Buffy sank down onto the sofa without even turning on any lights propping her feet up against the coffee table. It had been eight days since the battle with Glory; Dawn's funeral had been that morning, an intimate ceremony following a short church service. Everyone had insisted on coming back to Buffy's house and it had taken her almost five hours to get rid of her well-meaning yet equally irritating friends. Alone at last, Buffy let out a long sigh, the funeral and the subsequent small talk had exhausted her; she was so tired of pretending that everything was all right and trying to convince everyone that she was coping. Buffy let out a harsh laugh; it was absurd to think that she would ever 'get over' her sister's death.
"At least Dawn's with Mom now," she whispered, the thought sounding more clichéd than comforting.
She closed her eyes, resting her head against the back of the couch. A sudden knock at the door startled her and Buffy sat straight up.
"I don't want to deal with anybody," she whined, getting off the sofa and shuffling towards the door.
"They can take their good intentions and stuff them up their…"
She trailed off, opening the door to reveal Spike. The blonde vampire looked up, an almost sheepish expression on his chiseled features as he leaned casually against the doorframe.
"What're you doing here Spike," she asked, her voice heavy.
Buffy was tired, not in the mood to deal with anyone, especially not Spike. They hadn't talked since the night Dawn died; Buffy had been making every effort to avoid him. She hadn't been patrolling through his cemetery, always saying that she'd stop by his crypt when she had more time. Just the thought of being around Spike sent Buffy stomach into knots; she hated to look vulnerable in front of anyone, especially her former mortal enemy. Besides, she had practically convinced herself that Spike was over his "I'm in love with the Slayer" phase and had reverted to being his familiar pain-in-the ass self.
Spike stared at Buffy, his eyes taking in every detail of her slightly disheveled appearance. Her hair was pulled back in a clip, but several long strands had escaped and her face was framed by limp tendrils that had lost their curl hours ago. The black shirt was too loose, almost baggy, and Spike wondered how much weight Buffy had lost in the last two weeks. He'd stood outside her house for hours every night, watching the lights flicker on and off as Buffy moved from one room to another. It had taken almost all Spike's self-control to stat outside, he hated seeing her in so much pain, he hated watching Buffy shut herself off from her friends. She was lying to all of them, telling the Watcher that her patrols were under control and refusing to spend time with the witches because she was 'training'. But Spike could see that she was falling apart, he could see the defeat in her face, especially now, right after the funeral.
"Well," she prompted, lifting her blonde eyebrows expectantly, her green eyes dull, bored.
Buffy tapped her bare foot on the wooden floor, waiting for Spike to explain what he was doing on her front porch in the middle of the night. Suddenly Spike felt like the world's biggest clod, standing at Buffy's door like an adolescent schoolboy trying to form a coherent sentence in front of a pretty girl.
"I just came by to see if you needed anything," Spike began, kicking himself for sounding so caring, so weak.
Clearing his throat, Spike continued, his voice reminiscent of the days when he had been called the 'Scourge of Europe', striking fear into the hearts of humans and minions alike.
"Vampire population in my cemetery's getting a little thick," he said gruffly. "Figured I'd come by, see if you wanted me to patrol a bit. Just for a night or two. Seeing as you haven't been doing your job."
To soften the blow of his words, Spike shrugged apologetically, "arrogant bastards make too much noise outside my crypt, can't hear a damn thing on the telly."
In spite of her overwhelming grief and bleak mood, Buffy smiled.
"If you want me to thin out the vampire population," she said softly, surprising both herself and Spike with her light tone. "I'd be more then happy to introduce you to Mr. Pointy."
Raising his scarred eyebrow suggestively, Spike gave Buffy a smirk that sent tremors through her body and left her knees weak.
"Anytime luv, anytime," he said softly, and Buffy shivered at the sultry tone of his voice. Curling his tongue against the back of his front teeth, Spike stared at Buffy, his blue eyes dark. Shaking her head, Buffy tried to stay focused but being so close to Spike had sent her mind reeling and her heart pounding furiously.
Spike watched Buffy's cheeks flush scarlet and his lips came together in a narrow grin, knowing the effect his words had on her. But then her face changed, the almost flirty smile disappeared and her eyes sharpened, falling back behind its familiar mask.
"You're a pig Spike," she snapped, slamming the door in his face with flourish.
Spike chuckled; he could still hear her heartbeat hammering on the other side of the wooden door.
"Is that a no to the patrolling," he called, a devilish smile on his pale lips.
"Go away Spike," Buffy called from behind the door.
Walking down the front porch steps, Spike whistled tunelessly under his breath, reaching into the pocket of his duster for a cigarette. Putting the unlit white filter between his lips, he patted his coat, searching for his silver lighter. Spike stopped at the end of Buffy's street, touching the flaming Zippo to the edge of his cigarette.
"Well she smiled," he muttered, taking a long drag, "course she slammed the bloody door in my face two seconds later, but there was a smile there."
Pleased with himself, Spike walked back towards his crypt in a relatively good mood, his duster fanning out behind him in the cool spring breeze.
Flopping back down onto the living room sofa, Buffy let out a deep breath that she hadn't noticed she was holding.
"He's impossible," she complained to the empty house, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile, "absolutely freaking impossible."
Too tired to think anymore, Buffy allowed her heavy eyelids to droop. She curled up in a tight ball on the sofa, draping the chenille throw over her legs. Almost instantly she fell into a sound sleep, oblivious to the creaks and groans of her house as it settled.
When she opened her eyes, all Buffy could see was darkness; the inky blackness surrounded the petite blonde like a thick fog. She spun around wildly, trying to find some source of light, some way to figure out where she was. Panic rose in her throat and she fought the urge to scream out in fear. From within the shadows, voices murmured; she strained her ears but could not make out the words. They were coming closer, the sound of chanting resonating loudly in her ears, one word ringing clearly, "Failure."
Joining together into a haunting chorus, the voices continued their unnerving chant, "failure." The sound was all around her now but Buffy could not see who was mocking her; all the voices were hidden deep within the blackness.
Slowly the inky darkness began to recede and shadowy figures emerged, illuminated by an unknown light source. Steadily they continued to advance, until she could feel the warmth of their breath on her cheeks, the words ringing in her ears. Buffy strained her eyes and was soon able to make out the faces that encircled her, the speakers of this terrible mantra. Dawn stood in front of her sister, rivers of tears running down her cheeks, the salty moisture mixing with the crimson blood stains that marred her delicate features.
"You let me die," she shrieked, "I hate you!"
Faith stood beside the teen, her eyes heavily rimmed with black mascara as she stared at Buffy. Cracking her signature gum, Faith giggled wickedly, "Face it B, you weren't tough enough. Always knew you weren't good enough to be one of us."
Giles nodded in agreement, the Englishman having just appeared in Buffy's field of vision. Cleaning his glasses slowly, he addressed his slayer, "you could never do anything the right way, could you? Everything had to be your way. Now look at where you are! You're a failure! You don't deserve to be a Slayer."
Her mother stood in front of her eyes, Joyce's gentle face contorted in rage. "I'm so disappointed in you," she said, her voice filled with anger, "you could never do anything right, could you Buffy? You're a disappointment"
Before she could say anything in her own defense, a faceless voice from behind Buffy continued, "she was a child and you couldn't save her."
More voices broke in, "You weren't good enough." "What a failure you are."
"You should be ashamed of yourself."
"How could you let this happen?"
"Death is your gift."
They advanced on Buffy, their faces fading to shadows as the cacophony of voices assaulted her.
Tears streamed down Buffy's cheeks as she tried to push her way out of the tight circle. Anxiety overwhelmed the petite blonde and she turned away from the angry faces, glaring at her in the suddenly garish light.
"This is just a dream," she repeated to herself, squeezing her eyelids shut, her head shaking from side to side as she tried to wake up. "None of this is real."
Clenching her hands into tight fists, Buffy peeked out the corners of her eyes. The shadows had vanished, leaving her in the middle of a field. Warm sunlight bathed her face and Buffy smiled as she surveyed the majestic beauty of nature. She sat up, still drinking in the landscape; mountains dotted the horizon, clouds rolled through an impossibly blue sky, a sweetly scented breeze ruffled the tall grass surrounding her.
With a start, Buffy noticed that she not alone in this meadow paradise. Dawn and Joyce sat forty feet away, their heads tucked together, in the midst of a quiet conversation. Abruptly, the teen's head snapped up and she glared at the Slayer. Dawn pointed her index finger at Buffy, her face a mask of accusation and betrayal.
"You let me die," she snapped bitterly, her eyes dark with hatred. "This is all your fault."
Joyce continued, her face contorted with sadness, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, "why couldn't you protect her? She was your sister, for God's sake, and you just let her die like that!"
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I tried," Buffy cried, tears burning the back of her eyes.
"Dawnie, I'm sorry! I tried so hard, I'm sorry!"
But the shadows didn't answer and Buffy woke up with a start, lying alone on her sofa. She was covered in sweat, her face wet with tears, her body trembling violently. Still shaking with a combination of fatigue and turbulent emotions, Buffy scrambled up from the sofa. Grabbing a coat from the hall, she raced out the back door, unable to stay in her house another seconds. Her feet had a mind of their own as she sprinted across Sunnydale, towards the only place she could think of to go; to the only person she trusted to take care of her.
Buffy stopped abruptly in front of Spike's crypt, her hands resting on her hips. She struggled to catch her breath, taking in several deep gulps of air before raising her hand to knock. Dropping her hand, Buffy pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside. Closing the door behind her, Buffy looked around the dimly lit space, allowing her eyes to adjust. She'd never really paid attention to the crypt, always dashing in and out, trying to spend the least time inside. But now Buffy stood transfixed in the doorway, absorbing every detail, from the armchairs held together with duct tape to the sarcophagus in the corner. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, combining with the two misshapen lamps to illuminate the small space.
Looking over at the tv set, Buffy could see the back of Spike's head, he was resting in the armchair, his back to the door. A tumbler filled with something dark, blood or maybe brandy, sat in his hand. The television was blaring out the theme song to "Cheers" when Spike turned around to look at Buffy. With a bland expression, he tried to pretend that he was surprised to see the petite blonde, that he hadn't heard her panting outside his door. Spike raised his scarred eyebrow and tipped the tumbler of whiskey in her direction.
"What's the occasion, pet," he asked casually, trying to sound annoyed and unconcerned at the same instant.
Almost immediately, Buffy regretted her decision to seek comfort in the bleach-blonde vampire. I was so stupid to think that he actually cared, she thought bitterly.
In retrospect, it all seemed so childish; her seeking comfort from Spike because she couldn't sleep and wanted him to keep the troubling dreams away. From the armchair, Spike watched Buffy carefully, he may have been too short with her but he wasn't in the mood to play punching bag tonight. Indecision flickered across Buffy's face and she gnawed nervously on her lower lip.
Spike sighed heavily, hating the way her green eyes cut right through any modicum of control he had left. He got out of the chair, standing in front of Buffy, waiting to see if she was going to say anything. His tone was softer this time, holding none of his traditional malice and sarcasm.
"What's wrong?"
Buffy took a deep breath and the words began to spill out, faster and faster with each syllable.
"I keep having nightmares and I can't sleep and Idon'twanttobealone," she mumbled.
Spike leaned forward to catch the trail end of her sentence, his blue eyes filled with a faint glimmer of hope.
Pulling an armchair towards the tv set, Spike retrieved a blanket from inside the sarcophagus and threw it in Buffy's direction. She caught it deftly, her head bobbing back and forth between the heavy wool and Spike's face.
"Well sit down then," Spike ordered gruffly, jerking his chin towards the second chair as he flopped back down in his original seat.
A ghost of a smile danced over Buffy's face; she sat down on the chair, tucking her feet underneath her body and draping the blanket over her. Closing her eyes, Buffy let out a soft sigh, it was comforting to know that for the first time in a long while that she wouldn't be alone. Spike watched her drift off to sleep, shaking his head ruefully before turning his attention back to the on-screen sitcom.