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part four

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He'd discovered nothing that day, but had brought his work home with him. She had left him with Dawn so she could make a quick patrol. Dawn hadn't wanted her to go.

"Don't you want to stay? We could introduce Spike to moving pictures!" she said hopefully.

"The forces of darkness not currently living in our house need to be battled, Dawn," Buffy responded, "You know that. And for goodness sake, don't show him Passions."

She tried to sound lighthearted as she packed her gear, secreting a stake at her sleeve and a knife at her ankle, crossbow strapped to her back. But she knew what Dawn was really asking her-- pleading silently with her not to die.

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She pinned the vampire against the brick wall of the alley. He smiled at her.

"What? What is it? Do you like the pain?" she shouted, strangely angry at his smarmy smile.

She punched him once. "Do you like it? Do you?"

She threw him to the ground. The gravity of his situation seemed to settle into his eyes, but still the smile stayed defiantly in place.

Dark memories filled her mind.

He rolled to his side and to his feet. She ducked his blow and kicked him in the ribs. Even the cracking of the bone didn't perturb him, and he smiled still.

She let her stake fall from her sleeve, into her hand. She smiled back.

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William was sleeping lightly in her mother's bed. He dreamt of a softly blanketing snow. White and cool, all enveloping. Gentle, loving. Nothing had form beneath its benevolent embrace, but all was unique. He always dreamed of snowfall, soft and silent and cold. It meant something, perhaps transcendence, to him.

Dawn crept upstairs slowly and looked through the doorway at the sleeping form. Spike was exhausted. She couldn't bring herself to call him anything but Spike-- he couldn't be gone. They thought he had left them, that someone new was here. But she thought it was him, if only he could remember it-- remember her.

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She dispatched the smiling creature with a cool rage, and spun to discover three more advancing on her, and heard the sound of footfalls on the metallic roof of the warehouse above her.

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But he couldn't-- wouldn't remember her. And it hurt her as she watched him, sleeping.

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"Great," she said over the dust in the breeze, "All you vamps seem to bring your friends nowadays."

She turned to face them, while listening intently to chart the progress of the feet above her.

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And yet, Dawn was indescribably happy to see him, still. Perhaps more simply and truthfully so than anyone else.

And she closed the door. It had been a long day. She would try to sleep, and strain in the darkness of her room for hours, trying to hear the door close and the jingle of keys that would signify her sister had made it through another night.

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Buffy was tired. She had been awake for well over a day. She was stiff and felt her shoulder was slightly injured.

It was nothing, though, just a bit of a strain. Nothing.

But she couldn't go on fighting so many at once, all alone. She had a responsibility to those who loved her to stay alive.

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She walked through the door, the jingle of her keys a delicate music in the house. A living room lamp was on. She closed the door and came inside.

William sat on the couch, reading a book. He was engrossed.

"What are you reading?" she asked.

He looked up, caught off guard by her arrival.

"I-- I thought that I'd wait for you. I woke some time ago."

She looked at him. He was still nervous, uncomfortable. She understood that. When she looked at him, he looked down again at the floor.

"Oh," he said, "It's Dostoevsky."

"A sleep aid if there ever was one," Buffy quipped, smiling gently at him. She was surprised there was a copy in the house. Perhaps Tara had left it behind, or her mother.

"No, it's really quite wonderful. He believed in things."

"Things he knew were true."

"Yes..."

He had looked up in her face as he spoke, vehemently. For a moment she was reminded of his old manner of speaking, before. But that wasn't the man in front of her. And they were silent again.

She sat down on the chair nearest the couch, just listening to the soft rustle of the turning pages. It was a comfortable sound. It reminded her of snow, when you walk through it. For once, she felt, through the tiredness of her limbs and the weight of her responsibility, a kind of distant, gentle peace. She curled up into the expanse of her armchair. Before too long, both had fallen into a quiet sleep in the warm yellow glow of the lamplight.

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