Author’s Note: I. Am. So. Sorry, everyone! I really didn’t mean to leave this story hanging for so long. But, you know, RL blah blah blah.

Okie-dokie. This chapter blends with the timing of the last chappie, so Buffy ends up coming to her own enlightenment at roughly the same time that Spike did in the previous chapter. I’ll just warn that there is no Spuffy interaction this chapter—which probably bites the big one for most of you who have been waiting for an update. There will be interaction next chapter—so send threats and scold me so I update faster than I did this last time ;p


Chapter Four – Finding Home


PREVIOUSLY…


When their fingers accidentally brushed his reaction was swift, almost violent.


“Don’t touch me!” he roared as he snatched his hand away.


Buffy backed into the table, watching as Spike stormed out of the room. His mug of cocoa lay shattered at her feet.


Agatha briskly came out of the kitchen, clutching a bag of marshmallows. “What happened?”


Buffy kept her eyes directed down the hallway Spike had turned to. “I don’t know.”


..~*~..


Aggie looked to the shards of glass and chocolate liquid splattered on the floor. “I guess he really wasn’t feeling too well. He’s like that in the mornings sometimes, the poor thing,” she explained. With dawning realization she continued with, “He’s probably coming down with something and didn’t want you to catch it. He’s so considerate like that; always looking out for others.” Aggie asked concernedly, “You are alright, aren’t you? I hope he didn’t scare you by yelling at you like that. It was probably just a knee-jerk reaction to keep you from touching him and catching his germs.”


Buffy turned to look at Aggie, an all body shiver rushing through her form as she broke eye contact with the place that Spike had disappeared through. “I-“ Buffy stopped to clear her throat when she found that her voice was thick and wavering. “Yeah, I’m…fine. I hope he feels better soon.” The words felt foreign on her tongue and had sounded robotic even to her own ears because she didn’t know if she had even really meant them.


Aggie nodded, somehow having missed the discomfort in Buffy’s voice. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll feel better in no time.” She looked over to the hallway and said in a reluctant voice, “It’d be best to just let him alone for now, though.” She turned back to Buffy and wrinkled her nose in a displeased fashion. “Oh, I know I’m being impatient but it’s just that I wanted you and Spike to get to know each other right away. I have- I just have a feeling that you two will get along so well together; like two peas in a pod.”


Buffy stayed mute, trying to regulate the pounding of her heart. She didn’t share the feeling that Aggie had about her and Spike being bestest buddies.


What she could grudgingly admit to, though, was the fact that she felt no small amount of fear towards her interaction with the man. She felt the big kind. Something about him just exuded power. Scary, lethal power. And it wasn’t as if it was because of his physical appearance, either. Well, actually, yeah, a lot of it had to do with his sharp, bad boy looks. But, besides that, the fact was that he could only at best be a little over half a head taller than her, and that physical stature in itself should make him less menacing.


It didn’t.


There was—something about his eyes. They were expressive clear blue pools that she was sure were holding nothing back from her yet she couldn’t interpret their intent. She could have sworn there had been anger and heat within them, overlaid by baffled confusion… But at the same time she felt that maybe she could just as well be off base, and that the guy really was just deliriously ill and in need of rest.


Buffy decided that, on the long run, it didn’t matter, because she didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out anyways.


“Um, do you want me to help you clean that up?”’


Aggie’s face broke into a beatific smile. “You are such a sweetheart, offering to help me clean!” She waved one index finger in the air as if coming to a point. “See! That’s why I know you and Spike’ll get along well. You’re good people; pure at heart.” If possible, Aggie’s smile seemed to get wider and her eyes sparkled with unpretentious affection. “I know I’ve already said this, but…I’m so glad you’ve come to stay with us. I finally feel that things are coming into place. You wait and see! You’ll be all settled in here in no time!”


And all of a sudden Buffy’s running away plan made her feel guilt to no end. It wasn’t fair that her Great Aunt Agatha was so nice and likeable. It wasn’t fair that she felt obvious care towards Buffy. And it wasn’t fair that, for the first time since her mom died, Buffy felt that the tough sought barrier that she had built around her heart might someday be able to be eradicated and she could feel lo- something again when she’d worked so hard to feel nothing.


Had she really only been in this place for no more than twenty minutes?


“So, uh, where can I find towels? I’ll help you soak up that cocoa.”


“Oh, really there’s no need, Buffy, but thank you for being kind enough to offer. I’ll clean this up myself and let you get back to eating your food.” She gave Buffy a wink and then said before turning to enter the kitchen once again, “It might seem like I’m being a good hostess but, really, I’m just an impatient Auntie who wants to show her beautiful niece to her nice new room.”


Again, the smiling and warm feelings that she had thought long dead threatened to make an encore appearance and chip away at that proverbial ice surrounding her heart.


She gave Aggie a shy nod and turned back around and sat in front of her plate of food. There were still tendrils of steam—which was just another testament to how little time she had actually been in this strange place. She stabbed a bite size piece of the steak onto her fork and raised the utensil to slip the sustenance between her lips.


It was good. It was really good. It was appetite whetting good—and Buffy hadn’t been hungry in months. Up until now she had been mechanically eating two to three small meals a day only because she knew it would have drawn unneeded attention to her if she hadn’t.


And because deep down, she knew that if she had just let herself waste away, she would have been letting her deceased mother down. Alive or not, Buffy couldn’t disappoint the one person that had loved her unconditionally.


So it was a surprise that she really had no ulterior motive behind eating this time. Other than the fact that she found it really tasty, this in turn causing her to notice that she had actual hunger pains. She didn’t need to force herself to eat for once.


She was one-third away from being done when Aggie came back into the dining room with a broom, dustpan, and some towels.


“Is it good? If you don’t like it I could- Oh- “Aggie stopped in her tracks after having spotted Buffy’s plate. “Wow, you’re good. I bet you could give Spike a run for his money…and he’s got an endless pit where his stomach should be.”


Buffy blushed and lowered her fork; long held societal habits making her embarrassed about being caught eating at a rapid pace that would be considered indecent for a girl.


“No! Eat as fast as you like, Buffy! I didn’t mean to embarrass you! It’s flattering, actually, that you like my cooking so much.” Aggie set the towels on the table and put the dustpan on the floor and started sweeping the shards of glass into it. “Are you still hungry, sweetheart? Are you going to want some more?”


Buffy had to give a small smile at Aggie’s earnest face. She had seen Aggie’s countenance when it had been heartfelt and when it had been suppressed against seeking justice at the funeral. Now, in such a short amount of time, she had seen a hyper old woman, as bouncy as a child, act as if she was the one person to treasure most.


My guilt’s gonna eat me alive before I can get away from this place, Buffy thought.


The smile froze on Buffy’s face and suddenly she felt more tired than she ever had in her life.


She didn’t want to feel. This old woman had no right to make her forget that. She wanted to be numb and not have to interact in a world that to her had been such a cold place. There was no sense of seeking comfort and solace in good, when it was eventually ripped away from you. That lesson learned, Buffy wasn’t going to take it anymore. She was leaving tonight when everyone was asleep, her conscience be damned.


Buffy focused back on Aggie and noticed that the mess was gone and Aggie was peering at her concernedly. Buffy shook her head. “I’m sorry; zoned out for a minute. Um, I’m actually pretty full now. But thanks, it was good.”


“Oh. Alright, then.” Aggie replied somewhat hesitantly. “I’ll just be right back after I throw all of this glass away and put these towels in the dirty laundry.” She then gave an encouraging smile. “Then to show you your room we go!”


Buffy gave a few quick nods of her head. “Uh huh.”

Aggie turned to leave the room, then stopped. She turned back around to face Buffy, her eyes searching. Buffy had the urge to turn away because of how intent Aggie’s gaze was. It made her paranoid that Aggie could somehow delve into her mind and read her thoughts.


“Are you okay, Buffy?”


No. “Yeah. I’m just- It’s been a long day—well, morning, I guess—and I’m really tired.”


Aggie gave her a sympathetic smile. “Well in that case, I’ll hurry up with this so I can show you to your room, and more importantly your bed. The grand tour can wait ‘til later. Maybe by then Spike’ll be up to giving the tour. If we can get him to do it, listen to his accent when he describes the library. He reverts to an upper-crust formal tone. The man’s a closet intellectual I tell ya.”


Buffy mustered up a weak smile while her insides further tightened with guilt and confusion. Her room. Her bed. Hers.


Buffy stood up from the table and lent against it, squeezing her eyes shut while rubbing a hand at her pounding temples. She just wanted to ignore Aggie’s compassion. Get away from her warmth. Add the turbulent emotions of contempt she felt for Hank and the stricken surprise at her interaction with Spike and it was all too much.


She didn’t notice that Aggie was back in the room until she felt an age softened hand gently rubbing her shoulder in a soothing motion. “Let’s get you to bed, hun.” Her words suddenly turned apologetic and an underlying tone of self berating drifted in. “I should have known that you would be too overwhelmed by all that’s happened. I can only imagine what you’re feeli- I- And I suppose you don’t want to hear any of that.”


Thoughts and feeling were inevitable. Buffy had to choke down a sob that had almost scraped through her traitorous throat. She wanted to shout at this woman. Tell her how dare she care about her. How dare she understand and know exactly what to say. All she had done was say a few kind words and given a handful of heartfelt, soothing touches and suddenly Buffy was second guessing if she could make it on her own without this loving connection that Aggie had for her. Because behind all of the numbness and the barriers, Buffy had a fervent wish. She wanted to let go, have the broken little girl inside her find solace and have all of the old hurts and fresh pain go away. She wanted to be lovingly held and rocked to sleep, to be told every night upon going to bed and every morning upon waking up that she was loved and cared for. She wanted to believe in trust again.


But she was afraid. Anxiety manifested and tightened every fiber of her being with black, cloying dread at the thought of letting go and confiding in another the contents of her heart and expecting them to always be there.


She was, after all, left so easily broken when they would go away and never come back to her.


When next she dazedly looked around she found that she was being tucked into an unfamiliar bed. This must be my bed, she thought in mild dismay.


She tried to struggle to her feet, away from the nuance of comfort, but Aggie gently, so gently stilled her and murmured for her to rest.


And she found that she didn’t want to put up a fight. This nice, soft warm bed felt so inviting, as did Aggie’s sweet voice as it bathed her in a wash of bitter sweet memories of how her mother used to do the same thing of soothing her discontentment with a balm of soft, tender whispers. She wanted to bask in the long-missed feeling just once more.


Just once more. She’d leave when she woke. But she just- just needed this once more.


As sleep overtook her, she went unknowing of the knowledge that she had already given a piece of herself over.


..::~*~::..


Buffy lurched awake with a drag of air to her lungs.


“Wha?” She shook her head, ridding herself of her lethargy.


Fragmented images clung to the forefront of her mind. But they weakened even as she tried to remember them, until all she could recollect were colors. The colors of smooth pitch black stones, bleached-white sands, and clear, ocean-blue waves.


She frowned at the niggling feeling that she should know what those colors represented—and then frowned some more when she took in her unfamiliar surroundings. She fumbled along until her hand met a lamp and she twisted the knob to turn it on.


She was in a room painted in a warm, cream colored earth tone. The paint smelled fresh. It was accented with furnishings of deep forest green, dark gold and crimson red. The bed she was sitting up in was a comfy queen sized bed with a deep red comforter, adorned with golden threaded patterns of flowers and leaves and twining vines. Her eyes jumped from one accessory to another, taking in the beautiful wooden desk with: a work lamp, a brand new compact stereo system, and school supplies such as pencils, pens and note cards; and other things such as the wooden dresser and hung pictures.


Her gaze skittered to the dark green draped window, seeing only the dead of night darkness and quiet just peeking through it.


She jolted to her feet, tangled in the sheets, as she remembered where she was…and what she had promised herself she would do when everyone was asleep.


Leave.


Hastily she sat on the edge of the bed and freed her feet from the sheets, her eyes all the while staring at her suit cased belongings that had been on Aggie’s porch the last time that she had seen them.


‘It would’ve been easier for me if they had just been left there.’


She sighed, getting up to grab her shoes off of the floor, and then jammed them on her sock-clad feet.


Once she was dressed as she had been when she had come to this place, she started to make her way across her—the room—only to stop as a picture on the wall caught her eye.


When she looked at it fully she corrected herself. It wasn’t a picture, it was a painting…and it was of her.


A six-year-old Buffy smiled happily back at her, wearing a pale pink tutu for her first ballet recital, with a plated bun in her hair and a tiny silver crown-barrette adorning it. She was in the second position: her feet together, toes pointed apart, knees slightly bent apart in a diamond shape and her small arms circled out above her head in true ballerina fashion. The colors used to capture the moment were used vividly. The painting made the memory seem more magical.


Her mom had made this painting.


Buffy had forgotten. And not only the painting—she had forgotten how much that Joyce had liked to paint all together.


Buffy closed her eyes to better remember the image of her mom steadily creating life on canvas. As a child she had watched in wonder as the methodic strokes of her mommy’s paintbrush shaped beauty where before there had been none. Buffy had been her favorite subject.


Then the divorce had come and Joyce had been a single mother. She hadn’t had time for painting and the paintings she had already made were sold so that they could pay for bills and groceries while she looked for a new job that hadn’t been a part of Hank’s law firm as her old job had been.


Buffy involuntarily took a step forward to be closer to the painting—to be closer to a piece of her mom—but abruptly fell forward as her shoe lace got caught in a wooden floorboard. She caught herself before she fell and distractedly looked down as she bent to right her shoe laces.


The floorboard had been knocked out of position—and a sketched portion of a face that she could recognize as easily as she could her own was staring back at her.


The painting of herself as a child was instantaneously forgotten as Buffy edged closer to the charcoal sketch of her mother’s young, beautiful face.


Cautiously, Buffy stretched her hand out and fully lifted the board and delicately picked up the sketch that had to have been deliberately hidden for, at the very least, twenty years.


“Mommy,” she breathlessly exhaled as she absently sat back down on the bed after having had put the floorboard back in place.


The sketch was simply…perfect. Drawn by a loving hand. Buffy traced the contours of Joyce’s impish smile and mischievously sparkling eyes. Her look was full of love and womanly promise.


Buffy’s cheeks tinged at the sketches extreme detail in the features that made it unquestionable that this had most definitely been drawn by a lover. The charcoal strokes on the paper were far too…intimate to have been drawn by anyone else and Buffy recognized that the mystery artist had a different, more edgy style than her mom had had as an artist.


She sat staring fixedly at the yellowed-with-age paper for what seemed like an eternity, just soaking in Joyce’s lively spirit that almost seemed to leap off of the page.


After a time, she shifted closer to the lit lamp on the side table by the bed, to cast the dark shadows of the outside night sky away from the paper…


And noticed what had to be words that were written on the back. She flipped the paper over to reveal one line.


The one in all the world, the one that owns my heart.


She frowned when she didn’t find a signature or date.


‘Who drew this?’ She mentally questioned. ‘Who felt this way about my mom?’


This thought snapped her out of her detached curiosity.


Someone had deliberately stowed a picture of her mother under a floorboard in the bedroom that she was now supposed to be living in. Had it been Aggie? And if so, did Aggie want her to find it? Or, had it been the artist? …Had her mom put it there herself all those years ago?


Buffy stared back down at the words on the back of the sketch.


Suddenly she wished she had been more persistent in asking Joyce about growing up in Sunnydale. The paper Buffy held in her hands spoke volumes about a romance between her mother and some unknown lover. But Joyce had always said her life in Sunnydale had been a bore and not worth retelling. Buffy turned the paper back around and reverently swept her gaze over her mother’s classically beautiful features.


She doubted her mother’s life had been boring.


There was so much she didn’t know.


So much she wanted to know.


An image of her mother, weak and bedridden, came to mind and it was so stark and devoid of health compared to the physical visual she was holding that she felt the ache of loss from the tips of her hair to the bottoms of her toes.


A cry that sounded so harsh in the stillness of the room tore from her throat, and suddenly tears wouldn’t stop flowing down from her eyes.


It was the second time she cried since her mother’s death. The first time being when she found her mother’s body when she came home from school and her mommy just wouldn’t wake up.


Her mother’s life was a complete mystery to her. She felt barred now from the one person that had brought her up and nurtured her. The one person who had chased all of the monsters from her nightmares away and had taught her to be fair and always be considerate of other people’s feelings.


Her tears intensified until her surroundings were just a speckled blur, and with a sudden urgency she set the paper aside while coherency was still in control. She didn’t want to ruin the sketch. It would be too much to lose.


And she gave in to her aching sadness, silently releasing tears into her pillow, on her bed, in her room. She trembled as she felt a dip in the bed and then a warm embrace holding her. But the tension in her drained as soon as she heard the heart-felt murmurs pass through Aggie’s lips.


She could hear her mother in Aggie’s voice. See her in Aggie’s warm and loving nature.


And it came to her that she hadn’t lost her mother. That this elderly woman undeniably was apart of what had made Joyce how she was.


She wasn’t going to give this up. She was staying and she was going to figure things out.


Something—her soul, maybe—was telling her that this was where she needed to be. This was where she belonged.


TBC