The dust hasn't even settled.

They are covered in the remains of the fight, covered in blood-- not all of it their own--, grime, and dirt as well as something that glitters even in the low light: tiny, tiny scales, like fairy dust...only that it doesn't stem from anything small and sweet, doesn't grant wishes.

Then again, maybe the latter is exactly what it has done.

For they're still alive, aren't they?

Alive, even if not exactly standing. Angel, covered in bite wounds, is an exhausted heap by the wall; Willow-- open first aid kit with Earth-Mother-Herbs next to bandages-- right by his side, having shooed away persistent goddesses and ex-girlfriends. Truth be told, Will's practically hovering over the great oaf turned knight, murmuring words that may be comfort, may be magic. Unsurprisingly, Kennedy is there, too, staring at Vi's dead body that somehow ended up draped all over a crushed and blackened motor bike. A skewed mirror-image of the other pair, Illyria crouches next to Charles, staring at him with fathomless fascination. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike has also spotted Giles walking stiffly but carefully through the wreckage of bodies-- a surprisingly old man dutifully counting the left hands of his slain enemies.

Then his gaze is drawn away from these seven bodies. To the one in front of him.

All dirty, she is, like the rest of them, with torn clothes and reeking of potent blood that never seemed less appealing to him. Her eyes, however, are wide and bright. She came, she and her Slayers plus the new Watchers, and not one damn minute too early. But he can't blame her. Not even for the hurt in her face that's all about him and her.

Grief is appropriate now, of course: for Wesley, for the young Slayers fallen on this battlefield more gruesome than the one he remembers from a Hellmouth far away, in a place that seems located not a few hours away but at the opposite end of the earth.

Yet, he only needs to see the expression on her face-- the one that tells him she truly did not know-- to hate Andrew for doing (once in his life) what he was told to do. By him, no less.

Okay, maybe it's himself who deserves hatred, but right now? He's gotta try. At least, she hasn't hit him. Yet.

"So. How've you been these days?"

Buffy looks up then, looks directly into his eyes. Her face is devoid of anger, and there is no expression reflecting the great melodrama of this moment. But despite, due to that, whatever, something about it touches him--

almost as much as her gentle voice. Which may just be gentler than he used to imagine it when shying away from that trip to Europe.
"I was fine. These days have been busy but...not a problem." Her brow furrows at that; the odd little half-frown she gets sometimes and that still makes his heart lurch painfully. "Not that we were problem-free, really. In fact, trouble didn't just need a capital T but was basically all-caps, all the time."

He almost chokes at the familiarity of her speech, the lovely, endearing, ridiculous nature of her phrases.

She is still looking at him. "But never mind the days, Spike. Because the nights? Different, and not in the good way. And you know why? You know what I do?"

He has to close his eyes when he hears her voice again, firm and clear, beautiful and terrible:

"Every night, I save you."