Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within; the quote and definition at the end belong to Kurt Vonnegut.

Author's Notes: I had originally planned for Stages of Grief to be my one-and-only foray in the Buffyverse, but some very generous and kind reviews have motivated me to do this. 147 Days will be a collection of one-shots that are perfectly capable of standing on their own, but which all revolve around the summer without Buffy. All characters will be included, all viewpoints will be explored.

This piece, Foma, is set three days after Stages of Grief.

Please enjoy.

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Foma

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The rain is cold, so cold that she thinks it might freeze her right to her bones and she'll stay standing there forever like a statue. That would be really bad, and yet weirdly appropriate because most tragic, morbid statues are found in cemeteries, aren't they? And there she'd be for every single day and every single night, a very tragic and morbid statue, clutching a backpack and in mid-run, causing people to come by and wonder who put her there in the first place. They'd check her for a plaque of some sort and find none, so they would just shrug and continue on to their loved ones' resting places, or to whatever destination that caused them to wander through a cemetery in the first place.

Somehow, Willow fights off the bitter chill, splashing through the graveyard on her way to Spike's crypt. He vanished from the Summers' house the night before and, though everyone is loath to admit it, they are concerned for his whereabouts. She and Tara had come to the crypt first thing in the morning, but he wasn't in. Then they had spent the better part of the day with a frantic Dawn, searching for him in the underground passages connected to his lair with no success. But tonight, once Tara and Dawn were settled down watching a movieWillow decided to try the crypt again.

Now, it's pouring rain and here she is running through the cemetery in the middle of the night and holy crap just because Buffy's gone doesn't mean that a vampire couldn't catch her off guard and suck her dry. Panic makes her go even faster, ignoring the little voice that warns her she could slip and break her ankle. She doesn't even knock on the crypt door like she originally planned to, just barrels inside and slams the door behind her, gasping for breath.

In the easy chair, Spike covers his head with his arms, muttering, "I'm invisible, I'm invisible, you can't see me, I'm not here."

It takes her a full minute to regain herself. But after that full minute, after sixty seconds of working herself back up into full indignant-mode, she speaks. She tries not to sound like an overbearing, worried mother, but it doesn't really work.

"Finally! Are you crazy or something, running off in the middle of night? We've been worried sick!"

He drops his arms into his lap. "Worried? About me?" His skepticism is almost insulting.

"Yes!" Her tone says 'duh!', then softens. "Especially Dawn, she's beside herself."

For a tiny moment, concern flickers across his face, but it quickly hardens into a sullen, silent glare.

"Well," she continues, annoyed. "Next time, think before you decide to go all lone wolf. At least leave a note or something."

"I thought it was best." he says darkly, looking away. "You lot don't need me around complicating things."

"Don't be such a martyr." she scoffs, then shudders at her choice of words. "I mean... I'm sorry, I meant to say..."

"Just say what you came here to say." he interrupts. "Or leave."

"I came here to make sure you've healed properly. I mean, you ran off before I could change your bandages or anything--"

"Don't need bandages, Red." his voice is sharp, cold. "Vampire, remember? Infections can't grow on dead flesh."

"I'm just trying to help..." she says meekly.

"Get over it, then."

She frets in the doorway, uncertain. This isn't the Spike she was expecting. This isn't the Spike that cried with them after Buffy's funeral. Going back even further, this isn't even the same vampire that tried so hard to save Dawn from the tower, the vampire that tore his hands to pieces protecting them from the knights, the Spike that they found broken and bleeding after his escape from Glory.

This is William the Bloody, the cold, the aloof. This isn't the man, it's the monster. It's the mask. He's hiding himself even more effectively than if he shifted into his vampire visage. Pretending like he's still the Spike that doesn't care, the Spike that would turn a blind eye.

"Spike, I just--" she starts, but he cuts her off.

"No, don't." He won't look at her, won't make eye contact. "Just leave. As fast you can. In fact, run away. Get out of here. Just forget about me, I'll be out of town as soon as I'm strong enough."

"Is that it?" Now she's pissed off. "You want me to tell everyone to just forget about you? You want me to tell Dawn she's just supposed to forget you ever existed?"

"It's for the best!" He bounds to his feet, puts distance between them. "It's for the best." Finally, he turns to look at her, his eyes lost. "Isn't it?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but he rambles over her.

"It is for the best, yeah. I mean, what do you need me for, right? I'll just get in the way, confuse everyone, yeah, because you'll all be trying to be nice to me, or at least civil, when you really just want me to be gone anyway. I'll just leave. Disappear."

"But we don't want you to be gone!" she blurts over him.

He pauses, lingers, stares at her, his expression a heart-breaking mix between angry, confused, and eager. Almost hopeful. He leans forward, straining to hear whatever she has to say. But she doesn't say anything. She can't think of anything, and he lowers his gaze to the floor, his shoulders slouching.

"Sure you don't." he mutters.

She finds words. "We really want you to stay, Spike."

Too late, she's lost him. He turns his back to her, rests his fists against the wall, lets his head hang down out of sight. Silence, except for the rain clattering and splattering outside, drowning the night. When he finally speaks again, his voice is thin and exhausted.

"She was the only thing keeping me here."

What do you say to that? 'No, of course not!' or 'Oh, too bad, will you stay anyway?' Willow certainly doesn't know. She tries to think of what Buffy would say, while inwardly she wishes that Tara had come here instead, because Tara is so much better at talking to people and making them feel safe. At last, she settles on an old trick, the guilt card.

"What about Dawn?"

"I couldn't save her on the tower, could I?" he scoffs. "Don't think I'd be much more use now."

"You're the only one who can protect her." she persists.

"Protect her from what? She's not the bloody Key anymore, Red."

"And just because Glory's gone doesn't mean she took every other bad guy with her. There's gonna be more, Spike, and we're gonna need you around to help us."

"Again with the 'us' and the 'we'!" He tosses a glare over his shoulder. "I'm not exactly a part of the gang. I never was."

"Things change."

His arms drop to his sides, defeated; he's too tired or too upset to keep arguing. Either way, he drags himself back to his chair and sits down heavily, like a very old man. For a moment, he covers his face with his hands, composing himself, before he looks up at her dully.

"If you feel like you need to," he monotones. "Go ahead and do your doctor thing."

She's abruptly aware of the backpack in her hand, full of bandages and other things she doesn't need anymore. There is one thing she'd like to check, though; whether his ribs have set properly or if they're healing crooked. Moving closer, she tentatively kneels beside the chair. He doesn't acknowledge her.

"Uh, your ribs..." she says helplessly.

He glances down at her, smirks, and pulls his shirt off. The movement is ginger, reluctant, and she can see why; even a few days later, the bruises haven't completely faded. He hasn't been eating as steadily as they thought he was or he'd be healed by now. She makes a mental note to ensure his fridge is stocked with blood.

Slowly, very slowly, she reaches out and touches his side. It's cold on contact. Gently probing his ribs, she feels smooth, proper setting. Wonderful. But then, she feels a jagged difference. One rib out of all of them is knitting crooked, one rib that she must have missed, even though she would swear that she tended them all. It must be somewhat painful, or at the very least uncomfortable for him.

"This is bad," she murmurs. "You've got one rib, it's--"

"I know." He looks up at the ceiling, gaze distant. "I know."

There's a moment of confusion, and then a word flashes into her mind, a harsh but obvious answer: punishment. A permanent reminder of his failure to protect. Before she can think of anything comforting to say, he speaks.

"You were her best friend, yeah?"

The question burns, stings, and she flinches away from it before she can gather the courage to answer in a tiny voice.

"Yeah."

"So you would know her the best... You would know how she felt about things, how she..." He swallows hard, very nervous. "Do you think... do you think she would have ever... What I'm trying to say, Red... Did I ever have a chance?"

Willow glances up at him sharply, and he looks back with such desperation that she can't answer. The very first words that came into her head were: We'll never know. But she knows that those words would crush him, break him into such tiny pieces that they'd never be able to save him. And if there's one thing Buffy would have wanted regarding Spike, it would be that they all treat him fairly.

So she hesitates, she thinks. And she decides on what to say.

"I think... maybe." She can't look him in the eye. "I think that Buffy was starting to know you, as a... a person, and that maybe she might've... Yes."

She can't bear to look at him, just listens to him sigh and lean his head back, weary and ready for rest. Some part of her inside scolds her for lying, while another part insists that it really might've been true, and another part says it's too late now. Too late for anything. Too late to save Buffy, too late to save the man before her.

Quietly, she stands and heads for the door. It's raining so hard and she doesn't care. She can run home to Tara and be warm. Her heart aches for Spike, who is cold to the touch, and now probably cold forever.

Before she can escape from this prison, his voice catches up with her, bitter and regretful.

"Live by the foma that make you happy."

She has read her share of Vonnegut, and recognizes the quote immediately. Cat's Cradle.

Foma: a harmless untruth.

"Yeah," she says softly.

No answer, and she walks out into the rain.

He knows.

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end.