Awards for Strawberry Fields

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She wasn’t with him.

Spike watched her carefully, his body wrought with tense concern. He wanted to approach her even if he feared making things worse. He wanted to kiss her, but despite their tender lovemaking in the shower, he somehow knew physical comfort wasn’t something she needed. She’d whispered things that made his undead heart sing; she’d asked him to love her, and it had taken every facet of his tired being to keep from assuring her that love was the one thing she would never need to ask of him. Love was the one thing she would always have.

He just didn’t know if she wanted it—not in the way he wanted to love her, anyway. The Buffy he’d known in Sunnydale had vanished completely. The spark in her eyes had faded, along with the smile on her lips and the laughter in her throat. The life in her was gone, and he didn’t know what to do.

God, he didn’t know what to do.

So he watched. He stood quietly beside her, leaning against the wall with his arms folded as she fluffed her hair almost robotically. She couldn’t see him in the mirror, of course. The mirror reflected her and her alone.

But she wasn’t alone. Every rigid move she made was wrung with awareness. She felt his eyes on her as sure as she felt anything. Spike was certain of it.

His eyes fell almost reluctantly to the mark on her throat. The mark on her throat which declared her as his. They still hadn’t spoken about it. About what had happened the second he sank his fangs into her luscious body. The significance of her acceptance, and the amazing turnabout of her claim on him. There wasn’t an inch of him that failed to hum. He was pulled to her and yet kept his distance. His arms ached to be around her. His body, unaccustomed to the tug of its mate’s call, was hard and desperate to be inside her again. Spike had never thought himself as one to claim or be claimed; not after the failed attempt to stake his claim on Drusilla.

His demon snarled at the thought of his maker, but even as his cells drew him near his mate, his mind couldn’t help but wander. It was easy to see now that Dru had never been his, and he supposed a part of him had even known it at the time. Still, it hadn’t made the burn of her rejection any less painful. He well remembered the endless sea of hurt—the wail consuming his insides had echoed through his body for years. He hadn’t understood then, even if her refusal hadn’t completely surprised him. He hadn’t understood how a woman who seemed to love him as much as Drusilla could refuse a man devoted to worshipping the very ground she walked on. A man who would dedicate his very existence to making her happy.

He hadn’t been good enough for Dru. It was a sad reality—one which had followed him in shadows for years. One he would have ignored until the end of time had it not been for Buffy. Had Buffy not led him into sunlight. He burned for Buffy but didn’t dust—she provided what no woman before her had or ever could. She made him see.

He’d left with her consciously. Dru was god-knows-where. Perhaps he’d been a sentimental fool in leaving her alive, but even with as much as the bitch had hurt him—even knowing her intention had been to destroy him—the part of him which remained grateful to her refused to take her life.

She would not be so lucky a second time. If Dru attempted to break into his life again—if she came after him or Buffy—he would destroy her. His debt to her was repaid in full. He’d already granted clemency she didn’t deserve.

Buffy was his everything. He felt like he belonged after so many years of wandering through darkness. He felt as though the clouds had finally parted. He’d found in her what other men wasted lifetimes searching for, and he’d found her by accident. The love burning his chest was almost painful, but imagining a life without the warmth she gave him was strikingly unbearable. He’d only had her for a short while and he already knew he couldn’t manage without her. It was a direct counterpoint to whatever he’d thought he’d felt in the past. With Cecily. With Dru. He didn’t know how it was different, but God it was. And it was wonderful.

He suspected it was wonderful because it was real. He’d been attracted to darkness in the past. He was, after all, a vampire. But even as a man, his heart had led him to women encased in shadows and too in love with themselves to ever give love to anyone else. Cecily had been pride wrapped in selfishness. She’d stood as wintry as any woman he’d ever known, and she’d sent him running into the arms of true blackness.

Buffy wasn’t dark. Not even now when she was broken could she hope to be dark. She was lost and hurting, doing her best to keep from completely shattering with every step. She was in need but she wouldn’t ask for it. She wanted so badly to be strong. She didn’t know how to move beyond this. She was hurting—God, she was hurting. But she wanted him to think she wasn’t. She didn’t know she wasn’t standing alone.

And he knew she was going to run.

Spike’s eyes darted to the ground, a long sigh commanding his body. It was damned hard staying quiet. Pretending not to know every wayward thought that crossed her beautiful head. His knowledge had nothing to do with the claim, though the feelings he felt rippling through her energy only substantiated what he already knew. He didn’t want her to know that he knew—he didn’t want her to think he would try to stop her.

He wanted to stop her. God knows he did. But he knew stopping her would forfeit the sacred trust between them. Stopping her would make her think he didn’t value her independence or her strength. Stopping her would compromise everything.

He would let her go because he loved her. He wouldn’t let her get far; just far enough. But he would let her go.

In order to keep her, he had to let her go.

Any more distance between them would mean the end of them both. And he couldn’t let her leave him forever. He loved her too bloody much not to be near her. She didn’t know she belonged to him, or rather that he belonged to her. But she had given herself to him freely. She could have refuted his claim when his fangs found her throat. She could have laughed and shoved him off her, all the while mocking his presumption. She could have refused him.

She hadn’t. And Spike’s love for her had deepened. Not because she didn’t refuse him; it had nothing to do with Buffy’s acceptance of a claim she didn’t know he’d placed on her and everything to do with her acceptance of him. In a moment of pure instinct, she’d said yes to him. She’d said yes. And while he’d already loved her with everything he was before the magical word crossed her gorgeous lips, his love had fused into something larger and more powerful than he thought possible. He was helplessly and hopelessly hers, and as long as he breathed air he didn’t need, he would bend reality to give her what she needed.

Even if what she needed was freedom.

A long, trembling sigh rolled off his lips. Freedom. For now.

Just enough to give her a head start.

“I bloody hate mirrors,” Spike said, swallowing every emotion that crashed over her face at the intrusion of his voice. “Most of the time, anyway.”

Buffy nodded, her eyes shooting to the place in the mirror where he would be standing if he were to cast a reflection. He found the notion endearing; something which told him plainly that she was aware of him—even more so than she knew. That she didn’t consider him absent just because she couldn’t see him.

“Most of the time, I do, too,” she replied, her lips pulling into a half-smile which didn’t reach her eyes. “My hair never does what I want it to.”

“Your hair’s perfect.”

“It’s—”

“Looks like you’ve been well shagged, an’ I happen to find that look rather fetching.” He smirked, his eyes dropping to take in the delicious curves that composed her backside. “’m also findin’ I like seein’ your front an’ back at the same time.”

Buffy paused again, her eyes once more seeking him in the mirror. She locked gazes with him without knowing it, and the power behind her intuition stole unneeded breath from his lungs. “I don’t have much of a front,” she replied, casting a self-conscious glance to her succulent breasts. “I’m amazed I can fill a C-cup.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“So says the man who’s gotten lucky twice.”

“So says the man who’s had those delicious tits of yours in his mouth,” he countered, enjoying the blush which stretched across her milky skin. “You’re flawless.”

“You’re thinking with your penis.” In another woman’s voice, it would have sounded like an accusation. In Buffy’s, it was almost an endearment.

God, he loved her. He was going to miss her so bloody much. He missed her already and she hadn’t left yet. Spike honestly didn’t know how long he was going to be able to withstand the distance between them. He wanted to give her time but something told him he’d be lucky if he managed to hold off his instincts as long as a week. He loved her; his first instinct was to be around her always. Letting her go at all went against everything he knew.

Throw in the claim and he was a man lost. Thoroughly lost. He was lost enough without the words and the sacred bond between them. “Doesn’ make it any less true,” he replied, his eyes dipping to her breasts. Christ, now he wanted her again. He didn’t know why she was primping her hair, but something told him it wasn’t to shag him before she took off to face her personal demons alone. “Trust me, love…there’s not a thing about you I’d dream of changin’.”

Buffy’s eyes darted downward as though she knew she was staring at him, her skin flushing a deeper red. “Stop,” she protested softly.

“Stop what? Telling you you’re beautiful? Sorry, love…’m a man who appreciates beauty. Not gonna hush jus’ because you’ve gotten some wonky complex.”

“I don’t feel beautiful.”

“That’s where the ‘wonky complex’ comes in.” Spike swallowed hard and took a step forward. “Where we going, kitten? You hungry?”

She paused, visibly searching for words. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Actually. Yeah. I…I dunno, I didn’t think I’d be hungry after all we ate last night.”

“It was the firs’ thing you’d eaten since we left Sunnydale,” he pointed out. The obvious response—an observation that they’d undoubtedly worked the meal off with the naked acrobatics the night before—remained lodged in his throat. He wasn’t going to use sex to dominate her; Buffy wasn’t the sort who could be dominated. Any attempt would only hurt her in the end.

Moreover, a submissive Buffy was the last thing he wanted. He wanted fight in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. He wanted her swinging and her body moving the way the Powers intended. He wanted his Buffy the way she was. Exactly as she was.

He wanted to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around her middle and beg her not to leave. He wanted to promise her a thousand things she wouldn’t know to believe until she got a taste of the freedom she craved. This thing she felt she needed to do.

“Well, pet?” Spike prompted. “You wanna stay here an’ let me grab somethin’? Or do you need to get out?”

She was quiet for a long second, and when she licked her lips he had to choke back a moan. He wanted to lick them for her. “Are you going back to the place we went last night?” she asked. “The diner?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ll go wherever you want.”

A half grin tugged at Buffy’s lips. “The woman from the diner was lusting after you bad.”

Spike snickered appreciatively. “You noticed that, huh?”

“The way she was drooling all over your…sausage?” Buffy unknowingly met his eyes again in the mirror’s reflection, and the ghost of her former cheekiness made his heart drop. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to give him hope. Perhaps this distance she was going to impose between them wouldn’t be long after all. “No,” she continued, glancing down again. “I completely missed that.”

He smirked and stepped forward, his hands, possessing a mind of their own, slowly lifted to caress the soft, warm temptation of her bare skin. His lips ached to follow suit and brush against her shoulder. His body was wrought with tension and strangled with need—knowledge pressing down that these moments would be their last. Their last for now. Their last until the clouds around his mate parted and she returned to him. “The bird din’t notice I had everythin’ a man could want right across the table,” he murmured, his disobedient teeth biting at her earlobe. “That’d be you, baby.”

Buffy trembled beneath his fingers. “Ohhh…”

“Mmm…” he agreed, his voice a rumbling purr. Good intentions dove out the window. He needed to have her. Just one last time, he needed to have her. “Buffy…”

Fortunately, the quivering girl under his hands seemed to agree with him. Before he could blink, Buffy released a long moan of surrender and twisted in his arms, cupping his cheeks and angling him into her kiss, splitting every vein in his body with bittersweet bliss. She tasted so good. So fucking good. All lightness and purity, and she was his. His beautiful, broken girl. Her mouth bruised him in hard desperation, her tongue whipping his, her lips owning him completely.

“Spike…”

He nodded urgently against her, his hands dropping to the hem of her camisole. “Can I?” he asked, already urging the fabric up her body. Buffy mewled her consent and dragged his mouth back to hers, rumbling harmonious moans against him as he filled his palms with her breasts. “Buffy…God…”

“Need you. Please.” Her shaking hands fell to his waistband, fumbling with his belt buckle. “Please. Please.”

“I’m here, love,” Spike replied, his voice impossibly calm in cool contrast to the heat ripping him apart. His cock ached and strained hard against his zipper, desperate for the feel of her warm hand around him. He needed her so much. So fucking much. He needed to feel her in his arms, her pussy wrapped around his cock. He needed the solace of his mate, and he needed to give her solace in return. He just needed her, and he needed her now. “I’m right here.”

Buffy shook her head deafly and gave up the conquest of his fly with a defeated sigh. Her eyes were wide and panicked, filled to the brim with tears. “Please,” she cried. “Please…”

It was almost funny the way things could drop. Without warning, Spike’s heart shattered. He knew what this was.

This was goodbye.

In her mind, probably forever.

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t forever. For them, forever was just that. The time they’d spent apart would be ultimately dwarfed by the millennia at their feet.

“I’m here,” Spike told her again, his voice achingly vacant. He reached between them to undo his fly, taking her wrist in his hand and guiding her touch to where he needed her. “I’m right here.”

He’d say it over and over again if she liked. Whatever she wanted, he’d give.

“Please,” Buffy begged again, wresting a kiss from his lips. “Please.”

Spike swallowed hard and bit back tears. “Whatever you need, baby,” he replied hoarsely, a low moan tearing through his body when his cock finally sprang free of its denim prison and into Buffy’s waiting hand. “Whatever you need.”

“I need you,” she whispered.

His heart melted. “You’ve got me,” he swore, his head dipping to capture one of her perfect nipples between his teeth as his hands tore at her jeans. “You’ve got me. I’m right here.”

“Spike…”

“’m right here.”

He didn’t know if she truly heard him. He barely heard himself. All he knew was that she was asking him for something she already had—something she would always have—and no amount of swearing himself to her achieved the reassurance she so craved.

This was the fall. The last fall.

But if this was the last, he wouldn’t deny himself. He couldn’t. Not with her pussy soaked for him. Not with her hand wrapped around his cock. Not with the tears drowning her eyes or the gasps seizing her throat.

He would worship her body with his. He would shower her skin with kisses and pour his love into her however he could. However he could without frightening her with words.

He would love her now, and hope she felt everything he didn’t say.

Hope making love to her now would let her know just how much this wasn’t over between them.

Not over. Oh no.

Just beginning.

Buffy couldn’t stop crying.

Her hands trembled as she bunched the hotel’s complimentary toiletries into her worn school backpack. Her legs wobbled with every careful step she took across the blindingly-white-yet-worn carpet. Her cheeks were wet and cold, her nose a runny mess, and though her eyes were half-blinded with tears, she moved around the room as though she’d lived within its confines all her life.

Every cell in her body tugged her back to the bed. To the gorgeous vampire draped in linen sheets. He slept peacefully, murmuring every few seconds but never awaking. He slept while she gathered what few things she had. The backpack she’d retrieved from the Desoto, the value-pack of underwear she’d purchased when they stopped for gas, and whatever free-accessories she could locate. And with every move she made, her body sank further into depression and her tears came harder. The ache in her chest had every nerve weeping for respite. She didn’t understand it—she barely understood herself.

What had happened between them had rocked her completely. It would be easy. God, it would be so easy. She could discard everything she felt—every tug of her soul in the wager between right and wrong and lose herself in Spike’s arms. She could. And at that moment, she wanted to.

But it would kill her. In the end, when the sting of cold finally melted into warmth and she returned entirely to herself, being with Spike would kill her. Not by his intent; by what he could not control. Her feelings for him were already too complex to name. Spike was so murky when it came to the definitions of good and evil. There was nothing evil about what he’d done for her thus far. He’d sworn his allegiance to her, nearly died because of her, saved the world with her, and helped her save her from herself by getting her away from the scene of the crime.

He’d been whatever she needed him to be. Last night when she needed to forget, he’d allowed her to use him as means to banish the world. He’d allowed her to bruise him with her body, and had bruised her in turn. He’d given her pain because she’d wanted it; this morning and today, he’d given her solace.

He’d shown her the man inside, all the while keeping the demon at bay. But the demon was as much a part of him as the man. It was something he couldn’t help, and would ultimately destroy her. His inherent evil couldn’t remain dormant for long; once it showed its face, what little was left of her would be completely crushed.

Buffy sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes, her gaze reluctantly falling on Spike once more. He was so beautiful. So distant. Temptation wrapped in sin.

She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay so badly. But she couldn’t. If she did, she’d be right back where she started. She’d be a slayer in love with a vampire; one with nothing holding him back from destroying her.

Buffy inhaled sharply, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

Go now.

Spike murmured again and stretched in his sleep.

Her feet carried her across the room before she could stop herself, her wet, tear-stained lips brushing his as she battled the prevailing need to break down completely. She reached into her left pocket and withdrew the hasty note she’d scribbled for his benefit. She’d hoped to leave him a prolific explanation, compact with her regrets and her reasoning. She’d hoped to leave him with something more than what she had.

In the end, though, her trembling hand could only manage two lines.

I’m so sorry. Goodbye.

She would be miles away before her hand delved into her other pocket. Before she discovered something that hadn’t been there before. A roll of cash, composed mainly of hundreds and fifties. A roll of cash and, in strikingly elegant penmanship, a note.

Only the best food and the best rooms for my slayer. Don’t think I won’t find you.

- Spike

A/N: My thanks to my betas for their guidance and insight, and to my readers for your support and understanding.

This is where the true detour from BtVS canon begins. I might have stretched the AtS timeline a bit, but roughly the dates should align so that the following fits in canon. If not, I’m going to unapologetically make it fit in canon. Heh. No knowledge of AtS is necessary to follow what transpires from this moment on—I’m just using the characters. Their destinies will be shaped by the events I put into motion; I might use things from AtS canon, but if I do, they’ll be explained in text.

In the meantime, thank you all so much. I hope you’re comfortable—this ride’s just getting started.

The note remained in her pocket for two weeks. She couldn’t bring herself to remove it—couldn’t stand the idea of any further separation from him, even if it was to leave behind the scrap of paper on which he’d written. She felt strangely close to him with his writing in her pocket. His ominous note which promised to find her, no matter the cost.

The revolving door of emotion had finally landed on comfort. Discovering the note had left her numb for what felt like days, and in the immediate aftermath of shock, it was always natural to search for anger in place of cool, rational reasoning. Spike had known from the beginning what she was going to do—he hadn’t stopped her, he hadn’t even confronted her. He hadn’t done anything except what she’d told herself she wanted; he’d let her walk out the door.

He’d known all along. For some reason, it made her angry.

Anger never lasted, of course, especially when it was unfounded. In Buffy’s case, her anger stretched the length of perhaps thirty seconds before she dissolved into tears. And it seemed she hadn’t stopped crying since.

Spike had let her walk away. He hadn’t tried to stop her. He’d let her do what she felt she needed to do.

He’d let her…

And now she ached. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t sore. Pain stretched her every nerve, every cell. Her insides were consumed with hurt. She felt it with every step. Every time she tried to climb to her feet, all of her went rigid and she found herself sapped of the will to move.

It was as though her body had collapsed on her. Now she was lying in bed, her eyes blankly fixed on the cream-colored wall. The room she’d booked was nice, as per Spike’s instructions, and she still had plenty of money left even after two weeks and Los Angeles’ sky-high prices. She didn’t want to think about where he’d gotten it or when he’d had the time to place the cash in her pocket. She didn’t want to think about the decision she’d made at all.

She didn’t want to think about how alone she was.

The pain stretching through her worn body was unlike anything she’d felt. It had begun as a stomach ache—a vague annoyance. Nothing she would have expected to extend into all-out incapacitation. But for the past day and a half, Buffy had lacked the will-power to do much of anything. Hours were occupied on her hotel bed, watching the news as her thoughts wandered to the life she’d left behind.

To those in Sunnydale—faces she knew and loved. Faces she didn’t know when she’d be ready to see again. Any thought to a possible homecoming was far away—a distant speck of nothing on an endless timeline.

Buffy shivered, a dark shadow filling her veins. She tried telling herself that time healed all wounds. That the boulder resting on her heart would eventually erode into nothing. That she would awake one morning without feeling like every corner of her body was cracked. Her memories would wash into something painless, and she would face the prospect of a new day without breaking.

She knew time healed all wounds, but even knowledge couldn’t provide clarity. All Buffy knew right now was she didn’t want to go back.

It wasn’t a matter of now.

It was a matter of never.

Buffy sighed heavily, wincing as she forced herself to sit up. Every move made her weakened body scream in protest. If the world wanted to end right now she’d be in no place to stop it. She couldn’t slay a fly, much less a vampire. Acathla’s jaw could drop and suck everything into the spiraling bowels of Hell and she’d be useless to do anything more than find something and hold on tight.

Something was wrong. Wrong and more than wrong. Buffy knew depression could debilitate people, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. So consuming. So…

She wanted Spike.

The thought of him had her screaming nerves sighing with a small measure of relief. Spike. Spike would make everything better. His touch would cool the fire scorching her skin raw. The comfort of his arms would ease every screaming ache in her body. She wanted him so much.

Something was very wrong. Something had happened—changed. Something was different.

Something had changed in the motel room with Spike. He’d brought her body to life with pleasure. He’d held her and kissed her tears away. He’d been everything.

He’d bitten her.

Buffy’s eyes went wide, her hand shooting to the tender mark on her throat.

He’d bitten her. He’d bitten her, and something had changed. He’d said something—God, he’d told her she was his.

His cock rocking in and out of her wet pussy, his eyes possessing her, his hands marking her. His fangs stained with her blood. His body worshipping hers, loving hers, in all the ways she couldn’t bear to let him.

Mine, he’d said.

And she’d said yes.

Not only that, she’d bitten him in turn. And she’d said the same. She’d staked her claim on Spike.

Blood. Vampires. Words. Oaths.

Something had happened that night. Something unprecedented. Something which had changed everything.

She just had to find out what.

It felt very wrong stepping inside a public library without Giles over her shoulder. For a long second, Buffy stood motionless in the foyer, her eyes absorbing the bustling movement of eager readers moving from aisle to aisle of books. She was so unaccustomed to seeing the library—any library—filled with eager patrons that for a second she considered stepping outside to double-check that she was in the right building.

It wasn’t until she was standing in front of a stern-looking librarian that she really began to miss Giles. In Sunnydale, asking for books about demons and vampires wasn’t something that earned an arched-brow and a cleared throat. And while she was nearly certain the reaction she received from the librarian was all in her head, it didn’t make the effects resonate any less.

No, Buffy felt most assuredly alone.

“Vampires?” the librarian repeated. “Anne Rice, that sort of thing? Our paranormal romance section—”

“No,” Buffy replied quickly. “Not paranormal romance. I mean…like…non-fiction.”

“Oh.” A blink. “Certainly. This way, please.”

Ten minutes later, she was hidden away in a secluded area of the library, staring at a page of text she honestly hadn’t the first idea of how to decipher. And in seconds, she found herself sinking in her seat. This was so much not her area. The books. The knowledge. She was more a stake-in-hand-slaying-baddies person. Without someone to translate what the words meant, she might as well have been reading Greek.

Buffy really didn’t know what she was looking for. There wasn’t a word for what she was feeling; for the pain stabbing her heart with every breath. For the way her hand trembled every time she moved to turn the page. For the hurt consuming her chest with every breath.

For the way she craved Spike—craved the comfort of touch and silky touch of his kiss. Craved him like she’d craved nothing before.

“I’m getting nowhere,” she murmured, turning another yellow, aged page. Words meshed into a shapeless blur. “This is me…getting nowhere.”

How could she research something based on something she was feeling? Spike had said mine when he bit her. Mine. There wasn’t an index big enough to cover the implications of that one, monosyllabic word.

If there were any implications.

If this wasn’t indeed all in her head.

Buffy sucked in a breath and turned another page. Nothing. Nothing. Garlic. Crosses. Holy water. Speculation on the earliest vampires in history. Words here and there about the ways vampires were born, a debate on whether or not they aged, and a few paragraphs from so-called experts as to the truth behind the Slayer myth.

“I could be standing on a hill in the middle of nowhere and I’d know more about what’s happening to me than I know right now.” Buffy sighed and surveyed her surroundings wearily. “I’m also talking to myself, which isn’t exactly the best of signs. I’m talking to myself and I’m learning nothing. This was definitely worth the trip.”

Her words died with an electric crackle of energy. A crackle which undeniably should not exist in a library. In a blink, she was shot back some three hundred miles, buried in a book in Sunnydale, where energy crackles and dimensional rips were something normal. Something not completely out of the ordinary.

Buffy didn’t know how she knew it was a dimensional rip; she just did. It was split-second recognition. Something she knew immediately, without fault. Without hesitation.

And just as quickly, the pain in her body hardened into a rush of determination. She shoved everything internal aside and jumped to her feet, instincts leading her toward the roar of the blast. Thoughts rushed alongside reason and collided in a jumbled mess; she didn’t know where she was running or what toward—she didn’t have anything with her but Spike’s note—and reality, it seemed, was on an indefinite hold.

The air roared with the familiar shrill of human terror. Buffy turned a corner and saw it.

She didn’t have time to stop. She barely had time to hesitate. The light was blinding, a cloudy swirl of shapes and colors. Something in the distance bellowed but she didn’t allow herself a beat of hesitation. There was a girl with a book in her hands—a young girl whose face was stricken with terror.

“Help!” the girl screamed. “Oh God, please!”

The blinding cloud of light was growing wider. In a second it would consume the entire aisle, and the girl would be gone.

Buffy didn’t breathe. Didn’t think. In an instant, her hand closed around the girl’s wrist and she was running again in the other direction. The girl fell in clumsily behind her, a deadweight, but quickly gathered her bearings and broke off in a sprint.

“I—”

Buffy shook her head hard. “Don’t talk,” she said hurriedly. She shoved the girl behind a row of shelves and dropped instinctively to the ground, pain spearing through her body like thunder. Her heart hammered, her breaths crushed her chest, and every inch of her was aching beyond ache.

Beside her, the girl she’d rescued was shaking hard. “What was that?”

Buffy didn’t answer her. The answer was there, of course, but she didn’t know what to tell her. Even if her thoughts weren’t racing and her body wasn’t about to crack and shatter in a thousand indiscernible pieces, this wasn’t her area. This was so not her area. This was Giles’s area. Her area was saving the helpless. Her area ended now.

Her area ended after the grunt work was complete.

A few minutes went by; a few minutes which could have easily spanned a few hours for as much as her insides hurt. The roar of the dimensional rip rolled into a gentle rumble before dying out altogether, and the shadows it cast against the row of bookcases similarly faded into nothing. And then there was nothing. Nothing but her heart drumming hard against her breastbone and the terrified tremors of the girl at her side.

Nothing that Buffy could see, anyway.

“Stay put,” she said sharply. The girl nodded and jerked her head forward, her eyes focusing on the carpet.

Every move she made cut deeper into her body, but Buffy forced herself to ignore it. Worrying a lip between her teeth, she raised herself onto her knees and peered around the shelf.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a hint of the rip which had torn through the barriers of reality just seconds before. No screams. No blank stares from a group of bystanders. In the distance, she heard conversation and the click of fingers against keyboards. She heard the scan of books being checked out and the recitation of due dates from the lips of librarians. It was all there—far away, of course, but there. People around her were continuing with their lives. On the surface, nothing had happened.

How was that possible?

Buffy thought immediately of Sunnydale, and she knew the answer. If it wasn’t right in front of some people, they didn’t see it. And she had been alone on this level of the library. She’d been alone other than the girl. She’d been alone with her book on vampires which provided no answers and a thousand additional questions. Life continued around them as though nothing had occurred, because ostensibly, nothing had.

“I-is anything there?” the girl asked. “S-s-sorry. I don’t mean—”

“I don’t see anything,” Buffy replied. “Lemme make sure…wait here.”

“Okay.”

Buffy climbed to her feet, fighting off a wince. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

“Be careful,” the girl whimpered, but she didn’t need to be told that.

The walk back to the aisle was long. Every step seemed to render her destination further away. She was panting hard, every breath stabbing her lungs with shards of self-awareness. And when she reached the row of books where the dimensional rip had opened, there was nothing to suggest anything extraordinary had occurred. No burnt carpet. No books on the floor. Nothing.

Well, nothing except for the green demon, whose eyes were so wide she was at first convinced that her presence had come as the greater shock.

“Great googly—”

Buffy’s hands flexed in need of a weapon. “Hey—”

“I’ll just…” The demon motioned in the other direction. “Be on my way.”

“Not so—”

The words barely had time to touch the air. The demon waved awkwardly, then turned on his heel and bolted. And while she commanded her legs to follow him, they had hardened completely into lead. She toppled forward before she could stop herself, her palms bracing her fall and the impact sending shockwaves of pain through every fiber of her being.

That was how the girl found her. Curled on the floor, gasping for air and needing Spike so badly that she was certain she wouldn’t make it through the night.

“Oh my God,” the girl cried, falling to her knees at her side. “Are…are you all right?”

Buffy whimpered, her voice clawing for escape.

“I’m gonna get you help,” the girl promised. “Just stay—”

“Uhhh…”

“I’m gonna—”

“No,” she managed at last, rolling onto her back. “No. I…” There was no one who could help her. No one but her vampire, and she still didn’t know why. “No…I’m…I just need…”

There was a beat of silence. “Let’s get you out of here,” the girl said softly. “I’ll get you help.”

“No—”

“You saved my life. I’ll get you help.”

Buffy wanted to argue but found she hadn’t the strength. She hadn’t the strength to do anything. So she didn’t speak. She didn’t try something she knew she would do little more than zap what diminutive energy she had left. Instead, she allowed the girl to help her to her feet. She took her arm when offered and wobbled on unsteady legs to the nearest table.

“I’m Fred, by the way,” the girl said awkwardly. “Fred Burkle.”

“Buffy,” she replied in kind, though it came out as little more than a gasp.

“I’m gonna get you help.”

There was no way she could, but the point was very much moot.

Instead, she allowed Fred to escort her from the library, hoping the girl’s strength would be enough for both of them if she collapsed again.

Hoping Spike would be waiting for her when she left the library, ready to make good on his promise. Ready to find her.

She hadn’t even the strength to cry when she stepped outside at Fred’s guidance, and was greeted by the sight of nothing at all.

Spike wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere, and she couldn’t blame him.

She’d left him, and he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. She’d left him. And in spite of whatever he’d told her, in spite of the note burning a hole in her pocket, there was no reason to expect him.

Not when she’d been the one to walk away.

She’d made the call. She’d made the decision.

And now she was in pain. Her bones were diseased with pain. Her heart was sick. Her skin was tender. There was no part of her that didn’t hurt.

She was alone.

A/N: OH MY GOD AN UPDATE!!!

An actual update! Of this story!

I’ll give you all a minute to rub your eyes and convince yourself you’re not seeing things. I know, this must come as a shock.

However, my lack of updates has NOT been due to writer’s block or an overly busy schedule or anything of the sort. Now that Echoes is complete, I may return to my sorely neglected other WIPs.

Thank you SO MUCH to my betas for the speedy edit. And to all my readers who believed me when I said I’d be back. Thank you all for sticking by me.

Previously: Unaware she’s been claimed by Spike, and having unwittingly claimed him back, an emotionally-battered Buffy abandoned Spike in their motel. She later discovers later that he knew she was planning to run and provided her with money. Once the effects of the claim and separation set in, Buffy travels to the local library to find a solution to her ailment, where she rescues a certain young woman from being sucked into an alternate dimension.

Buffy wasn’t accustomed to relying on the kindness of strangers. In her experience, the notion itself was a living contradiction. And yet, here she sat in the welcomed comfort of a stranger’s home, sipping tea the same stranger had made her and awaiting a bowl of homemade soup. This was the sort of thing she would normally dismiss without much thought, but with her body aching at the slightest twitch, she was suddenly faced with the awareness that if it came down to it, she could be at the stranger’s mercy.

Buffy was either entirely fortunate or entirely foolish.

“What was that thing?” the girl called Fred asked, her Texan accent stronger now than it had been on the streets.

The Slayer’s eyes flittered shut. Distantly, she knew she should come up with some outrageously bogus lie, but she hadn’t the strength or inclination to protect people from the truth of the world anymore. She shouldn’t be the only one burdened with knowledge. The Powers had chosen her, and now she was choosing someone else. There wasn’t enough will left in her to give a damn.

“It was a portal,” she said without ceremony, swallowing a mouthful of tea.

In a perfect world, one would take the revelation at face-value without need for explanation. What ensued was nothing but proof that the world was not and would never be perfect.

“A…” Fred’s voice was trembling. “A portal?”

Buffy would like to think she would have been inclined to comfort the girl were she not hurting, but after everything she’d been through, she couldn’t muster much sympathy for people who got to live with a perpetual blindfold. Not with everything she’d been through. Everything she’d given up. Everything she’d suffered.

“Yeah…a portal.”

“A portal to…to what?” Fred rounded the sofa with a cup of tomato soup in her hands. She placed the offering on her worn coffee table and took a seat in the rocker opposite Buffy. “It’s not some kinda code, is it?”

Buffy blinked. “A code?” The excuses people made to guard themselves from the truth were frightening at times. Then again, she could be cranky because she felt she’d been poisoned. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her insides were diseased and rotting, chipping away until there would be nothing of her left.

She felt she was melting from the inside out.

The girl flushed and glanced down. “I guess not, then.”

“Chances are it was to another dimension,” Buffy said, reaching for the proffered cup of soup. It smelled wonderful, and even through the gnawing pain eating away at her, she could discern a good amount of it was due to hunger. “That…that demon…came out of it.”

Fred paled visibly. “D-demon?”

Buffy’s eyes fell shut and she suppressed an inner groan. After so many years fighting evil, there was no good way to cushion people from the truth of the world around them. Even if she wanted to, she hadn’t the slightest idea where she would begin. There was no easy segue.

She didn’t know how much Fred truly wanted to know and how much was just curiosity.

Oh, to hell with it. She asked.

“Demon. As in monsters.”

“L-like…werewolves? A-and zombies?” Fred’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God, is it actually possible to reanimate dead flesh? Because that sort of research could be incredibly beneficial to the medical community. Think of all the diseases we could cure. The milestones we could overcome. The…what?”

Buffy just stared at her. “I think you might be the only person I’ve ever met who’s gone from ‘zombies’ to ‘medical breakthrough.’”

The girl flushed and glanced down. “Sorry,” she said self-consciously. “I’m…I’m a scientist. My brain just goes there.”

“You’re a scientist?”

Fred’s eyes went wide, scandalized, as though she’d never heard the word, much less applied it to herself. “Well, I…yeah, I am. I majored in mathematics and physics and I’m working on my doctorate. My knowledge of other sciences is also…well, out there.” Her blush deepened and she glanced down, shaking her head. “I normally don’t brag, I promise. But I am…”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…just…the idea of reanimating dead flesh is fascinating.” The girl’s eyes flashed with said fascination, adapting the sort of look Dr. Frankenstein might have worn before he created his monster. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever…seen a zombie, have you? Or do they prefer to be called Non-Living US Citizens?”

Buffy fidgeted uncomfortably. For whatever reason, she’d thought Fred to be her age, but admittedly learning the woman had a few years on her did put things in a clearer light. Like why she lived in not-a-slum and had credit cards. “I don’t think there’s a PC term for zombies, no. None that I’ve come across, anyway.”

“So they do exist? Have you seen one?”

She made a face. “I…ummm…well, a girl I know last year was…uhhh…targeted by a zombie to be his undead eternal girlfriend. Really, from what I’ve seen, the whole thing is messy and icksome.”

Great. She’d used a standard Buffy-nonword in the presence of a scientist. She might as well go around telling people her age and her IQ were identical.

Fred nodded. “I’d imagine so,” she said, seemingly oblivious to Buffy’s discomfort. “That sort of knowledge in the wrong hands could go a long, long way. Wars never ending, the resurgence of dictatorships. We’d potentially have a world filled with Machiavellians.” The possibility seemed to alarm her. “This is definitely the sort of thing we should keep to ourselves.”

“I’ll have to go take down all my Fabulous-Job-Opportunities-For-Zombies signs, but I think we can manage.” Buffy shifted again, wincing as her body rebelled and surged with another wave of pain. “But…I think you get the idea. Zombies. Werewolves. Demons. Vampires—”

The poor girl looked horrified. “Vampires?”

Buffy had to bite back a mildly bemused grin. It always surprised her how vampires somehow warranted a larger reaction than the litany of other non-human creatures which prowled the night. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Vampires.”

“The kind that suck blood?”

“Do you know of another kind?”

Fred worried a lip between her teeth and appeared to give the query serious consideration before ultimately shaking her head. “I guess not.” She frowned. “It’s kind of funny, I guess.”

“Oh yeah. A regular barrel of laughs.”

“I just mean…I’m sitting here learning about vampires and Non-Living US Citizens and portals and…it sounds so crazy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t it sound crazy?”

A soft, sad smile tickled Buffy’s lips. “I think I’m long past the point in my life where anything can surprise me,” she said. “Even when…when I was Called…it was all with the wiggy and the ample amounts of huh?...but it never surprised me. The part about the demons and the apocalypses and the—”

“Apocalypses? As in more than one?”

Buffy winced.

Whups.

The look on Fred’s face became distant, almost hopeless. “I…wow…I think I…I think I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Good for me.”

“It’s okay,” Buffy offered lamely. “I…I might not look it right now, but I…I’ve gotten pretty good at stopping the end of the world.”

Fred glanced up again, wide-eyed.

The Slayer waved her hand. “Professional world-endage stopper,” she asserted. At the girl’s blank look, she sighed and figured it was time to get comfortable. It looked as though she was going to be here for a while. “I’m what they call the Slayer.”

“Who’s they?”

“The people who continually muck up my life,” she replied. Then, hesitating, she decided to throw the girl a bone. It was only fair; Fred had brought her into her home. She’d fed her and gotten her comfortable, and had offered more than once to pull out the sofa fold-out bed.

Trouble was, the longer Buffy stayed, the slimmer her chances of leaving for the night became. And while she knew it was dangerous to form attachments, there was something about having someone to talk—someone she didn’t know but found herself liking nonetheless—which offered more than its fair share of comfort.

Fred deserved a chance to escape with only a few shocking revelations to mull over. Many people managed to accept the fact the world around them was a fake, covering for the subculture of demons, and continue with their lives relatively unbothered.

Buffy sighed. The part of her which was angry enough at her situation—at the world—to want to condemn Fred to the same knowledge she had to live with every day was quickly shoved aside by compassion. None of what had happened was Fred’s fault; Buffy was furious with her body, and she missed Spike like one might miss an arm or a leg. Her every cell screamed for him. Her blood pumped for him. Her heart was sick for him.

Maybe if she kept talking she would forget how much she missed him.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she slowly turned back to Fred and swallowed hard at the girl’s wide-eyed anticipation. “Do you…” she began slowly, “do you really wanna know?”

Fred didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

“It’s gonna change things for you.”

“Things are changed for me anyway. I don’t think I could manage now knowing even this much…without knowing all of it.”

A smile tickled her lips. “All right,” she agreed. “I…I might take you up on your offer, then.”

“My offer?”

“Unless it’s no good, which is fine. I just…this might take a while.” She paused before clarifying, “The staying here thing. I thought—”

“Oh!” Fred jumped to her feet. “I’ll go get you blankets and pillows and…and…I have a teddy-bear you can borrow if you want. His name is Wilsbury and he’s…” She froze and the pink in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll just…you’re free to ignore that. The part where I still have a security blanket at the age of—”

Buffy held up a hand and smiled. “I have a pig,” she said softly. “He’s back at my hotel…so I’ll be glad for some company.”

Fred looked appalled. “A pig?”

“A stuffed pig.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” She glanced down self-consciously. “I’ll just…go get the stuff.”

“Don’t you want me to tell you?”

The girl nodded. “Oh yes. But we have all night, don’t we? I don’t go to work tomorrow and I want to get you comfortable. I mean…you saved my life. The least I can do is get you a teddy-bear on loan.”

Buffy’s eyes bounced between the cup of soup and the half-consumed tea. “You’ve done a lot, Fred.”

“You saved my life.”

“We don’t know that. You might have been taken to a fluffy bunny dimension.”

Fred waved a hand. “I’m getting you stuff. You just sit tight, all right? And let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”

She disappeared down a hall and Buffy collapsed wearily against the sofa. She knew the helpful thing to do would entail climbing to her feet and setting up the pull-out bed, but she doubted she had the strength to make it to her feet, let alone do lifting of any kind—heavy or not.

God. Her life was such a wonderful mess. She was sitting in a stranger’s living room in the company of perhaps the last genuine person Buffy had ever known, and her heart felt like it was dying.

Spike.

Where was he tonight? Was he thinking about her? Did he even care anymore?

A long sigh rushed through her lips. Of course he didn’t care. She’d given him no reason to care.

None whatsoever.

Not after she’d left him.

Touching her note gave him some comfort, but not much. Not enough to quell the resounding scream piercing his every nerve. For the first time since he’d fought to liberate himself from his own grave he could feel his demon clawing at his insides as though trying to rip its way to freedom. He needed to touch her—he needed her skin beneath his hands and her taste in his mouth. His need for her eclipsed anything he’d ever experienced, burning a hole in his heart so deep the universe was in danger of falling inside. He’d known it would be hard, of course. The separation. The first stages. The pain. He’d known what to expect.

Buffy had not. She’d left before he could tell her.

Before she could know.

God, what a fool he’d been. He should have told her immediately—the second her blood hit his tongue, the second she solidified the claim with her acceptance before initiating one of her own. He should have told her. He should have told her what that made them.

He should have told her immediately that she was his.

Perhaps then he wouldn’t be where he was. Standing outside the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza, the place where the claim had dragged him. He was pleased; she had at least followed his request. She was being taken care of here. She was taking care of herself.

She was hurting and she didn’t know why. He’d done that to her.

I’m so sorry. Goodbye.

The note remained in his duster pocket. He rubbed it between his fingers.

It had only taken him a day to catch up with her, and from there an hour or so to discover where she’d checked-in. The money he’d given her wouldn’t last indefinitely, but it was enough for now. Eventually, however, she would find herself without a roof over her head and a stomach begging to be fed. And as much as Spike wanted to respect her need for distance, the burning desire to touch her was too bloody painful to ignore.

He’d be inside the hotel now if he thought he’d find her. But she wasn’t there.

She hadn’t come back here tonight.

Spike sighed and fished out his half-smoked carton of fags from his other pocket. Buffy’s scent was ripe around him and it wouldn’t take long to pick up a trail. He could find where she’d gone. He could track her down. He could.

Or he could wait. Gather strength. Give her more time.

I’m so sorry. Goodbye.

His eyes fell shut, will battling need.

She was out there. She was somewhere. And she needed him.

“Buffy,” he whispered.

He liked to believe she could hear him, or at least feel he was near. He needed her to know he was near.

If she knew, she’d know he was coming for her. That he had found her as he’d promised.

He could only hope she was ready.

Having known Fred less than twenty-four hours, it took surprisingly little for Buffy to deduce that her new acquaintance shared Willow’s view on playing hooky. One’s job was to be taken seriously; as seriously as homework and studying and separating one’s whites and coloreds. Therefore, Buffy was more than surprised when Fred announced over their breakfast of Frosted Flakes that she was calling in a sick day.

“You are?”

Fred nodded. “I have a lot of vacation days saved up and they go to waste eventually.”

“But you…enjoy work.” It was true; having listened to the girl ramble all night, Buffy had reached the startling conclusion that there was someone out there who was more library-dependent than Giles. She hesitated to think what would happen should her Watcher and her new friend ever find themselves in the same room. Or worse, in the same corner of the same library, desperately needing the same book.

“There’s more to life than work,” Fred countered, shrugging. “Besides…I don’t want to leave you by yourself.”

“You don’t even know me,” Buffy protested, forcing herself to her feet with a wince, jerking her empty bowl out of Fred’s reach. She might feel like an invalid but that didn’t mean she was going to let a virtual stranger wait on her hand and foot. Fred could remind her about the saving-of-her-life thing all she wanted; Buffy had been raised under the rules that when a guest in someone’s house, she was supposed to pick up after herself. And for whatever reason, she couldn’t stand the thought of doing her mother’s parentage injustice by ignoring it now…no matter how hard her body complained at movement.

And right on cue, Fred chirped in with what was now a familiar song. “You saved—”

“—your life. And as I explained again and again last night, it was…well I know it wasn’t nothing for you, but it’s just not that uncommon for me.”

“Do you know anyone in the city?”

Buffy blinked. “What?”

“You told me you’d lived in Los Angeles before. Do you know anyone in the city?”

The question took her completely off guard. Immediately, her mind flashed to the old Hemery yearbook buried in her closet back home, compiled with familiar faces and phone numbers from people she’d once called friends. People she could barely remember now. People who would laugh at her if she contacted them for help.

It didn’t help that almost everyone’s last memory of her involved arson.

The fact that she thought of her father after considering the list of nameless faces she’d once called friends drew upon itself how very much she couldn’t rely on him. Showing up on Hank Summers’s doorstep was as good as purchasing a bus-ticket home, and home was the last place she wanted to be.

The only place she wanted to be was with Spike. Spike could make everything all right again.

That ship has sailed.

“I…I know people,” Buffy replied, trying and failing to ignore how small her voice sounded. “I know them. My friend…Kimberly…she lives…somewhere. I’m sure she lives somewhere.”

Fred arched a brow. “Well, somewhere sounds a little ambiguous, especially when I’m right here,” she said. Then, with something resembling contrition, she added, “I know you don’t know me, but I’m nice and I shower every day and I have canned goods. Plus you—”

“Saved your life. I know.”

“I was gonna say…you have the super-strength going for you, so you could take me if you thought I was gonna axe-murder you.”

A wry smile tickled her mouth. The ache withering her muscles into complete uselessness begged to differ. “Well…I guess it’s to my advantage that you think that.”

“If what I saw last night was you when you’re not feeling good, I’d hate to be on your crap list when you’re at your best.”

Buffy withheld an incredulous snort. Either Fred’s imagination had run away with her, or she’d managed to keep herself from facing any real danger since moving to Los Angeles. Of the two possibilities, the first was the most likely. Buffy hadn’t encountered much hero-worship since she was called, but she was certainly familiar with the concept. All she’d done last night was tackle the poor girl to the floor and somehow Fred had concocted this miraculous image of the Slayer and her powers. Never mind the portal or what else—last night hadn’t been about being the Slayer; it had been about being human. Human and aware of the world. The true world. The face beneath the surface. Anyone with a heart would have done the same.

Still, undeserved hero-worship or not, Buffy couldn’t deny that it was nice having someone worry over her. Someone with whom to chat—someone who didn’t know her, who wouldn’t hold her to unrealistic expectations and glare at her disapprovingly when she proved to be as human as the next person. Someone unlike the friends waiting for her back home.

The only other face she could conjure who would meet these guidelines was Spike.

Buffy honestly had no idea how long she would be in Los Angeles. For the moment, the idea of getting anywhere near the vicinity of Sunnydale made her diseased bones feel damn near brittle, no matter that logic told her homesickness would invariably set in and send her home before the summer was over. Loneliness, however, was something she could control. Only a fool would reject an unsolicited offer of friendship.

She’d already proved herself a fool. She’d left Spike. God, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. There had been a reason then. She was sure of it.

“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Buffy said, feeling, for reasons beyond her, very humble.

“And you’re not,” Fred replied brightly. “It’s pretty much a win/win all around. Plus, if you stayed with me, you’d save loads of money—”

Somehow, Buffy managed to keep from dropping her bowl into the sink. “St…stay with you?”

“Unless you don’t want to…but…”

“You don’t know me, Fred. This is insane.”

“I know,” Fred replied brightly. She didn’t have the appearance of one who knew. She looked too cheery—too friendly—for her own good. “But I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

“There’s a difference between being a good judge of character and inviting a stranger to stay with you.”

“If you wanted me dead, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself saving my life last night.” She batted a hand. “No matter how long I’m here, I can’t get rid of my darn southern hospitality. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want…but it’ll save you money and I could use the company…plus, if you’re looking to stay in town long, I can help you try and find a job.” She trailed off, her brow furrowing in thought. “Actually…how long are you planning on staying?”

Buffy blanked, her eyes going wide. It was easy to think of that question in the abstract; the last thing she’d ever thought she’d be asked to do was estimate a time-table. When the journey home was admittedly far away, but not so far she couldn’t see the finish line.

“I’m…I dunno,” Buffy answered lamely. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Oh,” Fred replied, shrugging. “I only ask because my neighbor, Mr. Binns, is moving out. His wife’s sick and their insurance won’t allow them to stay in the city anymore. It’s sad, really…but he’s always been very nice to me, and he wanted to give me first dibs on the apartment because it’s so much bigger than mine. But honestly, I don’t need space like that and I was gonna…” She worried a lip between her teeth. “I guess a point would be nice, huh? The point is I could talk to him…if you’re thinking about staying for a while. It’s a nice apartment and from what he told me, not too expensive…just too much with medical bills piling up. I can see about getting you in before my landlord advertises a vacancy.”

The offer came from nowhere, thus it took Buffy a few long seconds to understand what Fred was saying. She didn’t know why, but she’d never imagined getting a place and paying actual rent. Rent for more than a room and a toilet and those funny chocolate mints housekeeping left on the pillow. Rent for a place to live.

A place to live.

In Los Angeles. In a city that wasn’t home.

“I’d…I’d need a job,” she said softly. “I…my…Spike, he left me money. A lot of money. More money than…well, I don’t wanna know where he got it. It’s not important. But he left it for me.”

Fred nodded and didn’t ask questions.

“It’ll run out, though,” Buffy concluded, subconsciously flattening a palm against her stomach. It didn’t help, pressing down upon her sore skin, but for whatever reason, touching where it hurt made her feel momentarily better. As though she were in charge. “Eventually it’ll run out.”

“I can get you a job,” Fred said again.

“Okay…so what are you, the Good Will Fairy?”

The girl’s cheeks flooded with red. “I…uhhh, sorry. But I can get you a job. Truly. Assuming you don’t mind libraries…”

Buffy couldn’t help it; she laughed. It hurt to laugh, but she laughed anyway. The past two years of her life had been spent in libraries. She knew the Dewey Decimal System by heart. If there was one place she felt at home, it was a library. “No,” she clarified, waving dismissively at Fred’s confused look. “No, I—ummm. I don’t mind libraries. Not at all. I just…this seems surreal, you know? I show up and…you think you can get me a decent place to live and a steady income? This sort of stuff never happens. Not in the world I live in, anyway.”

The brunette’s blush grew deeper. “I know it’s a logistical anomaly,” she replied self-consciously. “Even as I say this, my brain is scrambling to calculate the odds, and the probability is zero. And Buffy…if you’d rather not take the apartment or whatever job I can manage for you at the library, I won’t be offended. I know we just met and this is all very new for you. Or…no, it’s all very new for me. Not you. But I really do…want to help. In any way I can. I can’t promise the job at the library would be anything exciting or beyond re-shelving misplaced books, but it’s better than flipping burgers, in my opinion.”

“Seconded.”

“A-and the room…well, like I said, it’s bigger than my place…not that I live in the best neighborhood, but—”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.”

Fred flashed a bright, sincere smile and nodded enthusiastically. “It’s big,” she said again, as though that was the main selling point. “He had me over for tea once and it’s—”

“Big,” Buffy finished for her, warding off a flinch. Her legs didn’t seem to want to stand.

“Yes. And nice.”

“It’ll only be me, if I get the place.” But already, Buffy was envisioning hanging up punching bags and setting mats along the floor—making the space she’d never seen livable for someone like her. Someone who would need the extra room for stretching and aerobics. For keeping herself in shape even if she didn’t plan to actively patrol while living in Los Angeles. Something told her she would need to exert at least a little energy while she was here, lest she go mad with inactivity.

Her muscles, however, whined at the thought of exertion, and her stomach felt prone to chuck out the cereal she’d just finished eating.

Though it went against every natural instinct, not to mention what she’d told Fred last night, Buffy began to consider the wisdom of avoiding the doctor’s office, especially while she had money. She was damn near certain her body was betraying her on grounds of a mystical level, but there was ostensibly no harm in seeing if human pain killers could do any good.

However, this line of thought likely meant the hospital, and Buffy hated hospitals. The last one in which she’d been had nearly killed her, that being literally, thanks to Der Kindestod. Were she home and surrounded by familiarity, she was certain she would fight to her last breath before succumbing to medical care. But here, there was no mom to worry over her or friends to annoy her or watcher to clean his glasses. She was in an unfamiliar place with a person she’d only just met. A person who was defying the convention that the inherent root to humanity was wickedness and cruelty. Fred only had a sincere desire to help.

“I’ll talk to my landlord,” Fred offered. “He likes me. I’m sure I can get you in.”

Buffy nodded and forced a smile to her lips. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. You—”

“Saved your life.”

Fred grinned. “I’ve been saying that a lot, huh?”

“It’s no big. I just…” Another wave of nausea crashed over her. Buffy bit her lip, willing her eyes shut as she rode it out. “I…”

“Buffy?” The smile was gone from the girl’s face. “What is it? Are you okay? Is it…is there something I can get you?”

I need Spike.

These weren’t the words she said, however. Every nerve in her body screamed for him, but she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t make out why. Only that she needed him. She needed him now, and desperately. Spike would make everything better.

God, just thinking of him hurt. What had he done to her?

“I…”

“Okay, that’s it,” Fred said suddenly, her voice hardened with resolve. “I didn’t say anything all night or this morning, but this…this just isn’t normal. I’m taking you to the doctor.”

Even though Buffy had just reached the same conclusion, it was her instinct to protest.

“Ah, ah,” Fred cut Buffy off before she even had a chance to object, miming zipped lips with a stern, almost maternal look in her eyes. “No fightsies. We’re going to the doctor.”

The girl could give Willow a run for her money when it came to Resolve Face.

“Okay,” Buffy agreed. “Okay.”

Her consent was the cue her body needed. She felt the floor slip from under her, felt cool ceramic tile beneath her hands, and watched the world spiral into an endless twist of color before blacking out completely.

Were Buffy in less pain, there was every chance she would have found Fred’s incredibly-tame-but-very-heartfelt curses even more amusing than she already did. As it was, the fact that it hurt to laugh took some of the merriment out—some, but not much. She refused to keep from giggling where giggling was appropriate. If this affliction took her mirth away, she would surely wither to nothing.

“Stupid, lousy, good-for-nothing doctors,” Fred cursed, seizing Buffy’s arm on a whim and dragging it around her neck. “Here…lean on me.”

Right, because I didn’t feel pitiful enough.

However, Buffy didn’t argue. She was grateful for the aid. Her legs felt as though they were about to give out.

The trip to the hospital had consumed the day, eating away at sunlight and casting the veil of night upon them before the staff ultimately decided there was nothing medically wrong with her and showed her the door. Without insurance or anything except the cold cash in Buffy’s pocket and what meager earnings Fred immediately offered to put forward, ignoring Buffy’s protests, there was no logical reason to keep her overnight.

“All in your head, my butt,” Fred all but snarled. “I swear, I have half a mind to go back there and give Dr. Jenkins a…piece of my mind.”

“That’s a lot of your mind going around,” Buffy observed. “Oh—ouch!”

“What?” the girl demanded, panicked. “What? Did I run you into something? I’m sorry—”

“No…it’s just…God, this thing is getting worse.”

“Are you okay? Should we go back?”

Going back wasn’t really an option. They’d already deduced her problem wasn’t a medical one, and after getting into some sticky questions about family history, had told her they were very sorry, but there was nothing they could do.

She was homeless, after all. Another teen walking the street. Why should they worry about her?

“You wanna try the free clinic?” Fred asked. “We might—”

“No,” Buffy replied, sharper than she intended. “I…”

It was fitting, she supposed, that she only become truly aware of her surroundings when there was nothing to do about it. Her slayer senses were so fogged, it would take the world’s largest defroster to get her seeing clearly again. Otherwise, Buffy was certain she wouldn’t have allowed Fred to drag her down a poorly-lit street on a side of town which looked less than reputable.

This was bad.

“Oh God,” Buffy said.

“What?”

“Where are we?”

“Not far. About three blocks from the metro rail. We’ll be home soon.”

“We didn’t come this way.”

“Shortcut.”

Shortcuts. Always the shortcuts. Vamps dug the shortcuts; it was how most stragglers ended up dead.

“Fred…” Buffy sucked in a deep breath, summoned all her strength, and shoved the girl away. “Run.”

“What?”

“Run!”

The command was punctuated with a timely, familiar roar, and then the world around her fell to chaos. Buffy fell face-first onto the cement, her palms bracing her fall but her lack of vigor doing little to cushion her as she rolled into a useless lump beside the curb.

The sound of Fred’s screams filled the air. The dumb girl wasn’t running.

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

“Buffy—”

Another vampiric snarl tore through the night. Buffy forced herself onto her back and attempted a flip-up to her feet. Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself to ignore the pain. She shoved everything aside—forced her exhausted mind to focus. To regroup.

“Yes, yes, run,” a particularly nasty voice said encouragingly. “We’ll help your friend, here, home.”

“You sonofa—”

“Fred!”

Then something amazing happened. It was, perhaps, the most welcome feeling in the world. One second her body was about to collapse inward, and the next thing she knew, the pain began to recede. Not gone entirely, but the strain on her insides softened and the brittle feebleness of her aching muscles hardened with familiar strength and resolution. Buffy seized it, grasped it, and held on. She was on her feet in an instant, delivering a swift kick to the vamp charging at her left while rounding the other vamp with a punch strong enough to send him into the nearest waste-bin.

Perhaps she was in so much pain she could no longer feel it; she didn’t know. All Buffy knew was she had to get Fred out of there.

Now.

“Oh my God,” the girl said. “Buffy…are you…?”

“I swear, if you don’t run, I will personally break all your bones so leaving the house is not an option.” Buffy pointed and flicked her brows meaningfully. “Run. Don’t stop running.”

“I can’t leave you—”

“Did you not hear the ‘breaking your bones’ thing? I’m fine.” This last point she demonstrated by kicking her leg backward just in time to send the vamp who had been creeping up on her back into the waste-bin. “Run.”

Buffy didn’t have time to dissect whether the look on Fred’s face was relief at her apparent resurgence of strength or hurt at her callousness, and though it bothered her, she didn’t let herself dwell. There would be time to apologize later.

“Dayum,” one of the vamps drawled, climbing wearily to his feet. “See that, Frank? She sent yours off runnin’.”

The vamp in the waste-bin said nothing, but he didn’t look pleased.

“All right, boys,” she said, “step on up. I’ve been itching for a good fight.”

And then everything around her fell deathly still, and the world became unglued.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

A hand seized her wrist and suddenly she was jerked around, tumbling hard and fast into familiar arms, her breasts suddenly pressed against a chest she knew well. She felt him gasp at the contact, felt his pleasured sigh along with the tremble she knew so well. And the second his eyes crashed with hers, every cell in her weary body burst into song.

“Spike…”

“Careful what you wish for,” he said again, his eyes lingering for a moment on her mouth. “’Cause if it’s a fight you’re itchin’ for, pet, I’d be more ‘n happy to oblige.”

Then his lips crashed upon hers, and everything around her melted away.