Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
~*~
Buffy didn't pay a great deal of attention to what her friends said. She answered truthfully when they asked her if she was okay. She was. She agreed that she should go the hospital to have her broken bones and other injuries attended to.
Everything else, she tuned out. She ignored Dawn's crying after she realised that Buffy was truly alive, the way Xander sagged with relief when he saw that Buffy was alive and the spell worked, the way Willow fixed the Buffybot as she talked about how the trials that she had undergone to resurrect Buffy had been necessary and not all that bad, really.
Buffy did pay attention when Spike shouted at Willow, railing at her, telling her how dangerous the spell had been. She watched the way he didn't breathe before he spoke, just let loose a blistering torrent of invective that only stopped when he ran out of things to say. The way that Xander paused, obviously considering whether Willow had deliberately understated the danger before disregarding everything Spike said, because it was Spike who said it. And then Spike's declaration that no one told him about this because they knew that there was a chance that Buffy would come back wrong, and he wouldn't let them kill her.
Buffy noticed this because she realised that Willow, at least, had known that there was a chance that things would go wrong. That Xander was realizing that Willow hadn't exactly been upfront about the dangers.
Buffy realised that Willow had known that Buffy might come back wrong, but she had done it anyway. Buffy knew that she should've felt angry about that, but she didn't. Willow had done what she thought needed to be done. It hadn't worked out the way Willow had hoped, but that didn't matter. It was done.
And Buffy noticed, after that, everyone's flesh faded away, leaving skeletons in clothes, jawbones clattering away and conveying absolutely nothing, empty eye sockets blank.
Buffy knew that she should've found that strange. But she didn't. Chattering skulls were about as meaningful as her friends' real voices had been. They made about as much sense. Buffy wondered why people ever needed to talk so much about things. Why not just do what needed to be done and then forget about it? Why the need for endless babble?
~*~
Later, Buffy retired to her bedroom. Dawn didn't seem to want Buffy to be out of her sight, even for a moment. Spike, on the other hand, took the first available opportunity to vanish into the night.
Buffy didn't sleep for a long while. The dull throb of her broken bones and the sharper, brighter pain from her numerous cuts prevented that. Buffy knew they'd have healed a lot by the morning, and in any case, she never needed much sleep.
Therefore, Buffy was awake when Buffy entered her room.
It wasn't the Buffybot. It looked like someone had tried to copy Buffy, but had only the haziest idea of how humans moved. Whatever it was, it looked like Buffy, exactly, down to the last detail.
But there was none of the fluid motion that accompanies human movement. Instead of its legs passing through the intervening air between each footstep, the foot just appeared in front of it. Like someone walking, but with the walking part removed, just the footsteps.
Buffy sat up, and her broken leg protested at the movement. Buffy disregarded it, and reached clumsily for the sword that she always had under her bed. She knew she wouldn't be able to use it with any degree of finesse, not with her broken fingers, but that didn't matter. She could still swing it.
So Buffy swung it, and it passed through not-Buffy as though it was made of mist.
"I have to kill you." not-Buffy said. "I have to kill you so that I might have life of my own."
Buffy didn't struggle. She didn't call out. She didn't move. Buffy couldn't fight this thing, this thing that had a shape but no substance. So she didn't bother to try. At least, this way, something would have some benefit from her resurrection. Even if it was an evil killer.
Buffy did nothing when not-Buffy wrapped its hands around Buffy's throat. She didn't attempt to break free when they became solid. She didn't try to breathe, to force air down her restricted windpipe. She just sat there as the life was squeezed out of her, as dark spots danced before her eyes, obscuring her own face, twisted and warped with an unreasoning hatred.
Buffy did draw a deep, shuddering breath when not-Buffy inexplicably loosened its grip. She couldn't help herself. Her body took over.
Puzzlement twisted not-Buffy's face. "You're dead. You breathe, your heart beats, you think, but you're dead. I can't kill you, you're already dead. How can that be?"
Buffy knew that the old, living her would've made a quip at that point. But she didn't say a word, just watched as not-Buffy burst apart, becoming mist, and, eventually, not even that.
A voice came to Buffy on the wind, distant and solemn. "Now do you see? Now do you begin to understand?"