Preemptive A/N: This fic is prologued by The Underground. Please read that one first!



There were splinters under her nails.

For all the care that Dawn had given her neck and face, and the consideration she’d shown washing and bandaging torn and bloody knuckles, Buffy’s nails had been woefully neglected, providing her with tangible proof of the reality before her.

This wasn’t another illusion. In the illusions she’d suffered through for she knew not how long, she’d never felt the pangs of splintered wood lodged under her fingernails. Where she’d been, the pain had always been mental, been emotional…never physical. They’d caught on to the ineffectiveness of physical pain early on, opting instead to focus on breaking her psychologically.

There was a time, in the very beginning, when the rest of her friends burst through the front door, demanding to see her, demanding to know if their spell had worked, when she thought she had been thrust into another illusion. She had suffered through this, once, an entire month – or perhaps a mere blink of an eye; time had meant nothing and everything where she’d been – spent in feeble hope that her ordeal was over. But this Dawn had smelled of her familiar perfume, untainted by ash and sulfur, and the others surrounding her had yet to burst into flames.

And so she’d allowed each one to hug her in turn, to fuss over her, to smile so wide she feared their mouths would split apart, as she’d seen so many times before. Their words of joy at her apparent resurrection fell on unhearing ears, as Buffy simply allowed her vision to blur and fall back into focus, her attention directed at the slivers of wood under her nails.

At some point, Dawn had shooed away the rest of the Scoobies, mumbling something about over-stimulation, and had helped Buffy up to her room, tucking her in like a five-year-old child, complete with a kiss on the forehead and soft, almost cooed words. In the cool dark of her room, she overheard murmurings between her sister and her two new roommates, but at that moment, she hadn’t cared in the slightest about their conversation.

She was back. Her bed, her room, her house, the friends around her…they were real this time. The linens under her body were cool and held not a trace of heat. And the blessed splinters were still wedged underneath her cracked and peeling fingernails.

She felt everything, and it was overwhelming.

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The sun shone brilliantly against the drawn curtains of Buffy’s window the next morning, errant beams of light struggling valiantly to break through. She had opted instead for the illumination provided by the small lamp on her bedside table, preferring to keep any excess heat from her room as long as she could.

Dawn hadn’t seemed to mind, or perhaps simply had just not noticed, her attentions too focused on her recently-returned sister and the tray of breakfast foods placed at the foot of Buffy’s bed. Instead, she sat and chatted jovially about the minutiae of the past summer in Sunnydale, as though Buffy had simply been on vacation instead of dead and buried.

The Scoobies, Dawn had said, had taken over patrol during her absence (“absence,” she’d said, as though they’d expected her to one day blow right back into town, smiling and laughing, right on schedule). Willow had apparently become quite adept at fire spells, and Tara had become a force to be reckoned with as well, preferring to use an instantaneous pulverizing spell over Willow’s blaze of glory. Xander had apparently become more comfortable with the up-close-and-personal method of slaying, and had taken to walking around with a stake sequestered on his person at all times. Anya, however, had seemed content to continue standing in the background, contributing to the process by means of her colorful audio commentary.

And Dawn had continued with stories of her own summer, having been deemed “still too young” to assist with slaying duties.

“…and Spike taught me how to play poker back in June; I haven’t really been able to play anyone, though. You know how to play, right? We should totally play for…I don’t know. Chores or something.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, and for the first time since her resurrection, she displayed traces of her old animated self. “Spike?” she asked, and sat up a little straighter. Maybe with Spike she could finally give voice to the thoughts swarming in her mind. Her friends…she loved them dearly, but none of them would really be able to understand what she’d gone through. But Spike…

Dawn flinched, her lip briefly curling into a self-degrading sneer, angered at her apparent slip. “Uh…yeah,” she replied lamely, desperately scrambling in an attempt to divert the conversation. “So…poker! I know, right?”

Spike hadn’t been there the previous evening, Buffy realized. The images of the night before, mostly ignored during the moment, played back clearly in her mind as she put down her half-eaten bagel.

“Dawn,” she said quietly, and her voice was quiet and rough from lack of actual use (or maybe worn out from screaming; she just wasn’t sure anymore). “Where’s Spike?”

Dawn opened her mouth to deny her mention of the vampire, or to deny any sort of knowledge as to his whereabouts, to spew lies that would make her sister angry at Spike, as usual; anything to stop the current conversation. Instead, she found herself speaking the truth as she knew it.

“We…we don’t know, Buffy,” Dawn finally replied. “One night, he was here, watching some stupid movie with me, and the next day, he just…he never showed up. He’s always showed up, Buffy. Always. He took such good care of me when you were gone.” She wanted to leave her explanations at that – certainly they should have been sufficient – but once she’d allowed the words to start flowing, she couldn’t stop. “I got really worried, that maybe he was hurt on the way home or something. Xander and Anya went by his crypt, but they didn’t find anything, and Tara’s locator spell didn’t pan out. We think maybe he…” She shook her head, unwilling – or unable – to complete the thought.

And she didn’t have to.

It didn’t make any sense for Spike to leave, Buffy mused. He’d promised to watch over Dawn, and she knew that he would only break that promise upon his dusty end. Something in her throat tightened at the thought: she’d just lost the only person who might be able to help her get through the shock of her resurrection.

Not that she wasn’t grateful to be back among the living. Although she could have done without Willow strutting around like the cock on the walk, she was truly grateful to her friend for tearing her out of what she had accepted – albeit through sweat and tears – to be her eternity. And as she gazed idly down at one of the splinters still lodged underneath her fingernails, she made a vow to shed her fears that she was still dead and buried, and instead truly live the second chance she’d been given.


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That had been two months ago.

Buffy – and by association, her circle of friends – had quickly learned that intention and actualization were two entirely different things. Buffy rarely left her room, much less the house. The Scoobies, worried at Buffy’s lack of animation, had set up a sort of impromptu shift schedule, ensuring that Buffy was never left alone.

Tara had tried talking to her, to no avail, three days after her resurrection. If she concentrated hard enough, Buffy could remember the feel of Tara’s gentle hands cradling hers as she painstakingly drew out the splinters of wood Dawn had failed to notice, and Buffy had simply neglected to attend to. If pressed, she wasn’t certain if the absence of wood was a relief or a worry. The pangs were gone, and her fingernails were beginning to grow back, but she no longer had the connection to reality she’d once had, and since Tara’s visit, Buffy spent a portion of each day fearing herself in another illusion.

Willow had seemed content to fill the hours of her shift by chattering endlessly about new magical endeavors she was eager to try. She was usually joined by Tara, whose quiet presence was more of a help to Buffy than the young witch would probably ever know.

For his part, Xander would quote stupid comedies to no end, attempting to get a laugh out of Buffy (and sometimes succeeding with little more than an appreciative smile). He was usually accompanied by Anya, who became increasingly annoyed with each visit – although whether it was due to Buffy’s apparent lack of progress or the fact that she was wasting, as she put it, “valuable capital earning time,” Buffy was uncertain. Anya’s conversation mostly cycled around how business at the Magic Box was faring, although every once in a while she would bring up the subject of her wedding plans.

“Xander and I are planning on matrimony,” Anya announced proudly, once her fiancé left the room. “We weren’t supposed to say anything about it after you came back, because everyone is focusing on getting you back the way you were before your untimely death. But the magazines I read this summer all state that traditionally, the bride is the center of attention during the engagement period. And despite the fact that I admire your persistent attempts to keep the figurative spotlight pointed on you, I must request that you relinquish the control of everyone’s attention to me for the remaining duration of my engagement and subsequent wedding.” She smiled brightly, eager for Buffy to agree with her assessment. “And in speaking with you, my hopes are that Xander will be agreeable to our announcing our engagement to the rest of our social circle.”

Giles had seen her only a handful of times, seemingly unable to deal with a nearly-catatonic slayer. He had, however, told her of his plans of leaving Sunnydale to head back to England, and his subsequent abandonment of them. Instead, he had begun working at the Magic Box once again, much to Anya’s annoyance. Evenings found him teaming up with the rest of the Scoobies during patrol in the graveyard, fragments of Ripper shining through whenever he had a stake in hand and a fire-wielding witch at his side.

Two months drew out eternally, and there was not one member of the ragtag group of vampire slayers who did not feel the strain of Buffy’s despondent state. Their tacit agreement was that Buffy had somehow come back wrong, irrevocably damaged, and all they could do was go through the motions of every day life, clinging to the feeble faith that one day Buffy would simply snap out of her dejected condition.

It was an event that held little hope amongst the Scoobies…until the evening a somber Spike finally set foot back in Sunnydale.

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A/N: I swear this will make more sense soon. I’m trying something different here; please stick with me!

This should be a fairly short fic. I’ve actually assigned HollyDB the task of making sure I don’t go over ten chapters with this one; even so, I’m shooting for six or seven at the most. Written for the Art Before Fic challenge; challenge requirements will be posted at the end of the final chapters.

If you have a minute, please leave a review!





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