: Shelter
The street lights cast eerie shadows all over Buffy's room. She was stretched on her back, trying desperately to stop thinking about her mother’s death. She watched the headlights of a passing car dance along the ceiling and sighed. Life was going on and it wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

The coffin selection had been somber. Everyone wanted to go and as much as Buffy thought it should just be her and Dawn, she was also grateful. Because when it came down to the final selection, both the Summers' daughters had been mute. It passed silently between the two girls.

// Buffy, how do we choose what she'll be in forever? //

// Dawn, this is so hard. Please, please say something. Decide. I can't. //

It had been Tara who had finally stepped forward, running her hand inside a dark cherry coffin that was lined with yellow satin. "Joyce was fond of yellow. Sh-she always said she wanted to p-paint your house yellow."

"I like that one, too," Anya supplied agreeably. "The doves are a nice touch."

Giles had nodded at the funeral home director and they had all followed dumbly into the next room, where the pungent odor of flowers made Buffy gag, and her legs soon ached from the stiff cushions of the chair, and there, they had finalized it all. Music. Flowers. Where they wanted the service. What they wanted the obituary to say. How they'd be paying. Insurance forms were signed. Sums were tallied. Hands were shaken. Condolences were offered.

And then they were home.

Where Buffy paused in the doorway, staring at the empty couch. The images flashed in her head, attached to a strobe light and a cacophony of sounds. Joyce on the couch. Her skirt too high. Her eyes too wide. Her flesh too cold. Her oldest daughter reduced to nothing more than a spectator in a sport she had played for years.

// 911, what's your emergency. //

// Do you know CPR? //

// The body is cold? //

// Mommommommommom. //

// Your mother is dead. //

// She's cold, man. Call it. //

// There was no pain. //

Joyce on the couch.

Joyce spinning in her dress.

// I left my bra in his car. //

Joyce with the ax in her hand.

// Nobody lays a hand on my little girl. //

"Buffy!"

Someone was calling her. "Mom?" Buffy had whispered. Then focused on Willow, who was standing in front of her, with Tara and Anya flanking her sides. "Will?"

"You better sit down, Buffy. You're pale and sweaty." Anya finally pushed her into the nearest chair and studied her closely. "Are you going to faint? In some films, people faint during a funeral. Thought I don't recall them ever looking so gaunt."

Buffy hadn't fainted. As much as she wanted to. As much as she needed to. She hadn't done anything except sit and agreeably sip the water that she had been given. Neighbors had filtered in and out the open door, quietly setting plates of food on the tables. Tara had taken down names and dishes for thank you cards, and Buffy had almost commented that it was stupid to thank people for casseroles and meat platters when no one ever thanked her for saving the world. Not even the Powers That Be, who had snatched her lifeline right out from under her just like it was work as usual.

Just another day in the Buffy office. Buffy's personal Hell.

Presently turning away from the window, she stared at the clock, running her fingers along the seam of the mattress. Her door opening caused her to prop herself on her elbow, and she saw Dawn silhouetted against the dim light from the bathroom. Her gown hug loosely around her ankles, dwarfing her, making her look even more like a little girl. Fluffy. Devastated. "Dawnie?"

There was a pause, and Dawn, poking at the throw rug with her toe, softly cleared her throat. "I told her she wasn't my mother," she said through clenched teeth.

Buffy flipped on her lamp and sat up, beckoning her little sister to come sit on the bed. When the younger girl had perched on the edge, Buffy noted the red rings around her eyes, the pale color her skin had become, and the way her breathing hitched every so often. "Dawn-"

"I told her she wasn't my mother and I never apologized. I never said anything. I never even thanked her for just accepting me and taking care of me ... even when she knew I wasn't hers. I didn't tell her I loved her enough."

"She knew." Buffy took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "She knew, Dawn."

"I should have said it. I should have done something. Cooked her breakfast or cleaned up without being told. Or something. Anything."

Taking the box of tissue that Willow had put beside her bed, Buffy handed them to Dawn, who was softly sobbing. "Shhh."

"I can't!" Dawn yelled, standing up angrily. "Don't tell me to 'shh' like I can just stop. Let me cry, Buffy! Let me scream and let me hit something! Let me fall apart! God knows you haven't! What's wrong with you!? You just sit there like you're dead too!"

Buffy leapt from the bed, wrapping her arms around Dawn. They both sank to the floor, with Dawn's back to Buffy's chest and Buffy held her as the youngster sobbed. Buffy stroked her hair, whispered that it would be okay, promised her that they'd always be together, and finally, Dawn stopped crying, and whispered that she was tired now. She stood and crawled into Buffy's bed, curling into a little ball. Buffy laid next to her, staring at the ceiling again.

Until the walls closed in and she needed to get out.

The entire gang had slept over. She knew that Dawn would be safe.

///

There had been no rain that day while they buried her mother. It had been overcast, like the Heavens had a heavy heart, but it had not wept. Neither had Buffy. Not when the pallbearers, led by Xander, had lifted the shining cherry coffin from the black hearse. Not when the wind had knocked over a flower arrangement and Willow had scrambled to get it. Not when the priest began to pray. Not when Giles led her forward, and she had grabbed a handful of dirt to toss onto the coffin, marring its simple beauty as it was slowly lowered into the ground. Staining it with brown specs of ritual.

Six feet. Taller than Buffy. Taller than her mother had been. Too deep to dig out with her bare hands and too shallow to not be tempted to try. As Dawn tossed a single rose into the hole, Buffy had clenched her fists against the rage that welled inside her broken heart. In a moment of blind fury, laced with panic and pain, she contemplated jumping down on top of the coffin and begging them to let her stay. Her mother had taught her to stay close, to never talk to strangers, and half the people gathered around to watch the coffin disappear were strangers.

What would she do without her mother?

//

She asked the question again when she currently found herself standing at the foot of Joyce's grave. A light drizzle had finally begun to fall, wetting her cheeks with ice cold moisture. It was the first time her face been wet since her shower that morning. Had it really just been that morning? Were the Heavens finally satisfied that she was destroyed and had decided to weep in her place? The wind whipped again, sending her hair blowing away from her face as lightning illuminated the headstones. She shivered, but failed to notice.

There was a vampire nearby.

Her Slayer senses, which had been muted for days by so many human emotions, alerted her, tensing her muscles, keening her hearing, and she reached instinctively for a stake that didn't exist. She had left home with no weapons. No weapons and no coat and still, there was no fear, no concern. There was a hollow ache, a deadening in her soul, and if death was to come, she would meet it head on. Welcome it with no resistance.

// I'm sure it was painless. //

Thunder clapped, vibrating the earth beneath her feet, but she didn't flinch. It rained harder, stinging her cheeks, but she didn't try to shield her eyes. No, they needed the wetness. They needed to burn with tears, even if they were rainwater tears, so she would know that she was still there inside. She felt lost, and there was no one to find her anymore. No one to wrap her in a warm blanket and smooth her hair away from her face and tell her that it would be okay.

"Buffy?" A twig snapped, accentuating her name, which had been spoken just loud enough for her to hear.

"Go away, Spike." She was disappointed that the vampire she felt in the area was him. She had ached for physical pain and he could not provide that.

"You need to get out of this storm."

Buffy glanced at him, then down at the flowers he held in his hand. "Stealing from other gravesites?"

"What?" Spike realized what she was referring to and shook his head. "No. I bought these earlier. Left them at your house, but no one took them in."

She watched as he laid his flowers on the pile that was already present, already wilting, already dying just as her mother had done. "Thanks," she said absently.

For a while they stood quietly, Buffy staring at the ground and Spike staring at her. When the rain picked up, he reached forward, gently tugging on her drenched shirt sleeve. "Let me walk you home, love."

"No."

"Buffy-"

"NO!" she cried, pulling away from him.

"You’re gonna catch your death!" Spike growled, yanking his duster off and attempting to put it around her shoulders, but she moved away from him. "Take the damn coat, Slayer."

Buffy moved to the other side of the grave and shook her head. "Just go."

"I’m not leaving you out here like this." He swore as lightning struck a tree in the corner of the graveyard, causing it to spark and snap down the middle. "We are getting out of here. Now."

"I just want to be with her." Buffy resisted when he gripped her arm and tried to pull her with him. Home wasn’t home without her mother and the four walls did nothing but remind her of what she had lost. "Please! I can’t be in that house. I can’t be there."

"Okay. You don’t have to go home, love. Come with me."

She shivered, her teeth chattering so hard that it made her jaw ache. For several seconds, she contemplated throwing herself down on the dying flowers and screaming with every ounce of energy that remained inside of her, but she finally nodded.

Spike felt relieved as he slipped his coat over her shoulders and led her toward his crypt. He said nothing as he opened the door and ushered her inside. There was no source of heat, no fireplace, nothing to help warm her up. He studied her, then headed toward his underground lair. "I’m going to get you something dry to put on."

Buffy didn’t reply. Her gaze rested on the tomb that dominated the small crypt. She let her hand trace the name on the end and the words ‘Beloved Mother’ caught her eye. Slowly, she slid the lid of the tomb to one side and peered inside.

What was left of the woman was nothing more than a skeleton in rotting clothes. The hair was coated with cobwebs and the Bible that was laid beneath her hands had practically fallen apart. Buffy brought her hand to her mouth. This was what her mother would be reduced to.

Spike came back up the stairs carrying a towel, a blanket and a robe. It was actually Buffy’s robe. He had stolen it weeks before. He drew up short when he saw her face and realized what she was doing. Wordlessly, he moved forward, shutting the lid on the tomb.

"Mom will look like that, won't she?"

Spike held the towel out to her, but she didn’t take it. "That takes years."

Buffy was surprised that he was there. She had forgotten where she was, who she was with. The question had been asked to no one in particular. She finally took the towel and tried to pat her hair, but the chills were still too powerful so she gave up and did nothing.

Spike took the towel from her and blotted her hair himself. "You have to get out of these wet clothes."

"I’m fine."

"Buffy, it’s freezing."

"She’s cold. She was ... she was cold when I tried to give her CPR. I - I want to be cold, too."

"Well, you’re not gonna be. You can get undressed or I can do it for you. Which is it gonna be?"

She frowned. "I need to go back to her. She will want someone there. She'll want-"

Spike caught her as she headed for the door and pulled her around, shaking her roughly. "She’s gone, Buffy! Your mum is dead and she’s not coming back."

"Stop. Stop it! Let me go!"

"No! You have to take care of yourself."

"I can’t! I don't know how!" Buffy was shocked to feel her voice crack as she shouted the words. "I want her back, Spike! I want her back!"

He pulled her against him, hugging her as the tears came at last. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, over her hair, and whispered to her that it would be okay.


Buffy clung to the front of his shirt, burying her face against his chest. She cried until she was exhausted, until her throat ached and he face was swollen and red. She cried until she couldn't cry another tear.

Slowly, Spike stepped back and eased the jacket off her. "Put the robe on and wrap up in the blanket."

He turned his back to her, giving her as much privacy as could be afforded in a crypt. After a while, the shuffling of her feet and the sound of clothing being discarded stilled and he said, "Can I turn around?"

Her reply was muffled because she had started to cry again and Spike turned, lifting the blanket from the floor and wrapping it around her. With no worry as to whether or not she would protest, he lifted her in his arms and sat down in the chair, holding her in his lap. "Let it go, baby. Let it out."


She did.

Spike never spoke, but he tightened his arms around her every time the cries bordered on hysteria. At those times, he whispered that her mother loved her and was proud of her ‘til the end, told her that Joyce knew she was loved, that she had been a helluva woman.

It took an hour for her to doze off. Spike leaned his head against hers and closed his eyes. She’d never believe he loved her, but the steady ache he felt inside his dead heart for her was proof enough for him.

He contented himself to watch her for a couple of hours, then he carefully brushed her hair away from her face and traced her bottom lip. She moaned a little and burrowed further into the blankets. Spike smiled and slowly stood, carrying her like the precious cargo that he felt she was.

He eased out of the crypt with her and headed toward Revello Drive. Buffy stirred when he was a block away from her house. Her sleepy eyes attempted to focus on her surroundings, then she gasped and looked up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Dawn will be scared if you aren’t there when she wakes up."

"I can walk."

"Your shoes are at the crypt."

Buffy was actually grateful for the warmth of the blanket and bone tired and weary enough to not argue. "You could have killed me while I was asleep."

"Where’s the fun in that, pet?"

"I went to the cemetery hoping that something would."

Spike stopped walking and stared down at her. "Never say that again."

"I think I understand now why some Slayers have a death wish."

"Stop it. Your heart is broken, Buffy, but it’s not ready to stop beating."

"You don’t know that."

"Yes, I do. You’ll get along. It won’t be easy, but you’ll do it because you’re who you are."

"Right. A Slayer can’t even stop to-"

"Not the Slayer, Buffy, the girl. You’ve never let being a Slayer take the girl out of you. You’re the strongest *girl* I’ve ever known."

Buffy had no reply, so he resumed walking and finally climbed the stairs of her house. He said, "Do you want me to ring the bell?"

"No." She moved a little and he put her on her feet, which were bare and she hissed as they hit the cold wood of the front porch. "There’s a key under the flower pot."

He retrieved it and handed it to her. "If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to-" he began.

"Spike, why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Make me forget that you’re a vampire."

"I didn’t mean to."

She smiled a little. "You’re not like other vampires."

"You’re not like other Slayers."

"I guess I’m not." She watched him as he stepped off the porch and pulled the blanket from her shoulders. "Hey, here’s your -" She glanced down at herself. "You stole my robe?"

"Guilty." He caught the blanket and smiled up at her. "It looks better on you than it does on me."

That made her chuckle and she shook her head. He waved and started down the sidewalk again. "Spike?" she called. He stopped and glanced back at her. "Do you believe in Heaven?"

He was tempted to tell her that he had just visited Heaven by holding her for so long, but he simply nodded. "I believe there’s bound to be something. Whether it’s Heaven or something like it, I do believe that she’s there and she’s okay."

Buffy thought about that. "Did you feel it when you died?"

Spike considered his answer very carefully. Because he loved her, because he wanted to lessen the pain she felt, he nodded again and walked towards her. "I felt it the instant my heart stopped beating. I was surrounded by warmth and I felt peaceful and happy and calm. It was incredible."

"What does that mean?"

"Thanks."

"Anytime. Now go inside. It’s cold."

Buffy nodded and let herself into the house, pausing to wave at him. She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. The cry had helped her and she felt like she would be able to face the sunrise and whatever tomorrow had in store for her.

"Buffy?" Giles came out of the kitchen, looking disheveled with a cup of tea in hand. "Good lord! What were you doing outside in your robe?"

She considered her answer carefully. What had she been doing? Trying to earn a plot next to her mother? Trying to freeze to death in the storm? Taking a deep breath she decided to tell him the truth. "I was talking to a friend."

Sleep came easy for her a while later.

Across town, a vampire knelt beside a freshly dug grave and whispered, "I'll keep them safe, Joyce. I will."



-END