Spike opened his eyes slowly, squinting to block out the blinding light that assaulted him. He groaned, lifting his arm to cover his face, it felt like a thousand midgets had started playing conga drums inside his head, ramming cymbals between his eardrums. Screwing up his face, Spike ground his head further into the armrest of the sofa, willing the midgets to shut up and leave him alone.

Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the citrus perfume imbedded within the fabric of the sofa. Wrinkling his nose, Spike sniffed again. He didn't remember his couch smelling so girlish; usually it stank of old liquor and stale cigarette smoke. And when was the last time his crypt was so bloody bright?

"Where the hell am I," Spike asked, sitting straight up, his eyes flying open. Instantly he wanted to lay back down as the midgets re-doubled their efforts inside his head and the light tripled in intensity. Flopping back down onto the cushions, Spike hissed as his head collided with the hard arm of the sofa.

Allowing his head to loll back against the side of the sofa, Spike looked blearily at the ceiling.

"Christ I'm hungover," he said, his tongue thick from sleep and liquor.

Narrowing his eyes, Spike tried to remembered what he did last night. The last thing he remembered was leaving his crypt to get blood from Willie's and there was no way in hell he was in Willie's backroom. So where am I? What did I do after I left the crypt?

Sitting up slowly, Spike tentatively put his feet on the floor, resting his head between his bent knees. Looking down at the Oriental rug beneath his socks, Spike tilted his head to the side. There was something familiar about the faded blue and green pattern, it looked almost like the rug that Buffy had in her living room.

The Slayer!

Spike's head snapped up, his hangover momentarily forgotten as he looked around wildly. Buffy's house, he was in Buffy's house! But how did he end up there? And why the hell was he half-dressed and lying on her sofa?

"Shit," Spike mumbled, "what happened last night?"

Standing up slowly, Spike walked towards the kitchen, listening for something that would tell him where Buffy was. The last thing he needed this morning was getting jabbed at by Mr. Pointy. But Buffy's house seemed unusually quiet, like he was the only person there.

"Buffy? Slayer?"

Spike poked his head into the kitchen, his forehead wrinkling when an empty room greeted him. Maybe she isn't awake yet, he thought, seeing as there's no coffee out. Turning around to walk out of the kitchen, a folded piece of paper sitting on the center island caught his eye. Walking over to it, Spike picked up the paper, turning it over in his hands. His eyes narrowed as Spike tried to decide whether it was worth reading. His name looked so out of place, scribbled in Buffy's handwriting, a mixture of printed and cursive letters on the front of the note.

Sighing heavily, Spike ripped open the paper, his eyes widening as the hastily written words sank into his mind.

I know you're probably wondering what all this is about, the note began, and Spike, I wish I could tell you. But I don't know, I don't understand….it's too much for me. I can't deal with this anymore. So I'm leaving.

And yeah I know that a Slayer would never sneak away in the dark, but I'm not the Slayer anymore. I'm just me. Just plain old Buffy.

Tell Giles that I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye and tell everybody…I don't know, tell them something really profound and say that I said it. I really don't even care.

Don't try to find me Spike. Please, just leave me alone. Let me be normal for once.

I'm sorry that I'm not the girl you thought I was.

Scrawled beneath the last line was a lopsided heart and she'd signed her name next to it.

"Buffy."

Spike breathed out her name, a mixture of a sigh and a curse. What was she thinking? She couldn't just leave; she was the Slayer, the Chosen One. No matter what the Council said, she would always be the Slayer. And a normal life, who was she kidding? Buffy wasn't meant to fit in to a neat little mold, she was meant to stand out.

He dropped the note, watching the thin sheet of paper flutter to the floor. For the first time in years Spike didn't know what to do. A part of him was screaming to go find Buffy and bring her home, but Spike knew what it was like to want to escape, to hide away from your past. Maybe she needed some time, some space to herself. But she'd come back, she couldn't just leave her friends; she couldn't run away from her life.

Could she?