" For the first time in his life, Xander was excited by the prospect of schoolwork. "Whadaya say, Anya, do you want to help Dawn study?"
Anya's brow furrowed. "I want to stay here. The fight hasn't even gotten interesting. No one's talking in loud voices yet."
"Anya," Xander's voice took on a somewhat desperate quality. The tension had gotten to be more than he could stand, and the flight or fight reflex had gone from fight straight into flight. He moved to her side to adopt a stage whisper. "This is one of those politeness things I'm always trying to teach you. We don't sit around and watch people have disagreements."
"Sure we do!" she countered. "I see them every day on Jerry Springer and Maury Povich."
"Yes, and my parents watch that sort of programming," he said, "and we've often talked about how we don't want to be anything like my parents. Now let's give these nice people some privacy." He took her by the elbow and led her from the room.
Being a vampire did have some advantages. For example, one could spend the night on the hard, cold, stone floor of a crypt and wake up without any aching muscles.
Which is exactly how it had happened. He'd stayed crouched on the floor long after Willow had departed – convinced she would come back, he was irrationally afraid to move, to do anything that would allow him to be too comfortable lest his guard fall.
It was hard to believe that this vampire, this witch, this supremely evil being was Willow – there was nothing of her left but the physical appearance and even that was changing – her hair grown darker, her clothes tighter and more revealing.
He let his mind continue to ruminate over the differences until he fell asleep, his mind filled not only with Willow's face, but those of all the other women he'd let down – his mother, Dru, Buffy, Dawn . . . He was glad Buffy was dead; she wouldn't have to know that he hadn't been able to keep his promise to look out for Dawn.
Maybe it would be easier to let Willow kill him.
"Buffy you can't do this to yourself." Giles' voice was soft and yet insistent. "It's not going to do anyone any good.
"Do what to myself?" she hissed. "Train? Fight? Live up to my calling? I'm a Slayer – fighting is all I'm good for."
Dr. Davis spoke, "You're not going to be able to fight at all if you keep up at this pace. How long do you think you'll last in a bare-knuckle fight against a vamp with your hands the way they are?"
"I only need to be able to last long enough to stake him," she countered. She was beyond logic, beyond reason, driven by pure hatred and bloodlust.
Still, the second Watcher felt he had to try. "That may be, but there's more than one. Are you going to be able to take on all three?"
"I've taken on three before, but I won't have to," she said. "Spike's not exactly known for his ability to play well with others."
Neither Giles nor Dr. Davis said anything. "And I'll bring weapons," she continued, "a flame thrower if need be."
They still continued to watch her – their stoic, impassive faces a stark contrast to the deep rage that was bubbling just under her surface. "I'm ready to fight," she told them, filling the empty silence. I need to fight. I can't hide here forever."
"A week," Dr. Davis finally answered. "Just a week to come up with a more specific plan than 'a flamethrower.' Let's get some people out there to do some reconnaissance, and get a better idea of what's going on. And then, you have my word, Buffy, we'll go back."
"Maybe Giles hasn't told you," she began, her fists clenched in her lap. "I don't answer to the Council of Watchers anymore. I'm going to wait because I want to get stronger. If you break your word, I go back without you."
She stood, her very posture an open threat. "I'm going to train now. I promise not to punch anything."
"She's messed up again, isn't she?" Dawn asked. She was on her stomach, picking at the crocheted details on the crazy quilt that covered the bed.
"She's been through a lot," Xander answered noncommitally.
"And you think I haven't!!?" Dawn shrieked, alligator tears streaming down her cheeks, and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "I've been living in a crypt. I thought my sister was dead. I was arrested for trying to steal blood from the Red Cross.”
"Everyone's worried about Buffy," Dawn continued. "How's she feeling? How's she handling the stress? How's she going to get through this? Nobody remembers that Buffy's not the only one affected by what goes on in Buffy's world."
"Neither are you!" Anya said with a force that surprised even her. "Xander lost his best friend. I almost got eaten. We all have to deal with this, but you and Buffy – you're both the same – all you can think about is yourselves, and then you're determined to make everyone else hurt as much as you do, and what you don't see is that we're all hurting already – just in different ways."
Anya sniffed, and leaned into the supportive hand that Xander put on her shoulder. "We'll all hurting," she repeated. "So stop acting like nobody sees it." Anya stood and walked out of the room, and after a sympathetic glance over his shoulder, Xander followed. Dawn picked up a pillow, and drove an angry fist into the down. She hated Buffy for who she was, but she hated herself more.
When he'd been fighting for his life, she was always there, ready to take it from him at any moment. Now, that he was ready to surrender – mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, she was nowhere to be found.
He'd been out every night for the past week and a half – unarmed, vulnerable an easy target, and there had been nothing. Tonight, he was out again, and it looked again, as though his death wish was going to go unanswered.
"I'm here, you bitch!" he called to the cemetery at large. "Just come kill me already!"
Buffy stepped out of the shadows. "I thought you'd never ask."
TBC