The house was too quiet, Buffy thought, her eyes tracing the random patterns of her popcorn ceiling. She could practically feel the silence, a heavy oppressive feeling that seemed to swell with every passing minute. Sitting up, Buffy reached down to disentangle the blanket that had wrapped itself around her legs while she was asleep. Crumpling the fleece blanket into a heap, she threw it onto the floor, pressing her head back against her flattened pillow. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her sleep-fogged brain.
Buffy crossed her arms over her torso, too distracted to notice the sharp pain in her side as she pressed against a fresh bruise. She could only imagine how many different colored bruises were still appearing all over her body. Buffy felt like she'd been hit by a bus repeatedly, both physically and emotionally. Rolling onto her side, Buffy stared bleary-eyed at the digital clock on her nightstand.
"Seven-ten," she muttered, trying to figure out whether it was day or night. Getting off her bed, Buffy walked over to the window, leaning heavily on the ledge as she moved the curtains away with her left hand.
Outside a bright red sun was slowly dipping down beneath a purple and pink streaked sky. "Night," she said, stepping back away from the window and walking slowly towards her mirror, trying to assess the damage inflicted from the previous night's battle.
Her face was pale white, covered in fiery red scratches and dark purple bruises that her Slayer healing had yet to take care of. "I look like hell," she observed dryly, lifting her limp blonde hair off her shoulders and into a loose ponytail, securing the strands with a plastic clip. Pulling off her rumpled clothes, Buffy reached into her closet for a bathrobe, tying the belt tightly around her narrow waist. She crept down the hall towards the bathroom, feeling out of place in her own house.
Buffy closed the bathroom door behind her, resting her head against the painted wood. Her eyes welled up with tears, the weight of the last few days finally catching up with her. She closed her eyes, letting thin streams of water cascade over her cheeks. With a shaky hand, Buffy wiped her eyes, moving across the tiled floor towards the tub. She turned the faucets all the way to hot, hoping that the scalding water would break through her feelings of dissociation. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she cupped her hands under running water, letting it spill through her palms. When the water was finally steaming, Buffy turned on the shower nozzle and stepped into the welcoming mist.
Downstairs, Spike re-shelved the book he'd been reading for the last four hours when he heard the water coursing through the pipes.
"So she's finally up," he muttered under his breath, glad that Buffy had finally decided to join the land of the living, or in his case, the undead and awake. Spike had been pacing the quiet house all day, his stomach growling fiercely as he tried to convince his body that hot chocolate and slices of pineapple were a good substitute for blood. He put his empty ceramic mug under the running faucet in the kitchen, rinsing away the sticky traces of chocolate and marshmallow.
Moving the starched white curtain away from the window over the sink, Spike looked out into the night. Now that Buffy was awake and the sun was down, there was nothing keeping him in her house. Nothing except his overwhelming need to protect the fiery blonde and make sure that she was going to be alright. Shaking his head, Spike placed the mug in the dish drainer. Bloody woman's going to drive me insane, he though darkly. Shaking his head, Spike opened several cabinets, searching for something that would qualify as edible.
The water was streaming over her body in a relentless spray, hundreds of tiny daggers striking Buffy's tired muscles and aching limbs. Shutting off the taps, she wrung out her long blonde hair, watching diamond-like droplets of water fall off the ends. She stood motionless on the tile floor, water dripping over her body, pooling at her feet. Buffy swallowed hard over the lump in her throat; she could still see Dawn standing on the tower, blood dripping down her body. Shaking her head, Buffy clenched her fists tightly, digging her nails deep into her palms, the chipped pink tips making neat crescent marks in the soft skin. When's it going to stop, she thought, how many more people are going to leave me?
Willing herself to not break down into a hysterical fit, Buffy wrapped her bathrobe around her body for the second time that night. She padded down the hall towards her room, wondering if Spike was still in her house. Shrugging her shoulders, Buffy tried to convince herself that it didn't matter whether or not Spike was downstairs.
He was just another one of her demon fighters, a friend, someone she could count on. Someone who was head over heels in love with her, who'd offered to stake his Sire for her. Someone with the most amazing blue eyes she'd ever seen, highlighted by perfectly chiseled cheekbones, with a mouth that changed from sensual to devious in an instant. Someone who could see right through her layers of bravado and image, and who loved her regardless. Someone who she would love to see without a shirt, because there had to be some reason that crazy Drusilla stayed with him for over a century.
"Shit," Buffy swore at her reflection in the mirror, pressing her hands tightly against her temples. "This is Spike I'm talking about! Spike! Evil, evil Spike!" But even as she said the words, Buffy knew that she was just lying to herself. Sure Spike was a vampire, a soulless creature of the night, but there was something else. It wasn't that she was in love with him, nor did Buffy ever forget what, who, Spike was; sometimes she just felt for him. There was something about Spike, when he looked at Buffy with his expressive blue eyes that made her feel like maybe she could depend on him, that she could finally shift some of her burdens to his shoulders.
A knock on her door caused Buffy to spin around quickly, smacking her knee on the corner of her dresser in the process. She hopped in place, cursing under her breath as she clutched her knee in earnest. Her bedroom door swung open and Spike poked his head inside, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You alright," he asked Buffy, his scarred eyebrow raised.
She looked comical, hopping around the room holding her knee while her wet hair flew up and down in the air.
Indignantly Buffy stopped leaping, she froze on the carpeted floor, her mouth opening and closing like a fish who'd suddenly found himself outside of water.
Staring at Spike, she snapped, "I'm fine."
The minute the words fell from her lips, Buffy started to gnaw on her lower lip, wishing she hadn't been so short. Spike shrugged, apparently unconcerned with her attitude. He hadn't been expecting hearts and flowers when she woke up, that was why he was going back to his crypt before Buffy snapped their tentative alliance and came charging at him with a pointy stick.
"I just wanted to tell you," he began, looking down at her carpet for fear of losing his nerve the minute he looked into her bright eyes. Buffy stared intently at Spike, watching the muscles in his forearms twitch as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
"The sun's down," he continued, "so I'm heading out. There's some food on the counter if you're hungry. I figured you wouldn't be up for cooking."
Buffy nodded, ready to thank Spike for staying when he turned abruptly and left the room.
She stood in her doorway for several minutes, listening to the sound of the front door slamming closed as Spike let himself out into the night.
"As if my life wasn't already confusing enough," she complained, shutting off her bedroom light.
Walking downstairs, Buffy stopped in the living room to fluff pillows that were already fluffy and re-fold a blanket draped over the sofa. She felt so strange; Buffy couldn't remember ever having the house all to herself with nothing to do. There were always demons to slay, monsters to tackle, apocalypses to avert, annoying little sisters underfoot asking to stay out past ten o'clock.
Sighing heavily, Buffy sank down onto the sofa. Pushing aside the curtain that covered the front window, Buffy craned her neck to look out into the darkness.
"I should patrol," she said half-heartedly, dropping the curtain back.
Scrunching her body down into a tight ball, Buffy hugged a throw pillow tightly to her chest. Exhaling shakily, she ignored the fierce growls coming from her stomach and the searing pain radiating from between her temples. She didn't want to do anything, Buffy just wanted to lie on the sofa until she stopped hurting.
"I just want this to be over," she said, trying to swallow over the enormous lump in her throat as a fresh wave of tears stung the back of her listless emerald eyes.
Spike inhaled deeply, the orange tip of his cigarette burning bright against the night sky. He leaned against the tree in Buffy's front yard, watching her through the opening in the curtains. When she'd pushed the drapes aside, Spike had ducked around the tree, out of her view. He couldn't think of how to explain to Buffy why he was standing in her front yard, just a few minutes after he'd left her house.
Dropping the cigarette onto the grass, Spike looked down at the steadily growing pile of white filters. He pushed them around with his shoe, hating himself for loving Buffy as much as he did; sometimes he wished that he didn't care, that he wasn't worried about how she was going to keep on living now that her sister was gone. Spike banged the back of his head against the rough tree trunk, staring blankly at the leaves and branches above. For the first time in decades Spike felt overwhelming guilt, he blamed himself for not being fast enough or strong enough to save Dawn.
"I'm sorry Buffy," he whispered, taking one last look at the brightly lit house before walking down the street towards his crypt.