Buffy Summers walked slowly through the cemetery, tapping the sharp point of her stake lightly against her hip. It was a slow night, something that Buffy was growing used to these days. Demons seemed to be taking a vacation. She just wished they would have told her that before leaving so she wouldn’t have had to come out for ridiculous hours at a time.

Sighing, Buffy lowered herself onto the ground and leaned against a headstone behind her. And with the girly side that was Buffy, started studying her nails. The dark red paint she had applied to them the night before was chipped and ruined. Her nail had split earlier in the day after she snagged it on the fabric of her wool sweater and tugged to hard. She had just given herself a manicure the night before, too.

The thing Buffy hated most about Slaying was the fact that she could never keep an outfit in the right shape for more than a week. The constant blood that seemed to get on her clothes stained, and automatically ruined an outfit. Buffy snorted softly as she realized she was thinking normal things for once—besides the Slaying half.

“Is there a reason you’re snorting like a barn animal, pet?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. She was not in the mood for this. “What do you want, Spike?” she asked, impatient and annoyed before he even opened his mouth. Spike approached the gravestone Buffy was leaned against and sat on it, lighting a cigarette and stuffing his lighter back in the pocket of his black leather duster. “Need some help? Looks pretty slow. Could give you a good workout. Bit of a rough-n-tumble, eh luv?” Spike said. Buffy glared up at him. “No. Thank you. I think I’ll live with the incredible slowness that is my life without your help,” she said, and went back to studying and picking at the paint on her nails.

Spike rolled his eyes and took a long drag from the cig. Blowing the smoke out, he smirked a little. “Up for a little—“

“No.”

“You didn’ let me finish.”

“I don’t have to. No.”

Spike’s eyebrow raised slightly as he slid onto the ground next to Buffy. Buffy’s first thought was to move before he touched her, but he was quicker than her, and his hand was trailing along her inner thigh within seconds of him landing on the ground. Buffy swatted his hand away. “Stop,” she said. “Not tonight.” Spike smirked, but moved his hand away from her and didn’t put it back. “Whatever you say, luv,” he said, and took another drag form the cigarette. Buffy tensed. “Don’t call me luv,” she snapped. Spike chuckled.

Buffy stood up. She was not in the mood to deal with him, and she had some time to kill before she had to head back to the house. Giving Spike a look that said she’d stake him if he followed her, Buffy turned and headed out of the cemetery. She was upset. Again.

But about what she wasn’t to sure. It always seemed to strike whenever Spike called her love. She hated it, but it hurt her to know that he had called so many other women that before her, and that she was probably going to end up just that if she ever did decide to start something with him: another woman. And it hurt. She knew she shouldn’t have been thinking those things, that Spike was dead, no soul, and the only thing keeping him from killing her friends was that chip. The only thing keeping him from killing her was the fact that her friends would go after him, and he couldn’t fight.

Walking down the alley to the Bronze, Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head, watching the ground as she walked. The wind blew and she shivered. She quickened her pace, then entered the Bronze. She realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. This couldn’t have all been about Spike. She never cried over something she didn’t care about.

Sitting at the bar, Buffy wiped her eyes and ordered a drink. The bartender studied her, and Buffy imagined how she must look. Horrible, no doubt about that. The bartended was a pretty young girl, twenty at the most, and seemed to understand right away what was going on. “Guy problems, huh?” she asked, as she poured Buffy’s drink. Buffy nodded slightly, still not to sure herself. The bartender handed Buffy her drink. “Want to talk about it?”

One hour later, Buffy and Leah (the bartender) were seated in the back corner of the Bronze, dark and more likely to get privacy. Buffy hadn’t realized how easy it would be to talk to a stranger. It was like everything she felt about Spike, about her friends, and about herself were much simpler to explain to someone who wouldn’t lecture her or be confused by her actions.

“So you feel like your friends don’t accept you anymore since you’ve come back from LA?” Leah asked. Buffy nodded. She had told Leah that she had been away in LA, instead of dead. Buffy really didn’t want to think of the reaction she would get if she told Leah the truth. Buffy shifted slightly, holding her third coke of the night between her palms.

“It’s just that...when I left, I needed some time to collect myself. When I came back, things were so different, and no matter how much I tried to fit in, nothing worked,” Buffy said. Leah nodded thoughtfully, and Buffy suddenly felt like she was talking to a therapist. “So this Spike guy,” Leah said. “He’s been helping you?” Again, Buffy nodded. “In...different...ways,” she replied. Leah frowned. “He’s been helping me get back into the swing of things. But he’s also in love with me, and we kind of...well...I wouldn’t know how to explain it without sounding horrible,” Buffy said. Leah smiled, amusement flashing in her eyes. “You slept together?” she asked.

“In an abandoned house.”

“You naughty girl.”

Buffy smiled a little and took a drink of her coke. Leah was looking Buffy over with more thoughtfulness. “Do you love him?”

Buffy choked. “What?” she asked when she could breathe. Leah looked her dead in the eye. “Spike. Do you love him?” she asked. Buffy started at Leah, thrown off for a minute. Then she answered, “No. But I do care for him. I don’t think I’m capable of loving him yet.” Leah nodded. “You need to let him know that,” she said.

Buffy looked around the club, thinking. Leah was right. Buffy’s eyes stopped on a figure in a black leather duster, standing in the corner on the other side of the room, drink in hand, watching her. Buffy sighed. “Thanks, Leah. I think I’ll do that now.” With that, Buffy stood and made her way across the room towards Spike, feeling like a whole weight was being lifted from her chest. She would wait. And he would still love her when she was ready.

She hoped.