Author's Notes: Set four years after 'Becoming' part two. Buffy ran away, and didn't come back. Now, four years later, she's about to be reminded of who and what she really is.

Rating: PG-13. Language and strong themes. Sorry, kiddies.

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine. Don't sue, please.

Feedback: Very welcome. Constructive criticism is welcome; flames will be used to help me toast marshmallows.

Chapter Notes: Sorry it took so long. Life, exams and essays are all contributing factors. Enjoy!

Chapter Seventeen: Reminiscence
It was nearly dark by the time the hospital released Buffy. She walked slowly through the streets of Sunnydale, contemplating what she had to do. Her arm was in a cast, and it would take at least a few days to heal – even then, it would be painful. Glory was stronger than she had expected – she was supposed to be weaker. Significantly weaker. That's what Glory's brother god had said. That she would be weaker in this dimension.

But she wasn't, and Buffy had barely held her own even with her new-found power. She'd shared her ideas with Faith, during their patrol, but now she wasn't sure if any of them would actually work.

Part of her was screaming out for violence. The part that was fuelled by the Rakeshia blood she was dependant on for life craved the bloodlust, the adrenaline rush, the hot and heady thrill of a fight. The blood, as far as she knew, elicited these feelings only in her. None of the others had ever mentioned anything about it – not Alex, not Max or Simone, not Dawn or Ella or Dave. Maybe it was a slayer thing. Certainly the slayer was all about violence, all about fighting. She knew that now. Accepted it. The last ten years had been plagued with dreams – not prophetic dreams, she didn't think, but slayer dreams none the less. Dreams filled with familiar faces, friends or acquaintances old and not so old, used by the source of the slayer to show her the way. Alex and Simone. Kendra and Drusilla. Her mother, sometimes. Her children. Ethan and Giles. Other slayers had come to her, too, to show her what she was. The Slayer was a creature of darkness and strength.

Another part of her, a part that was still rooted in Phtygiktha, wanted to use all her magickal strength and blast Glory into a million tiny pieces. She could probably do it, but there was no guarantee that it would stop Glory for more than a few days, or weeks at best. And besides, Ethan had always reminded her that her magickal actions had consequences, sometimes bad ones. It had been different in Phtygiktha, where Buffy had learnt to control the magickal forces in the dimension and in herself. Everything here had consequences, and unfortunately near-disintegration would not only have consequences but was also classed as dark magick. She was never going near that stuff again.

And then there was a tiny place, hidden deep inside her, that just wanted to take Hattie, and Charlotte and Jake and their children, and Ella and Marian, and Dawn and Spike – and run. Run as far and as fast as they could, get her family out of harm's way.

But then, her conscience reminded her, what about Faith and Angel and Giles and Ethan and Willow and Xander, and the others? What about her clan? What about Sunnydale, what about the world?

Having spent ten years coming to terms with being the slayer, there was no way Buffy could turn her back on that now. Not after so many years of trying to deny who she really was.

She found herself at the old high school. Nothing had been built on the site yet; the ruins hadn't even been torn down. Buffy supposed there had been other things to occupy the town. There was an aura of death around the old campus that simultaneously called to the slayer and repelled the woman.

She had precious few memories of this place. Mostly she remembered the library, and Giles in it. Giles with his continuous cups of tea and his leather-bound books and his loathing of computers and his constant wish to see her stay alive. Willow and Xander – she remembered more, now, having spent some time with them. Willow's hair had been gloriously long, and Xander had always been cracking an inappropriately timed joked. There had been another girl – Caroline? Carmine? No, Cordelia – that was it. Buffy wondered where she was now. A shadowy recollection of Angel. Her mother, warm and comforting and then harsh, sending her away. In retrospect, she understood why. Her mother simply hadn't understood. Being a mother herself had given her insights that she would never otherwise have gained.

But the memories of Spike were by far the most vivid. She closed her eyes and hugged herself. Spike fighting her. Spike smirking at her. Spike in a wheelchair. Spike in his leather duster, his only faithful companion. Spike smoking. Spike sitting uncomfortably in her lounge exchanging polite words with her mother.

Spike kissing her.

It had been so strange. She never would have done it normally. Not then. She hadn't been the kind of person to just…jump someone like that.

She'd just left her house, possibly for good. She needed to get to the library, to pick up the sword that Kendra had brought.

Her throat tightened. Kendra. Her sister slayer would never again use the sword, or her stake 'Mr Pointy', or take a shower or slay a vampire or –

Enough. She couldn't think about this now. She had more important things to deal with – like her ex-lover and the end of the world.

She reacted automatically when a shape slid out of the shadows near her, swinging her leg around to kick the attacker's legs from under it.

"Bloody hell!" came a familiar voice. "You got a problem with me walking, pet?"

Buffy stepped back warily. "What are you doing here, Spike? I thought you were going back to the mansion." She watched him stand; saw his concern with a sort of detached confusion.

"I heard you and your mum fighting," the vampire said. "Wanted to make sure you're alright. That you're not going to back out on our agreement," he added quickly on her sceptical look. "Are you?"

"Of course not."

He took a step closer to her; she didn't step back, unwilling to show just how emotionally vulnerable she was right now. "Right. Sure, pet." He smirked. "That's why you've not hit me yet."

"I can, if you want me to. But I'm not…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Just go away, Spike."

"No. Not until I'm sure you're up to this, pet." His honest answer surprised them both. She blinked several times, and started to turn away. His hand shot out, grabbing her arm. "Don't."

"What do you want, Spike?" she demanded wearily. "Another round of taunt the slayer? 'Cause I've had it with you – with all of you."

His lip curled. "Slayer, shut up."

"Make me!" she snapped. And he did. His lips descended on hers, and he pulled her close. He could feel her pounding heart, and she could feel the lack of his. She could feel his cold hands on her forearms, then her waist, sliding under her shirt, as she lifted her hands and pulled him even closer, responding almost hungrily to his touch.

They'd pushed their way through the bushes into a cemetery, and he pushed her up against a mausoleum. She pushed his duster off, wanting to feel more of him. He pulled her shirt over her head, aware that she wouldn't be able to get another one easily. He kissed her again, hard, and nipped along her jawline. She moaned when he lathed her jugular with his tongue. She pushed his shirt aside with nimble fingers and clutched him closer as he kissed her again, and again and again. Her bruised lip split, and he sucked the blood from the wound.

He took her then, up against the hard brick, and she loved every minute of it. Loved the feel of him, loved his strength, loved the fact that he didn't hold back, didn't treat her as if she were made of porcelain or glass, as Angel had. Loved the fact that he expected her to give as good as she got.

After sixty-seven years, it still got her hot to think about it.

She turned away from the high school. She'd acted so sure of herself with Glory, demanding that the goddess guess her name. But now she wasn't so certain that she really did know who she was.

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Coming next chapter:

Charlotte doesn't act her age.