There is perfect white scar on her left hand, lacing between her fingers, running down the back, covering her palm.

All she has left of the past is captured in that pale mark. It’s numb and burdensome; the doctors say the feeling will never completely return, and it tingles every so often - when the weather’s bad, or tension is high, and when she remembers. The scar is a testament to her frightening past, one last memory marring her otherwise flawlessly golden skin, a single trace of what she once was, of what she had to be.

But that’s not her anymore. Seven years passed, seven years of rebuilding offset against seven years of the life that completely destroyed fourteen years of innocence. Seven years of searching, seven years of parting, seven years of mourning.

She’s left those years behind her. The work she needed to do is done; the burden falls on others now. They aren’t alone, not like she’d been; they are many where she was one, a network of strength and power binding them together to create a mission.

And now she can rest.

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

Dave is of a certain breed of men. He sails, and had been on the crew team at Yale. He has money and manners and style - socializing is a way of life. Cocktail parties, family brunches, and benefit dinners fill the memory of his palmpilot, little blocks of time building a day in his life. He plays golf and tennis on the weekends, sometimes bringing her along to flounce about in a skirt.

When Dave plays with her, he always loses.

He’s starting to notice, and she can tell he can’t take it, doesn’t understand her. She’s not surprised. It’s inevitable.

They’re at an expensive Italian restaurant with white linen tablecloths and imported olive oil. Dave is fidgeting with his napkin, picking at the corners, folding and refolding, dropping it in his lap, smoothing it, picking it up again.

The waiter is expressionless as he sets their bread on the table. If she looks at him just so, she can see slicked blonde hair and azure eyes, smirking. She knows better than to believe her eyes. As soon as he turns away, Dave begins to speak.

“Buffy,” the napkin is crumpling beneath his fingers. “I wanted to talk to you tonight.” He’s picking at the seams.

“We’ve been together for a while now... Around six months. And,” it had been folded into tiny triangles, “they’ve been great. We’ve made some great memories, too. But....” the napkin dropped to the table. “I’m not sure if this is going to work out.”

There. He’d said it, not her. “I mean, you’ve been great and all, and we’ve had such a great time, but I get the feeling that we both want different things out of this, and maybe we should go our separate ways.”

Flickering candlelight casts deep shadows in the folds of the napkin lying on his plate. His dark hair shines in the half-light; his black suit melts into the shadows. She slowly lifts her gaze to meet his.

“I - understand. I understand exactly what you’re saying, and I agree.”

He sits there for a few moments, dumbstruck. She watches the relief flood his body and he regains composure.

“All right then. Great. That’s great.”

----

“You’ve done enough, you can still...” Her tone is desperate and pleading, reaching out for something she knew wasn’t there.

----

Her memories haunt her at night, and she always wakes up crying. She wants him, misses him, loves him still.

Her body shudders; tears stream down her face. The bed sheets clinging to solitary form her offer no comfort, and she hugs herself tightly, desperately trying to force the memory away. Her attempts are futile.

There is no solace for those who love the dead.

--------

She wakes in the morning to find she is urgently clutching a pillow to her chest, her cheeks tight from the tears. Her bed is warm and soft, soothing her agitated body. Her entire right arm is completely numb.

The wood floor chills her bare feet, sending shoots of pain racing up to her knees.

----

Everything looks surreal in the bright late afternoon sun, as if it were an abstract painting or a dream.

She walks the streets of Los Angeles, no clear destination in mind. This is her life now. Every day, her skirt swishing around her knees; her jeans riding low on her hips, she sets out to tread the sun-baked pavement. Sometimes she ducks into the boutiques and buys everything she sets her eyes on. Money doesn’t matter when an evil law firm is paying.

There’s not much left of her. Lack of appetite, nightmares, and walking every day for three and a half years have taken a toll on her body. Her skin is taut over her jutting ribs; she looks like a survivor of the holocaust. Nothing left but sinew and bone.

At night, she goes to clubs. Sits. Watches couples dancing, talking, laughing while she sips whiskey and gin and tequila, all straight.

She takes what little solace she can get from the burn of the liquor on her tongue.

----

Willow calls her out of the blue one day. Her voice sounds bright and cheery on the line, and there’s only a shadow of past grief in her tone. Menial words are exchanged between the two. Dawn is doing fine. She and Kennedy are getting along great. The weather’s nice, if a little hot. They sprinkle the nothing with empty jokes and faceless smiles.

Buffy is about to tell her goodbye when the question inevitably arises. “So, how are things with Dave going?”

She stiffens, knowing what the response will be. She’s already heard it three times. “Oh, well, y’know... We broke up last Thursday. That’s the way things go.”

The frown on Willow’s face can be heard on the line. “Oh. Buffy...”

She can’t handle sympathy and concern.

“It’s all right, we weren’t going anywhere. I’m just glad it was him who said it, and not me.” The joke falls flat between them. Willow speaks again, but there are shards of suspicion and disappointment in her voice.

“Buffy, that’s the third time you’ve said that to me. Are you sure...” She trails off as if unsure, but doggedly resumes the question. “Are you sure it wasn’t something else?”

“What do you mean?” She knows exactly what she means.

“I.... Well... Uh...” She’s flustered and embarrassed. “Um.... nevermind.”

“Look, Will, it’s been great talking to you, but I kinda have to go know. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye.” She hangs up before an answer is echoed back, and heaves an exhausted sigh.

Yeah. It’s really been great.

----

She’s running out of places to walk, so she takes a bus down to Melrose. There’s a small cluster of houses among all of the businesses and schools and restaurants. It’s so very urban it intrigues her, and she turns off Vine to examine the silent streets.

The houses are small and cramped, ground-floor bungalows and single apartments housing families of seven. Bullets have pockmarked the pavement, leaving gaping holes where chunks of asphalt have been blown away.

She passes by a house where two dirty girls are planting in their front yard, a goat tethered to the porch behind them. They stop and stare at her high heels, designer jeans, blond hair. She doesn’t know what she’s doing here any more than they.

As she strolls down one of the bright, graffitied alleyways, the sounds of children screaming and laughing greet her ears. They are in a fenced backyard, nothing but blacktop. A sign hanging above the back door announces that she is watching the children of the Hollywood Urban Project Community House. They are playing cops and robbers.

A young girl playing dead on the ground watches her pass by. She is not moving, except for her dark eyes.

----

The bus pulls up a few blocks from her apartment. She nods to the angry driver and descends the stairs to the sidewalk, choking on the diesel fumes as it pulls away.

----

She goes out that night, to watch other couples at an outdoor café. The waiter flirts with her, and tries to tempt her with the offer of a date. She has mastered the art of politely declining.

Her mind drifts away as she waits for her food. The part of her that is trying to forget is failing miserably, and she lets it happen. She hopes it will fade over time. So far, everything is as sharp and clear as the first time it happened. She knows her wishes are in vain.

An abandoned woman in an abandoned house. It’s far from cold, but she’s huddles under the blankets anyway, closing her eyes to try and block the sound of heavy footsteps echoing in the other room, his deep voice, worried, calling her name. Finding her, holding her despite all she had done to push him away. Whispering her strength, her power, her love over and over until she fell asleep knowing she could do it. Save the world again, for him this time.

Her thoughts are shattered when the waiter arrives with her croque monsieur. Turning her head sharply to look at him, a flash of something catches her eye. Warily, she looks back over to the table across the patio. Time freezes.

--------

Her eyes slowly drift open, and she winces at the light streaming through the window. Groaning and stretching, shifts her weight on to an elbow to glance at the time. It’s nine in the morning. She hasn’t slept this late for a long time.

She stretches her leg out to the side, frowning as it brushes against warm flesh. Someone else is in her bed... and as her brow contorts in confusion, it all comes rushing back to her.

----

Furiously shaking her head, she tries to dislodge the image. Light blonde hair, a shade darker than what she remembers, but bright all the same. The glasses are new, silver wire frames sitting comfortably against his face. Blue eyes, bluer than indigo and cold and the ocean. His cheekbones are still as sharp as ever.

The waiter is saying something, calling to her. She slowly tears her gaze away from the ghost before her, turning to face the concerned man.

“Are you all right, miss?” His tone is all worry and gentle kindness.

“Yeah...” She looks for him again, finding a middle-aged executive on a cell phone. It was all an illusion, her lonely and desperate mind grasping for straws. Everywhere she looked, she saw his face. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m sorry if I had you worried.”

“All right.” He turns to leave, and her heart aches.

“Wait!” His eyes are quizzical and hopeful at the same time. She fidgets under his steady gaze. “Um... Would you like to come to my apartment for some coffee after you get off?”

A youthful grin spreads across his lips. “I’m done at ten.”

She smiles at his back while he departs.

----

They’d met at ten, and strolled the five blocks to her apartment. He told her about his life while she made coffee, and his naïve dreams for the future made her wish for that life again. It had gotten later and later...

As she surveys the clothing lying on the floor, memories assault her worn mind. The crypt, her bed, the cemetery... and that last, sweet night in the basement of her home.

He stirs. His eyes open, grass-green irises taking in the room around him. He sees her watching, and smiles. Stretches slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as they hit the frigid floor. He starts pulling on clothing, retrieved from around the room. His tie is resting on the arm of the sofa, and he stuffs it in his pocket as he faces her. A quick kiss on the lips is his goodbye.

“It was great to meet you, Buffy.”

The door slams behind him and she can hear his footsteps echoing down the hall.

----

This time, she takes the bus to the business district. The ride is long, and

Shiny glass towers rise on either side of the dirty bus, and she can’t see to the top through the window. The vehicle lurches as it pulls up to the curb, breaks screeching in protest. She’s distracted on her way down the steps, and collides with a man on the sidewalk, sending papers and books flying. She drops to her knees, muttering apologies and trying to catch the papers before they are caught in the windtunnel created by high walls and traffic.

She’s gathered all the papers before she realizes he’s still standing, watching her crawl on the concrete. She stops , her gaze traveling up his body. When her eyes reach his face, she gasps and is off the ground in a moment.

He’s exactly as she remembered. Glaring blonde hair mussed into stubborn curls, pronounced cheekbones, expressive eyes. She can tell by looking that he’s just as stunned to see her.

Her vision is blurring, there’s a look of amazement on his face, she can’t breathe, his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. He breathes her name, and a sob rips from her delicate frame at the sound.

She throws her arms around him, sobbing into his charcoal suit. He holds her in a firm embrace, stroking her back in comfort. His hand is shaking, and she can feel the tears splash onto her forehead.

“God, I missed you so much...” Kisses rain down on her forehead, peppering her cheeks, settling in her hair. He smells a little less like blood and whiskey, but a little more like leather and cologne.

His eyes are exactly the same blue.

“I looked for you. Every day… I had a dream, once, that you were here, in LA… I moved the next month… And I looked; God, how I looked. I wanted to find you so badly…” He’s pulling her closer, his arms supporting her, encasing her, comforting her. He doesn’t want to let go, and neither does she.

“I can’t believe you’re back… I don’t care why or how, I don’t even think I really want to know. I… I thought I’d never see you again. But, God, I want you to know… I’ve wanted you to know for so long, and you didn’t believe me when I told you…” She’s supporting him now; he’s shaking so badly she thinks he might fall apart in her arms.

“I love you…” They’re both supporting each other, forcing their buckling knees to hold and willing their shaking arms to still. People are staring at the lean businessman in a charcoal suit with unnaturally blonde hair crying in the arms of a weeping wisp of a girl in designer jeans. Neither one of them notices.

A choked, heavy whisper. “I know.”