Tara let herself into the house feeling bright and hopeful like she hadn’t for a while now.
 
And then she saw Giles sitting at the dining room table with a collection of books and notebooks spread out in front of him. Research. Her heart started racing. “H-has something happened?” she asked.
 
“Ah!” Giles squawked, knocking over a stack of books at his elbow.
 
Tara stifled a giggle. Clearly he hadn’t heard her come in. “I-is Buffy okay?”
 
“No! I mean yes! I mean – sorry,” Giles stammered, flustered. “She’s out – patrolling.”
 
“You’re in research mode,” Tara said, leaning against the doorway. “That usually spells badness with all capital letters and stuff.”
 
Giles carefully put his pen down. “The Council has demanded I return to England within the next ten days. They, er, they don’t know that Buffy is alive.” He gestured to the books and papers in front of him. “I am attempting to prepare myself for their reactions.”
 
“Oh,” Tara said, confused. “They won’t just be, y’know, happy? To have her back?”
 
Giles smiled tightly. “It’s always possible. But Buffy confuses the majority of the Council. When I reported her death, many were … I suppose ‘relieved’ is an apt way to describe it? I will almost certainly need to convince them that the darkness of Willow’s chosen spell has not, er, not compromised Buffy in some way.”
 
After a few long seconds of silence, Tara asked: “D-do we know that it hasn’t?”
 
“Has Buffy – did Willow said something to you?” Giles sounded terrified.
 
“No!” Tara said quickly. “No one’s said anything. It’s just … B-Buffy’s not okay. If it was anyone else, I’d say classic P-PTSD-D. But she’s not just anyone.” Tara frowned in thought. “Did Angel have problems like this? After hell?”
 
Giles looked thoughtful. “One can always hope.”
 
Tara shuffled uncomfortably.
 
Sighing, he continued, “My understanding is that the First Evil brought Angel back to kill Buffy. I doubt very much there is anything to be learned from his experience.”
 
“Oh,” Tara said, blinking. She’d never heard that part of the story before. “So, um, how long will you be gone?”
 
“At least two to three weeks. If the Council is difficult, perhaps double that?” Giles paused. “If I’m not finished by Thanksgiving, I’ll return for the holidays. With Joyce gone, I – I know I’m not family, strictly speaking, but….” He trailed off. More quietly, he added, “I just hope I’m not making a terrible mistake in leaving now.”
 
“Do you have a choice?” Tara asked, just as quietly.
 
“There’s always a choice,” Giles said grimly, “even when it’s for the least worst option. But I feel so certain there’s something going on here, something Buffy won’t tell me….”
 
“Spike probably knows,” Tara said.
 
“Yes. Well,” Giles said tersely. He slumped, sighing. “It was all so much easier when she hated him.”
 
Tara smiled weakly. “Maybe that’s why she talks to him – nothing to lose.” She shrugged. “B-but I’m probably wrong … I don’t really know her that well.”
 
“Does anyone?” Giles slumped back in his chair, fussing with the papers in front of him. “I’ve watched her through so many personal tragedies … only once has she ever asked for my help. And that was when she was worried that being the Slayer was somehow mystically affecting her personality.” Under his breath, too low for Tara to hear, he murmured, “So stupid. All Buffy does is love.”
 
He seemed frail, suddenly. Tara wasn’t used to seeing him so worried and uncertain. She unclenched to take a peek at his aura. It felt stiff and achy and difficult reconnecting to the magic so quickly after the last time.
 
Oh.
 
There was a lot of darkness from doubt and uncertainty there. Guilt, too. But the love was … oh, the love was overwhelming. Tara could hardly believe it of him. Giles always seemed so … constrained. She was amazed, again, at Buffy’s ability to inspire love in people. And Tara thought she could understand a little better now why Xander and Willow had been so devastated when Giles left. “Trust your instincts,” she blurted.
 
Giles looked surprised and a little confused. Part of him felt very odd, being advised to trust his instincts by someone young enough to be his daughter. But he had been feeling a certain kinship with Tara recently. Never having been her teacher probably made it easier to see her as an equal….
 
“Buffy doesn’t have anyone except you on her side over there, right?” Tara continued, more confident now that she’d seen Giles’ emotional state.
 
“No,” he said slowly. “She doesn’t.”
 
“A-and there’s more resources there – books and people?”
 
Giles nodded. “I’ve done everything I can from here.”
 
“So it makes sense for you to go now,” Tara said gently. She paused. “Will you come back permanently? After?”
 
“I’ve got a flat until spring,” Giles said slowly. He’d accepted Anya and Xander’s offer of a sublet that afternoon. “Beyond that? I don’t know.”
 
“It’ll be okay,” Tara said. She laughed a little, gently. “We’ve been through worse.”
 
Despite himself, Giles felt buoyed by the assurance. Then with a sudden jolt of embarrassment, he asked, “How – are you well? I’m so sorry – I should have asked before.”
 
“I’m okay, I think,” Tara said. She took in a deep breath. And then she told him: her doubts about staying in Buffy’s house, what Dawn had said, seeing Willow and doing the spell. It felt good. He was calm and he didn’t judge. It felt like family.
 
They were so wrapped up in their conversation, they barely acknowledged Dawn when she came home a good forty minutes past her curfew. It only strengthened her resolve to sneak out with Janice for Hallowe’en – not like anyone would notice anyway.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
“Wanker!” Spike shouted back into the bar, before slamming the door shut. This was the other reason he never bothered trying to get drunk in all-human joints anymore: arsehole barman had cut him off. Then added insult to injury by taking his sodding keys!
 
Not nearly as far gone as he’d like to be and vibrating with thwarted desire to beat the shit out of something, Spike stomped down the road to pick up something to keep sobriety at bay en route to a proper bar – a demon bar. He did not want to be capable of thought right now.
 
He was just pushing through the shop door and blinking at the sudden brightness when he would’ve bet a purebred Persian he saw Buffy’s reflection running down the street straight past him.
 
Spike spun around, shocked. The other times the nightmares were as bad as last night and this morning, she’d acted borderline agoraphobic for at least a day after. He stepped out into the road, searching, but who- or whatever it was he’d seen they were gone now. He couldn’t even catch a scent.
 
Spike turned back to the shop, shaking his head. He wasn’t drunk enough for hallucinations yet, but apparently his senses had decided to conspire against his attempts to stop thinking about it.
 
Another drink or six would fix that.
 
It was so frustrating, knowing how it all must look from the outside – how it must look to Dawn. She needed to know about Heaven. They all needed to know. Buffy was shifty and guilty and taking it out on him because he was the only outlet she’d allowed herself – him and her nightmares. And there was so much rage and fear and grief locked up inside of her it was killing her by inches keeping it hidden. And he’d promised he wouldn’t tell.
 
So fucking fucked up.
 
Especially when he knew how it could be between them. They both knew, even if she wouldn’t talk about it.
 
Booze, then a nice spot of violence. That’d set him right. No more goddamned thinking.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The vamp was all but begging her to make fun of him: bad hair, worse clothes, zero fighting skills, and body odour that could stop traffic. But even with all that ammunition, Buffy still couldn’t think of a single thing to say beyond the obvious “You: die now”. And even then, she couldn’t get the words out before he was dust in the wind.
 
Seconds later, her whole body was jerking towards movement just outside the range of her peripheral vision. Surprise, surprise, it was only leaves: she’d been jumping at shadows all night.
 
Drenched in sweat and fear, Buffy was becoming the prey she’d spent years pretending to be.
 
After what felt like her billionth time checking the darkness for monsters and finding weeds, she had an epiphany: she’d enjoyed patrolling before. Sometimes it had even been fun – murky shadows were presents not-yet-opened, and sad, pathetic vampires were chances to make herself giggle. It had lifted her spirits – made her feel confident and strong – no matter how bad the rest of her life was.
 
When did that even happen? Patrolling used to be the thing ruining my life….
 
And why was she only realising this now? Now, when patrolling really, truly felt like the despised duty she’d always told herself it was. Next she’d be thinking she’d lost interest in shopping.
 
Oh.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Going to the nameless bar just past Gilbert and Fifth had been a brilliant idea. This was a far cry from Spike’s usual sedate Saturday night of backroom poker with friendly demons who’d stop kicking you after they’d nicked all your kittens. The nutters in this place were all crazier than Dru and meaner than Angelus, bless ‘em.
 
Spike had long ago given up the whiskey tally and was just about through a wine bottle full of “virgin baby blood – guaranteed real baby”. It tasted like it had been liberally watered down with pig, but who cared? He was slurring his speech and had zero capacity for rational thought, which was the point of the exercise.
 
“Oi!” he shouted, smashing his newly-empty bottle on the table and only just avoiding falling over. “Who wants a fight?”
 
Everyone, as it turned out.
 
Bloody fuckin’ glorious.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Anya and Xander were sitting on the floor of their soon-to-be-ex-living room staring at the last three boxes, containing all the things they had left to divvy up.
 
The apartment was echo-y and silent, without the benefit of its contents.
 
It had been depressingly easy for the most part, deciding who got what. They were leaving all the furniture for Giles to keep or throw out – the only thing they’d bought new was the mattress and, like the apartment, neither of them wanted it for themselves. Anya was keeping all the kitchen stuff she’d brought from her old place – so basically everything – and all the electronics and things to play in them had come straight from Xander’s basement. The rest were things they’d never, ever argue over: clothes, Xander’s “childish” collectable toys and memorabilia and Anya’s keepsakes – for which read “gruesome trophies”.
 
In the first to-be-divided box were photos – framed and loose – plus housewarming gifts and a few bottles of nicer wine they’d been saving for a special occasion. The other two contained bedding, sex toys, and the contents of their dressing-up box.
 
“I don’t want the wine,” Xander said.
 
“It makes sense for you to keep the gifts – they’re all from your friends.”
 
Xander sighed. “They’re your friends, too.”
 
Anya snorted. “Willow thinks you belong to her and resents interlopers.” She paused. “Buffy is stuck-up and entitled and Tara has no obvious personality.”
 
“Gee, Anya, tell me how you really feel.”
 
She slumped back against the sofa. “I hate this.”
 
Xander scooted over to sit next to her, their shoulders and hips lightly touching. “Me, too.”
 
“I’m going to miss you,” she said quietly.
 
He laughed, bumping his shoulder gently against hers. “C’mon, no more snoring? It’ll be great.”
 
Anya scowled at him. “I … I care about you more than I do about me. I didn’t even know that was possible. And tomorrow, that’ll be over.”
 
Xander shifted to put his arm around her. Anya laid her head on his shoulder. “You’re helping stuck-up, entitled Buffy,” Xander said. “That’s hardly selfish.”
 
Anya laughed a little. “Maybe.”
 
“Definitely.” He paused. “You keep saying you don’t care, but you do. You help. You make a difference.”
 
She looked deeply uncomfortable. “I’m not a nice person, Xander. I’m not … most of the others called themselves ‘justice’ demons. I was a vengeance demon, and I loved every minute of it. Maybe I should try and talk to D’Hoffryn again….”
 
Xander stuffed down a surge of panic. “Could you really do it? Go back to slaughter and torture and—”
 
“I don’t know.” She twisted around so her legs were in Xander’s lap and she was snuggled against his chest. “But I know I don’t want to punish you right now and that terrifies me. It’s not who I am.”
 
“It is the woman I fell in love with.”
 
Anya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but we’ve already established you’re an idiot.”
 
They both laughed.
 
Anya started tracing her fingers over his chest. “So … you wanna? One last time?”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Buffy heard the pop of her knee going out before she felt the pain.
 
Not good.
 
She’d hoped that by pushing herself – by finding some vamps who actually knew how to throw a punch without breaking their own thumbs – she might regain some of her satisfaction in slaying. Because if it was going to be as stressful and exhausting as shopping had been, she didn’t see how she’d ever be able to cope.
 
But just a few seconds in, Buffy knew that had been a big fat mistake. Her current opponent was an experienced fighter, and Buffy was badly off her game. Worse, she didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. Three times now, there’d practically been a classified ad out for where the hit was going to land and she’d known exactly what she needed to do to block it, but somehow she … just … hadn’t. And now she had a dislocated knee. Joy.
 
Buffy toppled over – and not in a controlled way, either. She jarred her elbow and her hip hard on a flat gravestone.
 
“Aw, poor Slayer,” hissed the vampire – an obscenely tall woman in full cyber-goth clubwear.
 
Looking up at the outfit, Buffy died inside a little bit more from the heavy losses to good quippage. But she still dutifully scissored her legs to take the vamp down. It wasn’t pretty and was effective only because of heels that would make a stilt-walker dizzy. So … not so obscenely tall, then.
 
It hurt. A lot. And that was how Buffy justified her failure to notice the rest of the nest coming. Because otherwise? There were jangly chains and fluorescent plastic things that were probably visible from space and lots and lots of squeaky … (p)leather?
 
Even though there weren’t that many of them, the nest of fashion victims knew how to fight as a group. Before Buffy had a chance to stand, two of them had grabbed onto her wrists and stretched out her arms, leaving space for the other three to move in for the kill. Buffy managed to get her good foot underneath her, and sprang up into a backflip, snap-kicking the jaw of the vamp lunging for her neck. But the flip had only given her back one hand – the other was now pressed into a wrist-lock she couldn’t break.
 
Buffy felt fangs sinking into her shoulder, just before a white haze descended on her vision and the Slayer took over.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The Buffy-bot saw herself in Sunnydale Memorial cemetery, fighting too many oddly-dressed vampires.
 
Her protocols now specified that only demons likely to carry money should be attacked. The ones down there didn’t look wealthy – they were wearing pleather.
 
The situation confused her: her files referenced a second Buffy, but contained nothing about why or how. Still, she had to defend herself, didn’t she? And that was definitely her down there. They were equally pretty.
 
Decision made, she ran towards them, shouting “Stand and deliver!”
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The first thing Buffy was aware of was the pain. In fact, she briefly considered passing out because of it. But then she remembered that she was in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial and being unconscious-while-human in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial was a really, really bad idea.
 
She took stock of her situation: she was in a low crouch, with her bad leg stretched out straight in from of her – knee twisted drunkenly to one side. There was a lot of dust on the ground, plus a few links of chain and something that looked like a ripped tutu. Also wallets, weirdly. She really wished she could remember more than brief flashes of the fight – it seemed like something she should be bragging about.
 
Giles had definitely been right about the power-up.
 
Buffy very nearly started crying when she realised that neither the persistent taste of blood in her mouth, the memory loss, nor her wonky knee were her biggest problem right now. That award went to the pair of fangs that had broken off in her right shoulder. The wounds themselves weren’t bad  – they’d probably heal in a day or two – but the persistent trickle of blood coming out around them was just this side of terrifying.
 
She really needed to not be in the middle of Sunnydale Memorial.
 
Unfortunately, there was nothing around that could be used as a makeshift crutch, which meant going home was not an option.
 
She could see a bank of crypts on the crest of the next hill. Maybe a half-mile away? She could barricade the door and probably survive the night…. Someone would come looking for her. Eventually.
 
Buffy gripped her sole remaining stake tighter and started to half-crawl, half-hop, using gravestones for support where she could. She’d make it to the crypts … in about an hour. So long as she didn’t pass out or get eaten on the way.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Spike stumbled out of the bar, groaning but happy. Once the booze wore off the pain was going to be spectacular, but oh, what a glorious fight!
 
He blinked, trying to focus. He was pretty sure this intersection didn’t have more than three roads, but he could see six. More if he squinted. He stumbled off the edge of the pavement and had to sit down abruptly to avoid falling any further.
 
Scooting backwards to lean against the outside wall of the bar, Spike shut his eyes … just for a few seconds, to help with the focussing. When he opened them again, the moon had moved.
 
“Naughty moon,” he chided, wagging a finger at it. “Mustn’t creep up on a fellow like that.”
 
He giggled. After a few more seconds of trying and failing to work out which of the six roads in front of him was Gilbert, he found if he rested his head just right against the wall all that vision bollocks worked a bit better.
 
And there it was: “Third from the right – maybe fourth … an’ straight on ‘til mornin’!” Spike lurched to his feet, and started moving. “For’ard, left!”
 
Once on Gilbert, it was either cut through Sunnydale Memorial and along Peterson to Restfield, or back through the docks and down Main to Revello.
 
Choices, choices. Thinking thoughts of choices and choosing is all thinking. All bad.
 
Spike put a finger to his lips and shushed himself. He could just about do upright and moving, but not if he was thinking too. He started shuffling home … he didn’t know which home, yet, but he was sure it’d come to him eventually.
 
Long as that moon stayed put, he’d be fine.
 
He was so intent on watching his feet to make sure they didn’t get tangled up again that he’d mostly stopped paying attention to anything else. Like which direction he was going. Or where he was.
 
Then he smelled blood. Buffy’s blood.
 
“Slayer!” he roared. In his haste to hare off after the blood trail, he tripped over a gravestone and knocked himself out on another.
 
The moon continued its trek across the sky.