*

The laugh was soft and thin, almost too weak to cross the distance between them.  But it was there, the first sound passed between them since Buffy had allowed him to walk her home.  Well, to accompany her home – moments after agreeing to his company, she had promptly ignored him.  Hadn't spoken, hadn't looked his way… and Spike wasn't about to push his luck.

He shot a concerned glance over at the slayer, but she was gazing off into the distance – whatever had made her giggle so faintly must have been in her head.  Nothing to do with him.  Nothing he could share.  Right, then.  He tried to focus on something else.

At least her mobility had improved since her seizure; she was now walking normally, though he was painfully aware of every flinch and twinge that flared up.  Her reactions and instincts were still off, he realized.  They were beyond off – she'd always been - well, aware that he was around.  But she hadn't bothered to look at him since they left the crypt.  

For a brief moment, Spike entertained the thought that it could be a sign.  She might still trust him, believe that he would watch her back.  But he couldn't hold that delusion for long – truly, she wouldn't have noticed a truck barreling down on her in this state.

So he shadowed her, never getting closer than ten feet, trying to give her space while keeping an eye out for trouble.  After all, she was doing nothing of the sort.

They'd walked in silence for ten minutes, and Spike was just beginning to get used to the sounds of Sunnydale at 3 AM.  The residential streets were dark and quiet, a hushed time that drifted between the depths of night and the coming dawn.  The stillness was eerie, and Spike tried to remember if it had felt so mystical before.  Had it been special at all?  Or just a time when it was easier to find prey, when every footfall seemed to echo twice as loud as any other time of day?   

Now, walking through the streets of Sunnydale, it seemed important that he remember these things.  Buffy's steps pierced the silence in staccato bursts, the heels of her boots rapping sharply against the tarmac.  Would people in their houses hear the rhythm of slayer steps and dream?  Had the sound lulled them into a sounder sleep, year after year, an entire town subconsciously realizing that the night was safer with the light echoes of Buffy's heels…

"You're not real."

For a moment, Spike was completely disoriented.  Buffy hadn't turned to speak; in fact, she was turned so that he couldn't see her face in full.  But the dazed look on her face, he odd lilt to her words… Concerned, he angled to get a better look at her expression.

"This just doesn't feel real."  She was smiling a little.  That worried Spike even more.

"It is real, though…" he interjected slowly, increasing his pace so he drew abreast of Buffy's slow walk.  He halved the distance between them, putting her almost within arm's reach.  The last thing the Slayer needed was to lose her moorings again.  Especially now, when odd things were happening.

"No, not that." Buffy chuckled lowly to herself, the strange smile lingering.  She stopped in the middle of the street, a wondering look on her face.  She turned to him, and he froze.

"I'm just saying – I'm weak, it's the middle of the night, Dawn's back in Sunnydale and hurt to boot, and YOU'RE here after vanishing for two years…"  She laughed again, and Spike suddenly knew what set him on edge.  The tone of her laughter was half-helpless.  And the other half was bordering on hysteria.

"Buffy, love," he murmured, cautiously edging closer to her.  He flinched when she recoiled from him, her arms flying up in a wild gesture and a tight giggle escaping her throat.

"No!  I'm all right!  I'm all right," she insisted, her wrists resting over her head in an oddly coquettish gesture.  But her eyes were bright and her voice too gay; she herself seemed to know it, and she visibly reined in her behavior.  She scowled briefly.

"I'm fine."  A long breath, a moment to collect herself.  She wasn't as good as she thought – the laughter bubbled up unwanted, a smile that tugged and tore.  She would not panic, no.  But she wasn't going to be able to hold it all in. 

Backing away from Spike onto a lawn, she clumsily tripped over a low wall and sat down with a thump.  The jolt made her bite her tongue hard, the sharp shock distracted her enough to dampen her hysteria.  She breathed, deep and cleansing breaths that drew Spike to her like a moth to flame, though he didn't dare touch.  He stopped at a safe distance and waited.  Waited for his world to pull herself back together.

"It's like a nightmare," she finally said.  She looked up at him as she spoke, calm and clear, the laughter no longer edged with madness.  He relaxed a little.

"Life?"

"No, life was going pretty well," she sighed, grinning.  Her arms wrapped around her torso loosely, her hair tumbled across one shoulder, and Spike found himself smiling back for no reason at all.  She snorted.

"I had Dawn away from the Hellmouth, at a place where she could make friends who wouldn't suddenly go all Narnia on her.  I can pay for the house, Xander's been backing me on patrols, work's…" she paused, pursing her lips.  "Oookay, once I can slay Neil, work'll be great.  But everything was going pretty damn smoothly, as far as Sunnydale life goes.  I'd finally figured out how it works.  And now?  Incredible!"

She threw her hands up air, laughing in an exasperated manner, and thrust both hands through her hair, hard.  For a moment, the skin on her face stretched, and Spike was reminded of a skull.  It unnerved him. 

Still absorbed in her monologue, Buffy didn't notice him flinch.

She leaned back on her hands, head tilted back to gape at the stars.  Her words echoed oddly as she said them, her unusual posture causing entire sentences to disappear in seas of vowels.  She giggled from time to time, her eyes trained on the skies, her throat long and white in the moonlight, framed by brown hair.  Spike stayed absolutely still and listened.

"It's like every dream I ever had, every nightmare I've gotten in the past two years – all of them are here in one day!  Dawn's got something wrong with her and we don't know why – the exact reason I got her the hell out of this place!"  She suddenly caught her own pun and sniggered weakly.  "Hah – hell out of here.  Damn."  Then it was back to the sky, her heels kicking idly at the gravel by her feet. 

"And a plane crash… That's so mundane, considering.  She got hurt, you were there, you came back with her," she mused.  "It's totally surreal.  Everything I've spent the past two years planning, hiding, saving for – poof.  Gone in one day."

Spike opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she wasn't ready to stop.

"And tonight?  Oh, tonight was just classic.  Not only do you show up when I'm not expecting to see you, but then I have a freak-out while you're standing there!"  She barked another laugh, this one more bitter.  Her head snapped down, her eyes fixing him in place.  "Do you have any idea how much time we've spent keeping this thing from the underworld Sunnydale population?  How much time it took to cover up every. Damn. Episode?  And why?  Because of you!"

Spike's mouth snapped shut as his entire body tensed.  She heard the click of teeth and laughed again.

"I know!  Shocking, isn't it?  We kind of thought you might come back with Dru in tow or something…"  Suddenly, she jerked completely upright, an eager look on her face.  "Is she here?  Is that the plan?  Because we're wide open to you right now, you know.  No Willow, Dawn's not going to be able to outrun you, Xander's gotten better with some of the weapons – but he's kind of a traditional guy at heart, usually goes for stakes and the water…" She leaned towards him conspiratorially, eyes glinting sharply.  "And me?  Well, you could take me out in a second, I'm weak as a kitten right now, couldn't slay to save my life…" she paused briefly, considering.  "So you haven't done it yet – is it 'cause you're going to turn me?  I just want in on the plan before …"

It was too much.  "Bloody hell, Slayer!"  He cut her off, disgusted, furious.  She watched as he paced, wanting to shake sense into her but keeping his distance.  He kept wincing, she noticed.  It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, as though his mind had touched upon something sore and caused him to pull away.  They stared at each other, Buffy emotionless, Spike awaiting the next blow.

"We thought you'd come back sooner."  She was quiet, the steely glint gone.  Just calm.  She shrugged.  "We thought you'd be back to kill me, actually, but we thought you'd be back.  And you weren't.  After that night in my house, you just – left."  She stared at him, unreadable.  "You left, Spike." 

He'd left, after almost breaking her, and hadn't cared to pick up any of the pieces.  The realization that leaving had hurt her almost as much as throwing her to the floor, against the tub… the thick, dull sound of her slamming against the ceramic rattled in his brain, and he flinched.  Buffy caught his eye for just a moment, and then he watched her gaze drop, stray strands of hair tumbling down to cover her face in a way that reminded him of Dawn. 

Like Dawn.  Spike closed his eyes as the realization rushed in on him.  The woman he thought he'd known, the fierce and cruel lover, the warrior, the girl who was loyal to all she loved – there was nothing he could say to fix it.  He had damaged her on a level that had nothing to do with Slayers or Hellmouths, a betrayal far more hurtful than an apocalyptic scheme.

He couldn't ask for forgiveness.  It wasn't up to him, no matter what poetry and reasoning he managed to produce, no matter what metaphysical miracles he lay before her.  He could only lay himself bare and hope for the best.

She was perched on the garden wall, head down, fingers gently tracing the patterns of stone beside her.  One leg curled up to her chest, elegant, the moon bathing everything in a silver glow.  Deadly in her beauty.  Outside of himself, she was the only judge he could accept.  Tonight, he would bear any verdict she had to give, without posturing or pretense.  The punishment would be accepted, whatever it might be. 

Voice rumbling low with regret and shame, he spoke, hoping to convey his roiling emotions in the simple words. 

"I'm so sorry, Buffy."    

Buffy's head lifted slowly, almost drowsily.  Every line of her body was heavy with fatigue, but not relaxed.  Just worn.  Spike's heart sank.  He had broken too much, hadn't said the right thing – she was still burdened.

Her face didn't contain the anger he was almost hoping for, none of the punishing fury, the utter disgust, the life.  He'd been prepared for that maelstrom; to weather it or to die in it, whatever she decreed.  But what her face held for him destroyed him more than any tirade ever could.

She smiled. 

A slow, regretful smile that had originated in grief and pain.  A wry twist to it that told him of the times she'd imagined this meeting – and how bittersweet the reality was proving to be.  Hours of wondering, of replaying that moment, of trying to see where it had all gone wrong.  Of burying the tortured feelings so deeply that no one could unearth them.  Not even him. Not even her.  And now, sitting on a wall in the dead of morning with the scent of dew beginning to tinge the air, she presented him with the finished package.  Pain and loss, confusion and fear, buried so deep that not even she could touch it anymore.

She smiled and shrugged, saddened eyes never leaving his face, and simply breathed:  "Oh."

Because it was too late, Spike realized.  All of those precious moments that she had wavered, all of those times she had wanted to scream and rail, to make him break under the weight of his sin, to make him hurt in places he'd thought were long dead – they had passed while he was gone.  One betrayal had hurt her, but the second had lost her forever.  He had left her, and she had mended herself in his absence.  He'd given her no choice.

For once, there was nothing to say.

TBC