Emotional Overload





I found myself returning home. Sure, it would have been like me to head over to Willy's bar and wind up the next morning passed out in some back alleyway. But getting smashed and havin' the sun catch my hand on fire wasn't exactly my idea of solving a problem . . . not this one anyway.

The walls of my crypt were cold and hard, comforting to me. They weren't bright, the types o' colors to hurt my eyes. Bugger, so many thoughts ran through my head that I couldn't have givin' you the time o' day. Buffy was back and the shock was still tryin' to run through me, tryin' to make it's way to my mind and tell myself that, 'Stupid bloke, you're not dreamin'.' But all I could feel was pain. Pain at being treated like a convenience, somethin' or someone, that the Scoobies could just call on when times were tight. My conflicting emotions spread through my body like fire, consumed me, and took hold of me.

I climbed down the ladder and into the lower tunnels of the crypt. The lights were low, the bed in disarray. Everything was as it should be. I tossed my duster across the room. It landed on a chair. Falling back onto the bed, a single tear slid down my cheek. It was early, but I didn't care. Emotional shock'll drain the life . . . or in my case, unlife, out of anyone. I closed my eyes, knackered from the long day. Sighing, I tried to let the pain, sorrow, and joy slip from my mind and soon, found myself asleep.



Hours later I awoke. Night had passed and the sun had risen, turning the night into day. This of course meant that I had to work out my problems at home. I was beginning to think gettin smashed wasn't such a bad idea.

Standing, I found my mind instantly occupied with the thoughts from the previous evening. They distracted me, making me jumpy and a little uneasy. Pacing back and forth I could feel my mind becoming all the more restless.

"Bloody Xander. The blind and blithering idiot. Not telling me they were bringin' back the Slayer." I fumed, continuing my pacing. "I help'em out, do their dirty work. And for what?! So they can jus' shut me out and think I'll go away! Bollocks!" Throwing my hands into the air, I put on my best mocking of Xander's voice, "'I hope you aren't going to start your little obsession now that she's around again.' Bugger-it! It's not an obsession, it's . . ." I stopped, looking at my hands, palms facing me.

Was it truly not an obsession? I had convinced myself long ago that I loved her . . . but was it all just a childish obsession? Was Xander right?

I shook my head, clearing the thought from my mind, "Might've started out that way. . ." I whispered, "But it's somethin' real. Somethin' I feel deep down inside." My hand was over my still heart and I smirked, remembering something I'd said while half sober a couple years back, 'Love isn't brains children, it's blood. Blood screaming through your veins to work it's will. I may be love's bitch, but 'least I'm man enough to admit it.'

Suddenly, I turned, without even thinking, and slammed my fist into the wall. I began to laugh, hysterically, as I looked at my bleeding knuckles. And I would have resorted to tears had a sound not startled me.

Turning, I grabbed a dagger, alarm rising, and unsheathed it's blade. Climbing up the ladder, I peered around the crypt, lit vaguely from sunlight.

There, standing in front of a table and half looking through a stack of magazines, she stood.

"Buffy?"

She turned to me, a blank expression on her face. Something was wrong.

"You should be careful." I said quietly, showing her the dagger at my side, "Never know what kind o' villain's got a knife at your back."

Buffy just watched me, then noticed my bloodied hand, "Your hand is hurt."

I shrugged, nodding to her own hands, "Hmm. Same with you."

She looked at them, "Right."

Looking at her, a feeling of unease crept into my stomach. She just stared at me, standing there, her eyes devoid of life, of any spark of hope. I wasn't sure what to do, but knew that I had to put the knife away. Didn't want her getting jumpy 'round me just yet. I walked over to the wall and set the dagger down on a ledge then turned back to Buffy.

"Willow's gettin' pretty strong, isn't she? Bringing you back. It's hard to get a good night's death around here." I tried to laugh, but the sound came out weakly. I kept myself from sighing, "You can sit down. Got furniture."

Buffy found the nearest chair and sat down.

"You should see the downstairs, too, it's quite posh." she just looked at me with those same lifeless eyes.

I couldn't contain the sigh and sat down on the table across from her. But her stare lingered.

"Uh . . ." I tried to start up some sort of conversation, "I do remember what I said. The promise. To protect her." There was a pause, I wasn't sure if I should tell her this . . . not yet . . . "If I had done that . . ." too late, "even if I didn't make it . . . you wouldn't have had to jump."

God, why wouldn't she say anything?! Buffy continued to stare at me, almost like she were looking into my soul . . . well, if I had a soul that's what she'd have been doin'.

"But I want you to know I did save you. Not when it counted, o' course, but . . . after that." here it came, "Every night after that. I'd see it all again . . . do something different. Faster or more clever, you know? Dozens o' times, lots o' different ways . . ." my speech came softly, "Every night I save you."

She looked away from me then, down to the floor. I stopped, standing and kneeling to face her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

"No . . ." Buffy shook her head, "No, it's alright. I . . ." she stood, "Look, I've got to go. The others are expecting me, at the Magic Box."

"Buffy wait . . ." but she was too fast and had left before I could get out another word.

I slammed my already bloodied fist into the ground, cursing myself, my stupidity, my emotions. Once again, the 'big bad' attitude, which I had maintained so well for years, faded and I let the tears fall.