Chapter Four:

"Give it back," Buffy said, voice shaking even through clenched teeth.

Spike smirked at her, head tilted in that superior, slightly amused way that always made her want to pound his face into new and exotic shapes. "Make me," he said, blue eyes sparkling with barely suppressed laughter.

"It's mine, it's not fair." Her voice sounded whiny and childish even to her own ears, but she didn't care. She'd been robbed, damn it. She rushed at him, but he stepped nimbly aside, chuckling as her mad dash sent her headlong into the nearest tombstone. Overhead, a Cheshire cat moon grinned insanely down at them.

Spike crouched precariously on top of a large, urn-shaped monument. "When you don't take care of your toys, don't be upset if you lose them," he replied, with the exasperated calm of a teacher explaining something to a not-so-bright student for the hundredth time. He was still loosely holding Mr. Pointy, her favorite weapon, the cause of all this fuss. The twelve-inch ash stake was battered and blunted with much use, but deadly as ever. Its pale wood gleamed like bone in his slim white hand.

Buffy leapt up, brushing off graveyard dirt and dead leaves, and tramped over to where the vampire was perched. He smiled down at her puckishly, obviously delighted with this latest game. His amusement only made her more furious. "If you don't stop being such a bitch, I'm going to bite you," she growled.

Spike abruptly stopped smiling, staring at her with a hurt, puzzled expression. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything dawn suddenly broke, flooding the gloomy boneyard with furious crimson rays. Buffy could only look on in horror as the sun flowed over Spike's pale skin, the fierce light giving him a rosy, almost human flush for the few seconds before he burst into flame. Then he was burning, burning, not disintegrating into dust like a vampire should but literally melting in front of her, the flesh rolling off his bones like candle wax. His hair was burning incandescent white in the radiant flames, the rest of him charring black in hideous contrast as the baking heat scorched him from the inside out. Only his eyes remained the same, the fire reflecting in their cerulean depths as he stared at her from the heart of the inferno. She could hear herself screaming at him, but the sound was senseless, a mindless cry beyond words, and she knew he couldn't understand her. Then the fire blazed up, billowing out into a giant plume of flame, and in that moment he was lost to her, hidden from sight in a shower of deadly red sparks. Without a second's hesitation she ran into the firestorm, cinders swirling around her like confetti as she searched for him, but try as she might, all she could see was a brilliant yellow-orange haze surrounding her on all sides. . .

"NO!" Buffy screamed, sitting bolt upright and trying to shield herself from the hateful yellow glow gnawing into her eyes. After a moment, realizing that no part of her felt like it was actually burning, she slowly lowered her arms. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, she quickly scanned her surroundings. She was in her own bed, Mr. Pointy was sitting in his usual place on her dresser, and the light currently blinding her was the cheerful noonday sun, not some sudden conflagration. All a dream. Just the latest episode of Buffy Summers' nightly horrorshow, courtesy of five years fighting the forces of darkness.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she took another deep breath and tried to slow her racing heartbeat. Calm down, just another nightmare, she said to herself. But she knew that wasn't precisely true--for sheer visual pyrotechnics, this one was right up there with the Angel cycle of Summer '98. The sight of Spike going up like a Roman candle was probably going to be with her for awhile. Bad enough she had to be tormented by him in her waking life--now he was invading her unconscious in the most disturbing of ways.

The thought was enough to make her want to lie back down and pull the blankets over her head. This had seemed like such a sensible solution last night, since crawling back into the earth had not been a viable option. But twelve hours of coma-deep sleep was enough, even for someone who'd been through the thirty-one flavors of hell she'd experienced recently. It was time to get up: slayers did not get their fearsome reputations by hiding under the covers.

Also, she was beginning to cramp. Stretching and wincing at the same time, Buffy wondered if it was possible to sprain every muscle in one's body simultaneously. Next time, warm upproperly before playing shag me-snack me-stake me with the cute demon, a nasty voice spoke up in her head. Think they make yoga stretches for that? Buffy recoiled, swatting away the dark images flapping through her head like so many bats. She was not getting started on this track right now. If she did, she really wouldn't get up today.

And she needed to get up. Last night's stickiness and sweatiness had congealed into a tacky varnish coating the entire surface of her skin. She smelled like salt and ashes and musk. She smelled like him. She'd never get him out of her head, lolling around in eau de Spike. Throwing off the rumpled sheets, she stumbled out of bed, grabbing her robe off the floor and pulling it on. Let's keep this simple, she said to herself, shuffling across the hall towards the bathroom. Wash. Eat. Change sheets. Maybe if she kept her entire inner monologue to sentences of four words or less, she'd survive the day without suffering a major psychological break.

Buffy emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, skin still stinging from much scrubbing, face flushed from the blistering heat of the water. Twisting her hair into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck, she headed back into her room. She dressed quickly, then surveyed herself in the mirror. Not bad. She was a little pale, and dark circles seemed to have set up housekeeping under her eyes, but other than that everything looked normal. The jeans and black turtleneck covered up any tell-tale marks, and the sweat and sex scent had been replaced by the aromas of vanilla bath gel and chamomile shampoo. She in no way resembled a woman who had spent half the night communing with the evil undead. At least, not in any way everybody didn't already know about. Perhaps she could do this after all.

Now for breakfast. Breakfast was of the good. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, even if the day had started at lunchtime. She walked down the hall to Willow's room and knocked gently on the prim white door. It was time Willow left her cave and ate something, as well. Given their current mental states, mixing either of them with cooking utensils and fire was probably a bad idea, but maybe they could go to Denny's. They'd eat waffles and eggs, make fun of the tacky decor, argue the relative guilt of Tom vs. Nicole, and the sheer ordinariness of it all might tether her to earth a bit.

"Will? Are you up?" Buffy called out. No reply. She knocked again, but there was still no answer. A tiny worm of worry began to uncurl deep down in her stomach. Trying the handle and finding it unlocked, Buffy slowly opened the door, mentally bracing herself. She quickly glanced around the dim room, where the curtains were still drawn against the strong California light. It looked rather unkempt--the big sleigh bed unmade, books and clothing strewn around in un-Willowlike disorder--but otherwise okay. But at that moment her keen ears picked up a familiar strangled noise coming from the direction of the master bathroom. Uh-oh. The last time she'd heard that particular sound had been a few weeks ago, when she'd been making it herself following an ill-considered flirtation with Jack Daniels and demon nightlife. Very concerned now, Buffy moved close to the bathroom door and, finding it not quite closed, gently pushed it open. "Oh, Willow," she said softly.

Willow was bent over the toilet, vibrant red hair matted and wet with sweat, her face bleached chalky white. Buffy reacted immediately, dampening a washcloth and kneeling beside her prostrate friend. Willow's thin shoulders heaved once more and then she leaned back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed. Buffy carefully wiped her mouth off, then gently smoothed the damp hair back from her face, trying not to shudder at the icy clamminess of the witch's skin. Willow opened her eyes and Buffy gasped. The whites were mottled with scarlet--it looked like her corneas were hemorrhaging. Buffy started up, ready to run for help, but Willow grasped her wrist, grip surprisingly firm given her present state.

"S'okay," she said indistinctly, beginning to shiver. "Just a side effect of the vomiting--it's harmless."

Buffy grabbed a bathsheet from the rack and wrapped it around Willow's shoulders. "It doesn't look harmless from my angle, Will. This can't be good."

Willow shook her head weakly. "Looks more serious than it is. Like the magic D.T.'s or something, with all the usual fun symptoms--muscle aches, nausea, funky nightmares. You know last night I dreamed we were back in the factory and you and Spike were battling it out? You were yelling at him, something about a sword. . ." She trailed off and closed her eyes again, lids tinged a bluish-purple from exhaustion.

Buffy stood up and began rinsing out the washcloth, needing to do something with her suddenly shaking hands. What had she been thinking, playing that whole sordid scene with Spike, and Willow not thirty feet away? If the witch hadn't been so out of it, they would have been caught in any one of a dozen compromising positions. Maybe that was the point, cynical voice spoke up again. Buffy squashed the voice and pulled her thoughts back to her suffering friend. "People can die from withdrawal. Even the regular, non-supernatural kind. There has to be something to make this easier for you."

"Yeah, that'd be good. I like things easier, don't I?" Willow said, self-loathing darkening her voice.

"Will--"

"No," Willow said stubbornly. "No more shortcuts. I'm going to get through this without magical notions or potions smoothing the way."

"Nothing magical, some kind of herbal thing, I'll bet Giles or Tara--"

"No!" Willow returned fiercely. "I can't go to them. They were the ones who warned me first that I was going too deep with the magic. Tara's already disgusted with me, I couldn't take Giles--" She broke off and turned even paler, if that were possible. Leaning back over the bowl, with an awful choking noise she started bringing up what looked like bile and stomach acids. Buffy concentrated on refolding the washcloth, trying not to grimace. After a few minutes, there was a pause in the retching. Willow sat back on her heels and wiped her damp forehead. "Buffy, I wish you'd go," she sighed. "I really don't want any witnesses for this, not even you."

"There has to be something I can do, Will. I can't stand to see you hurting so badly."

"You can't help me," Willow said flatly. "I have to do this by myself."

"But--"

"Please, Buffy," Willow said in that same colorless voice. "If you really want to help, you'll let me get through this in my own way."

Buffy shifted uncertainly, not sure what to do. Leaving her here by herself seemed heartless, maybe even dangerous. But she could see that further nagging wasn't going to do any good. Willow's expression was like a blank stone wall. "Well, if you need anything. . ."

"I know. Thanks." Willow said distantly, already turning in on herself. She wrapped the towel more tightly around her shoulders and sat back against the flocked wallpaper, face set with grim determination as she waited for her body's next onslaught. Her reddened eyes looked very distant, like she was surveying some bleak internal landscape.

Buffy threw the washcloth into the sink and edged out the door, closing it softly behind her. She suddenly wasn't very hungry anymore.

********

Buffy wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later, knowing she should try to force something down, even though witnessing Willow play Linda Blair had pretty much squelched any desire for breakfast. But she hadn't tasted food since early yesterday afternoon, and if she wasn't careful she was going to start forgetting to eat again. It was a pattern she'd fallen into after her return, a day or two without wanting anything and then binging out on everything in the house, like a camel storing up for the desert. She'd been doing the same thing with sleep as well, staying up for days at a time and then collapsing at odd hours, as if the regular circadian rhythms didn't apply to her anymore.

But she was determined to start living like a normal human being again, and a normal human ate every day, no matter what was going on upstairs. After ten minutes or so of rummaging through cabinets, and another five minutes of staring blankly into the refrigerator, she finally settled on pb&j, the ultimate comfort food. As she spread grape jelly on wheat bread, she remembered her mother making these for her all those times she was ill, crusts off, with crunchy peanut butter and extra jelly. Buffy put down the knife and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The loss of her mother still ached periodically, like a bad leg that tripped you up at odd moments, refusing to heal.

After a minute, she came back to herself and finished making the sandwich. The final product seemed about as appetizing as a bag of sand, but she was determined to choke it down somehow. Opening the fridge to grab milk to wash it down, she glanced at the clock on the wall. 12:30. It would be 8:30 now, in England. Buffy looked at the phone, then back at the clock, contemplating. Then she shrugged, slammed the refrigerator door, and picked up the receiver. So what if it was Saturday night over there? Giles might be trying to get himself a life across the pond, but for him that probably meant two cups of tea after dinner instead of one.

Two rings. . .four rings. . .six. . .still no answer. On the eighth ring, just as Buffy was ready to hang up, he finally picked up.

"Hello?" It sounded like Giles, but the background noise was all wrong. Over the tinny connection David Bowie was singing about spiders from Mars, and she could hear the busy hum of many voices all talking at once.

"Giles?" Buffy said tentatively.

"Buffy!" It was Giles all right, despite the party noises. "It's so good to hear from you. How have you been?"

"Oh, fine. I just thought I'd call and see how you were doing in Merrie Olde England. . ."

"Wonderful. I'm--" his words were suddenly drowned out by the voices screaming something in unison-it sounded like a drinking chant. People are doing shots in Giles's living room, Buffy thought bewilderedly. Did I dial the wrong country code? Get some parallel party animal universe Giles by mistake? "Hey, take it down a level, would you?" he shouted, his voice more clipped than usual. "It's an overseas call and I can't hear it with you lot shouting from the bloody rafters!"

Buffy made a face. She hated it when Giles slid into Ripperspeak. There were just too many uncomfortable associations.

Then Giles was back, the voices in the background lowered to a dull buzz. "Sorry. I'm having a few old mates from Oxford over, and they tend to go a bit rowdy when they get a few drinks in them."

"If this is a bad time--"

"No, of course not. I haven't spoken to you in days. I want to hear everything that is going--" he cut off again. She heard a gruff male voice right speaking right next to the phone.

"Right, Giles, can we shelve the pouf rock and put on something with some muscle to it? I think we've heard enough of Ziggy playing his sodding guitar."

"Put on the Pirates of Penzance for all I care," Giles replied testily. "But scratch any of those records and you're going to hear about it, my friend." More voices arguing, and then the music abruptly shifted into the unmistakable rhythmic pounding of Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir." There were several loud whoops of approval.

"Look, Giles, I can call back later."

"No, no. Wait a moment." She could hear footsteps, a door closing, and then the background went mercifully silent. "Now, let's try this again. How are things going?"

"Well, they're not nearly as exciting as your life seems to be."

"Oh, that. Just a group of middle-aged intellectuals trying to recapture the glory days of their youth. It sounds a lot more interesting than it is. No, really, how is everyone?"

"Um, about the same. Xander and Anya are still acting like the first people on earth to embark upon the holy state of matrimony." And he sounds like a stranger these days, Giles--he talks about nothing but centerpiece arrangements and gift registries and mortgages rates. Mortgage rates! This is Xander, remember? The guy who thought a Chia Pet was too much responsibility?

"Well, that's to be expected. Anya rarely does anything by halves, and Xander. . ."

"Has a tendency to get in over his head. Right. Dawn thinks I'm the Devil. . ."

"Perfectly normal behavior for a fifteen-year-old towards her guardian."

"I guess." Is that what I am? A guardian? 'Cause lately I can't seem to guard her from anything, not even herself. Buffy stopped for a moment, then pushed gamely on. "Willow. . ." she trailed off, uncertain. Full disclosure was definitely out, but she had to say something. "She and Tara are sort of on a break right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. It was that last spell, I suppose."

"Yes--but maybe it will be a good thing, in the long run. It seems to have brought Willow to her senses," Buffy said with false brightness. "She's trying to cut way back on the magic now." After she spent two days in an enchanted crackhouse hopped up on serious juju. But the whole almost killing Dawn thing seems to have gotten through to her.

"Well, that's good, isn't it? I think it's important she learn that she doesn't need it nearly as much as she believes she does."

"Uh-huh." I'm sure that will be a valuable lesson, if her eyeballs don't explode.

"What about you?" she could hear the concern in Giles's voice even over the long distance wires. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." Yes, I am no longer numb all the time. Now I alternate between numbness, insane bouts of lust for an evil bloodsucking fiend, and crushing guilt. I guess you could call that progress.

"Really?" Giles sounded skeptical.

"Really really. Keeping it on an even keel, anyway," Buffy said, knowing she sounded completely unconvincing.

"It will get easier in time, Buffy," Giles said gently. "I know things are hard right now, but they will get better."

No. Things are IMPOSSIBLE right now. But you don't want to hear that, do you? Screws up your grand master plan to make a woman out of the Slayer by abandoning her in her hour of need. Buffy could feel all her anger and loss over her watcher's sudden departure, emotions she'd tried her best to overcome in the days since he left, oozing back to the surface. She wanted to scream at him, to demand how he could sound so worried and empathetic and Gilesish and still have gone to the other side of the world.

But all she said was "I know."

There was an uneasy pause. Then Giles spoke, his rushed accents betraying his own discomfort. "Anything unusual happening on the Hellmouth?"

"You know the Hellmouth," Buffy said, trying to keep her tone neutral. "There's always something cooking. Nothing serious."

"So patrolling's going well?"

"Yep. Same old, same old. Fight. Taunt. Slay. You know."

"Is Spike still helping out? He's unstable, but I found over the summer that he has his uses."

"Yeah, he sure does," Buffy replied quickly, fighting off the urge to burst into hysterical giggles. Gots more uses than a Swiss army knife, Giles. But let's hope you don't know about most of 'em.

There was another awkward silence.

"Oh--there's one piece of good news," Giles said, breaking in after a moment. "I've spoken to the Watcher's Council about a stipend for adult slayers, and they're seriously considering it."

"Really." This was good news, though right now she wasn't in the frame of mind to enjoy it.

"Yes. They don't act quickly on anything of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if they came up with something for you in the next little while. Until then, if you need anything, you know I--"

"The first check was too generous, Giles. We've still got plenty," she said, barely keeping the annoyance out of her voice. After five years of fat birthday checks and weekend shopping sprees with her father, she recognized guilt money when it was offered to her.

"Wanna be my shiftless, absentee father?"

Giles's careworn, beloved face, smiling at her so reassuringly. But even as he comforts her, he's planning to leave.

"Is there some sort of um, rakish uncle?"

Don't want to be too closely related, huh Rupert? Buffy thought angrily. Might have to actually stick around, then. Though that never stopped Hank.

She knew at some level that she wasn't being quite fair. Giles had a right to a life, a future. He wasn't her father, and he was helping her out

(paying her off)

as best he could.

There was the sound of a door opening, and a female voice speaking this time. "Rupert? Where did you put the potato crisps, love? I'm afraid Tony and the rest of the crew are going to start chewing on the sofa if we don't feed them something." Buffy couldn't be completely sure, but it sounded like Olivia. From the little Giles had said about it, his girlfriend hadn't reacted well to the whole undertakers-from-hell ripping out her voice thing. But now that he was away from the Hellmouth they must be giving it another shot. Well, good for Giles--seemed like he had a nice start on that getting a life business already.

Suddenly, Buffy really needed to get off the phone.

"Giles, listen, you're in the middle of this party thing. I'd better let you go."

"Are you sure? Because--"

"Yeah. I've got stuff to do today, myself. It's only noon here."

"Well, all right then. But we will talk again soon."

"Sure. Real soon."

"Take care of yourself, Buffy." At that moment, he sounded much farther than 8000 miles away.

"Yeah. You too," she replied softly.

Buffy slowly hung up the receiver, then turned and threw her sandwich in the trashcan.

With her usual impeccable sense of timing, Dawn chose that moment to come bouncing in through the back door. Yesterday's sullenness had evaporated--she was literally starry-eyed with excitement.

"Buffy, you'll never guess what happened."

"Probably not," Buffy said shortly. "Why don't you just tell me."

"Well," Dawn bubbled. "Janice's older sister Alexis--you know, the one who showed me how to put on liquid eyeliner without it going all raccoony? She's going to the Creed concert in L.A. next Friday with her roommate. They were supposed to go with a couple of friends of theirs, but they bailed and stuck Lexi with the tickets. She said me and Janice can buy the tickets and go with them, as long as we chip in for gas 'n stuff. Can I go Buffy? Please?"

Buffy sighed wearily. "I don't think it's a good idea, Dawnie."

Some of the brightness went out of Dawn's face, but she persisted. "Why not?"

"It's too expensive, for one thing. Those tickets are probably, what? Forty bucks at least? And then you add in gas and food--we just can't afford it right now."

"You can take it out of my allowance, and I'll do extra chores to make up for it, I swear," Dawn said, in the pleading tone Buffy remembered from her own adolescent tussles with Joyce.

"Dawn, you're so overdrawn on your allowance now you'll probably be paying me back out of your retirement checks. Besides, even if we had it, there's no way I'm letting you go to a rock concert 200 miles away with Janice, of all people. You two don't make the most responsible combination."

"But her sister and her roommate are going too, and they're really cool and really responsible."

"Yeah, Lexi Penshaw, she was a year behind me at Sunnydale High. I remember her responsibly toking up every day in the girl's bathroom before first period. Nice try."

"Like you were such a model student," Dawn huffed. "I bet Lexi never blew up the gym. Or the school, for that matter."

"Oh, that is such bullshit, Dawn. I did what I had to do, and you know it," Buffy snapped back, wondering how she'd suddenly been put on the defensive. "Last time I heard, consuming mind-numbing amounts of ganja didn't do much to save the world."

"Neither did hooking up with a vampire, but you did that, too--and it nearly ended the world, if I remember. So I guess we all do a lot of stupid things, and maybe you shouldn't judge people," Dawn said nastily. "At least Lexi remembers she has a sister once in awhile."

Buffy stared at her sister, temporarily struck speechless by Dawn's petty malice. At that instant, she felt the same exhausted frustration that had nearly overwhelmed her with guilt during Glory's last stand. But right now she was just too irritated to go catatonic.

Why not let her go? she thought jadedly. Throw money at her and let her do whatever the hell she wants. We'd probably both be a lot happier.

Then she saw her mother, face ashen against her blue hospital gown, eyes dark with pain.

"Buffy, promise me. If anything happens. . . I have to know that you'll take care of her, that you'll keep her safe. . ."

I'm only twenty, Buffy thought tiredly. Shouldn't it matter that I'm only twenty?

But, as always, she squared her shoulders and did what she had to do. "Insult me all you want, but you're not going," she said, just managing to keep her voice even. "After what you pulled at Halloween you're lucky I let you go four blocks to see Janice, much less explore major urban centers with her."

"This is so unfair! You don't want me around, but you don't want me hanging out with anybody else, either! I'm going to end up as miserable as you are!" Dawn yelled, stomping out with her usual high drama. Buffy could hear angry footsteps taking the stairs two at a time, then the sound of a much-abused bedroom door slamming somewhere above.

Buffy looked forlornly around the silent kitchen.

It's only a matter of time before you realize I'm the only one here for you, pet. You got no one else.

Suddenly she felt like she was suffocating, the homey beige walls closing in on her like the sides of her abandoned coffin. She had to get out of here. Without even pausing to grab her purse, she fled out the back door and into the blinding midday sunshine.

********

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