SUMMARY: A post-season-6 fic. Let’s see… Spike has a soul, and he’s in Africa (but not for very much longer.) Back in Sunnydale, everybody else is recovering from the near-apocalypse - Buffy is successfully managing to not think about Spike, but not-so-successfully managing to forget the incident in the bathroom; Dawn is adamant that she’s going to be Slayer Jnr.; Giles is trying to sort out everybody’s lives as per usual; Anya and Xander’s possibility of a reconciliation is hampered somewhat by the latter’s having to look after Willow… and as for Willow? Well, she’s flipped, only this time in the usual, non-magical way…

Deep in a cave, miles from anything resembling civilisation, a very bruised and very blond vampire finally stopped screaming in agony, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Above him, a dark, glowy-eyed demonic shaman looked on disinterestedly, wondering when the pathetic excuse for a demon at his feet was going to go away. He had much better things to be doing - a few minor curses to inflict, some more trials to set - than baby-sitting his clients while they recovered. He hadn’t anticipated the soul-receiving to be quite so… well… painful; he’d have to rethink the procedure for next time. It had been a good few centuries since he’d granted a soul and he was a little out of practice.

Spike coughed up blood for what felt like the fiftieth time since he’d started the trials, and resisted the overwhelming urge to curl into a ball. That wouldn’t help him much at this stage; what would help, he decided, would be killing the idiot shaman where he stood. Although… no, that wouldn’t really help either, but it would sure as Hell make him feel better. This was just what he was going to do. Unfortunately, for the moment at least, he couldn’t even stand, let alone kill something twice his size.

Coughing again, he braced himself against the wall to stand up. Once he was steady and relatively stable on his feet, he glared contemptuously into the bluish, glowing orbs that were the shaman’s eyes. “That wasn’t… what I asked you for…”

The shaman contemplated this, cocking his head to the side. “You asked,” he clarified, “to be what you were.” Spike tried to answer back, but ended up coughing again. The shaman continued, “You asked that the Slayer receive what she deserves.”

“I meant,” said Spike, finally, “that you take that soddin’ chip out of my head so I could stop being her lapdog and start killing again.”

“I don’t understand. How would that be what she deserves?”

Spike paused. It made perfect sense in his head. “Well… that way, she’d have no choice but to stake me. She wouldn’t be able to do it; she’d end up having to think about it… or think about me. Either that or she’d just kill me without a second thought and put us both out of our misery.” He shook his head a little exasperatedly, realising that pouring his heart out to a demon wasn’t particularly constructive. “I did not mean, ‘give me back my soul’. That isn’t what I wanted.”

The shaman laughed, apparently very amused by this. “I know what you meant, vampire. But what you meant, or what you thought you wanted, isn’t necessarily what you really want.”

“Yeah? Well, then, tell me what it is I really want,” he said, bitterly, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette to be able to at least look cooler than he felt, and simultaneously realising they were all still in his duster. Wherever that was.

“To give the Slayer what she deserves: a vampire, or rather, another vampire, with a conscience. The possibility for her to be able to trust you… like she trusted Angelus.”

This time, it was Spike who laughed, but there was no humour behind it. “So, you’re telling me this all boils down to some unconscious jealousy of Peaches?”

“Not necessarily-“

“That’s great, that is. Bloody marvellous…” Sarcasm wasn’t going to help, but it made him feel slightly better. Then, he realised something else. “Wait a minute. I thought I asked you to get the chip out. It’s still there; I can feel it.” Apparently, the shaman had no explanation for this, and adopted an expression that could only be described as “oops… my bad.” Spike sighed. “Great. I still have the chip, and now I have a nice, shiny soul to go with it. Why don’t you just make me human, too, and be done with?”

“If you wish to undergo more trials, that can be arranged.” He didn’t appear to be kidding.

“No, thank you.” Spike gave up arguing, realising it was ultimately pointless against a creature that seemed to be composed entirely of logic. “I think a free trip back to SunnyHell is in order, don’t you? As compensation for your mistake.”

“Very well… but you will have to wait. Come back in three weeks.”

“Three weeks? But-“ Before he could continue his protest, the shaman waved an arm and Spike found himself flying through the air, out of the cave again. He was alone, just outside the small village he’d walked through before arriving at the cave, with only his new soul for company. He had a horrible suspicion that the next three weeks, and quite possibly the years to follow, were not going to be particularly enjoyable…

In the basement of the Summers’ house, it sounded as if a war was being waged. Alongside the occasional grunts and, for want of a better word, war-cries, several crashes, clangs and thuds could also be heard. Every so often, the foundations of the kitchen and lounge would judder slightly. So far, all of the pipes and brickwork were still intact, but it would only be a matter of time before they weren’t.

It wasn’t, in fact, a war, and the only demons being fought down there were, for once, imaginary. With the destruction of the Magic Box, Buffy’s basement had become a makeshift training room until it could be re-built. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite as strong as it seemed, and it definitely wasn’t soundproof. The current occupants of the house were having to live with the noise, and patience was wearing thin.

Training, luckily, was almost over…

“Ha!! Take that!” yelled a small, flailing mass of vaguely female-shaped limbs as they planted a hefty kick in the stomach of a home-made training dummy. It wobbled, then fell over from the force. The limbs stopped moving and formed into a body, the face of which grinned triumphantly. “How was that? Pretty neat, huh?”

Giles, ex-librarian and ex-Watcher, cautiously re-emerged from the pile of boxes behind which he’d chosen to take refuge, and began his mandatory cleaning-of-the-glasses. Apparently, he had got them with him after all. Putting them back on, he examined the dummy on the floor and the various broken pieces of wood scattered about the room. “Yes… uh… very good. Very… messy.”

“What, I’m meant to fight things and keep the place tidy? Should I carry around a Dust-Buster to suck up all the vamp remains, too?”

“Ah… yes, I see your point.”

“Anyway, what do you reckon? Do I have potential, or do I have potential?” she asked, a little rhetorically. Giles bent to pick up the felled dummy, which promptly fell over again because the stand was neatly snapped in half from the force of the last blow to hit it.

“Judging by this, I’d certainly say your strength is… admirable…”

The conversation was then cut short by the sound of the door opening, to Giles’ relief. The female silhouette began to descend the stairs and came into view, a white take-out bag in one hand, and a Double Meat Palace hat in the other. “Hey, guys.”

“Hello, Buffy.”

The Slayer reached the bottom of the stairs and surveyed the debris. “Whoa, what happened in here? World War III?”

Her sister looked a combination of sheepish and very proud of herself. “I was just showing Giles how I helped you kill all those nasties in the crypt.”

Buffy adopted her very best “mom” expression. “Dawn, I told you; you are not going to be a backup Slayer.”

“Actually, Buffy, it was partly my fault,” said Giles, saving the sixteen-year-old from a grilling. “When she told me about the earth-monsters I admit to being a tad curious. You should be proud of her; she has remarkable skill and strength.”

“All right,” said Buffy, the admonishment only partially over. “This time I’ll let you off, but don’t expect Giles to keep baling your ass out.” Dawn didn’t look very impressed, but she left the matter alone for the time being. “Now, come on. Come get dinner while it’s good ‘n’ greasy.” Dawn ran up the stairs ahead of her sister and disappeared into the kitchen. Giles stayed behind to attempt to tidy up the mess of broken wood that she’d left behind. At the top of the stairs, Buffy stopped and waited for him, then called down. “Giles, leave it.”

Giles looked up from the floor. “Are you sure? I feel somewhat responsible for this mess.”

“I’m sure. I’ll tidy it later; if I don’t, I’m sure Willow will.”

Conceding defeat, Giles started up the stairs after her. “Ah, yes… how… how is Willow?”

Once in the kitchen, he closed the door behind them. Dawn was sitting at the island contemplating the DMP bag, deciding whether or not she was hungry enough to eat it for a fifth night in a row. She wasn’t.

“Hey, Buffy?”

“Yeah, Dawn?”

“I’m really not that hungry… I mean, I appreciate it, but…” She trailed off, an apologetic look on her face.

“It’s okay. Tomorrow we’ll have real food, I promise.” Dawn smiled gratefully, and headed for her room, realising she was tired from her ‘training’ in the basement. Buffy took her place and peered into the bag. “If she doesn’t want it, I might as well eat it…” As she reached into the bag, a memory struck of the last time Dawn had refused to eat any more DMP burgers. ‘It looks kinda squished…’ Remembering with horrible clarity exactly why it was ‘squished’ caused her to scrunch the bag shut again and push it to the far edge of the counter. Off Giles’ slightly confused expression, she hastily explained: “Ugh… I had this stuff for lunch. Guess I can’t cope with it, either… You want?”

Giles waved off the invitation with his hand. “Thank you, but… no.” After a pause, he remembered his original question. “Willow… how is she?”

Getting up, Buffy filled two glasses of water from the sink, handed one to Giles, then raked a hand through her fry-greasy hair. “She’s doing okay, I guess. As okay as can be expected for someone who nearly ended the world… She just has these occasional freak-outs - I’ll come home and find she’s cleaned every single room. I guess it’s a security thing. If it wasn’t so helpful, I’d be more worried.” She sipped the water gratefully, having been surviving on soft drinks all day at work. “Xander’s been great, though. He’s about the only one she’ll talk to.”

“Has Anya forgiven him for the wedding?”

“I don’t know. If she has, neither of them have mentioned it. I think he’s still kinda freaked out from the whole saving-the-world deal.”

“Understandable…” Buffy nodded in agreement. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

Giles examined the floor as he approached what promised to be a difficult subject. What had been hilarious in a moment of desperation was now no laughing matter. “You… a-and Spike.”

Buffy suppressed a cringe. She’d spent the time since his disappearance trying very hard to forget about him, but things kept cropping up to remind her. “I wondered when we’d have this conversation for real…” She was getting tired of explanations - to herself, to her friends, and now to Giles, the one person she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to explain to. Her ex-Watcher took a seat opposite her and let her take her time. “Me and Spike… was a mistake. A really, really big mistake, one which I should have fixed straight away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know… Spike, he’s… he’s difficult to avoid. He doesn’t listen. He’s my sworn enemy; always has been.” She wasn’t even convincing herself by this point. “And he… he had this power over me. I just kept going back.” She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, rubbing away a headache she could feel forming. “God, Giles… why did you have to go and leave?”

This took him slightly by surprise, but he suddenly understood. “You mean this… this all happened after I left? Right after?”

Buffy looked up again and nodded. “Yup. Give or take a kiss or two.” Realising that sounded worse spoken than in her head, she backed up. “I was upset, so I turned to Spike again.”

“Again?”

Another nod. “Right after I came back, he was the only one I could talk to. Don’t ask me to explain why. I guess… because I knew he wouldn’t tell everyone. He understood somehow. And he didn’t expect me to be happy, glad-to-be-alive Buffy, either.”

Probably unconsciously, Giles removed his glasses again and began to clean them with the ever-present handkerchief. Focussing all his attention on attending to a particularly stubborn fingerprint, and not meeting Buffy’s gaze, he said, “I see… um… you’ll forgive me for saying this, but that doesn’t sound like a particularly, uh, conducive reason for… sleeping with him.”

“I know.” Irritated, she snatched the handkerchief from his grasp. “Either look me in the eye or don’t talk to me at all, Giles. I’m sick of it.”

Giles looked up, replacing his glasses. “Sorry…”

“All anyone ever did was avoid my gaze because they couldn’t stand the fact that I wasn’t happy. They didn’t want to accept they’d done the wrong thing. At least Spike could look me in the eye.” She frowned. “God, why do I keep defending him? The truth of the matter is, it just happened. One minute we were fighting, and the next…”

Her ex-Watcher nodded understandingly, then registered what she’d said. “You were fighting? Both of you?”

“Yeah…”

“What about his chip?” She’d forgotten that she hadn’t yet told Giles about Spike’s being able to hurt her. Sighing, she summarised what Tara had discovered as best she could explain it. “I… see…” he said again, slowly. This was proving rather too much to take in at once. He hadn’t realised exactly how much had gone on while he was away. Suddenly, he realised he no longer knew his Slayer, and hadn’t since her return; had he never left, they might not be having this conversation at all.

“Anyway,” said Buffy, feeling as if she’d explained too much for one night, “now he’s gone, and I should be happy about it… but I’m not. I keep expecting him to start following me at the cemetery… or come bursting through that door in the middle of the morning, half on fire…”

She trailed off, hating Spike for being the cause of so many of her problems, and hating herself even more for actually missing him. After a brief silence, during which Giles had processed all of the information he’d been given, he spoke up. “Buffy… you’re not going to like me asking this, but I have to clear something up.”

She knew what was coming, but said, “Shoot.”

“Do you… love him?” She didn’t answer, a similar conversation with Tara ringing through her mind. Giles continued to prod. “O-or are you… in love with him?”

“I-”

“It’s just… I know you, Buffy. I know you wouldn’t… um… do that… if you didn’t love someone.”

Looking sorrowfully across the kitchen table at him, she realised he was right. She knew she had to tell him about what else had happened - Spike and Anya, and the Incident in her bathroom, which was probably the cause of Spike’s leaving - but she wasn’t ready just yet. He seemed to be having enough trouble understanding the tip of the iceberg, and trying to tell him any more was going to take several long hours.

Without another word, Buffy got up from the table and left the kitchen. Giles watched her go, then let out a heavy sigh. He wanted to sort out everybody’s problems - help Anya fund the rebuilding of the Magic Box, assist Xander in breaking through Willow’s barriers, be lenient with Dawn, and, more than anything, make Buffy see sense about Spike - but he knew he should stay clear. With the exception of Dawn, they were all adults…

…Adults who had gone through Hell and come out again more times than he could remember. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to solve their problems a little. After all, between them, they’d prevented an apocalypse. That was a big enough problem for anyone to sort out alone…

It was a drab, drizzly, and thoroughly unpleasant morning; definitely not the sort of weather one would want to be out in for any extended period of time. That is, unless one was feeling equally unpleasant. Sitting on a bench outside the remains of the Magic Box, a recently re-powered vengeance demon certainly wasn’t in the mood for sunshine. Normally, she didn’t like the rain; today, she honestly couldn’t care less. The drizzle slowly turned into a downpour.

Anyanka, as she supposed she ought to be known now, slouched on the bench, hands jammed into the pockets of her coat, and hair beginning to curl from the rain. She gazed solemnly at what had used to be her shop, wondering if it would ever look the same again. It looked far more inviting when it had walls and a roof. She stared blankly at the debris Willow had left in her wake. Directly in front of her, the door hung forlornly from its frame, which, for some reason, was still standing despite the lack of bricks to support it. It was, however, buried to approximately knee-height in rubble, which probably accounted for this. Beyond that, supplies and books (still blank books, she noted, which meant that the Dark Magic was still floating around somewhere of its own free will) lay strewn on the floor amongst the plaster, bricks, wood and cement. Slightly off to the left were the remains of Buffy’s training room, the weapons and equipment well and truly buried. There was also a significant amount of dried blood throughout the place - hers, Giles’, Buffy’s, even Willow’s, she suspected.

Anya sighed heavily. This wasn’t fair. First, Xander dumps her at the altar; then, the whole thing with Spike, which was something she’d sooner forget (at this point, she also noticed with an ironic smile that the study table, although upturned, was about the only thing left intact); finally, her store gets smashed up by a rampaging and furious witch. A witch, on reflection, whom Anya had considered a friend. She didn’t think friends went around destroying other friends’ possessions. This was obviously another of those Human things she had yet to understand.

She was so lost to her thoughts that she didn’t hear the other person approach until he was hovering in front of her, umbrella in hand. “You know,” he said, sympathetically, “staring at it isn’t going to help. And I don’t think rubble grows with the rain, either.”

Anya looked up. “Hello, Xander,” she said, shortly. While it was true that misery loved company, Xander was not the sort of company she wanted. Xander meant all sorts of problems that she didn’t want to think about at this moment in time. Unfortunately, he’d obviously come here for a reason, so she’d have to at least pretend to be able to talk to him.

He sat down next to her on the bench and held the umbrella over them both, for what it was worth. “So…” he started, then realised he hadn’t decided how to end the sentence.

“So…” repeated Anya. There only seemed to be one topic of conversation worth talking about. “I hear you saved the world.”

“Uh… yeah. Xand-man saves the day once again.”

“I want you to know that it’s appreciated. I’ve heard that apocalypses aren’t particularly pleasant for anybody involved.”

“Thanks.”

“However,” she continued, not looking at him. “I only wish you’d managed to save the world a little faster, then my shop might still be intact.”

Xander frowned. Nothing he did ever seemed good enough. “Well, y’know, I would have. But I was kinda doing the whole trying-not-to-get-everybody-killed-in-the-process thing.” Getting angry with Anya, as he’d discovered before, was never productive. Sighing, he changed the subject. “Come on, An. You’re going to get pneumonia or something out here,” he said, getting up again and holding out a hand to help her up.

She looked from the outstretched hand to him, and blinked. “You want me to go with you?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll take you home.”

She blinked again. “You’ll take me home. To the apartment we used to share.” Xander wasn’t sure where this was leading, but it didn’t sound good, judging by her sceptical tone. “We will get to the apartment and you’ll ask to come in, and I, being naïve and ultimately weak around you, will let you in. Then we will end up talking, and with talking comes kissing, and I’ll end up forgiving you for leaving me at my wedding.” Returning her gaze to the ruined shop, she finished with, “No, thank you, Xander. I’d rather stay here.”

Xander shook his head exasperatedly. “Actually, I was only going to walk you home. It’s getting dark and I don’t want you getting hurt.” Anya didn’t answer him; he realised it was a lost cause. “Fine. Go home at midnight through the cemetery for all I care…”

With that, he stalked off back the way he’d come. Walking away from Anya in the pouring rain seemed to be a common occurrence these days. What he hadn’t remembered, or didn’t know, was that she could teleport herself wherever she wanted, and his chivalry had not only fallen on deaf ears, but was also utterly pointless.

It had been a week and a half since Spike had regained his soul. So far, he wasn’t enjoying the experience. He knew he’d killed a lot of people - as a matter of fact, he’d stopped counting after a hundred, and that was before he’d even reached the twentieth century - and he knew that having a soul meant feeling remorse for it. God knows, he’d complained about Angel’s brooding enough, and now he was about to face the same fate. Years… decades… maybe even centuries… just brooding. Therefore, he was more or less prepared for this; soul or no soul, he refused to brood, because the Big Bad didn’t do that. At least, not in public...

What he wasn’t prepared for was exactly how bad it would be. Angel, he realised, hadn’t been exaggerating to gain a sympathy vote. Remorse bloody hurt. Every single one of his victims’ faces came back to him systematically, just long enough for him to remember them, remember their screams or their freezing in terror right before the feed, before vanishing again and leaving him with an onslaught of emotion he had no idea how to handle. He’d been expecting a brief stab of conscience; instead, he’d ended up with the full-on mental torture.

His new soul had apparently decided to take a short break, giving him time to recuperate slightly. He’d spent the past three hours sitting in the mouth of the shaman’s cave, head in his hands, trying not to scream. Now that his head had momentarily stopped pounding, he sat back and took deep, healthy (and ultimately pointless) breaths, attempting to recollect his somewhat frazzled sanity.

So far, approximately twenty of his victims had been recalled to his mind, which wasn’t promising. He was in for a good few decades of this at least, and he could only hope, at this stage, that it got easier to ignore. And maybe, one day, he’d stop thinking about it so hard… every person he’d remembered, he’d thought about - maybe they had families, loved ones, dependents; maybe they could have changed the world, been revolutionaries; maybe, just maybe, one of them might have developed some medical marvel, a cure for cancer, or the numerous other diseases which still couldn’t be defeated…

Spike wasn’t ready to deal with this. He’d always assumed that being given a soul came with some kind of instruction manual. Apparently not. He was also getting quite perturbed by the fact that he was starving and there was nothing he could do about it - it was midday, and sleep was impossible; there was nobody around, and, to top that off, he still had his chip. He could only hope some kind of lizard came within his grasp.

His soul felt like an alarm clock about to go off; he could sense it ticking, waiting for the right time to hurl another barrage of previous victims at him. Just as he braced himself, something he hadn’t been anticipating happened. Instead of the helpless, innocent people he’d been previously subjected to, the worst possible memory came back.

Buffy. Clutching a bathrobe around herself, glaring across the bathroom at him with a mixed expression of fear, disgust, and utter hatred, and beyond it, just the smallest hint of betrayal. The pre-soul guilt had been bad enough. This time it was unbearable. He didn’t even have time to think beyond that moment, or contemplate how she might react to his current predicament - it was enough to send him over the edge. He gave in, and started moaning, curling into a little ball of self-loathing…

Xander turned up on Buffy’s front doorstep looking bedraggled and sorry for himself. He’d somehow managed to lose his copy of her key on his way back from the Magic Box, and now he was pretty sure that nobody was in. The only person he knew for sure was in the house was Willow, but she’d locked herself in her room and wouldn’t emerge until she got hungry, and that wasn’t often. Which meant he’d be sitting on her front porch for at least another hour and a half until Dawn got out of school. He knocked a final time, just in case, and called through the door.

“Hey! Buffy? Giles? Anyone?” As anticipated, there was no answer, and he was just about to get comfortable on the porch when the door opened an inch. He peered through the gap. “Hello?”

“Xander? Th-that you?” said a voice, very quietly.

“Yeah, it’s me.” The door opened completely, but whoever had unlocked it wasn’t visible. Xander went in, closing it after him, and looked around. “Will?”

“Uh-huh…” The reply was absent and practically inaudible, but he followed it to find her sitting on the stairs. She stared across at him curiously. “Where’s your… uh… your key?”

He pulled his coat pockets inside out to show they were empty. “Lost it.”

“Oh…” With that, she brought her knees to her chest, and buried her head in her arms. She seemed constantly tired, and probably was as she hadn’t been sleeping well, if at all. Tara’s death had hit her incredibly hard. Nobody mentioned the Other Thing if they could help it. Cautiously, Xander crouched to her level and placed a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, looking up wide-eyed. “What?!”

“Sh, it’s just me.” Willow’s expression calmed. “I didn’t wake you up when I arrived, did I?”

“Who, me?” She smiled and attempted a weak laugh. When she spoke again she seemed more alert. “Ha. No. I was… I was clearing up. Dawny left another mess in the basement. Buffy told her to clean it up, but you know kids.”

“I knew we should’ve house-trained that girl…” joked Xander. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet… but… but Buffy brought me something from the Double Meat on Tuesday.” It was Thursday. Xander sighed and pulled her to her feet.

“Come on. I’ll make you a Xander Harris Special Sandwich.”

He managed to manoeuvre her into the kitchen and sit her down at the island, then set about searching the cupboards for ingredients. He was amazed to discover Buffy’s cupboards relatively well-stocked; money had been tight, and she’d ended up working extra shifts. It was obviously paying off, at least for the moment. There was also the added help of having Giles back, who insisted on helping financially despite Buffy’s protests. Willow watched Xander, her head moving from side to side, as he went about the kitchen in a flurry of activity. He stopped after a few minutes, and presented her with a very tall and overstuffed sandwich containing several different meats and lots of mayonnaise.

“Voila!”

“Wow…” she said, contemplating it. “Big…”

“Special Sandwiches are always big. That’s why they’re special.” Sitting opposite her, he added, “Try it.” She was going to politely refuse - she really didn’t feel like eating - but could tell by the look on her friend’s face that it wasn’t going to be an option. She turned the plate around 360 degrees to ascertain the best place to start, picked it up, and took a cautious bite. Several of the slices of meat fell out of the middle as she did so. She chewed slowly. “Well?”

“Mm,” she muttered through a mouthful of bread. “Meaty.” Swallowing, she added. “And mayonnaise-y.”

“Salad is for wimps,” said Xander, heroically. “Have some more. You missed all the chicken-y goodness in the middle.” He indicated the rest of the filling on the plate. Willow made a half-hearted attempt to rebuild the sandwich and dived into it again, taking a bigger bite.

Xander smiled. She was making progress. It was slow, but he knew she’d pull through eventually. He was flattered, and very glad, that Willow trusted him above everyone else, but it was also very scary. What if he messed up? What if he broke her? He wished someone else - specifically Giles - could get through to her.

She would talk to Giles, as well as Buffy and Dawn, but only out of politeness and usually monosyllabically. Everyone was far more worried than they let on. The only trouble was, they didn’t have to let on for Willow to know; she was still powerful, battling hard to keep everything under control, and trying to ignore everything she picked up with her hyperactive senses. She could feel everybody’s worry, and the stress of trying not to worry them more only seemed to make her worse. The only person who knew what she was really like through it all was Xander. He’d been the one to pull her out of her rage, and he’d been there when she broke down and cried immediately after. He wouldn’t care, after all this, how upset or frustrated she got, so he got to see the real, broken, hurting Willow, while everybody else got to see the trying-to-be-chipper, I’m-okay-honest Willow. She was leading a double-life, and it was killing her. Xander prayed someone else would break through her barriers.

However, at least by focussing his attention on Willow, Xander didn’t have to deal with Buffy. He still hadn’t forgiven her for sleeping with Spike. For some reason, that hurt more than seeing Anya doing the same. Anya had a legitimate reason - to hurt him - but Buffy? He couldn’t understand it. Even putting aside his personal grievances with Spike, he simply failed to see why Buffy would do that. And what made it worse was that she hadn’t told anyone. When - or if - that vampire dragged his pathetic self back to Sunnydale, Xander was going to kill him - really, honestly, stake-through-the-heart kill him.

In the meantime, he and Buffy had no choice but to get on. He was there all the time now, anyway, and for Willow’s sake, and Dawn’s to some degree, they kept the atmosphere amicable. Nevertheless, he was still going to kill Spike…

His murderous thoughts were cut short when he spotted the empty plate in front of Willow. “Wow, Will. Guess you were hungrier than you thought.”

Willow looked down at the plate, apparently surprised at herself. “Oh. Guess I was. Could you… um… make me another one?”

Xander beamed and did just that, placing another huge tower of bread and sliced meat in front of her. He sat opposite her again and watched as she tucked in. Then, he started laughing when he spotted a huge blob of mayonnaise on her cheek that she’d failed to notice.

She looked up. “Xander?”

He stopped laughing, and reached over to remove it with his thumb. She flinched at the contact and he drew back. “Sorry…” Holding up the thumb so she could see, he explained, “Mayo.” Willow relaxed again and Xander reached over to remove the rest of it. All the while, she gazed at him from behind the sandwich, a lost and haunted expression in her eyes. Behind it, some of the dark magic still hovered, waiting to be released, and on top of everything else, a silent plea for help. Xander left his hand on her cheek. “I’ll help you, Will. We’ll all help. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

The moment was cut abruptly short by the sound of the front door closing, and Buffy’s voice ringing through from the lounge. “Hey, Willow, I’m home.” She came into the kitchen and stopped short at the scene.

“Gee, Buff, could you get any more unoriginal?” said Xander.

She ignored him. She’d worked a double shift at the Double Meat, she was tired, and she wasn’t in the mood for his sarcasm. Instead, she stared at Willow in surprise. “Will!”

“Hi, Buffy…”

“Hi… um… you’re up. And you’re eating.”

“Yup.”

“Wow. That’s great!”

Willow smiled. “Xander made me a sandwich.”

“A Special Sandwich,” he corrected.

“Yeah. But… oh…” She looked around the kitchen, which was still clean except for the cutting boards and one of the counters, which was covered in breadcrumbs and spots of mayonnaise. “He made a bit of a mess. I’ll clean it up, though, Buffy, don’t worry.”

“It’s okay…” she said. “Xander can clean up his own mess…” She looked at him pointedly, taking one of the escaped slices of meat from Willow’s plate.

“And that I shall, ladies,” he said, getting up to do just that. Buffy took his seat opposite her friend and watched her struggle with the rest of the sandwich. Willow stopped when she realised she was being stared at, suddenly self-conscious.

“What?”

“Sorry. It’s just good to see you eating. And down here.”

“Oh…” Since the bread was beginning to dissolve, she gave up on the sandwich, and looked across the table at Buffy. “Sorry about being so loner-y. It’s just, what with the whole dealing-with-life thing-“

“It’s okay,” said Buffy, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Really. We understand. You can take all the time alone you need. It’s just nice to see you up and about.”

Willow smiled gratefully. This was the most forthcoming she’d been around Buffy and it was definitely a good sign. “Do we have anything to drink?”

Buffy nodded. “Sure. You know where it all is.” Willow dragged herself from the counter, still a little lethargic, and headed towards the refrigerator; Buffy continued picking at the remains of the sandwich as she addressed Xander.

“Did you manage to find Anya?”

He stopped what he was doing and turned to face her. “Yeah. Sitting outside the Magic Ruins in the rain.”

“And?”

“And… I don’t know, I tried talking to her, but… I think we both still need some time.” Buffy nodded again, understandingly, and Xander changed the subject. “Where’s Giles?”

“He’s picking up Dawn. He promised to buy us dinner tonight, hence the severe and welcomed lack of job-related food. Come along with us, Xander. I think we could all do with a night out.” He smiled and nodded his acceptance of the invitation. Buffy’s attention was diverted to the other side of the room by the sound of Willow closing the fridge door. “You wanna come with, Will?”

“No, I… I couldn’t…”

“Aw, come on. It’ll be like old times - just you, me, Xander, Giles, and Dawn.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Besides, the fresh air’ll do you good.” She pouted. It worked with Giles (and, although she hated to admit it, Spike) and she was pretty sure it would work on Willow. “It’ll be fun. Fun and food-y.”

The ex-witch gave in. “Nada on the coping with the fun…” she started, then back-pedalled. “But food-y, I can do.”

“Great! Now, I have to get out of this uniform. ‘Scuse me.” With that, she vacated the kitchen and disappeared upstairs to change. There was a brief silence as Xander and Willow stared at each other from opposite sides of the room. Something unspoken passed between them, and neither of them were quite sure what it was. Xander was about to say something - he wasn’t entirely certain what - when Willow put down the glass she’d been drinking from and averted her gaze.

“I should… go get changed. Don’t wanna look all crumpled for the meal…”

“Yeah…”

With a weak, grateful smile, she headed upstairs, leaving Xander alone in the kitchen. He realised that she’d spoken more to himself and Buffy today than she had all the days preceding since they’d brought her home. It could only be a sign of improvement. However, she still seemed distant, trying very hard to be cheerful when she clearly wasn’t. Watching her force herself to be happy for their sake was starting to become heart-wrenching; she’d laugh, or smile, and simultaneously look about to burst into tears; her jokes had lost their edge. She seemed only a half-Willow.

Obviously, it was going to take a lot of time for her to recover. Even more obviously, she was trying her best to do so. Therein lay the problem. She was bottling up in an effort to at least seem better, when, in fact, purging would have been more advantageous. She was suddenly proud and unwilling to break down in front of her friends, excepting Xander. And Xander, for all his efforts and devotion to helping her, wasn’t the right person to help. All he had to do now was convince Willow of that fact…