The Road Home
Summary: AU; everyone's human. Buffy Summers dodges family and friends to escape her wedding and make it back home, single. But when she returns to L.A., she finds herself stuck with a grumpy, homeless roommate without who, she soon finds, home wouldn't be home at all.
Disclaimer: 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' and all associated with it belongs to Mutant Enemy, Fox, Joss Whedon etc. I own squat.

Prologue:

If it had been possible to look into the blackened out windows of the Desoto that roared down the streets of Los Angeles that late summer afternoon, people would've wondered why a man with looks like his, a car like that, who was now slowing down in a street thousands would love to live on was in such a bad mood.

Of course, William Giles wasn't a materialistic man. He'd be happy living under a coat propped up by sticks if it was with the woman he loved. If all he had was an old bicycle to ride around, he'd be content if his girl was with him. He didn't care if he had all the money in the world (which, to be honest, he kinda did) but if he didn't have his love, his dove, his princess, his Dru with him, he'd be miserable.

And that was why anyone who knew him would understand Will's current state of mood: he'd just been dumped.

And, in turn, that was why when he screeched to a halt in front of the two-storied house in the Sun Valley, he couldn't bring himself to care about the flowers that he stomped and beat through. Oh, the neighbours basking in the afternoon sun did, of course, and he didn't miss the low, scandalized cries directed at him, nor was he unaware of the glares directed at his black, leather-clad back. He swaggered up the steps of the porch, stomping his boots heavily, and he brought up his fist to pound, now, on the mahogany door. But before his and could reach the wood, the door slid open.

The blonde standing on the other side leaned against the heavy door with one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in exasperation.

Glaring at her, he stalked in, not saying a word, and sank down bonelessly on the bottom step of the staircase in the foyer. Shaking her head, she waved a hand at the neighbours, signalling that it was alright for them to go back to their own business now. They waved back sheepishly. She closed the door and looked at him, arms crossed against her chest.

Will, not paying attention to the other bottle blonde in the room, lit up. As he took a deep drag from his cigarette, closed eyes opened and he looked at her and the brown cat that circled her trouser-clad legs. There was an accusing note in his eyes, as though he was saying this was all her fault.

She rolled her eyes in response. "Gee," She said in a dry voice, "come in, why don't you? Make yourself at home!"

Will growled, "'urry up. Both, you and me, 'ave other bloody places to be."

She looked pointedly at the polished wooden floors that were now covered with the flowers and manure he'd brought in with his Doc Martens. "Fine. But you're going to have to clean this up! Now, follow me, and I'll show you around. You'll be living here awhile so you'd better know where everything is." And she stalked off towards the right, where the living room was.

Will stayed where he was, taking deep puffs of his cigarette. The brown cat stayed there, too, looking at him with a cocked head. Will stared at the cat, now, his eyes narrowing to match its own. The cat, as though it understood, what Will was doing, never broke their eye contact as it stretched, its harmless-looking paws extending into sharp, long, painful-looking claws.

Will's eyes widened, then narrowed again. He leaned forwards, towards the cat, opening his mouth as if to say…

"Spike! Are you coming or not! I'm doing this for you, and FYI, I'm missing out on my daily afternoon orgasms!"

…and fell promptly on his face, inches away from the claws of the cat he'd been looking at. With a flick and bend of his brown-black striped tail, the cat walked off, leaving behind a moaning, twitching Will.

"He is such a bother, Xander! I don't know why I offered to help him out! I mean, just because his girlfriend kicks him out doesn't mean I have to give him my home, my sacred space where I am at my creative best! Heck, it's his fault in the first place! I mean, come on! You refuse a woman sex, shopping sprees, or, in Buffy's case, cats, dogs, clothes or swords and she's going to get back at you somehow! He should've known better, and—"

"Ahn," Xander said in a civil tone as he wheeled their three suitcases and one airbag (the latter was his; the cases were all hers) towards check-in. "Please speak louder. I'm not sure that all the passengers heard you over the racket the airplanes make." When she glared at him, he sighed, dropping the sarcasm and said, "Look, I'm going to have to disagree with you on this one. Spike's done more for Dru than he has for any girl he ever dated! He practically spent all he had to please her, for Christ's sake!

He wanted to marry her, Ahn, like I want to marry you, like Buffy's marrying… that lump, Angel! Now, I never approved of her—" he broke off, irritated, as she burst out laughing. When she was a little quieter he continued, "But he loved her, and wanted to marry her, and she just wanted to have fun. She squeezed him dry, and then threw him in the gutter. Dumped him, just like," he snapped his fingers, "that! I'm glad it happened but…" Xander sighed. "I'd always hoped it was Spike who decided to break off. It's sad that he's always the one being dumped."

Anya nodded. "Yes. Why can't someone else be the dump-ee for a change? When will he get his one good day?"

Xander nodded. "Heck, or even one good lay?"

Anya burst out laughing again. As the guards at the LAX watched in amazement, she wrapped her arms around her fiancé's neck and kissed him. When she pulled away to reveal a scarlet-faced Xander, she said, "I'm rubbing off on you in more than one way! I love you, Xander." And buried herself in his arms again.

Surprised, he put one hand on her back and said, inhaling her perfume. "I love you too, Anya."

It's never been hard for me to say how much I love you. But… less than a month away from the wedding, and I find that the more I think about it, the more I realize that I do love you, but… its been a while since I've been in love with you.

Yeah, I know, it's been said before and is extremely cliché, but its, in the end the truth and…

"Oh, for God's sake," Buffy mumbled as she crumpled this sheet of paper in her fist as well. She sighed and laid her head down on the hotel desk, the soft music that played in her empty, fifth-floor deluxe suite doing nothing to ease her nerves.

Buffy looked out the window in front of her. Through the steady drizzle, she could see the determined shoppers of London make their way through wet sidewalks, taking care as to not be splashed by any of the cars that were rushing to get home. She admired, especially, one lone girl who made her way through the wet, grumpy crowds with just about twenty bags in her hands. She'd obviously forgotten her raincoat, and though Buffy could see the umbrella at her side, unlike many of the couples on that road, she had nobody to hold it up for her.

Buffy liked to think of herself like that. Never one to run from a challenge, to look it in the eye, say: Boo! and scare the challenge away herself. That's how she'd lived her life ever since senior year in high school, when she'd broken things off with Angel because of two things: A) She couldn't handle long-distance relationships. She was in L.A., at school, while he was in Boston, at Harvard. B) She wanted to break free, for once, and understand what she wanted. In their three year relationship, Angel's wishes and Buffy's dreams had mixed up till all she saw was what he wanted, did what he thought was right. Here's a change: what did she want? What did she think was right?

She found out in the four years of doing an Art major at PAFA. In Philadelphia, Buffy found out what she could do with the little drawings she made in History class at high school. She flipped off her Dad's insisting she do a degree in business administration, deciding, instead, to follow her Mum, her heart and her hand. She was determined to do that all her life.

And yet, here she was, sitting in a hotel suite where she was supposed to blow off steam with her fiancé, while all she wanted to do was go to L.A. and lock herself in the house she'd shared with Anya ever since graduation. What was more, the fiancé wasn't here, and wouldn't be for another week.

Well, not for long.

Absentmindedly, Buffy bit into one of the stale chocolate chip cookies that sat on a plate in front of her. She smiled, the chocolate jerking her back into the past. Tara made chocolate cookies like that, she thought, the kind that tasted best when stale and the chocolate chips were semi-hard, but the cookie soft.

She remembered one time, in her second year, when she'd had the flu. Tara, who took evening classes, had been making cookies in the kitchen their floor of the dorms shared. Buffy had woken up to the smell of melting chocolate and, wrapping around her a chenille throw, crept out, barefoot, to the kitchen. It was empty, but on a rack Buffy found the source of the delicious aroma. She reached out to take one, and just when she was going to put it into her mouth, a hand came out of nowhere and whacked her hard on the back of her hand with a spatula.

"Not now," Tara'd scolded her like Joyce sometimes did. "They're undone and you'll get a tummy-ache."

"But, Tara," Buffy had whined, rubbing her hand, "Later everyone will eat them all!"

Tara shook her head, and said in a motherly tone that made her homesick, "I made them just for you, Buffy. You can have them all later, and decide who you want to share them with."

In the hotel suite, Buffy's eyes misted over. Maybe that was why none of them at the dorms had felt homesick; Tara, the mother hen, had always been there to take care of everyone, make everyone feel special whenever they needed it. Buffy sure wished Tara was around, now. No chocolate chip cookies could outdo hers. Fully baked, dough, batter, undone…

Suddenly, something in Buffy clicked. She sat up, eyes wide, and one of her hands flew to cover her mouth. "Oh. My. God," she said, in an awe-filled voice, slapping her forehead. "Why didn't I think of it before?"

And grabbing a pen, Buffy pulled out yet another sheet of paper, chucking the ball of paper rolled up in her hand over her shoulder at the wastepaper basket. As the dappled sunshine of the English sun watched her through the windows, the ball of paper landed smoothly in the basket it was meant for.