Author's Chapter Notes:
I'm actually working on something longer (I'm about 3 chapters in), but this came to me so I took a little diversion. Just a warning though, this deals with Buffy's reaction right after the AR. I've always been bothered by how it was dealt with on the show. To me, this is a plausible reaction that should've been shown, but wasn't, so here it is. It hasn't be beta'd (I know I should get one), so all mistakes are mine.
There are thoughts. Lots of them. All running through my head, but none of them make any sense. I should go change. Go find out the trio. Get up and leave the bathroom.

But I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I just sit there.

None of this fits. Everything is still a bit hazy, but I know something doesn’t feel right; doesn’t feel real.

I’m calm. That’s it. I’m calm.

Too calm.

Maybe it’s because there’s no blood or torn clothes. I look fine so maybe I am. And if I’m fine, then there’s no need for tears.

So everything is okay. Everything is fine. Because if everything wasn’t fine I would be crying. Sobbing actually. Huddled in the shower and trying to wash every last trace of him from my body. I wouldn’t want a reminder that he was ever here.

I’m not doing any of that. Don’t even feel like crying. So maybe I just overreacted. Maybe it was all just—

Footsteps.

I panic. I try to stand up and get away from the door. Look nonchalant, I tell myself. But I’m not quick enough.

The door opens.

It’s Xander. He looks angry and oh god . . .I don’t think I can handle anymore of the angry right now.

“This what you call not seeing Spike anymore—

He stops. Why did he stop? I look up and he’s staring at me. Wait no, not me. He’s looking at something else, something—

“What did he do?”

What do you mean what did he—oh.

I look down and see a bruise. Where did that come from? I wonder. How come I don’t feel it? I’m too exposed. He shouldn’t see me like this right now. No one should—see me, that is. Not like this.

“Did he hurt you?”

I sigh. And that’s the question isn’t it? “He tried,” I hear myself say, “he didn’t . . .” Didn’t what? That word—I can’t say it, but he didn’t do it.

“Son of bitch!”

I jump. His voice is too loud.

But he’s leaving. I don’t need to ask where he’s going, but I can’t let him go. Not right now. I don’t want to make it a. . . “thing.” Besides, we have more important things to worry about. I reach out and grab his arm.

“Don’t.”

He stops.

He’s already halfway out the door, but thankfully, he stops. He doesn’t turn around though. He just stands there and waits, which I’m thankful for. It makes this easier.

“Please . . . just don’t,” I beg. And I hate that have to beg. For him. I’m begging for him and I don’t know why. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t care. Wrong and right are all twisted now so it doesn’t matter anymore.

I can feel his anger as I stand there, holding his wrist. He’s tense. I can see it his shoulders, feel it in his arm. He wants to take off, go after Spike, go downstairs maybe, or go do something besides stand there.

He turns to look at me. He’s concerned. He’s standing there right in front of me and I can’t ignore him or make him go away. It makes me uncomfortable, like I’m exposed, like he’s seeing too much of me, but I can’t look away. I can’t hide. Not from him.

I shiver.

The front door slams and I jump. I just wish it would be quiet. All of these loud noises seem to come out of nowhere and I can’t control them.

Willow’s here now. She’s smiling and she looks happy; eager even. It’s just one more thing that doesn’t fit. It’s louder than the door she just slammed. That look doesn’t have a place here and it’s disturbing.

It’s too easy and it shouldn’t be that easy.

“Hey guys! I think we finally have something—” Willow pauses. She finally realizes that something isn’t right. She looks at Xander and then at me. I start to feel claustrophobic and so I huddle in the corner. I give myself some distance. I pull my robe down and cover myself because it’s the only defense I have.

“What happened?” And now Willow looks worried too.

Then it hits me.

“Nothing,” I answer. Because really, it’s nothing. If I don’t do anything about it, if I don’t say anything about it, the world isn’t going to end—no one will get hurt. So it’s nothing. I get more bruises patrolling. Really, it’s just like fighting another vamp.

The only difference is he got away. And the fight was in my bathroom.

Right.

I’ll just keep telling myself that.

“What did you find out?” I ask, standing up.

She looks surprised and I don’t blame her. Like I said, nothing seems to fit. The order’s all wrong. Maybe if I cut it up and rearranged it, it would make more sense. If it makes sense, maybe then it would feel real. Maybe then the haze will disappear.

Brushing past them, I go into my room to change, but Willow follows me.

“Buffy?”

I shut the door behind me. “Just give me a second. I’ll meet you downstairs,” I tell her.

I get dressed. I don’t know what I’m wearing and I don’t care because that’s not important. What’s important right now is that I go downstairs. Act like everything’s normal. I’m thinking about Warren now; and Andrew; and Jonathan. I can’t pretend they don’t exist because if I do, someone can get hurt. Someone will get hurt. I can be sure of that much so they take priority.

When I’m ready, I open my door and Willow’s still standing there.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer. I walk past her and down the hallway. The sound of her footsteps follow behind me.

“Are you sure? Because Xander said that Spike—

“No, really everything’s fine,” I interrupt. “we just got into a fight. That’s all.”

I stop and look over my shoulder. She’s looking at me with that crinkled brow of hers, like she doesn’t believe me. And why should she? Nothing adds up, but I don’t try and explain. I just keep going. Down the hallway and towards the stairs

But then I stop.

The bathroom.

I can’t help looking. I want to see if anything’s different. I step inside and look around. Willow’s still behind me. Why can’t she just meet me downstairs like I asked?

“Did you guys got into a fight in the bathroom?” she asks. I can tell she’s thinking, trying to puzzle it out and put the pieces together.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say. “But it doesn’t look like it does it?”

She frowns, but doesn’t answer. I don’t expect an answer, but the confirmation would be nice because the bathroom looks…well it looks too normal. Like nothing happened. So I keep looking.

I walk over to the bathtub. The shower curtain is lying across it and the rod’s broken. That’s it. No crack in the wall, no tear in the curtain. It’s lying there as if someone just tossed it carelessly in the tub and meant to come back later to put it up.

Vaguely, I remember that my back hurt, and as soon as I remember I can feel it—it’s a dull ache. Only it’s worse than I remember.

My gaze moves over to the sink, and I can’t help walking over there, just to check. Just to make sure.

Nothing.

I could’ve sworn there would be a crack. I’m the slayer. I’m really strong and I threw him against the sink with everything in me. I was surprised it didn’t break. Now I’m even more surprised there’s no damage. Not even a little.

I turn around. Willow’s still standing there in there in the doorway. She looks confused, expectant. She wants answers, but I don’t know where to start. It’s not something you can just come right out and say.

I look at the floor instead.

The rug. It’s crooked.

By reflex, I move to straighten it, but then I stop. I kneel down and run my hands over it, feeling for anything that’s out of place. Usually, there’s blood. Well there’s always blood. Someone gets cut, someone scratches—at least I thought I scratched him, but no. The rug is dry.

I stand up and scan the rest of the floor. I remember hearing something rip, and I wonder if a piece of my robe is lying around. I look.

Twice.

Nothing.

It doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary happened. Maybe nothing did. Problem is, I know something happened. I just can’t say it. That makes me angry. That makes me want to cry.

But I don’t have time for tears.

Cracked sink, broken shower curtain, torn piece of fabric, and some blood on the floor—just for good measure.

I should have more to show for this: more bruises, more scratches, and more tears.

That’s what I should look like. That’s what the bathroom should look like. I would take a picture, show it to Willow, and she would understand. I wouldn’t have to say anything because the pieces would fit. It would make sense.

It would be real.

But this—this—it’s not real.

So I turn away and go downstairs. Because whatever Willow has to say—that’s real.





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