A/N: Sorry for the massive delay in updating. I've been really unhappy with the way this fic is turning out, so I've been avoiding working on it, I guess hoping that it would magically write itself while I wasn't looking. Needless to say, that hasn't happened. I'll be finishing up this story in the next chapter, but after that the series will most likely be on hiatus until I figure out what I want to do with it. I did have an ambitious idea of doing a whole alternate season, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for an epic series like that. I feel like I haven't done a good job sustaining the plot consistently, so maybe the best thing is to just wrap it up.

*****

Chapter 16: Mending Fences

Buffy was curled up on the living room sofa with one hand at her throat, idling fingering the latest set of bite marks to mar her skin. It had been almost two days since she’d been given the antidote to the poison, and she still hadn’t rid herself of that out-of-sorts feeling. She’d hoped that the memories would fade quickly, once her delusions had been vanquished, but they still haunted her every time she closed her eyes. She knew she should do something, keep her mind occupied so she wouldn’t think about those things, but she just couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything else for any length of time. Instead, she stared listlessly at the blank TV screen in front of her, too lost in her churning thoughts to bother turning it on.

She jumped at the sound of the front door opening. “Hey!” Willow greeted her. “Just came by to see how you were feeling.” She held up a cardboard beverage tray in one hand. “I brought mochas. Oh, and here’s your mail,” she added, handing Buffy a pile of envelopes. “Figured I’d save you a trip outside.”

“Thanks,” Buffy replied, as she unfolded from her spot on the couch. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”

Willow followed her through the house, depositing the mochas on the breakfast bar. “So, how’s it feel to be sane Buffy again?”

Buffy shrugged. “Better, I guess.” She glanced through the mail – mostly bills, as usual. “Huh. That’s weird,” she said, studying the one item that had caught her attention, a blue envelope addressed to Dawn, with no return address.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shoved the card back into the mail pile and looked up at Willow with an obviously false cheery grin. “So, what’s up?”

“Just stopped by to see how you were doing,” Willow repeated, wondering how many times she could rephrase the same sentiment. She handed Buffy one of the mochas and took the other for herself as they seated themselves on opposite sides of the island.

“Oh, right.” Buffy shook her head. “Sorry, I’m kinda distracted. But better. Definitely better.”

“That’s good. You still seemed pretty freaked when Tara and I left yesterday. So, no side effects from the poison?”

“You mean except for the scary memories of things that never happened?”

Willow grimaced. “Was it bad?”

Buffy took a sip of mocha before responding. “Yeah.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No, it’s just… my parents were there, and they kinda… ripped into me, you know? And I missed them so much, but it just… hurt. A lot. And then Spike…”

She trailed off, staring down at the counter. She couldn’t even begin to explain what had happened with Spike. Willow slid off her stool and came around to give her a hug. Buffy collapsed into the embrace with a sigh, as Willow rubbed soothing circles on her back. “I’m sorry, Buffy. That must have been awful.”

Pulling back, Willow added, “But I guess it’s a good thing the slayer blood worked, right?”

“What?” Buffy stared her in confusion.

“Spike… drinking your blood cured him,” she explained. “That’s how he was able to get you home.” When Buffy gave her another blank look, Willow went on, “He carried you back here from the woods. Do you remember any of that?”

Uncertain, Buffy nodded, and then changed her mind and shook her head. She did remember… sort of. She could recall a few lucid moments when she’d woken up in his arms, but they were all jumbled up with memories of him pinning her to the ground, her wrists held above her head in his viselike grip, his hard body pressing roughly against hers.

“Wh-what happened after that?”

“Spike went out after the demon again, before the rest of us even got here. I needed the pokey stinger thing to make the antidote. We fed it to you, and then we kinda just waited around for you to wake up.”

Buffy nodded. That part, at least, she knew. “And the demon?” she asked softly.

“Dead. Spike killed it, once we knew you were okay. Oh, it’s, uh, still in the basement, so you might not wanna go down there.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Right,” Buffy replied, turning her cup idly in her hands, trying to fit Willow’s version of the night’s events together with what she remembered, but as hard as she tried, she knew the pieces would never fully match up.

“So,” Willow said, in a chirpy changing-the-subject voice, “do you think you’re up for –”

She was cut off by the sound of the front door opening and closing again. “Dawn?” Buffy called. “That you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Dawn replied, coming into the kitchen and dropping her backpack on the floor by the island. “Who else lives here?”

“Well, no one ever knocks,” Buffy pointed out. “Oh, hey, you got a letter or something.” She handed Dawn the envelope she’d found in the mail.

Dawn examined it. Though there was no return address, she recognized the handwriting immediately, and she glanced up at Buffy, the question evident in her eyes.

“Come on, open it,” Buffy urged. “I’m curious, too.”

Dawn ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card, reading it with a perplexed expression on her face. “It’s a birthday card. From Dad,” she added, for Willow’s benefit.

Buffy and Willow exchanged an uncomfortable look. Dawn’s birthday had been four months ago.

“Guess some people can’t read a calendar, huh?” Dawn asked, trying to act as though she wasn’t bothered by it, but unable to conceal the hurt.

Buffy laid a hand on her sister’s arm. “Dawnie…”

Shaking off the comforting touch, Dawn said flatly, “He sent me money.” She held up a fifty-dollar bill.

“Well, hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?” Buffy said, in an effort to be positive about the situation. She shot another glance at Willow, hoping for some help, but the redhead remained silent, shifting nervously on her stool and gazing down into her coffee cup.

“Here, you should keep it.” Dawn thrust the money in Buffy’s direction. “Consider it child support or whatever.”

“No, Dawn. It’s your money.”

“I don’t want it,” Dawn snapped, slapping the money on the counter and storming off up to her room.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy apologized to Willow. “She’s just…”

“Abandoned and neglected by her only living parent?” Willow finished for her. “She’s got a right to be angry. You both do.”

“Now do you see why I don’t want you as a daughter?”

Buffy bit her lip, but didn’t say anything.

“Being angry doesn’t make it any easier, though,” Willow went on. “If you want, I can try to talk to her.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Buffy sighed. “It’s a family thing.”

Willow nodded. “I should get going. Bronze tonight?”

Buffy shook her head. “I don’t think I’m up for it. Maybe tomorrow?”

With a final hug and a few encouraging platitudes, the two friends parted. Once Willow had gone, Buffy picked up Dawn’s backpack from the kitchen floor and headed upstairs. Her sister’s door was closed and locked, as it always was when she was in a teenage snit.

“Dawn?” Buffy called through the door, rapping with her knuckles. “Can I come in?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Dawnie, open the door.”

“I said, leave me alone.”

With a sigh, Buffy left the backpack sitting in the hallway outside the door and went back to the kitchen. She picked up the discarded birthday card and scanned it, hoping for at least a “belated” or a “sorry I missed it” note, but found nothing to soothe her concern. Somehow, this seemed worse than not getting a card at all, knowing that their father didn’t care enough to even remember when their birthdays were, but considered this pathetic effort to be fulfilling his fatherly duty.

Reluctantly pocketing the money, Buffy remembered what Willow had said and headed to the basement to see just how much cleanup was necessary down there. She froze at the foot of the stairs, and her stomach flipped at the sight of the mutilated demon. Blood was everywhere, and the carcass in front of her was barely recognizable as the thing that had attacked them in the woods. Buffy swallowed hard, choking back bile. She was far more familiar with death than she’d like to be, and she’d seen a lot of awful things during her tenure as a Slayer, but this was something else entirely.

Spike hadn’t just killed it… he’d destroyed it. Beaten its brains out while it was still tied to a pole. Her first instinct was to be disgusted, to see it as one more example that Spike was a violent, brutal killer… and the false memories came rushing back to her, telling her yes, this was the work of someone who would attack her, betray her, kill her.

But she shook her head, physically resisting the hallucinations. Spike had saved her, loved her, had been devastated when she pushed him away. She remembered the look on his face when he had left the bathroom, and she realized that what she was looking at wasn’t anger.

This was pain.

*****

Still at war with her instincts, Buffy found herself heading through the cemetery toward his crypt. She paused a few feet away, gathering her courage before she took the final steps.

She eased the door open slightly. “Spike? Can I come in?”

He was seated in that ratty old chair, staring at the blank TV, just as she’d been doing earlier. He turned around when he heard her voice, and it was clear she’d startled him out of some deep reflection.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, getting to his feet, trying to cover his surprise at seeing her. After the way they’d left things, he knew he had to be patient, wait for her to come to him whenever she was ready. But he hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

She wore a black sweater, a bulky cowled turtleneck, and from the way she kept nervously playing with the collar, he could tell the swaths of fabric around her throat were meant for him.

Nevertheless, he told her, “You look better.” And she did. Though her eyes still contained some of the haunted look, she seemed much more composed than when he’d seen her last.

“I feel better,” Buffy said, keeping her eyes on his with considerable effort. Every fiber of her being wanted to look away, couldn’t stand to be confronted by the sadness in his expression, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “My head’s a lot clearer now. And I just…” She took a deep breath. “I came over to say I’m sorry. And – and thank you.”

For a moment, Spike was convinced he was hallucinating again. “For what?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“For saving my life. Again,” she added with a small smile. He seemed to be saving her life with regularity lately – ever since her resurrection, as though he was still trying to make up for that one looming failure. “I didn’t know what was going on for a lot of it… Willow told me what happened. Spike, I know you never meant to hurt me, and I’m sorry I… reacted like that. It’s just – you – the you in my hallucinations…”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t look at him anymore. Dropping her gaze, she covered her mouth with her hand.

Sympathy welled up in him, and Spike longed to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but he knew he couldn’t – not yet. Not until she gave him a sign that it was okay to touch her. “It’s all right. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Buffy nodded. “I was so scared. And I know it wasn’t really you, but it felt so real, and I… seeing you…”

“I understand, love.” Spike clenched his hands into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out to her. “And I’ll – I’ll make myself scarce, ’f that’s what you…”

“No,” she said, and it was as though an enormous weight had lifted off his chest. He’d been dreading the thought of staying away from her, but he would have been willing to do whatever she needed, even though it would kill him not to see her.

“No,” Buffy repeated. “I don’t want us to be like this. I don’t want…” She shook her head regretfully. “When I first came back, you were the only one I could trust. And now…” She sank down on the arm of his chair. “How did this happen? How did we end up here?”

“Dunno, pet.” Spike hopped up onto the sarcophagus and sat with his legs dangling over the side. “Think we took the long way ’round.”

Buffy nodded. It seemed as though every time they managed to get close, something came along and ripped them apart. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I know you were hoping for… you know. But I just can’t, right now. I just can’t.”

“It’s all right,” he told her, placing more hope in that “right now” than he probably should have, but unable to resist clinging to any crumb of possibility she might give him.

“Okay.” She pushed herself off her perch. “Good. Um, I should…” She turned to go, but almost immediately spun back around and blurted out, “Listen, I’m having Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. Can you come?”

Spike blinked, taken aback by the invitation. “Course I can.”

“Good… ’cause I was kind of hoping you’d help me cook.” She gave him a sheepish expression, but to him it was the most encouraging thing he’d ever seen. “Buffy and cooking is pretty much a disaster, and I figured, you made dinner for us the other night, and it was good, so I just thought…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Never mind. It’s a stupid idea. I mean, you’re a vampire. You don’t even need to eat, so cooking’s kind of pointless, and I don’t know why I thought –”

“Buffy.”

She paused, mid-babble, and looked at him earnestly.

“I can help,” he assured her.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but once they did, a small smile crossed Buffy’s face. “Okay. Thanks.” She hesitated, as though considering whether to leave, and then came over to stand in front of him. “Spike, that night… meant a lot to me. I mean, before all the demon stuff. And I – I can’t just pick up where we left off, but I want us to be friends again.” Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand. “Can we try – can we do that?”

Spike smiled at her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Yeah. Yeah, pet, we can.”

*****

The next evening, Buffy was seated at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, going over her recipes for Thanksgiving dinner and making a shopping list when Dawn poked her head in. “I’m, uh, going over to Willow and Tara’s. See ya.”

“Okay,” Buffy replied without looking up. “Tell Spike I said hi.”

Dawn stopped in her tracks. “Wh-what?” Realizing the gig was up, she asked, “How did you know?”

Buffy flicked her gaze up to her sister. “I inherited the internal lie detector from Mom. Also, Willow called here ten minutes ago to say she’d be over with Chinese. Next time, make sure your alibi knows she’s an alibi.” Noticing Dawn’s guilty expression, she added, “It’s okay. You can go to Spike’s.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Buffy reached over and pulled something out of a drawer. “Hey, come here. Before you go. I got you something.” She handed Dawn a small gift-wrapped package.

Dawn just looked at it. “What’s this for?”

“Happy birthday.”

“Yeah. Still in July.”

Buffy gave her a wry grin. “I know, but I missed it, too.”

“You were dead.” Dawn shrugged. “That’s a valid excuse.”

“I still wanna make it up to you. Just open it, will you?”

Dawn ripped off the paper, revealing a plain black rectangular box. Lifting the lid revealed a short dagger, encased in a black leather sheath that was attached to an adjustable band.

“It fastens around your ankle,” Buffy explained, when Dawn appeared too astonished to speak. “Maybe Spike can teach you how to use it.”

Dawn stared at her with a mixture of surprise and bemusement, wondering if Buffy knew about their training sessions. “Wow. Thanks.”

Buffy gently took the knife out of her hands and pulled her into a hug. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Buffy. I love you, too.”

“Okay,” she replied, letting Dawn go. “Don’t stay out late, all right?”