Buffy tucks her feet further underneath her on the couch, relaxing a little as Wile E Coyote chases roadrunner across a desert on the TV. This had been what the gang had desperately been trying to recreate last night. This easy relaxing peace. This little sliver of normality. Watching early morning TV under a blanket as Spike cooked into the kitchen. Something was frying, and the sound of it made her relax further. That domestic white noise was somewhat homely.

I could really be back if it was just this. If it could always be like this I could live in it. I could try to live in it.

The curtains are closed, neither of them keen for the harsh light of day at the moment.

She let her eyes close a little. A little more, basking in the sound of food cooking and cartoons playing. Feeling almost like she did when she was a kid, with her mom cooking breakfast on a Sunday in the kitchen, Dawn with her nose practically pressed up to the glass of the TV.

A tear wells up underneath her eyelid at the realisation that the memory wasn't real. It feels like a whole new grief. A death of a reality that she'd been managing to keep at bay. A death of a moment. Just another moment that dwindles and dies inside her. All these million little griefs. Trickling into bigger ones. Flooding into an ocean of it-

"Buffy?"

She jumps, opening her eyes, bothered a little that she hadn't heard him come back in the room. He hands her a bowl. And places a mug of tea in front of her on the coffee table. He heads back into the kitchen to grab his own breakfast.

"What is this?" She calls after him. She'd expected porridge or something. Something bland. Something...

...invalid-y.

"Kedgeree." He replies. He comes back casually holding his mug of blood round the rim with his fingers and she shifts up making room for him on the couch.

"Whateree?"

"Kedgeree. Rice, eggs, smoked fish, and parsley. Amongst other things. Victorian breakfast dish."

Like a miracle, instead of the anticipation of the taste of dirt and the rising thought of bile, saliva fills Buffy's mouth.

"It's what, like some British thing?" She asks, stirring it suspiciously with her fork.

"Yeah. Well you know... after we stole it from India and bastardised it completely." He smirks, seemingly not just a little proud of that fact.

Buffy raises an eyebrow. It smells salty and wonderfully savoury. She takes a bite. It tastes how it smells, with a very harsh citrus aftertaste that stings the tongue pleasantly. Before she realizes it she's finished the whole bowl. She lets out a a long relieved sigh.

Wow...

Her stomach feels amazingly full.

"That was so good." She relinquishes the bowl into his hands. She wants to say more. Say how good it is to finally have real food staying down. No lurching hurling vomity feeling. No gagging thought of earth in her throat. She bites her lip.

"There's more if you can keep it down?"

Buffy's stomach pleads yes and he goes to refill her bowl, bringing back one for himself. They eat in companionable silence as the cartoons fill the void.

"Dawn would like this..." Buffy mumbles around a mouthful.

"Made it for her more than once." Spike replies, finishing his bowlful and setting it down on the coffee table. "Really it's better with Russian Caravan tea but all you got is Lipton." He hands her her mug and she takes it with a smirk. He lifts his feet onto the coffee table and crosses them at the ankle. He hasn't changed out of her pyjamas and Buffy's heart does a neat little back flip at the thought that the gang will come back to the house early and catch them. Together. The idea doesn't make her panic like she thinks it should though.

"Are you being a tea snob?" She asks, leaning back into the couch cushions. Oh wow, I really haven't felt like this for so long. Feel like an actual human being... a really really sad one, but at least not dead one.

"You can't be a tea snob if you're not drinking proper tea." He smiles, a smile that spreads all the way up to his eyes and sets them alight at the way she's sinking down into the couch, both hands wrapped round her mug, eyes half closed.

"Right. Like how English coffee isn't really coffee." She mumbles the comeback as she sips the tea.

"Ooh fighting talk from the country that invented spray on cheese."

She huffs with a bit of a laugh underneath, and Spike tilts the mug up to her lips with two fingers on the bottom. She downs the last of the tea and he takes the mug away from her, settling back into the couch next to her, the both of them slumped down amicably.

"Were you really Giles' getaway driver?" Buffy asks.

"Yep."

She watches him watching the TV whilst thumbing the rim of his mug.

"How did you know it was him?"

A grin plays at the corner of his mouth. "Not a lot of Fyarl demons in this hellhole with a British accent."

"You could understand all those weird grunts?"

"It's not exactly a hard language. Worth it if you've got a bunch working for you. Tricky bastards seem to purposely misunderstand you if you don't speak their language." He takes a sip of the blood from his mug. "Much like the French."

"Can you teach me some?" Buffy asks.

"What, French?"

"No! Fyarl."

He casts her an amused glance.

"Like what? It's not exactly going to help you order a bagel in Europe."

"I dunno. Like 'Halt ne'er-do wells! I am the Slayer! Time to die! Kapow!" Buffy follows the words with a punching uppercut.

Spike raises a withering eyebrow.

"Too much?" She asks.

"Not if you're Batman." Buffy laughs and the laugh sparkles back in his own eyes. "Fine. But I'm not translating Kapow."

He lets out a series of growls and grunts. Buffy mimics them impeccably and Spike bursts into laughter.

"What?! What did I say?! Was that completely off?"

"No, that was spot on, but you don't really have the register for it. It's like being threatened by a bunny on helium in Medieval English."

"The perfect distraction."

"No doubt, pet."

She slumps further down into the couch, lying deeper into the cushions and stretching her legs out.

Spike's hand freezes, mug halted on its way towards his mouth as her feet rest on his lap.

Don't. Spill. The blood. He thinks, forcing a calming breath inwards. Take a sip. Act natural.

Despite the nights spent next to her in her bed this new intimacy makes his head swim with a full new need. A river of want threatening to burst its banks.

Uncomfortably, insidiously, like a snake unfurling he feels his demon uncurl itself in his head. He can feel the teeth dripping. The want, gripping. Not for blood. Not for hers, not anymore. For a worse thing now. For her attention. Affection, even. Wants her very soul to keep as its own.

I want that too.

What's left of what he used to be keeps a firm hand on the demon and the demon snarls angrily.

-Touch her, it growls and he has to close his eyes to keep it in check, keep it underhand, the fangs still behind his gums, but it's starting to strain- Touch her, touch her more-

He yanks it back, the demon's teeth gnashing at the bleeding hands of his inner thoughts.

The last time I listened to you she ended up in chains and I ended up banished from the house. Shut the fuck up.

-Just a little- want her so much, just a little just a little piece-

He takes a shivery breath, biting the inside of his cheek hard to bring his concentration back in line. He glances over at Buffy to see if she's watching but she's turned her head back to the TV.

He takes a chance as the desire grows to a desperate level, despite the words in his head to play it down. He carefully rests a hand over her ankle, feeling a warm ticking of her heartbeat under his thumb. Her breathing softens, her eyes closing contentedly.

She feels him stroke the skin of her ankle and stretches a little further out. His hand travels up to her shin and her spine tingles.

"What are you doing?" She whispers.

He doesn't answer so she turns her head.

Her blood turns to ice. It's dark in the living room. Really dark. The only light coming from the TV in a hollow, gray glow.

I didn't fall asleep... I didn't. I'm sure I didn't...

Spike turns to her and she swallows a scream. No blue eyes in his head anymore. They're dark brown. Like her mothers. And no light in them at all. No movement. No movement at all. Dead eyes. The eyes her mother had that day... the way they looked... the way...

She slides her eyes as slowly as she can to the window. The curtains are open. It's pitch black outside.

No. It's not. It's not dark. That's not night beyond the glass.

It's dirt. Earth. Packed tight against the window. A worm wriggles against the glass, highlighted by the glow of the TV and Buffy's stomach turns.

"No..." it comes out a strangled choke. There's a sharp little crick and her eyes dart to a tiny crack that's appeared in the glass. "No." Tears spring into her eyes as she watches the crack ping in another direction. Lengthening. Elongating with each heartbeat.

"Buffy?" Spike's voice sounds a long way off, and the warmth is being drained from the room. She can't turn towards him. She's watching the crack lengthen. And lengthen. And spider webbing out until it fills the pane.

"No. No please no. Please no. PLEASE NO-" The glass shatters inwards, a shower of earth pouring forth in an unstoppable torrent as she screams. Her hands cover her face and it feels like the force of it nearly breaks her wrists. It gets into her mouth, fills her nostrils and blinds her eyes-

"Buffy!"

She suffocates on it. Gags on it. Can feel it clogging her ears and sinking into her stomach and filling her lungs-

"BUFFY!" With a hard shake she resurfaces out of the nightmare, choking on nothing, eyes bursting open as Spike's fingers dig into her shoulders. She lurches forward, an arm wrapping so hard round his neck he feels his shoulders bruise from the force. "It's alright. It's alright, Buffy. Just a bad dream. Come on now, calm down." She's hyperventilating so hard he's worried she'll burst a lung. "Easy, darlin'. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."

Her head is buried in the crook of his neck, bent on his knees as he is next to her with his arms wrapped around her back. After a minute or two she has enough presence of mind to realise he's tensed hard underneath her hands. It takes a second longer to figure out it's because her fingernails have punctured through his shirt into his skin. She forces her hand to unclamp, pulling out of the muscle, leaving tiny little moon shaped cuts at the base of his neck.

She wants to say sorry but she's shaking so hard, still feeling the dirt in her mouth. And now his blood underneath her nails. They feel raw. Her clenching has pulled each one slightly away from the nail bed and they sting.

"Bad one, huh?" Spike whispers. He doesn't pull back, sensing she's not ready to show her face after such a horror. She doesn't even nod. Just blinks mutely. "Two steps forward, one step back at least." He murmurs and she shifts questioningly. "Least you managed to keep the food down."

She lets out a tired puff of exhaustion. "Yeah."

Even upon waking she could still feel the earth clinging to her. Every nightmare was a fresh grave that didn't fade.


The water burned a little, scorching Buffy's skin a burnt pink as she sinks underneath the water of her bath.

She knows it's not true, knows it's not real, but she can still feel the dirt in her hair. In her eyebrows.

Under her nails.

She inspects her hands, using a careful thumbnail to scrape out Spike's blood from underneath. Each nail has a dark red line at the top where the nail lifted away from the bed. Just like when she'd clawed her way out the first time.

They were deeper then, though. The welts and cuts on her knuckles have finally started to close over.

It's so misleading. She thinks, sinking down so just her eyes are above the water. They all think because the cuts heal over so quickly that I do on the inside too. If you can't see any more bruises then that's that. Problem solved. Buffy ready for the next round. Like a stupid character in a video game.

She dips further under the water, holding her breath until she can't stand it any longer, resurfacing with an exhausted sigh.

She finds herself spending longer and longer in water. Baths and showers. Even washing up after Willow or Tara cook. The need to touch water. To feel clean. The first day back she'd spent the whole day in the bath with the door tightly locked. Dawn had had to make up an excuse to see Janice just to use the bathroom.

The house is quiet but she knows Spike hasn't left. She can still sense him waiting around. Back before everything, but not even that long ago, the idea of him in the house whilst she was in the bath would've been panic inducing. Now it's a comfort. Like taking a huge breath in and holding it before a release. Weirdly, strangely, grounding.

Those eyes... those bright blue eyes that held her focus completely. Effortlessly. That first night back on the stairs next to Dawn, the blue of those eyes had almost made her forget the blood seeping over her knuckles.

Maybe that's what got me worse this time. That horrible dream. Trying to take something that helps and turning it into another nightmare. Another trauma to add to the fucking pile...

Like I need more of those...

A thick lump of grief hits her. That the dream had interrupted a moment she felt like she needed. His hand on her ankle... stupid really.

Just feeling touch starved... That's got to be normal right? I mean I was dead for five months, that's about as touch-less as it gets. I'm just... I just need more of that. It's not because it's him.

Wish I could have that moment again though...

The water grows cold around her and she reaches to add more hot water but stops.

Just get out. Don't spend all day in here again. It was just a really bad dream that's all.

It actually is getting a little bit better. In baby steps.

The dream is finally starting to ebb. Her hair still feels dirty, despite having shampooed it twice, but she's able to put it out of her mind this time.

She drains the tub and towels off, dressing in fresh clothes she'd brought with her from her room. Jogging bottoms and a t-shirt with a comfy sweater. Lazy day clothes.

There's shuffling and clacking from her bedroom and as she opens the door she nearly trips over Spike sitting on the floor.

"Uh... what are you doing?"

His legs are outstretched, and back in jeans, as he thumbs through her bookcase.

"Snooping." He doesn't look up from the floor, sorting through a small heap of books and CDs next to him. She towels her hair off until it's almost dry and sits down next to him, her arms around her knees.

"Your music collection is horrendous."

"Your music collection was set on fire by Harmony, so I win."

"Bitch." He mumbles, sorting through a handful of CDs, letting the plastic cases clatter next to him as he discards each one.

He pauses on one, lifting an incredulous eyebrow.

Dingoes Ate My Baby Live at the Shelter Club.

"Oh that's Oz's band. They played at the Bronze several times?"

"Oh right, the cheating mongrel."

"Now who's the bitch?"

"Aren't you supposed to get rid of all that shit? What happened to sisterly solidarity?"

"It wasn't like that..."

"Uh huh."

He keeps sorting through the stack. Pauses again.

"Nina Simone? Not your usual appalling taste."

Buffy rolls her eyes. "It was a birthday gift from Tara."

"Still in the plastic. You never played it?"

"Never had the time."

He splits the plastic with his teeth, unwrapping it and opening the case. Buffy raises her own eyebrow when he slips it into the CD player on her desk.

"Didn't take it for your taste either?" She says to the back of his head. He shrugs lightly.

"I'm full of hidden depths." He flips the case to peruse the playlist on the back, and skips the tracks to the one he wants.

A soft twinkling intro makes her skin gooseflesh a little, and he holds his hand down to her. Buffy blinks as his intention dawns.

"Oh, I'm not really uh... dance ready."

He rolls his eyes but instead of dropping it he takes her wrists and hoists her up, slipping an arm around her lightly as his other hand palms hers. She's too surprised to protest as he sets a gentle sway to the song.

"Baby, you understand me now... if sometimes you see that I'm mad..."

The lyrics catch her breath as he rocks her to the stringed melody.

"Don't you know, no one alive can always be an angel... When things go wrong, you see some bad."

She stiffens. The words are so clear cut and it feels like he's chosen them for her personally.

He leans in, cheek to cheek and she holds her breath, watching in her peripheral vision as his eyes close, holding her a little closer.

"I'm just a soul who's intentions are good, Oh Lord please don't let me be misunderstood-"

Buffy snatches her hand back, reeling hard and heading for the door.

"Buffy- wait-"

She stalls on the landing, not really knowing where she's going, but just needing not to be in that moment right now. Too much, too soon, too fast, too painful. The presence of him suddenly highlighting how separate she's becoming from everything and everyone else.

She'd been feeling achingly deadened since being back. In a horrible way she was relying on it now. The numbness was getting her through being back. The sudden feeling of comfort from Spike was overwhelming.

I don't think I can do that… if I start down that road I'll have to… I'll have to deal with everything. I can't do that. I can't do that right now…

The song, the morning together, the minimal amount of contact was starting to thaw her out from the inside.

I don't think you can pick and choose emotions. And there's some I really really can't cope with.

I've just got to keep feeling nothing. If I keep feeling nothing I can't get hurt.

Ok I know that sounds insane but the other options aren't do-able.

"Buffy-" She turns, about to say something as he stands in the doorway of her bedroom.

When keys in the lock downstairs steal her words.

Their eyes meet, both a little panicked. Both pleading.

For different things.

A slight shake of her head and he retreats. Closing her door as the front door opens.