Rating: umm...I'm thinking along the lines of PG...in the meantime. Who knows what the future might bring:).

Disclaimer: nope, last time I checked, nothing was mine.

Spoilers: well...better safe than sorry: everything up to the end of season 3 can be spoilery.

Synopsis: I have a strange drive to rewrite season 3 of BtVS. I just don't seem to like the way it ended...beats me why. Anyway, so despite the fact that the original plan was to begin with "Helpless" (that's around the time everything really started getting screwed up B/A-wise), as you can see, plan's changed and I'm going to start with "Anne". If you expect to find in this series events/quotes from the original season....I seriously mean it - I'll try my hardest keeping them to the very minimum. But all in all - it's probably a yet another attempt to end the season on a more "positive" B/A level. See how it goes:).

Pairing: the conventional ships: B/A, W/O, C/X. If I decide to torture any/all of them, you'll be the first to know:).

Distribution: ask first.

Feedback: please, yes, please.

****

Every time that I cry out
No one ever comes to me
Every time that I reach out
No one ever rescues me
I wish I could hide from everyone
Is there somewhere else to be Vast - "Somewhere Else to Be"

****

Buffy stared at the door in front of her. She had been standing there for over an hour, inwardly not knowing what exactly she was doing there, but hadn't been able to go any further than raising a shaky hand for the door, not even able to perform the act and knock.

No lights were on in the house, and Buffy wasn't sure if it was for the better or for the worse. All in all, it did give her time to think, to reflect upon what she was doing here, why she was here, and most importantly, what on earth had driven her to this place after all that time? And somehow, it seemed like there was only one answer to all these questions.

The first possibility that would spring to mind under normal circumstances, not that anything in her life could be classified as normal, especially recently, would be her brief visit to Hell that had occurred some weeks ago. And as rational as this conclusion might sound, the Slayer was getting more certain by the minute that, in reality, it had nothing to do with her return.

As much as she would hate admitting it, as much as she would hate admitting she had any kind of feelings still remained in her, the experience in Hell had left her rather shaken. For the first time in months, she was forced into emotions again. Uncalled, unbidden, but they still wouldn't go away. They hit her so abruptly, with such unbelievable and unconceivable force, that she found herself utterly helpless against them. For months, she had been walking around, like a zombie, moving, breathing, feeding…existing, apathetic, unfeeling, untouchable, hollow. And then it had hit her. Loneliness. The first time in months, in which she was forced to pick up a weapon, was also the first time in which she was forced to open her eyes. And when she had opened them, what she had found around herself was what she had shut herself off from ever since she had sent the man she loved to Hell. She had opened her eyes to pain…that wasn't her own.

But was that really it? Was it the final push she needed so much to come back? No.

Only three days later, Whistler showed up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. She had just woken up from a yet another nightmare, and when she had perceived him in the shadows of her apartment, a part of her knew he had been standing there for quite a while, probably all through her nightmare. He had probably known exactly *what* she had been dreaming about, too.

Seeing him had been too much for her back then. All he had to do was to appear, and all the memories came rushing back. Angel's face, Angel's eyes, Angel's voice…his hand reaching out for her…the sword protruding from his stomach…

Did she really blame Whistler? Did she really hold him responsible? Or was it just easier…someone else to put the blame on, other than herself? She didn't know. And she wasn't sure she ever would.

Forgiveness. That's what he had said. Apparently, it was what everything depended on. Forgiveness.

Buffy sighed. How could she ever forgive? It was only after Whistler had left, that she had realized she hadn't forgiven already. And she honestly thought she had. All these months, after she had, anew, learned to form thoughts that made sense to her, she had wholeheartedly believed she had forgiven Angel for what he had done, that she could separate the demon from the soul. So had it all been a lie?

She shook her head, covering her face with her hands and combing them through her blond hair. It couldn't have been. And yet…Angel was still gone. And the only thing she needed to do to bring him back was to forgive. Seemingly so simple, but...

Forgive whom, and for which crime?

Forgive Angel, or forgive herself?

So maybe that's why she had come back…to forgive?

And if so, how would she know when it was time, when it happened? Obviously, she hadn't even been fully aware of her own feelings, so far.

"Buffy?" a wavering voice called her name from behind and the Slayer recognized it at once.

It startled her from her thoughts, like a nightmare, and she inwardly counted down from ten before gathering the essential courage to revolve to the person who had spoken her name. She filed her lungs with air she almost forgot to exhale, when her eyes came across the pained ones of the woman standing before her. She looked much older than how Buffy had remembered her, as if she had grown up more in the last several months, than in all her years together. The woman's eyes regarded her, rueful and bewildered, glistening with still tears, and above all – afraid. Afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to reach out…

"Mom," the Slayer ultimately managed the small word, nervously chewing on her lip. She lost all ability to say anything else, which in this case turned out for the best, seeing as she didn't know *what* she could possibly say.

Her mother continued gaping at her, still wordlessly, obviously still processing everything that had happened within the last few minutes. She cast her eyes to the ground, and from there to Buffy's suitcase. Then she gazed back at her daughter. "I never thought I would," she swallowed, obviously, having trouble pronouncing the words, "hear you call me that again." She hesitantly reached out her arms for her daughter, but her gaze still silently asked for her approval.

Buffy swallowed, and stepped into her mother's embrace, seemingly completely numb to its effect. A moment later, she pulled back, creating a two-foot safety gap between the two of them, and breaking their eye contact.

Joyce awkwardly glanced at her daughter, then at the front door, then back at Buffy. "Would you…come in, please?" she gestured at the door.

The blonde looked up and held her mother's gaze for a moment, then bent down and picked up her only luggage.

"Let me help you with it," Joyce reached for the suitcase, but Buffy flinched back, merely giving her mother a look similar to one of a caged animal.

Joyce nodded, and silently began unlocking the door.

****

"Would you like to…sit down?" Joyce suggested, after she and Buffy had been standing in the living room for at least five minutes, and neither had said a word the entire time. Her eyes searched her daughter's, after she had received no reaction from her, but the Slayer did all she could not to look at her mother.

She reinforced her hold on the suitcase, as if it was her most priceless possession, but didn't say anything.

"Are you hungry?" Joyce made another desperate attempt to reach her.

To that, she at least received a reaction, a barely discernible shake of her daughter's head.

"Maybe you wanna rest, your room," she gesticulated to the second floor, "it's still your room…just like you left it, I only…straightened things up every now and then," she realized she was babbling and breathed to contain herself. "You can rest, we…we don't have to talk right now…"

Buffy looked up. And for the first time, was also about to answer. "Talk?" she whispered.

Joyce beheld her, about to say something, but at the last second, changing her mind and saying something else entirely. "No," she held up her hand in an allaying gesture, "of course not," she shook her head, "we won't. We won't do anything, unless…unless you want to…"

"Stop it!" Buffy interrupted her mother, loosening her grip on her suitcase and letting it land on the floor. She gazed at the elder woman, her eyes pleading, almost lowering her voice to a whisper for her upcoming words. "Please…stop treating me like that," she implored.

Joyce was both confused and disturbed by her reaction. "Like what?" she inquired.

"Like," Buffy looked down briefly, swallowing hard, "like I'm about to run away again any minute," she looked back at her mother.

Joyce opened her mouth, but was unable to let the words out.

"A glass of water would be nice," Buffy prompted coyly, bringing a smile to her mother's face.

"Of course," the woman's reply was a bit too eager, but she didn't seem to mind. She turned towards the kitchen, but suddenly whirled around, motioning with her hand towards the couch. "Just, make yourself…at home," she smiled, and hurried out of the room.

****

"How are you?" Joyce broke the deathly silence in her living room, as she made up her mind to move from the armchair to the couch, closer to her daughter.

Buffy looked up from the half-empty glass in her hands, but not at her mother. Instead, she focused her gaze on some spot ahead of her. "What were you doing outside so late?" she asked, as if apathetically, having nothing at all to do with what obviously was the first thing on her mother's mind.

Joyce was taken aback by both the question and the tone used for it, but decided not to push nevertheless. "I thought I'd take a walk," she replied.

"In Sunnydale? At night?" Buffy wasn't exactly buying it. "After what I told you?"

The woman flinched at the memory of the last time she had seen her daughter. The Slayer. Joyce sighed. "I thought…" she licked her lips, "at some point, I started believing that maybe I'd find you out there," she cast her eyes down to her lap, where her hands simply wouldn't remain still, "doing…what you do."

"What I do," Buffy murmured, then looked directly at her mother. "And what is it that I do, mom?" she chuckled, shaking her head. "Don't tell me you still think it can be stopped, it's *not* something that can go poof, just because you want it to!" the blonde exclaimed.

"You never gave me time!" Joyce attempted to explain.

"You're not supposed to *need* time," Buffy objected, "you're my mother! I know it was a lot to absorb, I know that!" the blonde put the glass down on the living-room table, almost in tears now. "Had I had the choice, I would have never told you. Never. You would have never known, had I could choose. But I *couldn't* choose," she shook her head. "I was pushed to the wall, and I couldn't choose. But I *never* thought that my secret would get me kicked out of my *mother's* house," she hissed, "I trusted you, I *hoped* you would take me the way I am, that you would not turn your back on me," she smirked ruefully. "You proved me wrong."

Buffy's mother beheld her for a lingering moment, then nodded in acknowledgement. "You're right."

The Slayer let out a short strained laugh. "That's it? I'm right?"

"No," Joyce raised her hand, "of course, that's not it, but…you've just come back, and-"

"And you're afraid I'll run away again, so you do your best not to upset me?" Buffy guessed the rest of the sentence.

"You can't exactly blame me," the elder woman tried to speak in her defense. "I don't even know if you're-"

"I am staying, mom," her daughter answered her question. "So no matter what you do, you won't scare me away this time," she added, with a sarcastic note to her voice.

Joyce shot her an odd look.

"I have things to do," Buffy let her in, not quite comprehending the meaning of her own words.

"What things?" her mother inquired. Her voice so careful, like she was afraid to ask.

"I don't know yet," the Slayer admitted.

"Buffy, I-"

"I don't understand them either. I just know that…" she inhaled a steady breath, averting her eyes and blinking back tears. "I need to bring him back...somehow."

"Bring who back?" Joyce didn't understand.

Buffy looked at her, opened her mouth to say something, but just before she managed out the words, she looked away, and the words died on her lips. Angel. What was she thinking? How could she *ever* tell her mother about Angel?! how could she ever even contemplate the idea? If she knew her only daughter, her only Slayer daughter, had been dating a *vampire* - not just dating, she was in love with him – behind her back, and what's more – had slept with said vampire on her seventeenth birthday…well, she couldn't kick her out again, could she?…

But still…Angel. Buffy wasn't even able to think about him, without having the urge to cry, let alone, voice his name. And she didn't want to cry in front of her mother, didn't want to break in front of her. She was like them. Just like them. She didn't want her to know about Angel. She didn't want her to hate him, to offend him, to judge him, to ban him…like *they* had. She couldn't take it from her mother as well, and all the while, she knew just how inevitable it was.

Buffy took a deep breath, brushing the tears away from her wet eyes, and gazed back into her mother's eyes. They were relatively warm, perhaps even accepting and understanding in a way she had never seen them before. It supplied a certain amount of comfort.

"Mom," she began, trying to steady her precarious voice along with the speech, "I have...some stuff…to tell you," she gulped, and inhaled another breath for strength. "You have to promise me something first though."

"I promise," Joyce nodded instantly.

"You will let me finish, before you say *anything*. You won't be judgmental. And you won't say a single word that can hurt him, or at least, not in my presence, because if you do…"

"Buffy, I promise," her mother reassured her again. "I swear, I won't say anything. Not a word. W-who," she stuttered, "who is it about?"

The Slayer bit her lip, allowing a tear to trickle down her cheek, unnoticed. "Angel," she softly whispered the name.

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