Part 5:

--------------------------------------

As Buffy drifted slowly back to consciousness, her first thought was to wonder why she’d worn her clothes to bed. She hadn’t done that since her Doublemeat days… Fuzzily, she cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock. 3:32. Dawn would be getting home soon. Why did I--

And then it all came flooding back. Spike, the chip, the tree, the moonlight reflecting off that damn black duster, the angry/hurt look in those piercing blue eyes that always affected her way too much. She felt her stomach twist slowly, settle into a cold, heavy lump somewhere behind her abdomen. She put a hand over her eyes, wishing beyond expression that she’d woken up and found it had all been another freaky Buffy dream.

"Buffy!"

She sighed. "I’m upstairs, Dawnie."

She heard Dawn clomping up the stairs, winced a little as the door bounced open.

"Long night?" Dawn asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, a fake smile plastered all over her face. Buffy could tell she’d be getting no sympathy from that corner.

"Yup," she replied, a little shortly.

"Sooo… What was the body count for Big Bad Evil Spike last night?"

"Zero." She was too tired even to glare. "But I was watching him."

"Zero. What a shocker," Dawn started triumphantly. "Well, I gotta say--"

She was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming downstairs. "Buff? Dawnie?"

"Up here, Will," Buffy called quickly, grateful for the interruption. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Dawn just stared at her, eyes accusing, arms crossed.

Willow could feel the tension from halfway down the stairs. "Hey," she said brightly as she joined Dawn in Buffy’s doorway, trying to pretend she didn’t notice the daggers that the littlest Summers was directing at her sister. Buffy looked exhausted. Worse, she looked… two-dimensional, somehow. Her face was almost completely blank, her eyes empty. Willow’s heart ached for her. Every time her best friend seemed to be getting her feet back on the ground, something came along and knocked them out from under her again.

"How was school, Dawnie?" she asked, trying to draw Dawn’s fire and give Buffy at least a temporary break.

"Fine," Dawn muttered sulkily, still staring at Buffy.

Willow plowed ahead. "Need any homework help from the resident math geek?"

Ah--that did it. Dawn’s glare lasered away from her sister, fixed on Willow. "I don’t need any help. You don’t have to tell me what to do. You’re not my mother. You’re not even part of this family." She whirled, hair flying, and stomped her way back downstairs.

Buffy sighed and rubbed her eyes, trying to figure out how she’d gotten a headache already. "At the risk of sounding incredibly old and decrepit… were we that bad?"

Willow raised an eyebrow, smiled wryly. "Zero to bitch in one-point-five seconds. Don’t you remember?"

Buffy slumped back against the pillows. "Seems like forever ago."

"OK." Willow flung herself on the bed next to her friend, poking a finger into her ribs as they bounced from the impact. "Now you sound old and decrepit." Buffy giggled for a second, then the smile melted away into that thousand-yard stare that always gave Willow a chill down her spine. "So… you wanna give me the details on how things went with Spike?" she asked quietly, curling a pillow under her head. "You weren’t exactly Miss Specificity this morning."

Buffy gave a strangled half-laugh. "Well, we had a nice little chat about the nature of good and evil, and he didn’t kill anybody. That I know of. He didn’t really seem to be plotting a massacre, but it’s so hard to tell with vampires. Oh, and there’s a tree outside his crypt that’s a really crappy place to spend the night." Even with an extra blanket. She’d folded it carefully in the morning, exactly as he’d left it, but she had a feeling he’d smell her on it.

"You and Spike talked about the nature of good and evil?" Even given her earlier visit with Spike, it still caught her off-guard. "Wow." She was caught between pride at Buffy exploring deep philosophical questions, and the unspeakable weirdness of the mental image.

"Yeah. Buffy the Vampire Debate Partner." She covered her eyes with her hand again, groaning. "God. What am I doing, Will? Remember the good old days, when it was just hunt, fight, slay?"

Willow bit back all the platitudes that rushed to her mind, and simply nodded. "Yeah. It was easier."

"I know, I know what you’re not saying." Buffy looked at her, and the emptiness in her eyes was a hundred times worse than tears. "I know it’s all part of the fabulous process of becoming an adult. I know that the world isn’t as black and white as I used to think." She sighed, and looked away, her fingers pulling methodically at the bedspread. "But… why me? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing half the time, and I’m supposed to be in charge, I’m supposed to know what’s right and save the world and make the tough choices. I’m twenty-two and I am so. Freaking. Tired." She rested her head against Willow’s shoulder for a second, then laughed shakily. "Bet you didn’t know you’d RSVPed for the Buffy Pity Party."

Willow wondered how much Buffy had needed her, while she’d been dealing with the magic addiction, and felt a stab of guilt. "Well, you can save me a permanent spot on the guest list."

That got another tiny laugh, followed by a sigh. "I’d better go talk to Dawn." Though I’d rather go a few rounds with a nest of angry vampires--at least I know what’s gonna piss them off.

"No, don’t." Willow sat up, grabbed the afghan folded at the bottom of the bed, and tossed it over her friend. "You had a rough night. You should be making with the relaxation. I’ll go talk to her. I don’t even think she really cares which one of us she’s yelling at, as long as she gets to yell at someone." She was relieved to see the tension in Buffy’s face ease marginally. Encouraged, she continued, "I might even see what I can throw together for dinner. I mean, I do miss chem lab."

Buffy looked at her like she’d just offered to take her on a week-long vacation to Europe. The guilt expanded in Willow’s stomach. "Really?" Buffy asked.

Willow forced a smile, smashing the guilt into a resolution to do better, to help more. "Of course. If you trust me."

Buffy smiled back. "You’re the best, Will."

"You bet your sweet bippy I am. I’ll call you for dinner." She rose, making sure Buffy was comfortably settled on the pillows, and headed downstairs, shutting Buffy’s door carefully behind her.

In the living room, Dawn seemed determined to make as much noise as humanly possible, slamming books and backpack and notebooks around with equal fervor. Willow just watched her for a minute, giving silent points for style and execution. Finally, Dawn rounded on her.

"What?" she snapped. "I’m doing my homework."

"That’s great," Willow replied calmly. "Wanna come into the kitchen and do some chemistry experiments with me?"

Dawn eyed her warily. "Would these experiments, by any chance, involve food items and in many cultures be referred to as ‘making dinner’?"

Willow beamed at her. "See? You’re getting smarter already."

Dawn couldn’t hold back a smile, but it rapidly turned into a pout as she looked back down at her books. "I don’t know why she’s so mean. After everything he’s done for her. Is it too much to ask for her not to kill my friends? It’s not like I have that many."

"I hate to sound like a grown-up, but… this is hard for her, too, Dawnie." She went to the younger girl and ran her fingers soothingly through the long dark hair. "She’s been making the big decisions and trying to save the world since she was your age. I mean, so much stuff has happened to her, it’s kind of surprising she hasn’t gone totally nuts. It’s a lot of responsibility. And I think she’s just tired."

"I hate that she’s like this," Dawn muttered, her eyes still fixed on her books. "Like she can’t stand being here. Like we’re all such a burden for her. Like she’s still really dead."

Willow couldn’t argue with that. "I know." She paused for a second, then, "That’s why I think we ought to help her as much as we can. I mean, we have sort of been moochy-girls lately. Maybe if we can help with the everyday stuff, Buffy can get back on track dealing with the major world stuff."

Dawn wrinkled her nose. "So by everyday stuff, you mean making dinner and cleaning up and doing chores? What’s the good of having a sister with super-powers if I’ve still gotta clean the bathroom every week?"

"I don’t think bathroom-cleaning is exactly a vital part of the Slaying arsenal," Willow returned wryly. Then she brightened. "But hey, you can say that you can do something the Slayer can’t!" She deepened her voice, took on just a hint of a backwoods Southern accent. "Yup, that Slayer sure can stake them vamps, but she can’t fry an egg to save her life!"

That got a reluctant giggle. "So my super-power could be cooking? That’s so not fair. I want a cool super-power, like X-ray vision or flying or something."

Willow smiled at her, though her smile turned a little sad as something occurred to her. "You know, the funny thing is, Buffy just wants to be normal."

Dawn snorted, finally meeting Willow’s eyes. "We’re never gonna be normal. Ever."

"I know," Willow sighed. "But come on--we can pretend."

"I still think we’re getting the short end of the stick," Dawn muttered, but the protest was mostly for show as she followed the redheaded witch into the kitchen.

---------------------------------

"So?" Dawn asked proudly as everyone sat back in their chairs. "What’s the verdict?"

Xander patted his stomach, smiled amiably at her and Willow. "Well, Dawnster, I can honestly say I’ve never had a culinary experience quite like it."

"The spinach was the color of money, and the consistency that money might be if you boiled it a really long time and mashed it up together," Anya offered, too brightly. "Of course, I don’t know why you’d want to do that to money, but still, it was an intriguing sensation." She smiled encouragingly at Dawn.

Willow was excavating in the remains on her plate. "Maybe the anchovies weren’t such a great idea."

"It was great, Will," Buffy put in quickly, as Xander mouthed "Anchovies?!" incredulously at Anya and turned a little green around the edges. "Thank you. And thank you," she added to Dawn, who turned bright red and smiled at her sister for the first time all day. To be honest, Buffy didn’t even really know what the meal had tasted like--it just felt so good to be eating something she hadn’t had to cook or bring home in a paper sack. Looking down at the kaleidoscope of colors swirled together on her plate, she figured it was probably best if she never knew exactly what poor, unsuspecting food items had been sacrificed for the cause. It was the thought that counted, right?

"Well, we’ll do better next time," Willow replied, looking meaningfully at Dawn, who was still so pleased at the compliment that she didn’t even roll her eyes. "I’m not as good with the cooking as I am with the baking, I think."

"I can help out, too," Tara offered. "Cooking was considered a pretty vital skill for the women in my family."

"I intend to have the men in my family learn how to cook. And do the dishes, too. Lots of relationships could be saved if the man would just learn how to do dishes." Anya commented, squeezing Xander’s hand.

Xander smiled fondly at her. "I think that’s my cue." He got up and began clearing dishes.

Buffy looked around the table at her friends, realizing how few of these simple group meals they’d had since Joyce had died. It was good to have everyone together for reasons that didn’t involve the impending end of all life as they knew it. And thanks to Willow’s and Dawn’s sudden possession by Martha Stewart, she actually got to sit back and enjoy it. She felt almost peaceful.

Oh yeah. Except for the fact that her vampire ex-lover was hanging around town, possibly planning to kill them all. The lanky peroxide blonde vampire ex-lover, actually, as opposed to the big brooding spiky-haired vampire ex-lover. God, I can’t believe I have to clarify that. How pathetic a Slayer am I? As much as she’d enjoyed hanging out with her friends, it had been eating at her all night. Even Willow’s well-intentioned plan to give her time to relax only gave her more time to think, and thinking… well, it hurt, no two ways about it, and it only made her more confused. She needed some action. She pushed back her chair abruptly.

"Thank you guys, for all the help. And I hate to bail, but it’s getting late. I should get with the patrolling." She tried to ignore how everyone tried not to look at each other, how the unspoken questions suddenly thickened the air. So much for group bonding.

Xander set down the dishes he’d been gathering. "Need any backup?" he asked, letting the question hang on two levels.

She gave him a quick, mirthless grin, shrugging into her jacket. "Thanks, but no. I don’t think I’ll run into anything I can’t handle." She crossed to Dawn, kissed the top of her sister’s head. "’Night, Dawn. I won’t remind you about your homework, ‘cause I know you have it covered." Dawn looked up at her, stunned into silence, sulk completely derailed. Buffy held back a smile, despite the tension. Wow. I should try that more often.

"Be careful," Willow told her, looking like she wanted to help but had no idea how.

Buffy nodded as she picked up a couple of stakes and shoved them into her pockets. "Yep. See you guys tomorrow." Feeling the adrenaline start to pump through her, washing away the ache in her chest, she ducked gratefully out into the night.

-----------------------------------

Two hours later, she was reflecting angrily that this was quite possibly the most boring, uneventful, completely evil-less night in the history of Sunnydale. She’d been through every graveyard in town--well, every one except for one--and there was nothing. Not even drunks outside the bars. All was right with the world, all was calm, all was bright, all was freakin’ quiet on the Western front.

It was driving her nuts.

Finally, she couldn’t avoid it any more. She forced herself to change direction, marched grimly in the direction of Spike’s crypt. Being in Sunnydale, she got there much too soon. She was almost hoping she’d find him in the midst of some unspeakable act, so she could just stake him and be done with it, but he was just standing outside his tomb, leaning against the outer wall, wreathed in smoke. Watching her. She could feel the heat from his eyes even at a distance, and had to stop for a second despite herself as her knees went a little weak. She hated it when he did that to her.

Spike had been puttering uselessly around his crypt when he’d suddenly been hit with a wave of supremely pissed-off Slayer pheromones. He’d had just enough time to light a cigarette and look casual when he saw her, steaming across his graveyard like the Little Engine That Couldn’t Find Anything to Kill and Was Pretty Brassed Off About It. He saw her pause for a second as she saw him, then plow on with renewed determination. He swallowed a grin. Maybe this night had some hope for it after all.

"Slayer," he greeted her calmly, as she glared challengingly at him.

"Spike," she spat, wondering why she could sometimes feel him smirking, even though his mouth was still. Yet another annoying thing about him.

"Slow night?" he inquired innocently, knowing the answer. Her pent-up frustration was getting him a little more hot and bothered than he wanted to admit, and he tried to ignore it. She might have been the sexiest damned thing he’d ever seen, but as she was still deciding whether or not to kill him, he had a feeling it would be best for both of them if he kept that opinion to himself. Besides, he was still pissed off about the night before.

"Yeah," she replied shortly. "How did you know?"

He shrugged, all nonchalance. "Did a quick sweep earlier." Actually, he’d nearly been climbing the walls until he sensed her coming. An entire day cooped up inside with his hungry demon had been more than a little nerve-wracking, despite his friendly visitors.

"Looking for dinner?" she sneered, latching onto any possible point of contention.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Lots of humans out and about tonight, luv. You see any dead bodies strewn about looking a bit dehydrated?"

She frowned. "No."

He dropped his James Dean act, just for a second, laughed a little. "Kind of ironic, innit? The one night the Hellmouth decides it’d rather stay home, and here we are, all dressed up and no one to--"

"You wanna fight?" she interrupted suddenly, the words rushing out like steam from a tea-kettle.

He looked at her, a little surprised, then shrugged and flicked away his smoke. "Yeah, all right."

She lunged at him.

They’d sparred many times, but never like this. There was an edge this time, a kind of desperate energy, an unspoken hint that this time, she might really, he might really. Spike threw himself into the dance with the kind of abandon he hadn’t felt since… well… the last time she’d really tried to kill him. It took him back to the glory days of Prague and Paris and New Orleans, when a second death was always just around the corner. Buffy simply enjoyed the complete mental shutdown as instinct and adrenaline took over.

The fight ranged all over the cemetery, all flashes of leather and grunts of pain and, in Spike’s case, the occasional wild laugh. Graves, tombstones, crypts, trees, nothing was sacred--everything was simply a prop for their deadly performance. Spike’s face was lit with a kind of fierce, manic glee; Buffy was all business, grim determination, her brow furrowed as if he was a problem she was trying to solve. The air between them seemed to crackle with energy as they punched, kicked, ducked, flipped, circled. There was no energy wasted on playful banter, only grace and focus and heat and challenge.

Finally, Spike put too much speed into an attack and she had him, using his own momentum to flip him over so quickly that before he even had time to rearrange ground and sky, she was straddling his torso, breathing hard, stake hovering just above his heart. Since she didn’t seem to be planning on doing more for the moment, he took the opportunity to look at her: face flushed, hair tousled, chest heaving, all taut muscle and coiled energy. He couldn’t hold back a smile of sheer admiration.

"God, you’re good, Summers."

Buffy blinked, feeling almost like she was waking up from a dream. "I…" She scrambled off of him, straightening her clothes, shoving the stake back in her pocket. He just watched her, head cocked slightly, a tiny, quizzical smile on his face, and she suddenly realized: she couldn’t have done it. Strong as she was, there was no way she could have found the strength to push that stake through his chest, feel him crumble into dust beneath her. Just thinking of it made her heart contract painfully. I couldn’t do it. Oh, fuck, I couldn’t do it. The realization scared the holy hell out of her. She turned, started to stumble her way out of the graveyard.

Oh, no. He wasn’t letting her get away that easily. "You’re born to this," he called after her, levering himself to his feet, and was pleasantly surprised when she actually stopped. She still had her back to him, but at least, for once, she wasn’t running off. "It’s what you’re meant to do. Why’re you always running away from it?"

Death is my gift. Looks like a Slayer is just a killer after all. "What are you talking about?" She couldn’t look at him, but she couldn’t seem to walk away, either.

He could hear the tension in her voice, knew she was close to the edge, but he pressed on anyway. At least he could still make her feel something. "I’ve had more than a few dancing partners in my life, pet, and I’ll tell you, none of them could touch you. I know it’s your great fateful duty and blah blah blah, but fucking hell, Buffy, you should at least enjoy it. You used to. What the hell happened?"

Now she whirled on him, eyes hot and swimming with tears. God, why did he always know how to push her into overload? "I grew up," she snapped. "Funny thing--you kill enough, it gets old eventually. Unless you’re you, I guess."

"It’s not about the kill." He advanced on her, then stopped, considering. "Well, not really." He ignored her frustrated eye-roll, moving closer until he was just barely out of her reach. "It’s about the fight. About your nature, about throwing everything you are on the line, and winning. You treat it like a weight, but it’s a gift."

Death is my gift. "A gift?" she repeated bitterly. "Then I hope whoever gave it to me kept the receipt."

"Easy for you to say. You’ve never been weak."

That caught her off-guard. "I haven’t always been the Slayer."

He waved a hand, dismissing her. "Yeah. You used to be just another one of the girls. Except for being sodding homecoming queen and head cheerleader and hell knows what-all else. Probably had a gaggle of empty-headed Buffys-in-training flitting around you like moths to a bleeding flame. Oh, and lest I forget, your boy-toy was captain of the football team. Am I right?" He reached for a cigarette, but held her eyes, daring her to prove him wrong.

He wasn’t, of course, though she had no idea how he knew all that stuff about her. Maybe Dawn had been blabbing. "Maybe," she replied defensively. "So?"

He barked a laugh. "So? That’s not weak, pet. It’s just a different kind of power. You have something in you. Something I haven’t seen in all my years, and I’ve been around awhile. You have a kind of power that other people have fought and died for. Yeah, you have to make the tough decisions sometimes. But isn’t it worth it? It is a gift, no matter how much you bitch about it, and you’d throw it away because you want to be… what? Normal?" He shook his head, took a long drag on his smoke. "Ask Willow about normal. Hell, ask the whelp, he’s the bloody poster boy for it. And then tell me you want it." He lowered his voice, feeling the words scrape past the sudden lump in his throat. "I know normal, pet. And I can tell you, I’d rather die--again--than go back to it."

She could feel the tears coming, and tried desperately to smash them back down where they belonged, out of sight. Who was he to tell her about her life? He was a vampire, for God’s sake, a vampire whose idea of a romantic profession of love was chaining her in a basement with his wigged-out demon ex-lover. What the hell did he know? Who was he to make her cry, when almost nothing else seemed to touch her?

And why didn’t she want to kill him?

The last question was too much. She had to get out of there. "Dawn’s waiting," she managed finally, hoping he didn’t notice her fist dashing the tears from her eyes.

Spike growled/sighed, a sound he seemed to need often when dealing with her. He was so bloody sick of the Buffy Summers Merry-Go-Round, the two steps forward followed by the ever-popular three steps back. He’d always thought of himself as a tenacious bugger, but even he had his limits.

"Fine," he said finally, through his teeth. "Give the Little Bit my best." He couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Uh-huh." She turned, began picking her way through the tombstones. He watched her retreating back for what felt like the thousandth time, and tried to remember why he’d come back here in the first place.

TBC

Part 6:

"The thing about women," Spike slurred earnestly to no one in particular, clutching a whiskey bottle that seemed, in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, to be floating in thin air, "is that they give you the big, wide eyes like they’re a liiiiitle helpless fluffy bunny," and he affected a high-pitched whine, "`Oh please help me I’m so wounded and sad and I just need someone who’ll be there for me,’ and then, BAM!" He slammed a hand down on the bar, sending shotglasses tumbling like dominoes. "They reach inside you and tear your guts out."

"Watch the glassware," the bartender muttered at him. "You break it, you buy it."

Spike ignored the remonstration, pointing a slightly confused but very heartfelt finger at the other man. "And I know what it feels like," he continued doggedly, "’cause I’ve had a woman reach inside me and mess about with my guts. Well, not so much a woman as a crazy hell-goddess who liked to suck out people’s brains. But she did--dug her finger right inside me and twisted everything all about, like I was some sort of… stew she was stirring." He sighed, a little wistfully. "That was nice, come to think of it. No pretense, no games, no bloody teasing. Just plain, honest torture."

The bartender eyed him. "All right, man, either you quit with the crazy talk or I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. After all you’ve had tonight, you ought to be drunk enough for three men, anyway."

"Drunk?" Spike repeated, offended. "D’you know what it takes to get a bloke like me drunk, mate?" He tried to number the scattered shotglasses in front of him, lost count at around fifteen, and then studied the half-empty bottle he was cradling. He couldn’t have said for sure, but he had the distinct impression it wasn’t the first bottle he’d gone through tonight. He frowned at the bartender. "Well, all right. You may have a point." Then, defensively, "But I’m not drunk because of her! I’m drunk because… I want to be." He brandished his finger again, to underscore his point, and ended up whacking it hard on the edge of the bar. "Ow!" he yelled, trying to shake the pain away. It cleared his head for a second, and he realized how he’d look to any self-respecting vampire: drunk, depressed, complaining to a human, screeching like a little girl over an owie on his finger, and all because of a woman. A stupid little blond bit of a thing he should have been able to kill without a second thought. He buried his head in his hands. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "I am a sad, sad wanker."

"You look like you could use some company," came a voice from behind him. Female. Fantastic. Just exactly what he needed.

"Had enough company for one night," he mumbled into his hands, willing her to just go the hell away.

"I know the feeling," she replied, and the resigned sadness in her voice was enough to make him look up at her as she slid onto the stool next to him. He’d never seen her before, that he knew of, but he’d seen others like her--long, dark hair; curves that seemed made for a man’s hands; a short leather skirt that exposed a vast expanse of slim, muscled legs; and a challenge in those huge, sad eyes. Come on, she seemed to be saying, I dare you to hurt me more.

Time was, she’d’ve been exactly his type.

"Look, you don’t have to talk to me," she told him, motioning to the bartender. "Just look imposing and keep the other guys away from me." She jerked her head in the direction of the far back corner of the bar, where a group of men were slumped at a table, leering. "Like you said, I’ve had enough company."

He considered telling her to sod off and leave him alone with his whiskey, but then again, she had said he was imposing… "Fair enough." He shrugged, sat a little taller, moved the bottle from his lap back onto the bar.

The barkeep brought her drink--whiskey, Spike noted, surprised, and a generous double at that. "Playing my song, luv," he told her with an ironic smile, gesturing with his own bottle.

She shrugged in return, clinking her glass against the bottle-neck. "Here’s to it, then." She took a long drink, and wrinkled her nose a little, exhaling hard. "So," she said. "I know I said you didn’t have to talk to me, and you don’t, but I feel like talking, so if you don’t want to answer, I’ll just have to keep up both sides of the conversation by myself."

"I’m used to that," he answered, thinking of certain Summers women who hardly let him get a word in edgewise and yet still complained that he talked too much.

She laughed a little, mirthlessly. "She must be one hell of a woman."

His supercharged healing was starting to kick in, flushing the alcohol from his body (dammit), but he was still too far gone to deny it. "In the sense that she’s become my personal version of hell, yeah, I guess you could say that." Then, quietly, reluctantly, "And in the other sense, too." He looked at her again. "How’d you know?"

"Well," she took another long swig, "I look at you, with that long leather coat and that fuck-the-world attitude and, let’s be honest here--" she eyed him up and down, and he could feel the heat from her gaze--"that body of yours, and I wonder what kind of woman she must be to have you wrapped around a whiskey bottle like that."

He realized he was clutching the bottle again, and took a swig to match hers before setting it very deliberately on the bar. "Fuck-the-world attitude," eh? "Let’s be honest, that body"? He was liking this woman better and better. "What about you, pet?" he asked, turning a little more towards her, motioning for the bartender to refill her drink. "Some stupid sod send you packing?"

She raised an eyebrow at his bluntness, but the alcohol seemed to be dulling her defenses a bit. "Yeah, thanks for putting it so delicately." And there they were, the fluffy-bunny eyes.

He snorted, chugged more whiskey. A pleasant warmth was beginning to spread through him again, sluicing away the tightness in his chest. "He’s a bleedin’ moron."

"Pretty much." She stared into her almost-empty glass, and the full glass the bartender set next to it, a tiny smile curving her mouth at the compliment. She had a lovely mouth, he couldn’t help noticing. They were silent for a moment.

"Isn’t this the point where we exchange the sordid details of our sad stories?" he asked finally.

"Doesn’t matter," she replied, sighing. "It’s the same old story."

Oh yeah? he thought. De-chipped vampire in love with the Slayer? Heard that one before? Still, he figured she was probably right--the details might have been a bit unusual, but the tale was a tired one. Love unrequited, love unattainable; it was the kind of thing he might have written poetry about, a century or so ago. The silence fell again. He drank, and he could almost feel the alcohol flowing through him, numbing him, turning his brain into happy mush. He was so tired of thinking, of hurting, of--

"You want to get out of here?" she asked suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why? So we can have a nice pity fuck? Thanks, I’ve had enough of those."

"No." The emptiness in her eyes was melting away, so he could see the raw pain behind it. "Because I want you, and I think you want me, and it feels good to be wanted. It would be dangerous and it would feel good and we might get to stop thinking for awhile. Besides," she added, with a hint of a challenging smirk, "it’s cheaper than sitting here drinking whiskey all night, and I’d bet I’ll feel better in the morning."

He looked her up and down, appraising her. She wasn’t lying about wanting him; he could smell it on her. And he couldn’t deny that she was right--it did feel good, being wanted for once. And his demon certainly liked the idea, he realized, as he found himself staring at the curve of her neck, the pulse beating steadily beneath the creamy skin. Then he glanced back at her eyes, and it hit him like a sledgehammer: he didn’t want to kill her. Yeah, seduce-and-swig had always been more Angelus’ style than his, but he’d never turned it down when it was offered like this. She’d even said she wanted danger, and he could feel his stomach growling. Still, he didn’t want to. Oh, fuck, why don’t I want to? Trying to stay calm, he mustered up a smile. "No offense, luv, but we’d best not. You might get more than you bargained for."

He’d expected hurt at the rejection, but she just kept looking at him, cool as a statue. "Why? Because you’re a vampire?"

His jaw dropped. "You knew?" he hissed, for once trying not to draw attention to himself. Much as he loved a good bar brawl, he had a feeling he wasn’t exactly at the top of his game, what with his earlier ass-kicking at the Slayer’s hands and the gallon or so of whiskey he’d gone through since.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. I’ve been in Sunnydale a long time, pal. And no one here’s that pale unless they’ve got a serious sunlight allergy."

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, then?" he snapped. "You know what I could do to you."

She laughed harshly, crossing one long leg over the other and tossing her hair as she took another drink. "Yeah. You could make me like you. In fact, I was hoping you might."

Well, that was one he hadn’t heard in awhile. He buried his head in his hands again, beginning to seriously regret the alcohol that was still fogging his brain. It made the whole thing seem like some demented nightmare. "Oh, balls…" he muttered feelingly, wondering if he was lucky enough that any minute now he’d be waking up all tucked away in his crypt.

No such luck. She grabbed his arm. "No. I’m not some stupid kid looking for immortality. I want to be strong. I want to be fearless." Her dark eyes were glittering now with angry tears. "I want to not care anymore."

He looked at her again, this time appraising in a different light. Her reasoning was as good as his had been, the night he’d first met Dru. ‘Course, he hadn’t really known what he was getting into, but he’d never once regretted it. He cocked his head. She’d make a hell of a vampire, he thought. All dark and fierce and tough and sarcastic. And if he sired her, she’d never want to leave him, she’d love him the way he’d loved Dru… and the way Dru had loved Angelus. She’d be his. His Childe, his to train, his to save. It was certainly tempting.

He opened his mouth, on the verge of telling her yes, he’d turn her and deliver her from mediocrity into glorious blood and mayhem. But all that came out was, "Sorry, pet. Can’t do it."

"What?" she said incredulously.

What? his brain screamed incredulously.

His mouth kept going, oblivious. "I said I can’t do it."

"Why the hell not?"

Why the hell not? his brain parroted, and he told it firmly to shut up. Still, it was a valid question. Why, indeed, the hell not?

As soon as he asked the question, though he realized the answer was obvious. Buffy. He could make this gorgeous dark creature love him, but he’d still be in love with the Slayer. He’d tried to stop enough times to know it was impossible. He didn’t have any answers that didn’t begin and end with her, and now she was driving him to deny everything he’d always been, to deny this woman the salvation that Dru had blessed him with. Even when she was gone, even when he hated her, even when his demon was exulting inside him, she was there. And there was nothing he could do to exorcise her. He wasn’t sure if he was more terrified or furious at the realization.

He realized the woman across from him was still waiting for him to respond, eyes flashing with barely-contained fire. He chuckled a little, and gave her an answer--not the whole answer, but as good as any. "You’d make a brilliant vampire, pet. But it wouldn’t help."

He watched the despair creeping into the anger. "It wouldn’t? But you take what you want, when you want, you don’t care about anything. Nothing can touch you."

He took a last swig off the bottle, set it down on the bar in front of her. "You’d care about me," he told her. "You’d love me, because I’d be your sire, only I’d still love her, and I’d leave you, just like my sire left me, and her sire left her." He shrugged. "If you’re love’s bitch, you’re love’s bitch. Becoming a vampire only makes it last longer."

She was staring at him, open-mouthed. "What kind of a vampire are you, anyway? I’m, like, throwing myself at you, here."

He sighed. "And it’s flattering, luv, really. It’s just… well… a hell of a lot longer story than I have time for at the moment." He tossed enough bills down on the bar to cover her whiskey and his, then pressed a few more into her hand. He had to get out of there before he lost it completely. "Here. Take a cab home. No sense in me turning you down just so you can get gobbled up by some other nasty on the way back to yours. You’ve got something to live for now--you can tell all your friends you’ve met the world’s first toothless vampire." Then, re-considering, "Well, the world’s first toothless vampire with good hair, anyway."

She frowned at him. "I don’t get this."

He laughed bitterly as he got up and began making his way towards the door. "Neither do I, luv. Neither do I."

Well, at least I still know how to make a good exit, he congratulated himself wryly as he headed down the street. He heard footsteps behind him, and for a second he thought she might be following him, but the steps were too heavy. He whirled, hands raised to attack or defend, and then burst into incredulous laughter as he saw who was chasing him.

"Of course," he groaned, clawing a hand through his hair with a kind of amused resignation. "Should’ve known the worst night of my existence couldn’t be complete without a visit from the bleeding bricklayer."

"What the hell was that all about in there?" Xander demanded, panting a little as he caught up to the vampire.

"None of your sodding business, is it?" Spike retorted, beginning to wonder if he’d really explored the full benefits of being able to hit the annoying little pillock. He might’ve been undergoing a bit of an identity crisis, but pounding on Xander for awhile was still well within acceptable limits. Then something occurred to him. "What’re you doing here, anyway? Not exactly the type of place for good little boys and girls. The Slayer send you to check up on me?"

"No." Was it his imagination, or did the whelp sound a bit defensive? Looked like old Spike wasn’t the only one who didn’t like being thought of as the Slayer’s lapdog. "I followed you."

"You what?" Spike grabbed the front of Xander’s jacket with both hands. "You followed me? You. Followed me." Xander nodded, then coughed as the wind drifted his way.

"Geez, Spike. Whiskey much?"

Spike barely heard him, tossing the other man away, holding his spinning head in his hands and leaning against the alley wall with another heartfelt groan. "Bloody hell. Bowling Boy followed me. May as well paint a fat bloody target on my chest and declare it open bloody season."

"Hey!" Xander straightened his jacket, offended, and made what Spike considered to be a pathetic attempt to puff out his chest. "I’ve got military experience on my resume."

Spike favored him with a withering glare. "You’ve got a military costume on your resume, you moron."

"All right, Spike, that’s it." Xander strode over, yanked Spike upright. "For five years, you’ve been telling me I’m weak, I’m helpless, I’m nothing but Buffy’s butt-monkey." While Spike tried to eradicate that mental image, Xander continued, threatening. "I’m done. It ends here. Right here."

Spike saw the fist coming, but the whiskey slowed him down. He reflected, momentarily, that it was ironic that his vampiric healing abilities chose this moment to go on the fritz. Or maybe there were little pockets of whiskey inside him, hiding, waiting to ambush him. Then he was distracted from his musings by a surprisingly powerful shock on his jaw, and his arm was reacting of its own volition, readying a return attack. The fight with Buffy had been poetry; this was more like an off-key pub song--ugly, tactless, but still good enough fun in its own way. Punches, kicks, bites, even the odd hair-pull (though neither of them would admit to it later), fell with clumsy abandon. Despite the fact that they’d both been dreaming of this moment for five long years, it was something less than epic. They simply staggered about in the alley for awhile, Spike too drunk and Xander too, well, human to do any permanent damage. Finally, Spike lowered a shoulder and half-heartedly drove Xander into the wall, and they both slumped to the ground.

"Well," Spike offered, panting out of habit as he levered himself up against the wall, "I certainly feel much more manly now." He gingerly probed a loose tooth with his tongue. He’d taken more damage than he’d expected--whelp had an arm on him. Probably from hauling boxes of merchandise for the Queen of Capitalism, or some other poofter-type activity.

"Yup, gotta agree with you there," Xander wheezed, trying to catch his breath. He rolled over, sat up carefully, wincing as he reached up to gauge the swelling under his left eye. "Maybe we should’ve done this years ago."

"Unh," Spike agreed indistinctly, resting his head on the cool bricks behind him.

They sat quiet for a moment, recuperating, then Xander managed, "So really. What was going on in there? That chick was all over you--I thought you’d’ve snatched her up like a Slurpee." Then he grimaced, obviously working through the mental image. "Note to self: don’t compare people to convenience store items."

Spike smirked. "She was all over me, wasn’t she? And hot, too."

Xander nodded slowly, as if he was afraid his head was going to fall off. "That she was." Then, when Spike didn’t elaborate, he prodded, "So? What happened?"

Spike laughed a little, feeling amused, helpless, and incredibly tired at the same time. "Buffy happened, that’s what. As usual. Stupid bint won’t leave me alone, all wrapped around my insides like a vise, squeezing and squeezing until there’s nothing left of me." He couldn’t believe he was telling Xander all of this, but the night was already so surreal, it kind of seemed to fit. He realized the boy was staring at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You really love her, don’t you." It was more of a statement than a question, but still, Xander seemed to be having trouble getting his head around it.

Spike laughed again, bitterly. "Yeah. What tipped you off--the pain or the neutering?"

Xander was still staring at him. "And you turned that woman down, for her."

Spike nodded, staring up at the sky with a self-deprecating grin on his face, feeling a temporary but welcome sense of detachment.

"Yeah. I thought getting the chip out would help, but it didn’t. Just made everything worse. Now I don’t have an excuse for not knowing what the hell I am. I just know I’m not what I used to be, and it’s all wrapped up in her and Dawn and even your little Superfriends, and there’s fuck-all I can do about it. As long as I remember her, I’ll be fighting against my nature every day for the rest of my immortal life." He shook his head, his eyes unfocused. "Worst part is, it’s not just that she made me care. It’s that she made me want to care." He paused, looked down. "Don’t know if I can forgive her for that."

Neither one of them spoke for a while after that, as the slowly-dwindling sounds of the bar filtered into the alley. Then suddenly, Spike looked sharply at Xander.

"You tell anyone about this, I’ll make you pay for it, Slayer or no."

Xander laughed weakly. "Hey. This isn’t exactly a high point for me, either. Your secret’s safe with me, Evil Dead." Then, looking as if the words pained him, "I was wrong."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "You’re gonna need to specify there, mate. That covers a lot of territory."

Xander huffed out his breath, frustrated, but soldiered on. "I was wrong about you. I mean," he rushed on, as Spike’s eyebrow climbed even higher, "it’s not like I want to start picking out china patterns with you or anything." He stopped for a second, his eyes glazing over slightly at some painful memory. Plans for the Wedding from Hell, no doubt. "Oh, God, how I don’t want to start picking out china patterns. But," he continued, focusing back on Spike again, "when I’m wrong, I admit it. And maybe you’re not the completely worthless, evil, psycho stalker parasite I thought you were."

"Thanks ever so," Spike replied dryly, but he was horrified to feel a tiny, pleased spark somewhere in the darkest recesses of his chest.

"I still don’t like you," Xander added hastily.

"Couldn’t be more mutual," Spike replied almost before Xander finished his sentence, glad to be back on familiar ground.

Xander laughed a little. "Good. Well. Better be getting home. I’ve got to start work in--" he checked his watch--"hey! Three and a half hours. Nothing like a sleep-deprived man operating the heavy machinery." He rose slowly to his feet, grimaced as he put weight on his left leg. "Ow. I think you twisted my knee."

Spike snorted. "Pansy."

"Eunuch," Xander shot back. Then he shook his head, grinning reluctantly. "See you around, Spike."

"Looks like it." Spike slumped back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. He let the exhaustion wash over him and wondered what, in the name of all that was unholy, he was going to do.

Part 7:

-----------------------------------

Buffy couldn’t remember anything about the walk home from the graveyard; everything was just a blur of tears and anger and frustration and confusion until she found herself standing on her own front porch, wondering how she was going to hide either the tear-tracks or the bruises on her face. She didn’t have the energy to climb into her bedroom window, so she was stuck with going for stealth and hoping everyone had gone to bed already. She tried to collect herself, wiped the tears carefully from her cheeks, and opened the door with the silent skill of many long years of practice.

The house was dark. Good sign. She glanced towards the stairway, knowing she should probably just cut her losses and go to bed, but she realized that even though she felt like she’d just gone a few rounds with Olaf the Troll God, she was still too worked up to sleep. So she ditched her boots and padded noiselessly into the (mercifully clean) kitchen. Hmm. The teakettle was out of the question--not exactly stealthy--but if she put water in the microwave and shut it off before the beeping started, she might get a cup of tea to calm her down a little.

Yes. Calm good. No problem. She took a deep breath, got a mug out of the cupboard, turned the faucet on to a quiet trickle. Her hands shook at first, but stilled as the mug filled slowly. She stared at the flickering stream of water. Deep breaths. Don’t think. She opened another cupboard, pushed aside mac and cheese and Rice-a-Roni till she found a box of tea. English Breakfast. Giles must have--ow. No. That way lies badness. But it was too late-her hard-won equilibrium vanished like a dusted vamp. Even if she didn’t think about Giles, it was only a short jump from English people to bleached blonde English vampires, and from that to chipless bleached blonde English vampires who loved fighting and loved her and sat in this kitchen with her mother talking about the really tiny marshmallows and made her unsure of just about everything she’d ever thought she’d known, and before she knew it she was leaning her forehead against the cupboard, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears and biting her lip so hard she could taste blood.

That was how Willow found her. The redheaded witch had stayed wakeful until she’d heard her friend come home, then spent a few minutes debating whether or not Buffy would want her privacy before curiosity and concern got the better of her and she made her way quietly downstairs. As soon as she saw the way Buffy’s shoulders were shaking, she knew she’d made the right decision.

"Buffy?" she said tentatively, hesitating in the doorway, keeping her voice down so as not to wake anyone else. Buffy whirled around, and the sheer misery on her face shot straight to Willow’s heart. Then she saw the bruises marring the Slayer’s too-hollow cheeks, and her stomach dropped somewhere down around her ankles. "Did Spike…?"

Buffy was too surprised and too close to the edge to try to hide anything. "No," she sniffed, trying to reassure her friend. Then, reconsidering, "Well, yes, but… it wasn’t…" Her face crumpled again as she remembered the end of the fight. "I couldn’t kill him, Will."

Willow moved a couple of steps forward, a little at sea. "Well… did he… need killing?"

Buffy laughed breathlessly, a step away from hysteria. "I don’t know. He’s a vampire, isn’t he?"

Willow shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, but…"

"So I should kill him, right?" Buffy continued in an angry, desperate whisper, her voice strangled through the lump in her throat. "Giles told me once that all vampires are evil, without any exceptions. It shouldn’t matter who he is, or how he feels, or what we’ve…" She stopped dead, but she had a feeling she was a few words too late. Her heart pounded as she watched the confusion on Willow’s face and waited for the inevitable.

"What you’ve…?" Willow’s brow furrowed. Then she saw the look on Buffy’s face--guilt, self-hatred, and pure terror. And she knew. "You… and Spike?" she whispered disbelievingly, eyes growing wide. "There’s a… you’ve… Wow." She didn’t even know how to say it. She trailed off as Buffy hung her head, arms dangling resignedly at her sides, and burst into barely-muffled tears.

"Wow," Willow repeated, blinking. She was speechless for a few long seconds, while Buffy continued to sob. Then she huffed out a businesslike breath and moved purposefully towards the freezer, resolve face firmly in place. "OK. Well. This is gonna need a lot of ice cream."

Buffy, covering her face with her hands, could only nod vehemently in agreement.

Willow grabbed spoons, pints and napkins with the ease of long practice, and led Buffy into the living room. Several minutes later, they were huddled on the couch underneath a blanket, face to face, pints settled comfortably between them. Buffy was still crying, but at least she was doing it with a few spoonfuls of Mint Chocolate Cookie in her.

"So…" Willow began finally, when she could see the ice cream starting to work its magic. "I’m not going to be all judgy or anything, but I have to ask… how?"

Buffy plunged her spoon into the carton again like she was diving for a life preserver. "I don’t know," she mumbled miserably around a half-melted mouthful. "He was just always there, with the staring and the helping and the listening and the eyes." She spat each word accusingly, staring vacantly at a spot on the blanket. "And then we…" She could feel herself turning red, but she forced herself to say it. "We kissed, that night with all the musical stuff, and it felt good, like… fire, like something. And then we…" OK, she had her limits. "We… morethankissed," she rushed on, "and then it was like it kept going and going and I couldn’t stop it and I didn’t want to and why didn’t I want to?" She looked up at Willow, pleading. "What’s wrong with me?" The tears began leaking again.

Willow was beginning to get the idea this might be beyond even the power of ice cream. She was still reeling a bit from the news, but she could be sure of one thing, anyway. "Buffy, nothing is wrong with you," she responded immediately, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

But Buffy couldn’t believe her. "Then why am I doing this?" she asked plaintively. "Why do I want this? Why can’t I have a normal life, and a normal boyfriend, with a pulse? Is that too much to ask?"

Willow decided to ignore the term "boyfriend" for a minute, and go with what she could deal with. "Normal’s overrated," she answered, with a tiny, half-sad smile. "You’re the Slayer, Buffy. That’s way better than normal."

Ask Willow about normal. God, she hated it when he was right. Still, "OK, so I’m the Slayer," she sniffed, digging her spoon vengefully into the Ben and Jerry’s. "What kind of a Slayer am I, sleeping with two vampires? OK, with Angel it was this once-in-a-lifetime Romeo and Juliet type of thing, but with Spike? Giles’d disown me if he knew. I can’t even be normally abnormal, I have to be freakishly abnormal."

Willow frowned a little, thinking. "It’s not like you’ve ever exactly been the by-the-book type." Then she smiled. "That’s kinda my job."

"Yeah, but this…" Buffy shook her head. She was silent for a moment, then, so quietly Willow could hardly hear her, "He’s… dark. And I like it."

Suddenly, Willow sensed, they were on dangerous ground. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Very carefully, Buffy set her spoon and ice cream aside, unable to meet her friend’s eyes.

"Dracula told me the Slayer’s power is rooted in darkness," she started slowly. "The First Slayer--and you remember what a fun-lovin’ gal she was--said death was my gift. Spike said death is my art. And they’re all right. I can feel it, the darkness, creeping up on me, every day, every kill. He makes it sound so easy…" Her voice was distant, dead.

Willow grabbed her arm. "Buffy, stop it. That’s not you." Buffy’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, challenging. "It’s not. Even if it’s in you, it’s not all of you."

"Then why? Why Spike? Why can’t I just do my job and get it over with?" Buffy demanded.

"You’re tired," Willow tried. "You’ve been through a lot, and--"

"And what has it turned me into?" Buffy cut her off, and Willow could see both fear and anger in her friend’s eyes. "When I came back--when you brought me back--I couldn’t stand to be around anyone but him." She smiled bitterly at the shock on Willow’s face. "When he saw me, the first time, my hands were all bloody, and he knew why--said I’d dug my way out of my coffin, and he’d done the same thing. And I was standing there, looking at him and looking at Dawn, and I realized… I had more in common with him than I did with any of you. I’m not just sleeping with him, I… I care about him. Whether I want to or not." She’d never said the words out loud before, but even as they poured out of her mouth, she knew they were true. It only fueled her anger. "He’s killed hundreds of people, he might’ve killed us last night, he might kill us tomorrow. And I care about him. That’s what this has turned me into," she finished, with a kind of vicious triumph. "Aren’t you glad you brought me back?"

As she listened, Willow had been growing paler and paler, her eyes huge. But at Buffy’s final words, and the accusation behind them, she flushed with guilt and fury. "You’re still mad I brought you back." It was a statement, not a question.

"I’m mad to be back," Buffy answered, and now the tears were starting again, trickling down her already-raw cheeks. She was amazed she had any left. "Everything hurts, and I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing any of this."

"It was selfish and stupid of me to have brought you back," Willow stated evenly, proud that her voice shook only a little, even though her throat was tight with tears. "You were happy… where you were, and I’m sorry that I took you away from it. But I won’t be sorry you’re back, Buffy. I won’t. Even if I brought you back for the wrong reasons, the world’s better with you in it."

Buffy shook her head. "But it’s not. I’m not the hero anymore, Will."

Willow laughed incredulously. "Why? Because you’re tempted? You think you’re so special because you have a dark side? Geez, Buffy, even Xander has a dark side."

"Yeah, but he’s not sleeping with a demon." Willow arched an eyebrow, and Buffy realized what she’d just said. "OK, bad example. The point is, I shouldn’t be dark. I’m supposed to be good."

Willow blew breath out between her teeth, frustrated. "God, you and Spike deserve each other. You think it’s got to be one extreme or the other. So you started off all glowy and chosen and he started out all dark and fangy. Now you’ve both crossed a line, and you don’t know where you are. Well, welcome to the world the rest of us live in. You’re just scared, so you want the easy answer."

"Why not?" Buffy hissed recklessly, throwing out her hands. "It’s his nature, and apparently it’s mine, too."

"Because it’s not supposed to be easy," Willow shot back, eyes blazing. "Seemed pretty clear to you a few months ago, when you were telling me that magic wasn’t the answer to my problems. This isn’t something to mess around with." She grabbed Buffy’s arm for emphasis. "I don’t really know what’s going on with you and Spike, or why. But I know about being tempted. And I know it’s hard, and I know we haven’t been there for you as much as we could, and believe me, if I can make it easier on you, I will. But not that way. You wouldn’t let me do it that way. And you were right. And if you… weasel out on me now, after all the good you’ve done, just because some Frank N. Furter wannabe in a cape told you about the Dark Side of the Force, I’m gonna be really disappointed." She released Buffy’s arm, and sat back, breathing hard.

Buffy blinked, surprised. "Wow. Way to work the pop culture references, there, Will."

"Thanks," Willow preened, a smile suddenly breaking through. "I did some research on it for the Buffybot." Then the resolve face returned. "But you’re not off the hook yet," she added sternly, wagging a finger. Still, when she saw the look on Buffy’s face-conflicted, hurt, lost-she couldn’t help softening. "Everyone’s tempted, Buffy," she went on quietly. "No one can do the right thing every time, not even you. You accept it, and you do your best, and you move on. You’re not supposed to give up just because you make mistakes, or because it’s hard, or because you’re confused. You’re stronger than that."

Buffy looked at her, surprised and oddly pleased. It had been a long time since she’d felt strong in any way, besides physically, which was one of the reasons she’d been training so hard. It was strange-and good-to know that Willow still thought of her that way, even if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

"OK," she replied finally. "Point taken."

"Good." Willow let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. "My resolve face hurts if it stays on too long." She reached out, put a comforting hand on Buffy’s knee. "Besides, even if your mistakes tend to be big, mondo kinds of mistakes, you do big, mondo good stuff, too, so I think you’ve got some credit in the Bank of Karma. You should get a little slack."

Buffy smiled tiredly, then suddenly started giggling uncontrollably as a thought occurred to her.

"What?" Willow asked suspiciously, eyeing the other girl as if she were a grenade about to go off. There was a distinct edge of hysteria in that laughter, and Willow wasn’t sure she could deal with a hysterical Slayer.

"It’s just…" Buffy tried to get herself under control, failed, and just choked it out anyway between giggles. "It’s just… the next time Dracula stops by, I dare you… to call him… a Frank N. Furter wannabe to his face Can’t you just picture…" And then she was laughing too hard to continue.

A moment considering that mental image was enough to set Willow off as well, and before long they were both howling, muffled in the couch cushions, the tension between them slowly melting away. Finally, Buffy took a few deep breaths and slumped back against the couch, wiping her eyes. "Normal. God. My romantic history consists of two vampires and a secret government demon-hunter. You’ve got a computer demon, a werewolf, and a witch. Xander’s got a mummy girl, a preying mantis, a vengeance demon, and a… Cordy. Should’ve known we left normal several exits back." She laughed again, but even as she did, she could feel the exhaustion creeping back. It had been an incredibly long day. She felt drained, but strangely cleansed, too. "It’s like it’s all just going to hell," she sighed, throwing an arm back behind her head. "Nothing’s like it used to be."

"Yup," Willow agreed philosophically. "You get addition down, and they throw long division at you." Then, as Buffy raised an eyebrow at her, "Hey, there’s a time and a place for math metaphors, too."

Buffy rolled her eyes. Then, her smile fading, "I used to know what was right. And now I don’t know anything anymore."

Willow smiled a little sadly. "Well, that sounds pretty normal to me."

Buffy’s mouth dropped half-open at the revelation. "That sucks," she said finally, indignantly.

Willow couldn’t help chuckling at the betrayed look on her friend’s face. "Don’t worry," she comforted, patting Buffy’s hand. "You get used to it."

"Shut up and binge," Buffy muttered sulkily, and reached for her abandoned ice cream.

{Next}