The Road Home
Summary: AU; everyone's human. Buffy Summers dodges family and friends to escape her wedding and make it back home, single. But when she returns to L.A., she finds herself stuck with a grumpy, homeless roommate without who, she soon finds, home wouldn't be home at all.
Disclaimer: 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' and all associated with it belongs to Mutant Enemy, Fox, Joss Whedon etc. I own squat.

A/N: If anyone's reading this, sorry if the update took so long. My kitten died and I was too depressed to write. Updates will take long, now, I've got tons of work everyday, but they'll come, believe me.

2. Someone to Watch over Me

Tara had realized Buffy was ill on the elevator back to her apartment. After having coffee in the evening, they'd proceeded to the multiplex to take their minds off the heavy emotions Tara had stirred up in them both. But the cinema was packed, so instead they went dancing, where instead of letting her body go with the beat of the music, Buffy had sat in a corner, sipping a martini and eating salted cashews. After an hour of that, Tara took Buffy to an Italian restaurant in the Village where, again, Buffy hardly ate any of the food they ordered. Tara first thought it was her running away from Angel that had Buffy so low, but when she saw her hugging her coat to herself in spite of the sweltering heat of June, Tara realized Buffy had fever.

Tara now stood leaning against the doorframe of the spare bedroom of her apartment, watching Buffy's slight form rising and falling, gently, as she slept curled under the yellow comforter. She smiled wistfully, remembering the times she'd played nurse to her dorm-mates. The cold pills Buffy had taken had quick effect and as Buffy's muted snoring filled the room, Tara closed the door.

Her arms crossed in front of her chest, she rubbed her hands on her upper arms as she approached the windows in her living room that overlooked the city. The view from the 12th floor was amazing, even though there were higher buildings all around. Tara watched as the nightly drizzle made its way down, her body pressed against the cold glass of the windows to relieve itself of some heat.

There were empty spots on the walls where Kennedy's things had been. Tara kept her back turned to them, her eyes choosing to ignore rather than face reality. Her mind, however, raced away.

Buffy's situation hardly threw light on what had happened between Kennedy and her. There was a lot of guesswork there, a lot of guessing so as to find the main cause of their break-up. Was it because the spark was gone? Did Kennedy feel suffocated around Tara? Tara stood and thought into the night, grey eyes under a furrowed brow growing red with tiredness.

It wasn't that hard; it was actually too simple. There hadn't been a spark; Kennedy had been a baby for Tara to mother. But Kennedy didn't want mothering, she was all too independent. She didn't need Tara; and so she had left.

Tara snorted, watching the glass mist up in front of her eyes. That was an oversimplification as to what had happened. There had to be a better reason; Tara wasn't so motherly that a relationship would fail because of it. No. She was motherly when needed, otherwise she knew how to have fun, how to let go, too. Kennedy just hadn't stuck around long enough to see that.

Right?

Tara pulled herself away from the windows and threw herself onto the divan she kept in the living room. She sighed, and, as her exhausted eyes fluttered shut, she realized she was overanalyzing. It was simple; she was wrong.

Buffy frowned. Why couldn't she hit the right keys on the phone? Wasn't that hard . . .

She'd woken up after two in the afternoon, jet lag and fever causing her to sleep for 14 hours, straight. She felt a lot better, although she was worried as to where Tara was. When she found the note on the fridge, held up by a Homer Simpson magnet, she relaxed.

Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry I'm not there; I waited till noon but you were still out. I'm visiting a friend at St. Vincent's, then going grocery shopping. I'll be back by five. Love, Tara

After having a Rueben sandwich washed down with iced tea, Buffy lay on the divan, full and drowsy once more. Tara's cordless phone was in her hand. She squinted up at it, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes for a moment so she could dial the number. After getting the wrong number thrice, Buffy cursed and rushed to the bathroom where she splashed cold water onto her face. Shaking her head like a dog to get rid of the excess water, Buffy looked at herself in the mirror. She saw ragged blonde hair, red puffy eyes and dirty skin.

Choosing to ignore that, she returned to the living room where she sat down on the divan, and picked up the phone. A determined look on her face, Buffy dialed the number, and when it was picked up on the third ring by a voice she recognized, she grinned.

"Hey, it's me, Buff." A chirpy, breathless and excited voice traveled across miles of telephone wire to meet her ear. Buffy laughed. "Yeah, me too! Now, calm down and listen, I need a favor . . ."

Hand in hand, Anya and Xander made their way down to the reception. Together, the two of them glowed and everyone in the lobby stopped, for a moment, to admire the happy couple.

Xander opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Anya silenced him with a perfectly manicured hand and said, "Yes, I know what you're going to say. You feel guilty that we've been here an entire day, having wonderful orgasms while poor Buffy stays alone in her room, waiting for company. I know you wish we had found her first because, yes, I know she's your childhood friend and you want to be with her in this all the way. I know you feel guilty, Xander, and think we shouldn't have had so much sex, and rather found Buffy, but don't worry! Buffy knows how easy you are; she won't mind. She'll give me the evil eyes, obviously, but whatever she says, Xan, you don't have to feel guilty. Pleasure first, always remember! Pleasure comes first!"

Xander's eyes widened. Those standing around them froze, looking at Anya in a scandalized, horrified manner. He swallowed and said, "Sorry. Americans, you know, big-mouthed as always," in his best British accent. He knew he didn't throw anyone off, but at least they left them alone after a roll of their eyes. He turned back to Anya and said, flatly, "Actually, I was going to ask you where you got those shoes. Buffy has the same ones."

Anya blinked, then looked down at her Prada pumps. "Why, yes. They're hers. Why?"

Xander smiled and hugged her close, "I gave them to her on her birthday, see." Lowering is voice, he said, "Though it's nice to know you have a conscience, and it cares more about your friends than orgasms."

Anya hugged him back, hit him playfully on his chest. Then the two pulled apart and walked to the reception. The blonde British girl behind the counter smiled at them, and Xander smiled back. Giving her fiancé the Evil Eye, Anya stepped forwards and asked, suddenly businesslike, "We'd like to know what room Elizabeth Summers and Liam Spencer are sharing. We're their friends, Xander Harris and Anya Jenkins; our reservations were made under Mr. Spencer's name?"

The girl nodded, blushing, and typed away quickly on her computer. Xander gaped at Anya, feeling, suddenly, very turned on. As he hugged Anya from behind, the receptionist spoke up, "Well, we have Mr. Spencer and Miss Summers checking in last week, in two different rooms. Then Mr. Spencer checked out, reserved the same room for yesterday, but he hasn't arrived. And Miss Summers, it seems . . ." She peered into the computer, brow furrowed. ". . . left last week?" She looked questioningly at her co-receptionist, and nodded at Anya and Xander. "She left last Monday."

Anya's eyes widened. "What?" she cried out. "She left? Last week? Why? Where'd she go? Why the hell didn't she even lea—"

"She left this note, though. Her instructions were to deliver it to you, Mr. Harris or Mr. Spencer, whoever arrived first."

Will was still rubbing his eyes of sleep when he heard the jangling of keys and footsteps in the foyer. Instantly, he was wide awake, his ears alert for any noise from whoever was creeping around his house. He looked around for a weapon and noticed a black and brown tail slinking out of the kitchen. He winced, fearing for the cat's safety.

Ignoring the slight pangs in his hand, he got to his feet and noiselessly crept to the doorway that led to the dining room. His face towards the door, his back toward the kitchen, Will reached behind him for a weapon; his hands came away with a frying pan. He grimaced at the cliché, then accepted it with a shrug. After all, it had always proven useful in the movies.

He listened intently for noise from the intruder, keeping himself hidden. When none came, he leant the slightest bit forward, to peek around the doorframe and . . .

. . . with a loud crash! he recoiled in pain as his head met another. Screaming bloody murder, he backed into the kitchen, his eyes and head hurting far too much to make use of the pan in his hands and notice the yelps of pain that were definitely not coming from him. After all, he didn't yelp.

When the pain subsided a bit, Will opened his streaming eyes and rubbed the top of his head. He didn't see his attacker straight away; he looked around confusedly for a whole minute before realizing that the groans were coming from somewhere around his knee. He looked down, and was transfixed, immediately, by the pixie he saw.

A small pale face surrounded by a halo of auburn that was currently contorted with pain as she rubbed the top of her head like he was, too. She hardly seemed harmful; too tiny a slip of a woman to do a Big bad like him any harm. He noticed the coaster holder by her side and gave her points for originality. His own weapon slipped uselessly to greet his boots. The noise was dulled by the rugs beneath but it was enough for the small creature before him, and not just the cat, to look up.

The pain faded and a look of complete determination came down. But just before the determination, he saw, in her green eyes, a flash of fear. Raising his arms in surrender, he sank down to her level and said, softly, "Hey, pet. Mind telling me what you're doing in my house?"

Ignoring his proffered hand, she stood up a bit shakily and said, "Your house? I think not!" Her tone was fierce, but a bit wobbly as she continued, "This is my friend Buffy's house, and I know for a fact that you're not supposed to be here. So why don't you just get the hell out before I call the cops?"

He grinned. "No, 'm not Buffy's friend, Red. 'm Anya's friend from college, William Giles. And you would be?"

"Willow Rosenberg, but Anya didn't tell me about any William Giles. She told me maybe a friend of hers, Spike, would come to live here, but . . ." She looked him up and down, frowning, then her eyes widened in realization. "Oh, my. You look like a Spike. Are you Spike?"

He sighed, rubbing his injured hand through his hair. "Ol' college nickname," he admitted. "Prefer Will, though."

She grinned; his heart gave a tiny flutter, the first in a long time. "No can do, Spikey. I'm Wills. You pick another name."

He smiled. "Will, pet, and Wills. A letter can make all the difference. But, you can call me whatever you want, Red. I don't mind." He flirted outrageously. In the back of his mind, he saw Anya roll her eyes.

Willow tilted her head back and looked at him, hard. If she noticed the nickname, she didn't show it, which probably meant she didn't mind. "Fine. You're Will, then."

"Yes, I am, Red."

"And I'm Red?"

He looked her up and down again, then grinned wolfishly. "'course you are."