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Failure to Communicate
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...Fourteen hours later...
...very bad things have happened...
*****************************

...The world was a three by seven box.

There was a curtain on one side, which theoretically led to some 'other' place, but it didn't, really.

There was nothing there.

Just this dark little box and this sweet, nonjudging pillow, and this lovely sweet blanket that didn't cover her shoulders and her feet at the same time.

You're such a bleedin' fake! What the hell are you tryin' ta pull, here??

Buffy would stay here.

Why the hell these goons hired you, I'll never know! Bloody great replacement, you are!

Forever.

There was a tapping, and the curtains rattled slightly on their coasters.

Buffy didn't respond. Nothing there. Nothing there.

"Buffy?"

Go away, Dawn.

"Buffy, no one hates you."

She opted to answer with stony silence.

"I've gotta get out of here. Call me when she's gone."

"Really! Everybody's up front, and they're all worried about you. It's okay."

"Worthless fuckin' bint!"

This time the sheer brazen falseness of the statement stirred Buffy's need to reply. "That's not what he said last night."

A bright gap appeared in the curtain as Dawn poked her head under. "So you are awake. God, turn a light on." She reached up and a click flooded the small space with a yellow glow. Dawn looked at her sister. Buffy slowly looked back.

Dawn winced. "You look like shit."

Buffy turned her bloodshot eyes back to the blank ceiling, and Dawn sighed.

"Buffy you can't hide in this little coffin forever."

--"I swear to God, I'd deck you if I didn't think I'd cut my hand open on your bony hide!"--

"No. I can starve to death."

"You're well on your way," Dawn muttered. "But if it comes to that, I am trained to use a feeding tube."

"Dawn, just please leave me alone."

"Buffy, we need to talk about this. Everybody wants to help. If you really have sta--"

"Don't say it!"

"FINE! If you're really having ... 'difficulty performing'" she stressed, making Buffy wince, "then we need to figure out how to make it better."

"I know how to make it better. Get a new vocalist that won't choke. Tell them I'm dead. I can't go out there right now." Buffy reached above her and turned the light off.

@@@

The spoon clinked sorrowfully against the china mug. Fingers tapped erratically on the tablecloth.

A throat cleared.

"RIck, you have to understand..."

"I do understand. I want to--"

"No. I have a life now. ...A husband. I. I have a son."

Rick swallowed what he was going to say, and his face went slack. "A... a son?" he croaked.

Joyce nodded, eyes down. "His name is Jeremy."

"That's ..that's great," Rick said slowly. "...I'm happy for you," he tried again for some emotion other than despair.

"It is," Joyce replied, a smile creeping at her lips. Rick caught it.

"...You always wanted a smart kid. Is he?"

"Oh, yes. He's one of the brightest in his class. ...He turned fourteen this year."

RIck visibly flinched. "Didn't waste any time, did you?" he muttered. Off Joyce's stricken look, he made a hasty recovery. "Sorry, sorry. We separated on pretty bad terms. You had every right to move on. To be happy."

"I am," she whispered, finally looking up at him. She seemed to think for a second, and then asked, "Would you like to see a picture?"

Obviously not too keen about seeing his former lover and another man's child, Rick sat up and said, "Of course."

Joyce reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She brought it up over the table, hesitating only a second or two before opening it between them, to Jeremy's school photo.

Rick leaned down for a better look. "Yeah, he looks like a great ki..." His polite response trailed off as he stared at the picture.

"Oh, my God." He tore his eyes away from the picture to stare at Joyce, who seemed to be on the edge of tears. "Is he...?"

She nodded mutely, biting her lip.

RIck leaned across the table and grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him.

"Say it. Say it, Margaret."

Joyce swallowed, not on the verge anymore, and put a shaking hand to RIck's cheek.

"...He's your son, Brad."

Rick stared.

"And....cut. Check the gate!"

Rick let go of Joyce and moved away from the table to his waiting coffee, which was held by a somehow bored but eager intern. Joyce also stood, wiping at her eyes, and had gone barely three steps before the makeup woman was upon her. She waved her off.

"Susan, wait just a moment. I need to check my messages."

"M'Kay, that's no problem, Ms. Summers. Take your time, I'll do you up whenever you're ready," she replied, but stayed within hovering distance as Joyce made her way to the folding chair over which she'd draped her things. Susan hung around as Joyce pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the calls she'd missed in the last thirty minutes.

"That's strange," Joyce muttered.

"What's strange?" Susan asked, making her jump.

"My daughters were supposed to call me today and tell me how their show went," she answered. Frowning again she returned the phone to her purse. "Maybe they aren't up yet."

"You mean the XCOD concert?" Susan asked.

"Of course. I told you about their new jobs, didn't I?" Joyce made an attempt to lose her by heading for the snack table, but Susan just followed.

"...You haven't seen the paper today?"

Joyce stopped and looked back. "What paper?"

Susan reached into her own purse, a giant duffle bag of a thing, and pulled out a copy of The Globe.

"That's not a pape--" Joyce started, before she got a glimpse of the headline photo. "Oh dear!"

Susan didn't protest as Joyce snatched the paper out of her hand, and took the opportunity to ready a makeup brush and concealer.

"'Strike Two: XCOD's new frontwoman's brush with death'?" Joyce frantically flipped through the magazine until she found the right section. "The fractured punk-rock band, XCOD, started the year off with a whimper last night when the new vocalist, Buffy Summers, collapsed on stage as a result of 'extreme stress and malnutrition', as reported by an on-scene medic'? " She skimmed ahead. "Moments later, Summers awoke disoriented and surrounded by concerned bandmates, which include her sister, drummer Dawn Summers. The night's show was canceled and has been postponed indefinitely. The band next travels to Y-town, though whether it be with or without the fainting lady is not known'??"

Joyce turned back to stare at Susan, who dabbed at her cheek with the paintbrush.

@@@

"--is not known. Coming as it is on the heels of the recent loss of beloved frontman Devon Childress and former drummer Parker Abrahms, as well as growing rumours of a gradual 'watering down' of the band's signature raw sound--" there was an indignant snort, "--this latest wrench could spell a final blow in the XCOD's six year struggle to the top... blah blah blah... ...uh, 'Sources close to the band' --that'll be Hallie-- 'hinted that Buffy's collapse could be the result of something 'more serious.'''" Xander glanced around the room, then back to the magazine. "The on-site medic suggested that anorexia or bulimia could be to blame, citing the singer's skeletal frame and apparent dehydration."

Dawn shook her head as she entered the front of the bus. "Can you please stop reading that garbage? There wasn't even a medic! They're just making it up."

"Of course they did. They had to. We wouldn't tell them shit," Anya replied, grabbing the magazine from her boyfriend, who grabbed another, different one off the couch and flipped it open. Anya scanned the rest of the article. "This isn't so bad. It lends her a bit of intrigue, if she plays it smart. It's better than if they'd caught Spike's reaction before security caught them."

Xander rubbed his face with his hands. "Can we please not talk about that right now?"

"Why not? He totally lost it," Anya said, taking her boyfriend's new magazine and reading through it. I can't believe he could even lift the crate, let alone throw it so far." She whapped Xander lightly on the knee. "Remind me, we're going to need a replacement amp for tomorrow night."

Before Xander could answer, Oz, who had been quiet until this point, said, "Are we sure there's going to be a tomorrow night?"

Xander steepled his fingers on the tabletop. "Well, let's see... Our vocalist fainted at the sight of the audience and is now hiding in her bunk. Our guitarist went ballistic and is now wandering the streets in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The press thinks we're imploding. Our publicist thinks it's Christmas." He shrugged. "I'm gonna be optimistic."

"Does that mean not thinking about Spike shouting 'Why do you hate me, God?!'" over and over?"

"We're not talking about it!" Xander turned to Dawn. "How's she doing?"

"I think she's about ready to commit hari-kiri. That or resign."

Anya jumped in her seat. "She can't do that! There's not way we can hire someone else in time!"

Xander nudged her. "I mean..." she corrected herself, "Lose Buffy? No! She's like a part of the family! We can't lose her!" She bent her head to her Special K.

"I just don't get it," Xander said. "She was great at all the rehearsals, and you guys have been on the club circuit for a good two years. What was so different about last night?"

"You mean, what's the difference between a couple hundred people not really paying that much attention anyway and twenty thousand people who have paid good money to focus on your every move for two hours?" Dawn sighed. "She's really really ...humiliated. And she's terrified you guys are going to fire her."

"Well we're not!" Anya said quickly. "We love Buffy!"

"Spike seemed pretty pissed last night," Dawn said darkly.

"Well, Spike has anger management issues."

Dawn looked back and forth. "Well, then maybe one of us should go make sure he's not doing anything stupid while he's ...wandering the streets in a murderous rage?"

"I'll go talk to him," Xander said, standing up.

"No, you won't," Anya pulled him back down and looked at the bass player. "Oz?"

"Right." He jumped up and left.

"He's more diplomatic than you, sweetie," Anya explained. "Especially when you're so stressed out."

Xander looked like he was going to try to defend himself, when two cell phones rang simultaneously. Xander and Anya both grabbed one.

"Hello?" "Hello?"

Anya passed hers, which happened to be Xander's, to Dawn. "It's for you."

Xander passed his, which happened to be Anya's, to Anya. "It's Hallie."

Dawn put the phone to her ear. "Um, hello?"

@@@

Oz briefly considered roaming the streets for Spike. Then he decided it would probably be easier to just call him and find out where he was.

So he did.

The other end picked up on the third ring.

"'ello?"

"Spike, man."

There was a click.

Oz dialed again.

"'ello?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"Er..."

"Spike?" Oz squinted his ears. There was noise in the background. Clinking glasses, some professional sport or another, and voices. "Are you in a bar?"

Spike didn't respond, which unfortunately for him allowed Oz to make out a distant scream of "Two more Heinekens!"

"Spike, you're not even supposed to be looking at alcohol," Oz said, keeping a tight control on his anger.

"I can look all I want," Spike replied.

"Where are you?" Oz asked again. "I'm gonna come get you."

Reluctantly, Spike told him.

Oz closed the phone with a muttered swear and headed off in the direction Spike had given him.

@@@

There was that strange tapping again.

"Buffy?"

"Go away."

"Buffy, Willow wants to talk to you. She says she's sending cookies to the venue by express mail."

"Tell her thank you," Buffy replied, turning over.

There was a rattle from the curtains, and suddenly she had a cell phone pressed to her ear.

"Buffy?" came the small voice.

Startled, she replied, "Speaking?"

"Buffy, I am soo sorry your first show sucked."

What the..? "Uh, thanks?"

Dawn removed her hand, satisfied that Buffy's manners would keep her from hanging up, and returned to the front of the bus.

"Oz called me," Willow was saying. "He's really worried about you. You must feel so terrible right now."

"Uh," Buffy started, unsure about how open to be with this person she barely knew. But WIllow really seemed to care...

"This is totally between us," WIllow assured, possibly sensing Buffy's wariness. "You've got to get this stuff out, or you'll just keep feeling like shit. Before I went into club management, I took Psych in college, so I can totally go 'hmm.' Do you want to tell me exactly what happened?"

Buffy bit her lip. "I don't know if telling you exactly what happened is a super fun idea..."

"Buffy, please. It'll make you feel better."

"...It was bad," Buffy admitted. "I. I was onstage. The... The lights came on. I could here the audience. The music started. I could remember all the words, but I couldn't open my mouth. I forgot to breathe. I could hear the opening chords loop, because I hadn't hit my cue. I fainted." She stopped, remembering the swoony sensation and the sudden silence.

"...And then?" Willow prompted quietly.

"And then... I woke up backstage, and .Spike was hovering over me. He asked me what was wrong, and ...."

"..And?"

"...And I said 'scared.'" Buffy sniffed.

"Then what did he do?" Willow asked.

"Oh, for the love of God!"

"He..." She trailed off, not wanting to think about it too closely.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"He had a tantrum?"

The thought of terming Spike's sudden flurry of rage a 'tantrum,' forced a reluctant giggle out of the blonde.

"He, uh, yeah. It was sort of tantrum-ish."

"Why do you hate me, God? Why!? Why am I surrounded by worthless people??"

She sobered.

"He was really pissed off."

"He's pissed off a lot. That's just the way he is."

"He threw a crate into an amp."

There was a moment of quiet.

"Huh. I don't think that's ever happened before."

Buffy groaned.

"But I'm sure it wasn't just about you!" Willow said quickly. "He was probably letting out some Devon and Parker-related tension, too!"

Buffy sat forward and hit her head on the ceiling. Ow. "Willow, I killed the show! There was no show! Of course he was pissed!"

There seemed to be a thoughtful silence. Buffy sank back down on the mattress.

"...Buffy, it sound's like you're pretty pissed off, too."

"I'm not. I don't have any right to be. I'm just embarrassed and sorry I did this to everyb--"

"But you're mad at yourself."

"Oh. Right. Well, of course I am," Buffy said slowly.

"No, I mean," Willow continued, "You sound really mad at yourself. Like, ready to kick your own ass."

"If necessary."

"It isn't," Willow said earnestly. " None of the emotions you're feeling are helpful right now, Buffy. You haven't said anything about doing better next time, or trying to get over it or apologize, or anything. You sound like you think it's over."

"Well, I don't know how long they're going to keep on a vocalist that can't sing in front of people."

"Buffy, they're not going to fire you."

"They fired Devon."

"Yeah, after four years of consistently screwing up. The Parker thing was just the last backbreaking straw. You've just screwed up this once, and it's not like you did it on purpose. You've got to get over this insecurity about your security! From what I've heard, you're really talented, and all you need is some confidence. You have to recognise that stuff's gonna happen, and tomorrow will come. Learn from this and move on. It's just something you've got to do, and the rest of us will support you in that. They understand that, and we're here. I understand, Dawn understands, Oz understands, Xander understands, Anya, well, she probably understands, too..."

"...And Spike?"

"Spike..." Buffy could hear willow shrug. "He'll get over it."

"Yeah," Buffy mumbled. "Over it."

@@@

"We're so buggered, man," Spike repeated.

"No we're not," Oz replied. Again.

Spike nodded sullenly into the table. "Effin' screwed," he said slowly. "It just keeps getting worse. All bands have to end sometime. It's not like it can go on forever."

"Spike, this isn't the end of XCOD." Oz checked his watch. Half an hour he'd been sitting here, listening to Spike proclaim the end of existence. There was one empty glass in front of him, and the waiter had assured Oz that was all he'd had. And all he would have. They had enough problems right now as it was without bringing that one back into the game.

"Do you think you're cooled down enough to go back to the bus and not be the jerk you were last night?"

"Bitch," Spike muttered.

"Or not."

"She's messin' it all up, mate. She's a fuckin' Yoko if I ever saw one. Now she's gonna dig us down into the petroleum."

Oz blinked. "Huh. Interesting analogy. But look. You need to accept that last night happened ...or didn't, as the case may be... and get over it. One little screw up--"

Suddenly, Spike was upright, and gripping Oz's sleeves. "You all seem to be confused on a ver' important concept," he gritted, eyes bright with fury and fear. "We, are a band. Bands perform. If we don't perform, then we're no longer a band, and then we're screwed."

Oz watched him impassively. "Maybe we should hang out here just a little bit longer."

Spike slumped. "I can't lose this, mate."

"You're not going to."

"This is the only thing in my life that doesn't totally suck right now, and it's all falling apart."

"It's not gonna fall apart."

"You guys, you're my family." Spike sobbed. "We can't split up. I need this!"

"Love you too, man." Oz checked his watch again. "So, can we agree that you're going to be cooperative and help us get through this thing relatively unscathed without being a total bastard?"

Spike slumped back further in his chair. "Caleb's right. She's a deceivin' whore."

Oz sighed. This might take a while.

@@@

Two hours later, all were present and accounted for, except for Buffy, who was accounted for but also still hiding in her bunk.

"Hallie called," Anya said. "She has a therapist meeting us tomorrow, to try to talk Buffy out of it."

"You really think that'll work?" Spike scoffed.

"It might work slightly better than you screaming at her like a demon-possessed psycho," Dawn muttered.

Spike hushed.

"Anyway, it's not going to do much good if she never gets out of her bu-ffy! You're up!"

Buffy was standing in the doorway, still in her pajamas, and looking at the floor.

"Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed," she mumbled, still making fierce eye contact with the carpeting. She was playing with Xander's cell phone.

Spike eyed her, and felt a twinge of either remorse or worry run through his general anger. She really did look like shit. How much of that was he responsible for? I don't care, he reminded himself. She's tearing apart my power circle. I suffer; she suffers.

...yeah.

Anya stood and approached the reclusive one. She gave her a stiff hug, which at least served the purpose of tearing Buffy's eyes from the carpet in surprise.

"We love you," Anya said matter-of-factly. "And you still have a job, which is a lucky thing in this economy. Don't be sad."

"Um... thank you?"

"That pretty much goes ditto for the rest of us," Xander said. "Possibly without the capitalist overtones, but..."

He trailed off, and Buffy felt the need to smile reassuringly. "Thanks, Xander."

She turned to Oz. "Thanks, Oz."

She turned to Spike.

She turned to Dawn. "Thanks, Dawn."

"No prob," her sister replied amiably enough. "What are family for, besides pulling each other out of depressed funks?"

Buffy looked around the room, at the people watching her, and made a decision. She took a deep breath.

"So, did you bums eat all the pork rinds while I was dwelling?"

Xander's mouth quirked. "We might have saved the last package of teriyaki barbecue in deference to the damned," he replied.

"Hey!" Spike said. "Those are my favorite kind. How come she gets them?"

"I hate my life! I hate that you people can screw it up like this!"

Buffy opened the 'larder' and found the vaccuum-sealed package.

Staring directly at Spike, she tore the seal, and reached inside.
"I take back every compliment I ever gave you, you know that?"

Staring directly at Spike, she grabbed a handful.
"I can't believe I defended you, Summers. And this is what happens??"

Staring directly at Spike, she stuffed the fried pig flesh into her mouth.
"We were better off with the shooter and the man-slut."

Staring directly at Spike, she smiled smugly around the fried pig flesh.
"Worthl..e..ss." Like a cassette player running out of batteries, the voices faded as she took a defiant crunch.

His brows went together, and she knew he recognised the action for what it was.

A challenge.


*****

The actual show was just too painful to write, for someone who leaves the room during the 'humiliation parts' of Disney movies. I just couldn't do it, so I copped out with that existing-in-the-aftermath thing that I always do.

So, anyway...

Raise your hand if you hate me.

One... Two.... Three... Is your hand up? Okay, four... Nice and high, now... Five...

~Star Mouse

...Six... Seven...