*

It was a sweet feeling.

A cool rush that swept through her veins.  Clean, and simple.  Carrying away the last of the confusion that clotted her body, made it so hard to breathe some nights. 

Finally, she had done it right. 

The night's tension was gone.  Her body felt heavy, languorous in its release.  Like water bearing down on her, coating her shoulders, her head, her arms, running down her spine in a fluid embrace.  She closed her eyes to trace its course and let the tide cover her completely.  There was something to be said for drowning.

But it's never that easy. 

As she drifted, Buffy could feel unrest below.  An emotion that was muddy and sluggish, buried in layers, but all too aware.  Waiting for a moment when she would dive too deep, leave the surface too far behind.  When it could grab her and drag her with it, make her its own – take her over completely.  Swiftly, she broke away and opened her eyes.

Only to remember him, before her again.

Somehow, she wanted to thank him for standing there so hopelessly, for looking so lost.  A validation that it was beyond saving, this thing between them.  Brittle and broken, wasting away – she imagined it fraying with every second, parting reluctantly. But finally.  No going back.

Spike barely registered the way she slid from the wall, softly and gracefully.  The gravel crunched beneath her boots, a harsh sound that rubbed against his exposed nerves.  Made him wince.

"C'mon, walk me home," she said, a wan smile on her face.  Without waiting for an answer, she began to lope down the street.

Hunh.  That was unexpected.

Spike scrambled to catch up with her, his head buzzing.  He fell in step warily, watching her out of a corner of his eye.

"Uh… yeah, right," he muttered, desperately trying to figure out her mood.  Changes like the wind now, he thought distractedly.  One moment she was full of jittery energy, crackling so loudly he could hear it in her heartbeat – and now this.  He looked at her sideways, taking in the confident lift of her head, the quiet look of satisfaction on her face.  It confused him.

By all rights, she should be killing him now.  That's what he'd imagined, at least – a bitter, hate-laced monologue, followed by the usual "dead, evil thing" comment,  and a direct stake to the heart.  He'd prepared himself for it, actually - steeled himself to take the screamed accusations, to give her what she needed, even if that meant ending up as antique dust. 

But for it not to happen at all?  For her to be walking beside him, smiling in that Stepford kind of way…  It just wasn't on.

He tried again.  "Buffy, about what happened…"

"No, Spike.  We're not going to do this.  We're done with it."  There it was.  A slight hint of steel, a flash of discomfort.  He was more than used to being shut down by her, but the flavor of this denial was different.  It tasted… false.  He tilted his head a little, pondering.

Buffy saw the gesture and her heart skipped.  This was one of the things she'd forgotten.  Spike was persistent, especially when it came to prying into things he should leave alone. 

She recognized the funny grindy-motion he was making with his lower jaw, too.  As though he was rolling something between his teeth, flattening it, testing its strength.  It relieved her a little; the most perceptive things Spike said usually came without consideration, devastating proclamations that cut to the heart of her.  There was still time to derail this particular train of thought.

"So, the hospital said you caused a scene," Buffy drawled, keeping her face relaxed, her gait steady. 

Spike jolted guiltily.  "Well, yeah – didn't hurt anyone, just snatched a piece of paper."  He shrugged.  "Didn't seem to be a problem."  Suddenly, he shot her a wary look.  "Wasn't a problem – right?"

Buffy half-shrugged.  "We remain warrant-free, Josey Wales.  It's just a good thing that you were her guardian and all."  She grimaced.

"Oh, hell." Spike threw up his hands, exasperated.  "Right, that bit of business was NOT me – Dawn had it sorted before I even got there.  Wouldn't do that."  He scowled at the ground petulantly.

Buffy smirked.  At least that was the same – still no better way to distract Spike than activating his powerful self-preservation instinct.  The same old dance.  It would work for her, if she could only remember the rhythm.

She eased up, dropping the accusatory tone.  "Did she look bad when you got there?"

Spike shifted uncomfortably.  "Well, the bruises were all more purple, but that's about it.  Didn't even notice the thing with the stitches," he admitted 

At Buffy's confused look, he traced his finger along his jawline.  "Yeah, right under here.  They'll want taking out at a doctor's sometime, I suppose."

"Jeez.  I didn't see that," Buffy admitted, wincing.  Spike shrugged.

"The matching casts do tend to distract, I wouldn't get all broken up about it," he offered dryly.

But Buffy just shook her head, irritated.  Stitches!  Neither of them had ever needed stitches before… Should've noticed that, she berated herself.  Dawn's been home under 24 hours, and she was already missing things.  Important things, important wounds.  Her stomach sank and she dipped her head a little, focusing on the pavement as she walked. 

Oh, no, not the guilt.  Spike groaned inwardly, trying to think of something to say.  He cast a quick glance over at her as she shuffled, blame plain on her face.  It was an expression he found far too familiar on her.   

"She loves the school, you know," he finally decided on.  Buffy's head lifted, and he could see her focusing on him again.  Spike rambled on, hoping to carry her away from her thoughts.

"It's a great idea, and not just because she's miles from the Hellmouth," he said, and Buffy brightened a little at the praise.  "Didn't quite like some of the pillocks she'd been hanging about with here, and she's not getting much chance to indulge the inner shoplifter in rural New England."

Buffy snorted a little.  "Yeah, well, I wish those were the only reasons she got shipped off," she sighed.  Spike looked at her questioningly, and Buffy shrugged.  "I thought it wouldn't be a problem, once she started training with us.  But it's different…"  She trailed off, thinking.

"I thought it would make everything easier, and it did, for a while."  She frowned.  "But in the end it just made her a target.  And she's got most of my moves, but only around half the strength.  Some of the baddies didn't realize that," she finished.

Spike growled.  "She got hurt."

"Once too often, yeah.  When she didn't know how to fight, they'd just tie her up, drag her around.  But now that she knows… there's no limit to what could happen."  She pressed her lips together.

"They were rough on her, didn't treat her like a normal girl.  They actually took it out on her like she was a Slayer."  Buffy's breath was coming a little quicker as she remembered the way vamps had targeted Dawn, taunted her, tried to break her as Buffy watched.  "She was great, but it would've gotten to her eventually.  Or they would have."

"Good that you got her out, then.  She looked trim when I first saw her," Spike noted.  "Whatever else happened, she's kept up with her exercise." 

"Kicking," Buffy said, rolling her eyes.  "She's big on the kicking, probably because her legs are longer than mine now."  She tried to look put-out, but she was obviously proud of Dawn's ability; Spike chuckled and Buffy continued, encouraged.

"No, seriously, watch her.  It's her new version of stomping out of the room in a snot – you do something she doesn't like, then next thing you know?  Kicked in the ass."

Spike smirked.  "Fighting dirty?  So she learned something from me after all!" 

It only took a moment for him to realize what he'd said, a brief moment in which Buffy shrank from him, taking an inconspicuous step away.  And even as winced at his own idiocy, another part of his mind seized on Buffy's actions.  She claimed that everything was in the past, but a simple slip could cause her to react so noticeably?  No, something there was not sitting right. 

"She told me that you met her friends," Buffy interjected.  He was doing it again, she worried.  The thinking-thing.  She could feel it, and it made her nervous.  A conversation full of potholes, she thought in exasperation.  Why couldn't it all just go back, before everything got all screwed up?

"The friends are quite good," Spike replied, looking a little surprised at the thought.  "The girl she's rooming with, Alicia?"  Buffy nodded.  "She's a right piece of work, but a good one."

"Yeah, I remember Alicia – a little hyper, maybe, but good," she agreed.  "And the boyfriend?"

Spike scowled.  "Well, Dawn won't hear a word against him, and I didn't meet him long in person.  Nice kid, not sulky or timid, just…" he trailed off.  "A guy."

"Cute?" Buffy pushed.

He rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, Slayer, cute as a button.  Got a touch of the Riley in him, but not too much."  Realizing that he was wandering into dubious territory, he decided to throw caution to the wind.  "Hear from him lately?  Or is he too busy fighting the good fight, blowing up homes and generally eclipsing the sun with his noggin?"

Buffy surprised him by laughing.  "Uh, don't know about the eclipses, but I guess he's all right."  She shrugged.  "Sam would be the one to keep in contact with, I guess, but any emails would've been sent to Willow."  She fell silent again.

Hmm.  "So, you and Will don't talk about that sort of thing anymore?"

"Will and I don't see each other anymore."  She said it with surgical precision, a cool detachment.  For a moment, he was tempted to compare it to her detachment from himself – again, something in his mind told him there was more at work. But this was not the time.  He tucked away the thought.  Best talk to Clem when he got back to the crypt.

"Right," he responded softly. 

They were at the end of Revello by now, only a couple of minutes from Buffy's house.  A house which held Xander, Dawn and Buffy, he reminded himself. 

No Tara – she had been cremated, Clem told him.  Well, that's a right way around the resurrection spell, he supposed.  Smart girl.

No Willow, and Buffy didn't seem inclined to tell him more about that one's fate. 

So basically – just Xander and Dawn.  Buffy's world had changed beyond recognition, that much was clear.  The Scoobies had lost a member, the backup team had died or moved away.  And now it consisted of the Slayer, living in a suburban house with Xander, working at a bank every day to keep the taxmen happy.

He shook his head.  Funny, how the comics never showed Clark Kent's life like this. 

Was it normal, to be nostalgic at the ripe old age of twenty-three?

Not that anything about her life was remotely normal, Buffy conceded.  But this was different; a kind of grief that struck her every night after a patrol.  Like some sort of barrier, a wall of emotion that she had to cross to get back home.  A block away from her house, every night, it happened. 

The lines would blur, age would disappear, and everything got very confused. 

It wasn't like her time at the graveyard, when she could sift through memories and savor them.  No, this was much more insidious type of memory.  It slid in almost unnoticed and sucked her in, until she wasn't sure what reality was anymore. 

But it always started the same way.  And it was happening now.

Her mother always waiting at home – the house had never smelled the same again, after she died.  It might have been perfume, Buffy thought – but she'd never found the right bottle, no matter how she tried.  Maybe it had been fabric softener, or laundry detergent, or even shampoo.  Whatever it was, it was gone, and the absence of it hit Buffy all over again every time she entered the house. 

Sometimes, the urge to call Willow would be almost irresistible.  Something funny on patrol, or something scary, something sad.  But moments later, she'd remember; she didn't want to call Willow.  The Willow she wanted lived years in the past, at the Rosenberg's house.  Different Willow.

And Xander was particularly hard.  Walking in and seeing him so – old was an uncharitable word to use, but it was the first one that came to mind.  Far from the Xander she remembered, this one was harder, more serious.  Sometimes, more bitter.  He still loved her, but differently, in a way she couldn't describe.  And the set of his muscles, the expressions on his face… Today's Xander just couldn't embody the light goofiness she missed.  Too much had happened. 

The sound of Spike shuffling beside her startled her all over again.  It was a mistake to turn and look at him; the different incarnations of him flickered through her mind so sharply that she stumbled.  Evil Spike, threatening her friends.  Chipped Spike, reluctantly helping.  Pathetic Spike, on so many occasions.  Seductive Spike, Cruel Spike, Devoted Spike, Beaten Spike.  Bloodied and beaten by Glory.  And then by her.  Which beating had been the worse?  She shut her eyes tight against the thought.

But this was Different Spike, his body unconsciously moving nearer so that he could catch her if she stumbled again.  She shook her head, trying to get rid of the jumble of personalities, trying desperately to hang on.

"You can't go back," she found herself saying, a note of panic in her voice.  If she couldn't go back, than neither could he.  No one could go back.

"What, pet?"

"I want to, but I can't, so no one can," she murmured. 

Spike hesitated.  "Buffy, I don't know what that means."

He watched as she winced, held a hand to her head.  He edged closer, just in case it was another seizure.  She didn't shy away this time, but she also wasn't giggling.  None of the earlier giddy madness. 

"This seems like a dream because I don't know where you belong anymore," she breathed, her eyes still closed. 

He froze.

"I don't know where anything belongs.  But I don't think I ever will."  She opened her eyes again.  They were standing in front of the house now, a beacon of light in the early morning.  Almost every room blazing. 

"Reminds me of a lighthouse," Spike murmured in the stillness.

"Reminds me of an electricity bill," she responded wryly.  Spike smiled at her apologetically, then turned back to the house.

Buffy sighed quietly.  "I miss my mom.  I'm nothing like her."

The longing in her voice was deep.  She ached for her mother, of course, but every time she failed where her mother would have succeeded, every time she made a stupid mistake or forgot to pay a bill… It felt like she was letting her mom down, all over again. 

Spike turned to her, not ready to let her slip away.  "You're a lot like your mum, love – but she had years of experience under her belt, remember."

It was a good point, but not enough.  Buffy sighed, her eyes fixed on the living room window.  She could see the television flickering bluely, could just pick out Xander and Dawn curled up on the couch.  Waiting for her, as always. 

"I'm going to go in and it's going to be a shock, walking in and not smelling her.  Even if she was out, working, whatever – I'd always know she was there because it smelled like her."  She wrapped her arms around herself tight, rocking a little on her heels.

"I got a good job, we've managed to keep the house, Dawn's safe and happy – but it still doesn't smell like home.  And every time I walk in, I forget for a second that she's gone."  She gazed at the house.  "And that one second?  That's a good dream.  I could have that dream forever."

With that, she took the last few steps up to the door.  Spike watched her go, the house lights picking up the dirt on her coat, the deep smudges of soil that stained her hands and knees.  She looked exhausted, resigned.  Suddenly, a thought came to him. 

"Buffy," he called gently.  "Ask Dawn."

"What?"  She turned to him, one hand on the door. 

"Ask Dawn what home smells like to her.  I'd wager she'll say it's you."

It was very hesitant, gradual, but the smile that crept across her face was genuine.  And it was warm.  She bit her lip a little as she looked at him, as though considering him all over again. 

He looked back at her as steadily as possible, willing her to see his sincerity.  He could imagine the smell of her; new leather and shampoo, makeup and clean sweat.  Not quite the comfort of baking cookies, but something more protective, more fierce.  Something inherently Buffy.

Finally, she nodded, gently smiling.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You will, Slayer."

She slipped in through the door quickly, and he walked back to the street, glancing behind him as he went.  Through the window, he saw Buffy pad around the living room, turning off lights, gently waking Xander up.  It was only a few moments before all three figures stumbled up the stairs; a minute or so later, all the lights in the house were off, asleep.  Just like any other house on the residential block.

Spike didn't linger; drawing his coat around him, he began the long trek back to the town center.  The smile on her face buoyed him.  And he would see her tomorrow.

He was unsure of where he stood – but at least he was still standing.

TBC