She was released the next morning, and ignoring the doctor’s orders to stay in bed for at least twenty four hours, Buffy spent most of the day helping Christine arrange the funeral. Christine jumped into the planning of it the same way she had planned her wedding, leaving no small detail ignored. Buffy found herself accepting the role as a pall bearer and being fitted for a pair of black slacks, a very slim black vest and coat over a midnight blue shirt. It was exactly what Christine had chosen for Miles to wear as well, and even though the coffin was to remain closed, Buffy could imagine how he would have looked in it.

Despite his promise to return the previous night, Spike never came back to see her. Dawn had visited and Angel had dropped by to bring her flowers and to give her a very harsh talking to that left her feeling even worse than she already did. He had insisted that she come into the office on Monday before she reported back to duty. Both visits had left her in tears and the fact that Spike never came back and didn’t answer the phone prevented her from sleeping at all, no matter what pain medication they pumped into her veins.

When she had arrived at their apartment that morning, Spike was in the kitchen, drinking blood from a Pooh mug. Dawn had taken one look at Spike, handed Buffy her prescription bottles and left before Buffy could tell her goodbye. Buffy walked into the bedroom, noting that the bed had been made and set the bottles down. She didn’t look at him as he entered the room and opened his closet door. She pulled fresh underwear from her drawer and went into the bathroom where she stripped and finally took a hot shower, submerging even her wounded shoulder under the water with no regard to what the doctor had suggested.

Spike had been gone when she emerged and she had spent the day with Christine.

Now, however, she had no place to go except back home. Her arm had begun to throb again and she was almost certain that a couple of stitches had popped open while she had been fitted for her suit. After her shower that morning she had hastily stuck extra large bandages over the incision instead of taking the time to wrap it with the gauze that she had been given. She would have needed help wrapping it and help couldn’t be found.

She entered the apartment, very aware of how silent it was. The silence always came with death and she hated it. She flipped the television on, then turned it up a notch, satisfied that the noise would be a nice distraction. She kicked her shoes off and carried them into the bedroom. It was empty. She had half expected to find him napping and had envisioned herself crawling next to him, pretending that they hadn’t endured the past twenty four hours at all. It was already dark outside and she realized, for the first time, that she had not eaten all day. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had ignored the food that had been laid out on Christine’s kitchen table.

She put her shoes in the closet and slipped out of her jeans and shirt, dressing instead in sweat pants and a small tank top that left her stomach exposed. In the bathroom, she was shocked at how pale her face was and turned sideways, gasping when she saw that the bandages she had slapped on her arm were heavy and bulging with blood. They resembled leaches and she cringed when she gently pressed against one and felt the blood squish against her flesh. Only the adhesive was keeping it in and judging by how engorged the actual bandage was, that hold was fleeting. How had she not realized how bad the bleeding was? And why was it still bleeding anyway? She had gotten sliced in the stomach the day Spike had ‘died’ and that had healed before they had reached Los Angeles in the shaky, dirty bus that had been their getaway car.

It would make a mess if she attempted to clean herself up at the sink so she stripped off and hopped into the shower where she wet the bandages to make the removal easier. The stitches had gotten caught up in the tape and she hissed as she felt a couple of them pop open. She worked until the water was cooling and the shower was streaked with blood. The water that swirled in the drain was completely red by the time the last of the bandages had come off. She sighed in relief and leaned back against the shower wall as dizziness rocked through her.

When her teeth chattered, she stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around her arm as tightly as she could. She used one arm to dry herself and pull her clothes back on. Her face was even paler as she stared into the mirror and she leaned against the sink as her eyes refused to focus on anything. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but something was definitely wrong with her.

After a while, the dizziness passed and she slowly began to unwrap the towel, which had soaked up even more blood. She turned and really looked at the wound. It was swollen and her skin had a sickly greenish tint to it around the incision. Bruising, she told herself. It’s just bruising. Taking her time, she dug through the first aid kit until she found the butterfly stitches and ‘glue’. She used the entire tube of glue trying to get the areas of the cut closed back up. She used a ton of tape and a box of sterile gauze to tightly wrap her arm like a mummy. It wasn’t pretty, since she had done it one handed, but it seemed to be holding up and there was no blood leaking through that she could see.

She took three very strong pain pills and curled up on the bed, too exhausted to cry and feeling too sorry for herself to not want to.

*~*

Spike smelled her blood when he walked into the apartment. He put the Chinese food he had picked up on the kitchen counter and carried a vase of flowers that he had bought for her into the bedroom. The balloon said ‘I’m sorry’ and the small card that sat proudly amongst the roses said simply, “I didn’t mean it, love”. He turned the light on and saw her hair spread out on the pillow, peeking from beneath the comforter. He sat the flowers on the end table and eased the cover back.

She infuriated him. No one had ever gotten under his skin the way she did. And no one had every gotten into his heart the way she did either. The months that they had shared had been the best months of his life and while they had had their fair share of rocky moments, he wouldn’t trade it. Even now, with his anger still strong enough to flare up inside of him, he loved her enough to be the one to apologize.

He watched her sleep for a few moments, loving the way she always curled on hand beneath her cheek. She had his pillow pulled against her and it moved him for some reason, thinking that she had used it as a substitute for him. He took one of the flowers from the vase and trailed it over her cheek. A small frown line appeared on her forehead and he grinned, moving it under her nose. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and rolled onto her back.

“Buffy?” He kissed her forehead, frowning at how warm she felt and how pale her skin was. He shook her, worried now. “Wake up, love.”

She stirred a little, mumbling something about being tired. Spike eased the cover back, looking at her arm. The bandages were fresh and stopped at her elbow. He took her hand, noting how blue and swollen it looked. He shook her again, more insistent this time. “Come on, baby. Wake up.”

With a moan, her eyelids fluttered open. “I love it when you call me that,” she said softly.

“You don’t look well. Are you okay?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Are you still mad at me?”

Spike moved back a little and picked up the flowers, bringing them closer to her. “What do you think?”

She grinned and sat up, groaning as her arm protested and pain ripped through her. She caught the look of concern on Spike’s face and forced a smile, taking the single rose from his hand. “It’s okay”

“You’ve been bleeding.”

“I changed the bandages.”

“I would have-”

A little spark of anger flared in her. “You weren’t here and you refused to speak to me this morning.”

Spike pointed at the flowers. “You get that I’m sorry, right?”

“Why?”

“Why am I sorry?”

“No, why didn’t you come back last night? Why didn’t you come and get me this morning or answer your phone.”

“You pissed me off when you said you wanted to do everything alone. I was leaving you alone.”

Buffy felt her blood pressure rise. “I said I wanted to kill the demon alone. Not be alone.”

“That way you’re feeling right now? That’s how I felt yesterday when you left *me* alone to go after that demon.”

“I said I was sorry.”

Spike pointed at the balloon and said, “Then we’re even.”

Buffy wanted more than anything for him to take her in his arms and promise that things would be fine. Instead, he went to the dresser, emptying his pockets of loose change and his wallet. “Where have you been?” she finally asked.

“Working.”

“Angel said that we’re closed. What were you doing?”

“He came to see you?”

She nodded. “So what were you doing?”

“We got rid of what was left of the demon you destroyed.”

The image of what she had done flashed in her head. It had taken her an hour to rid herself of the caked on blood in the shower. “Oh.”

He softened a little as he watched her. The paleness of her skin was bothering him. “Remind me never to *really* piss you off, love.”

“Too late.” She gave him an almost smile and stood, stumbling a little as dizziness hit her again.

Spike was beside her in an instant, holding her around the waist. “Should I call the doc?”

“No.” She took a couple of deep breaths and leaned against him. “I didn’t remember to eat today. That’s all it is.”

He eased her back onto the bed, telling her to stay there. To avoid pissing him off any more than she already had, she complied and was grateful to him when he returned with a plate full of her favorite Chinese dish. He put a soda on the nightstand and watched as she ate a few bites. “Good?”

“Very. Thank you.”

He told her he was going to grab a shower and that he didn’t want her moving around much and went into the bathroom. He emerged seconds later, carrying the wastebasket. “You’re still bleeding this bad?”

Buffy chewed slowly, mulling over her answer. If she told him that the bleeding was still horrific, he’d have her back at the infirmary. “I was fitted for a pall bearer suit today. I think I popped a couple of stitches. It looks worse than it is.”

He put the trash can in the corner and moved around the bed. “Let me check it.”

“It’s fine. It finally stopped hurting and I really don’t want to irritate it again.”

“You were fitted for a what?” He finally registered what she said.

“Christine wants me to be a pall bearer.”

“Absolutely not. You just had surgery. And you’re a girl.”

“I told her I would. And since when is being a girl enough to stop me from anything?”

He sat next to her, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Are you sure you can take it? I mean, emotionally?”

She swallowed the rice she was eating, suddenly very full and very sick to her stomach. She reached past him, putting the plate beside the vase of flowers. She finally nodded. “I can do it.”

He cupped her cheek and tilted his head to one side, making a study of her. “You don’t always have to be the strongest. If you want to tell her no you can and no one would fault you for it.”

“I don’t want to tell her no.” Buffy reached up, putting her hand on top of his. “And I’m not the strongest. I think I’ll die if you don’t put your arms around me and tell me that we’re going to be fine.”

He did.

~*~

Buffy woke up the next morning feeling like her head had been run over by a big truck. It throbbed, making her eyes water. She stumbled into the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. Splashing cold water in her face, she stared at her features. Somehow her eyes appeared to be sunken, her cheeks hollow. Chalking it up to grief and worry, she brushed her teeth and applied enough makeup to give herself some color. Leaving her hair long and loose, she walked back into the bedroom and chose a long, black dress from her closet. The suit she would need to wear would be ready at five that afternoon.

Christine had opted to have a very quick funeral. The plans that she and Buffy had made the day before were detailed, but simple. Instead of a ‘viewing’ day, which was normal, Miles would lie in the main ball room of Wolfram and Hart for twelve hours, allowing ample time for everyone to pass by the closed coffin. At six o’clock that night, they would proceed with a traditional service and then head to the cemetery. Christine’s parents had argued about the nighttime ceremony and Miles’ father had questioned it relentlessly, but Christine had explained about the ‘special needs’ of some of the guests who were allergic to sunlight.

The zipper on the back of the dress presented a major problem for Buffy. She was relieved when Spike stepped up behind her and handled the situation. When she turned to thank him, her voice caught in her throat. He was wearing a black suit and a midnight blue shirt, identical to the one she had been fitted for.

Spike nodded. “She asked me, too.”

“Do you know who else?”

“I know that Davies and Colin are doing it. I don’t know if she chose four or six of us.”

She tried not to cry as she considered it, but couldn’t help herself. “This is going to be really hard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how I’ll do it.”

“*We’ll* do it.”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “I guess we should go down and sign the book or something. I mean, the actual thing is hours away and my clothes aren’t ready and -”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “If you need to leave or if it gets too hard just say the word.”

“Okay.”

They met Dawn and Colin at the elevator. Dawn looked pretty, her hair in a very adult french twist and wearing a dark grey suit and light pink shirt. She hugged Buffy, then Spike. “I can’t believe the last time we all dressed up and met at the elevator was for their wedding.”

Buffy, who had been telling herself not to cry the entire morning, remembered helping Miles look for his shoe the day of the wedding, remembered finding it under the edge of the bed and watching him hop towards her because he had heard it was bad luck to walk in one shoe ... and she lost it.

Spike nodded at Dawn and Colin as the elevator opened and said, “Go on. We’ll be down in a minute.”

Buffy walked down the hallway, trying to reign in her emotions. Spike walked behind her. He gave her enough space to let her breathe, but stayed close enough to let her know he was there. After a good five minutes had passed, he said, “Miles would understand if you couldn’t do this.”

“He would, but I wouldn’t.” Buffy composed herself and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “You’d think I’d be good at this death thing after having so much practice.”

“Some things only get harder the more you do it.”

“When did you become Wisdom Guy?”

“I’ve always had wisdom, you just chose to pretend that I didn’t. Like, when I wanted us to be together and you said ‘oh no, my friends wouldn’t approve’ or when you tried to dance yourself into a flaming mess and I had to stop you and sing those very smart, very full of wisdom lines about living or when you were drinking your weight in cheap liquor and I-”

“It wasn’t cheap and I get the point.”

He smiled at her. “I’m glad that I didn’t have to bring up the whole Soldier-Boy thing because I knew that wouldn’t work out from the get go. And it makes me mad as hell to think about it.”

She actually laughed, something she thought wasn’t possible. “Good one.”

“I could go on, but I don’t think I need to.”

“You really don’t.”

He offered her his arm. “Ready?”

“Stay right with me, okay?”

“Absolutely, love. I’m not going anywhere.”