"Okay," said Buffy, "what the hell was he talking about just now?"

"I got nothin'," said Xander tiredly. "You're the one with the funky dreams about how to get the spell off of Spike."

"I did everything – I swear, I did everything that Drusilla – well, dream-Drusilla – said to do," said Buffy. She was pacing again, dragging her hands through her hair fretfully. "Take the chain, break the bone, white, then black, then red. We did all that." She froze, looked at Xander. "I bet it's because I did his mouth after his arms instead of before."

"We can't know that," said Xander, shaking his head. "I know you won't want to hear this, but…"

"Time to call in the experts?" Buffy asked.

"Yup." Xander stepped past her into the kitchen. "Also time to rethink dinner. The lettuce is all wilted."

Buffy gave him a look, arms crossed. "You're worried about dinner. The thing that might be killing Spike is still on him after all, we don't know what he meant about 'crossing out these marks', and you're focusing on – on salad?"

"I'm focusing on us," insisted Xander. "You focus on Spike – and that's fine, I respect that, he needs your help, fine, okay? But you forget all about yourself when you do." He started scooping the salad bits out of the mixing bowl and into the garbage can. "You and I both know you're a mess right now – you've admitted it to me, so don't act like I'm giving away some shocking secret – and you're not taking care of yourself. You're worried about him. Do you have any idea how worried the rest of us are, about you?"

Buffy looked away.

"You don't sleep," Xander went on, "I get up in the night to take a piss and I can hear you tossing and turning. You don't eat. You spend half your time crying and the other half hiding in your room –"

"It's not like I can just stop –" Buffy interrupted.

"And I'm not asking you to!" Xander exclaimed. "Buffy, I've already told you," he said, more quietly. "It's okay for you not to be okay right now. And I meant that. Maybe you can't believe me, since I'm a Scooby too and we all have the trust thing to deal with… but it's true. I love you as much as I love Willow, or Dawn, and you're a mess, and you're not taking care of yourself –" he held up a hand to stop her when she moved to protest, "so that means I get to take care of you. As much as you'll let me, anyway."

Buffy just gaped at him as he reached for the phone.

"So just – just shut up and eat, okay?" he finished. "I'm ordering a pizza. You're going to have at least two slices. And then we'll figure out what to do about Spike's problem."

"Xander, I…" but she wasn't really sure how to finish that sentence. I never realized, maybe, or I'm sorry, or any of a dozen other options. I'm a horrible friend came to mind.

He was on the phone, anyway.

When he hung up, she didn't say anything, just gave him the hug he deserved. "You're a better friend than I have any right to expect," she said softly.

"Pff," was his reply. "We've saved each other's lives and we can't deal with a little emotional fallout?" He sighed. "Sometimes… sometimes I wish I hadn't gone to Africa. Because sometimes it feels like I'm the only grownup out of all of us, and I've left the rest of you behind."

Buffy paused. Said carefully, "Part of why I decided to live here – with you, I mean – was because I want to grow up too. Grow out of needing Giles, at the very least, you know? I was… kinda hoping you'd be able to show me how to do that."

Xander laughed. "I'm not sure it works that way," he said. "Otherwise we could all just… go to school and take Adulthood 101 and be set, right?"

Buffy smiled. "I suppose you're right," she said. "Besides, nothing can be that easy where we're concerned, right? I mean, it'd probably have an apocalypse attached to it if it were that simple."

"That's us," said Xander cheerfully.

Dinner went by in companionable silence. Buffy picked at her slices but managed to eat the two Xander insisted she choke down. He was right, of course; after Sunnydale, after Spike died the first time, she hadn't been able to eat anything like a real meal for weeks afterward. The rollercoaster she'd been on more recently had left her queasy, too, in more ways than one. The thought of food wasn't the only thing that made her feel ill – the thought of having to talk about some of what she was feeling, the thought of facing Giles ever again, the thought of facing Willow or the rest of her friends… she sighed.

Time to grow up, a little.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said softly. "I'm sorry, for earlier."

"Which part?" asked Xander.

"What, there's more than one?" Buffy asked, panicking.

"No, no no," he replied, waving his hand at her. "I just… the day's been kind of eventful, and I don't know which part you're talking about."

"When I ducked out," muttered Buffy. God, this was hard. "When Spike was first waking up, and I… just kinda bailed." She took a breath, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I feel like I was being a… a coward, or something."

"I was a little surprised," admitted Xander. "Can you tell me what was going through your head? I mean – do you know?"

"Not really," said Buffy heavily. "It's like… I'm having a tough time handling anything or anybody that's not just peachy-okay-fine, right now, I guess. And when Spike was all… messed up… I mean, somehow I can handle his mangled nasty body and it's not that big a deal, but then when he finally starts to wake up I just –" She stopped, sighed. "I dunno."

"It'd be kinda freaky to have him just walk back into your life even if he was totally fine, after all this time, right?" Xander guessed. "Add all this magic and messages and Slayer dreams into the mix, plus the shape he's in… I can see where it might be too much, coming at you out of nowhere."

"It was, for a minute," nodded Buffy. "I just – suddenly I just had to get out of there. Couldn't face it. Buffy was not with the dealing, right then." She sipped her drink, looked up at him shyly. Bit her lip. "Does that – does that make me a chicken?"

Xander thought for a second. "Nah," he said finally. "Makes you having a tough time coping, but – can you imagine this being easy to handle?"

"No," said Buffy flatly. "This is a mess. This is the kind of thing train wrecks are made of. This is…" She paused, the revelation suddenly sinking in. "This is not supposed to be easy to handle." She took a deep breath, felt her shoulders drop away from her ears. "Wow."

"Feel better?" asked Xander.

"Little bit," she answered brightly. "Quite a lot, actually."

"Xander Harris, carpenter and amateur therapist, at your service," he said with a smile. "Dealing with screwed-up undead and their girlfriends a specialty, pay at the door…"

Buffy giggled. Reached for another slice of pizza. Froze.

"You said girlfriend," she said in surprise. "You're… not going to freak out if we're together?"

"Tell me you're not," snorted Xander. "Actually, don't. Either way, as far as freaking out goes, it's not really my business. Especially if you guys haven't figured things out yet for yourselves."

"Um," said Buffy. "Okay. I – to be honest, I'm not sure what we are. And, you know, probably about as relevant as your dating life with… her name is Cathy, right?"

Xander blushed. Buffy grinned.

"I, uh, do need to call her, though," he said. "Unless you want to bring Willow into this. It's just that Cathy already knows we're looking at binding spells, and I think she was curious to know what we found."

"I'm sorry," said Buffy. "I guess I'm not quite grown up enough, but I'm not ready to call Willow just yet. But your friend – you're sure she won't mind helping us with this?"

"Professional interest. And she's already helped us with it, remember," he said. "Besides, I have a hunch I know what Spike was getting at, and I'm not liking it, so I really want to get Cathy to confirm what I'm thinking. Or, you know, deny it. Denying would be good."

"Why?" Buffy leaned back in her chair, eyes going flat. This didn't sound good, the way Xander was building it up.

Xander took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. "Spike said something about crossing out the marks," he said. "And I noticed that all those cuts on him look like writing, kind of."

"Yeah…?" she asked.

"Well, if it is writing, those cuts might actually be the spell. And crossing out the marks would be like, like scribbling out writing, which would turn it off, right?" said Xander. "Only, if it is the spell, crossing it out would mean…"

"Would mean pulling a knife and cutting them off of Spike." Buffy put her head into her hands. "Why do I have the feeling you're completely right and we're going to have to torture him in order to make things better?"

"Because that's us?" he suggested. "Why take the simple way out when the complicated one is just so much more interesting."

"I'm beginning to hate interesting," said Buffy.

Xander leaned back in his chair, slurped his drink. "Good luck getting away from it," he said.

Buffy shook her head. Tossed her pizza bones into the garbage. "Speaking of interesting," she said, "I need to get back out to the garage."

"Why?" Xander asked.

"What do you mean, why," she said, "in case he wakes up again. I need to be there for him. He… he deserves not to wake up alone."

"What I meant was, why does it have to be you," said Xander. "You were up with him all last night, right? Why not let me take tonight?"

"Don't you have to work tomorrow?" asked Buffy.

"I can go in late," he said. "Most of tomorrow is paperwork for me, I can afford to show up a little later than sunrise for once."

"I don't know…" she began.

"Buffy. Resolve face. Don't make me use it," said Xander. "You're exhausted. You've been taking care of Spike almost nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. No one can say you're neglecting him, okay?" He stood up and stretched. "I can leave the door open to the garage, sleep out here on the couch, so I can hear him if he wakes up. You get some rest."

Buffy bit her lip, thought about it. "If you're sure," she said.

"I'm sure, Buff. Go. Sleep." He turned to go up the hall. "Just let me grab my pillow and a spare blanket."

"Okay," said Buffy. Yawned despite herself. "Call Cathy."

"I will," Xander promised. "But she usually works evenings, so we may not hear anything till morning."

"Okay," said Buffy. "And… thanks."

"What are friends for," he replied.

---

Spike was running for his life.

The rain that had been pouring down all night, throughout their battle, was finally letting up. Illyria had dragged his wounded self to a quiet corner. The others…

The others were dead. All of them. "Dead, all dead… all gone… no one…"

Illyria, in her grief over Wesley's death and her own rage at the insolence of these upstart demons that the Senior Partners had dared to send against them, had tapped into a previously undiscovered well of power within her and laid waste to thousands. Spike wouldn't put it past her to keep a few spines as trophies, the way she'd promised at the start of the night. For his part, he thought he'd done pretty well for himself – the demons weren't overwhelming in power, only in numbers, and he'd killed a few dozen at least, fists and fangs and swords and garbage cans, whatever weapons he could find to hand. A good bit of fun with a torn-off stop sign, until it got stuck in one of the demons he impaled.

But now he was wounded, not just the usual collection of cuts and stabs but badly, seriously injured, could barely walk on his own, and Illyria had declared herself no longer entertained by the carnage. Disgusted with her inability to eliminate the entire horde with a flick of her wrist and a wave of divine will, she informed her pet she was leaving this dimension, never to return. In a magnanimous gesture, she declared that Spike would remain high in her regard – he had amused her – but despite that, she preferred to travel alone from now on.

She was grieving. He could understand that. Admire it, even, all things considered.

But she was leaving him behind. "Illyria… 'Lyria, what're you… you can't…"

He could understand that too, but wasn't sure he'd be able to survive it. Everyone else was dead. If Illyria left, he'd be the sole survivor of Angel's merry band, assuming he made it out of Los Angeles in one piece. He had his doubts about that.

"…leave me here? Alone… 'Lyria?"

She claimed she would put some kind of protection over him, a cloak of sorts that should last long enough for him to escape. If he hurried. If he didn't collapse from his injuries and dust in some sunlit alleyway come morning. If, when LA was dragged down into a hell dimension, he wasn't dragged along with it.

"All dead… meant to be too…"

He was never intended to survive, and he knew it. Not after he destroyed the Fell Brethren and saved the infant that was their holy vessel. But by Christ he wanted to survive, so once Illyria had disappeared – once he'd gotten over the shock that she'd really left him behind – he ran.

In his dream, Spike dodged the sun, crossing alleys between skyscrapers, until abruptly he was hiding among trees and crossing grassy clearings in a countryside he'd never visited. Instead of ducking into the parking garage where he stole one of Angel's cars, he found himself inside a ruined barn, crouched in the shadows next to Figg. Staring at the burned bodies that surrounded them, instead of the hordes of Hell, splashed with blood and ichor.

"I don't understand," Figg was saying. "How did I survive? They're all – they're – they left me. How could they do that? I don't understand."

Spike didn't understand either.

"Just us… 's just us now… how did we – Figg? They're all dead, Figg… you're meant… meant to be too… how did I… I don't understand."

Then Illyria was standing before them, and Figg had pulled out lengths of chain and barbed wire, and Spike still didn't understand why any of it was happening. How he'd managed to make it when everyone else had been destroyed; how he'd gotten caught by a senile old coot and bound in his spell; how he'd been rescued when no one had known he was taken.

He backed away from Figg, then Illyria was swinging a shovel at his face – Spike flinched, ducked out of the way. Too slow, too slow, the shovel was going to connect, this would hurt… felt the beginnings of the impact against his skull…

…and woke up, panting. The sigils inscribed all along his limbs and torso burned fiercely, and his ribs ached. The one time that not having to breathe was actually more comfortable than giving into reflex, and he had to have nightmares that negate the advantage.

Without thinking, he moved to wipe a hand across his face. They didn't budge – again. Glancing down, he saw to his chagrin that Buffy or Xander had put the belts back around his arms, strapping him firmly to the frame of the cot. Only this time, when he twisted his wrists experimentally, nothing happened. There was no give at all, and his shaking fingers had nowhere to go.

And on top of that, he was alone. No one in the garage when he woke up, this time, although someone had left the door open leading into the house. He listened, but there were no noises inside that he could detect, no puttering in the kitchen, no telly in the living room. No water running through the pipes that he could hear.

No light behind the tarps over the garage windows. It was night, they were asleep, and he was hungry and helpless… and alone.

He swallowed.

Sodding nightmares.

---