Note from webmistress: horizontal lines denote original divisions between parts

Do you take plight on my tongue like lead,
Do you fall gracefully into bed anymore?
I saw you as you walked across my room
You looked out the window, you looked at the moon
And you sat on the corner of my bed and you
Smoked with the ghost in the back of my head

        "Do You Sleep?" - Lisa Loeb

        My hands shake as I pick out the cigarette from the smooth, rectangular shaped box. I cough a little at the smell and raise it to my lips, flicking the lighter and watching the slight spurt of bluish flame ignite the papery end. Inhaling, I feel the swirls of grey smoke seep into my lungs and breathe out slowly, sitting back against the stone wall of the mansion.

        It's cold out here, and goosebumps appear on my arms as I shiver, smoking quietly and staring up at the moon. The grass is dewy against the backs of my naked knees and the air bites into my reddened cheeks. Pressing my fingers into my ribs, I wonder how much weight I've lost in the last week. Xander looked at me worriedly the other day and mentioned that I could use a hamburger- which is probably true. Eating does seem to be too much of an effort though. What's really the use? I think I can feel my bones and cough some more as the smoke gets down deep into my breath and infects it like a disease.

        The air whistles between my teeth as I toss the cigarette onto the dirt and crush the butt with my boot, watching the way the sparks nestle in the grass as I glance up at the moon. That's the first smoke I've had since I left Liz. God has it been almost four years? It feels like thousands. It's funny how time passes. Fucking hilarious, really, when you think about it. I try not to. Think about it, that is. Liz always used to tell me even my tears tasted like death- like ash. How right she was.

        Standing, I brush the dirt off my pants and feel the silken ends of my hair tickling my elbows. Over to the right somewhere is my Mom's gravestone. I haven't been there since my visit with Angel. When I asked him to stay forever. Ha. That's even more funny- that I even thought he would. But I did. I remember that, strangely. My belly was hot and sort of syrupy, and I was nervous- my throat clenched and I said the words---

        - how's forever?

        And then we kissed and his lips were shiny- sticky with my lip gloss. It made my insides turn over and I expected him just for a second to say, "Of course, I'll stay forever. I love you, Buffy. You know I'll always love you."

        But he left with the sunrise. I went home, of course, like a good little girl and then I died for my sister and it occurs to me that he doesn't even know I'm alive. Does it even matter? Probably not. No one wants to talk to a girl who should be dead.

        When I got out of the shower this morning I forgot to get a towel- I forgot towels existed actually- and I stood, water sluicing down my skin as I shivered, until Dawn came into the bathroom and gasped, grabbing my robe and wrapping it around me. She crooned as she helped me into my room and chose my clothes. I felt as if I was watching the entire scene from the ceiling- which maybe I was. Sometimes I think I'm still dead and this is some Hell I've slipped into. When I sleep, the trees are red and glittery. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes and the sun envelops the horizon with its rays like harsh gold arms. I don't like to dream much- because when I talk to my friends their mouths are full of glowing teeth and blood. I didn't tell that to Giles. I did tell him that waking up is the hardest. I always expect to see a satiny cover and have to tear it off and claw at dirt and worms and roots, to have to see my own grave and stumble through a town that demons are ravaging.

        However bad my dreams are, waking up to that is worse.

        I used to dream a lot about Liz. After I left Roswell, her and Michael crept into my slumber, haunting me in ways I never knew possible. The others- I missed them, of course. Isabel I saw in the cold line of a jaw, or the gesture of a graceful hand. She struck me in such small ways. Maria in the laugh of a good friend or the smell of bath salts that Mom used to use- I saw her in the light. Sometimes I wish that I could talk to her- but then I just hope that she's happy.

        I used to think, sometimes, that I could feel Lizzie's pain. When she clung to me as I left and we kissed for that one last time, I tasted tears on her lips and knew she wasn't going to be fine. But that's life, you know? You lose people, you kill people, you fuck them over and then it's done. You go on. Hell, you can kill yourself and still come back as I've found. I laugh quietly and then hear a soft footfall to my left.

        "Hi Spike," I say, breathing out and watching the slightly grey whoosh come from my mouth.

        I can almost hear his smile and he stands next to me, a little too close, but I don't mind. The sleeve of his leather jacket brushes my arm and it tickles. "No vamps to slay tonight, Buffy?" he inquires and I shrug.

        "There will be. Later. I already did the rounds once."

        "Were you—" he stops for a moment and seems to sniff the air, "-smoking?"

        "Yes," I respond. "Shocked?"

        "Pleased is more like it," he scoffs. "I forgot mine back at the crypt."

        Drawing one from the pack I keep in my pocket, I place it between his lips and light the end, watching the flame spurt out with a brilliant flare. His eyes meet mine and in them I see the forgetfulness I'm seeking. He wants me. I can smell it, I can almost taste it. I'd have to be an idiot not to see it, and I'm not an idiot. A dead girl walking maybe, but not an idiot.

        "You're gonna have to tell 'em sometime," Spike opines, touching my wrist lightly.

        "They're not supposed to know," I say softly. "They couldn't handle it. And I swear to God Spike, if you tell them- I'll kill you."

        "Can't get any clearer than that, can you?" he laughs harshly, and stamps out the burning ash from the cigarette with his boot- so like mine- and then grips my forearm. "Are you ever gonna let me in, Slayer?"

        I laugh and push his chest, hard. "Trust me, Spike- there's nothing inside."

        I walk away, leaving him behind- where he should be. I've never told anyone- but I hate being near him. It drives me crazy.

        He smells like Angel.

~~~

        The Bronze is sweetly warm and the scent of sweat and alcohol fills my nose. It's a welcome relief, and I make my way to the bar, ordering a White Russian and slipping the milky liquid down my throat, the burn of the vodka sparking my belly. Looking around, I realize none of my friends are here, which is also nice. I don't need to see their concerned stares and hear the endless round of "are you ok's?" that are inevitable. Willow wants me to be grateful, Xander wants me to be shiny happy Buffy, and I think Dawn just wants me to be normal again. I don't blame her. I want to be normal again too. But can a person ever be normal after they've seen heaven and hell and their own grave?

        I shrug off my leather jacket, leaving it carelessly on a chair and heading for the dance floor. Shimmying my hips to the sultry beat, I close my eyes and sway, trying to forget. Tossing back the rest of the drink down my throat, I gasp a little and the ice clinks against my teeth as I swallow and some of it drips lazily down onto my sheer black top. My thighs jerk as I move, the floor slippery beneath my feet and I dance, my mind jumbling. I remember dancing like this with Faith. Our knees kept touching and her hair wound around mine and she made me someone I didn't recognize. Maybe it was the animal inside of her. I'll never know. I wonder if they even told her I was dead. I doubt it. They never knew how important she was to me- my sister Slayer, my nemesis. The girl I killed- me with my family and friends and sunshine life (but it was all a lie. A fake candy lie)... they never knew what she was.

        But then they never knew about Liz, either.

        I never told anyone about her. Never did I talk about her with Angel. And he didn't ask. He just left. Maybe my pain got too much- and it was always there between us. The murder of him, the sword, the scar, the dust- Roswell and all it represented.

        Nothing could make either of us forget that.

        Except time, I suppose. Isn't time what heals all wounds?

        That really *is* fucking hilarious.

        But I don't laugh.

        Stumbling, I leave the dance floor, ordering another drink for the cold walk home. The vodka sooths my throat and burns all at the same time and it makes my eyes water as I open the door and turn my face to the stars.

        (What happens when you can't escape anymore?)

        A chill trickles down my spine and I take another step, taking another gulp from the silly paper cup, when I realize I forgot my jacket inside and spin around, seeing a girl trip just in front of me, her hands and knees colliding with the solid concrete outside the Bronze.

        "Hey, are you ok?" I ask, and she looks up and the world spins down on me as I stare at shining hair and dark endless eyes.

        Those Angel eyes...

        (Thanks. I tripped.

        Yeah, this road is kind of bumpy)

        My hands reach out and she takes them mutely, her palms skinned and slightly blood streaked. Between the fingers of her right hand is a long thin cigarette- and as the orange tip glows sickly in the shock of night, I breathe in and say, "Lizzie?"

        She doesn't say anything. Her throat works, I watch it and watch her and feel as if I've fallen back into my past. Shaking, she reaches up and her thumb brushes my hair. Her pie-plate eyes widen and go suddenly diamond bright.

        (It's always--- always been him. But that doesn't mean I don't love you, Lizzie. I do)

        A shout shatters the silence. "Liz? Liz? Where the hell are you?"

        (And now you're leaving me)

        Such a familiar voice.

        (I don't want to)

        I turn, and my knees go weak with disbelief.

        (Just go. Be happy.

        You be happy too.

        I can't)

        "Michael?"

Sometimes I feel lost
As I pull you out like strings of memories
Wish I could weave them into you
Then I could figure the whole damn puzzle out

        "If I had it All" - Dave Matthews Band

        I stare at these ghosts from my past and breathe in, running an unsteady hand through my hair, as it falls in golden waves down my back.

        Michael gazes at me with the same shock that lacerates through my own belly and says uncertainly, "Buffy?"

        "What..." I pause and my eyes meet Liz's. There's horror in her expression, and bewilderment, and suppressed tears and rage and I feel myself dissolving under her insistent glare. "What are you two doing here? Are you looking for me? Did something happen?"

        Michael laughs and it surprises me. He laughs and his teeth look so sharp. They glint under the faint cast of the moon and he nods to Liz. "She doesn't know. I almost forgot, Liz. She doesn't know."

        "Doesn't know what?" I ask stupidly and look blindly between them.

        "It's Maria," Liz finally speaks, her voice wobbling. Squaring her chin, she faces me dead on and rubs her bloody palms down her sides. She's wearing leather pants, I think absently. How un-characteristically bad-ass of Liz. "Maria... she was in a car accident about a month ago."

        "Thirty two days ago," Michael breaks in. "Almost thirty-three."

        "Was she hurt?" I inquire, confused.

        Michael laughs again, and this time I catch the anguish behind it. "You could say that. She's dead."

        It's like a punch to my stomach, swift and sure and with all the power of a two tonne fist. Gasping, I bow my head and clutch my midsection, feeling the tears swelling in the back of my throat as I fight for breath. "Oh God..." I murmur. "Oh God, oh God..."

        "You can keep praying, but he isn't listening," Michael snaps, his voice like a razor, but even sharper. He's using it to make people bleed, I think absently, to make people bleed like he is. Like Maria did. Maria... Oh God, I was just thinking of her today...

        "Were you?" Liz asks, and I realize I spoke out loud. She continues, "Did you think of her a lot? Because she used to think of you. I know she did. Sometimes she would get silent and I knew she missed you. But she never mentioned it to me. Of course. She knew how I felt about talking about you and that was that I didn't want to talk about you. Ever. I never did, and I feel bad now cause maybe she missed you and I couldn't do anything to help her cause---"

        "Liz, Liz... Shhhh..." Michael murmurs and draws her into his arms roughly. It's not really a tender embrace, and it doesn't look like either of them are enjoying it. But she clings to him and he clings to her. I stare at both of them, tears streaking my face as I think that I never met Maria wherever I was- in heaven- or in some other dimension, caught between the worlds. Oh, Maria. She made me laugh- and I remember her eyes the morning after she and Michael slept together in the summer. She was glowing. Happy. Sweaty and sweet. She didn't deserve this.

        "Did you come looking for me?" I ask, my voice scratchy. I don't recognize it. The night wind is cold against the backs of my legs and I shiver, holding my torso with shaking arms.

        "No," Michael says, "I didn't even know you lived here. Liz just suggested we come up to California, and somehow we ended up here."

        Liz's eyes meet mine and I suddenly know that *she* did come looking for me. I think that I can't handle this right now. All I can remember is the sweat and the taste of her against my mouth at night. We'd lie together on those sheets and eat Chinese food (but only ice cream and egg rolls for me) and laugh at cheesy shows on TV. Her arm would cover my belly at night and I'd dream of Angel- of the sword and the salt of his kiss- and then in the morning we'd go to work and wink at each other over our notepads. I'd watch her walk, long to touch the shiny rope of her hair, kiss the back of her neck, take her out into the alley and go down on my knees to lift up her skirt and taste her. I look at her now and think that so much has happened. It has been years.

        Too many years? I don't know. But I'm not the same person I was then. Not the same girl who took a life and ran from the fallout. Now I'm just a dead girl walking, and like I told Spike, I don't know if there's anything inside. "I'm sorry about Maria," I whisper and Michael glances quickly at me, his bones so tight I think he is going to crack.

        "Shit happens," he replies in a blank tone that invites no sympathy.

        "Where are you staying?"

        "At the Sunnydale motel. It's the only decent one," Liz answers, her voice brittle. "How are you?"

        I stare at her with hollow eyes. "Fine. I'm doing absolutely fine."

        "How's Angel?" she inquires coldly.

        "I don't know," I bite off, angry that she asked me that- angry that she re-opened that wound. "As far as I know, he's all right. He lives in LA now."

        "Left you, huh?" she snaps and I feel fresh tears burn in the back of my throat.

        Swallowing, I bow my head and feel my hands twitch. They've done that ever since I tore my way out of the coffin. I don't know if I'll have it for the rest of my life. A livid reminder of what used to be. Where I used to be. "Yeah, he did. About two years ago." I don't tell her that the exact number of days is 822 and every one of them has felt like tiny pinpricks into the future I always thought I'd have.

        She doesn't say anything for a moment and then she grins nastily, "Must have been horrible. The love of your life leaving you, skipping town, with barely even a goodbye."

        "Why are you saying these things to me?" I whisper and she looks off into the middle distance.

        "Max left a year ago," she says quietly, almost by way of explanation. "With Tess. He took off on the spaceship and they went to their planet. She was pregnant you know. Kyle and Isabel are together now. Both my best friends are dead. Tess murdered Alex and Maria died in a car accident on the way to a gig- she was so excited about it." Liz's eyes are far away- glazed over. They scare me because they're so familiar. She pauses and clears her throat. "Michael and I took off. We couldn't take it anymore. Do you know how quiet the Crashdown was without Maria?" Turning, she touches Michael's bicep- which is also covered in the same leather as her pants- and mutters, "We should get back. Are you feeling ok?"

        "Sure Liz," he sneers. "I feel great. Abso-fucking-lutely fabulous." He spins on his heel and regards me with the same wariness that he used to back in the days when we'd hang out behind the kitchens, sipping coke and smoke and talking. "We're planning on staying in town for a while. Guess we'll see you."

        "Wait..." I say suddenly. "When? When will I see you? What are you two even doing?"

        He curls his lip at me furiously. "What in the fuck do you care? We're running away, Buffy. I think you of all people can understand that, huh? Every time I turned around in that fucking dust bowl of a town all I saw was her---" he breaks off and pants a little, breathing hard. "Fuck it, I don't want to talk about it. Liz and I are here. That's it. C'mon, let's go," he takes her arm roughly and she glances at me mutely before leaving, their figures just tiny ants in the distance before I come back to myself and go back to the Bronze to get my coat.

~~~

        My bones ache as I wake the next morning and there's a slight sickening throb to my head reminding me that it doesn't like vodka. Stepping into the shower, I feel the hot water sluice over my skin and breathe out, trying to forget the horrific dreams of the night before. Full of Liz with a blood soaked belly, reaching out to me screaming, screaming, screaming. Maria's glowing eyes and happy smile as she flies through an unforgiving windshield that doesn't care if she is a girl with a dream. Angel's entrails being eaten by carrion crows as I stand over him holding the very sword that ran him through. Dawnie falling from Glory's tower into a shower of white noise, her slight body breaking under the weight of the worlds. My Mom calling my name as she dies, "Buffy, Buffy, please help me!" her eyes going glassy as wind chimes tinkle outside in the sunny afternoon.

        A coffin.

        I dream of them sometimes. Just a coffin. Alone and still and starkly white. Funnily enough, those dreams scare me the most. It's hilarious, really. But then, a lot of things are. My skin is turning a blotchy red under the steam, and I reach up to turn off the tap, starting in terror as it turns into a skull with red flashing eyes. I stare at it, wishing it away, wishing I was just a normal girl with a normal life.

        Trembling, I step out and reach for the towels, wrapping two around my shivering body that never seems to get warm, no matter how much heat I pour into it. I dress in red leather pants and a sleek black sweater, tying my long fringe of hair back in a tight ponytail. Black boots make me feel more capable than I feel and as I pour orange juice and make Dawn's lunch for school, my belly rumbles with hunger.

        Kissing my sister's forehead, I whisper, "Goodbye sweetie."

        She smiles worriedly but brightly and touches my back. "I'll be back after school."

        "You have a good day," I murmur and stand at the door, watching her walk down the path to the bus stop- her hair swinging down her back, curling around her denim knapsack. She's still a little girl. She's just happy to have her sister back. How can she know that they've brought back a girl who never wanted to leave where she was? She can't know. She can't ever know.

        Sighing, I leave the house and walk. I don't want to go to the Magic Shop. I don't want to know what they're doing. Tara and Willow are probably still in bed. God, how can it be that I don't want to see my friends? How can it be that I only want to see one person right now and he's in LA, living a shiny happy life that doesn't involve me?

        I press my fist to my mouth, suppressing a sob as I cut through the cemetery, the overcast sky threatening rain from it's swollen clouds. The grass is soggy beneath my feet and as I walk, it makes gross sucking noises that make me think Hell is trying to grab me- it wants the parts that Heaven didn't keep. I stop in front of my Mother's grave. As always the name jumps out at me with stark clarity- Joyce Summers- and I feel a single tear slide down my cheek.

        "Who was that?"

        I jump slightly at her voice and don't turn around. "My Mom. What do you want, Liz?"

        Her tone is uncertain. "I looked you up in the phone book. I saw you on the street and I followed you... I'm sorry."

        "For following me?"

        "Yes."

        "Not about the things you said last night?"

        She is beside me now and the back of her hand brushes my arm lightly. "No. Should I be?"

        "Maybe. I don't know. But after all we—" I break off and feel tears stinging the back of my throat. "Did you come to Sunnydale looking for me, Lizzie?"

        She sighs. "Maybe. I don't know, Buffy. All I know is that Maria is dead and Michael's a mess and maybe I did want to see you. Is that so wrong?"

        "No..." I pause and breathe in shallowly. It hurts to be near her. "You and Michael... you're together, aren't you?"

        She looks surprised and then strangely guilty. "How did you know?"

        "I could smell it on you," I whisper. "The sex, and the clinginess. It was all there. I'm not going to judge you, Liz. I've done it with guys that I now regret."

        She bows her head, and the shining strands of hair obscure her expression. I realize with a slow, dawning horror that this bothers me as it always used to do. I feel the itch in my fingers to slide the locks away from her face so I can see her- see Liz. Oh, God... oh no. I don't want this again.

        "It's not like we love each other," she says quietly, lost. "He's with Maria- somewhere- he's not with me. And I—" she looks at me with shuttered eyes, blinking and grinning sharply. "Well it doesn't matter how I feel. But it's not—it's not anything that would be considered love."

        "It's sex," I say matter-of-factly and expect her to blush.

        She doesn't. She nods and touches the gravestone with absent fingers- long and slim and magnolia white. "When did your Mom die?"

        "Not too long ago," I reply. "She had a brain tumour. Like Michael said, shit happens. What can you do but go on?" I laugh bitterly. "Everyone sure expects me to, that's for sure. They expect me to know what to do, how to feel, how to deal with things- but I don't know if I'm gonna be able to."

        "Yes you will," she answers calmly. "You always know what to do."

        "That's actually a big lie, Liz," I smile without any warmth. "I'm not all powerful Buffy."

        She giggles and crouches down as if her knees hurt. "Did I say you were? Did I say I thought you were even a good person? Maybe I fucking hate you, Buffy- did you ever think of that?" Her tone is brittle, unfeeling. I want to cry but I'm so afraid to show tears in front of her. What if she wants to kiss them away? What if she laughs in my face? What if she holds me? I can't fall into this trap again. I can't let her pull me with her into the web of her addictive skin and eyes and understanding.

        "No I didn't," I answer, crouching down with her, my legs giving way, making me sit down with a thump on the wet grass. It squishes beneath me. I lean against my Mother's grave and want to scream for all I've lost. "Do you hate me?"

        She laughs again, and it's such a terrible sound. "I want to, you know. I lied to myself just enough to convince myself I hated you. I used to have dreams that you'd come back. I used to have dreams that I killed you, or you killed me. Do you think that's sick?"

        My thumb reaches out and caresses the rosy curve of her cheek. "No... it's just... it's normal. It's something that happens when people break up."

        "We didn't break up," she snarls in a sudden flash of anger. "You left me and it was like I couldn't breathe anymore. Nothing made sense. And God, I did hate you sometimes. I think I did. I loved you and I hated you and I just..." she trails off.

        "You just what?" I ask, stricken.

        She sits down next to me and folds her legs underneath her.

        "I just wished you'd come back."

The air is thick in the Magic Box. As I stock books for Giles and Anya, I try and take deep and even breaths but give up after a while. It's noisy in here, and I can hear Willow and Tara cooing softly to each other in the back room. I smile at their soft whispering. It must be nice to be in love so purely, so truly. I don't even remember what that's like. I'm not sure I ever even had it with anyone.

        (Liar)

        My knees crack slightly as I reach down to retrieve a book of pagan spells that I dropped earlier. Its bindings are worn and slight thready bits of paper worm their way through the cover. Sighing, I stretch my aching back and watch Dawn laugh with Xander as they sit at the table doing research. Some kind of new demon in town- that Giles seems extraordinarily worried about. It's killed three people- and turned three people- that we know about already and even Willy isn't talking. I'm too tired to even want to deal with it right now.

        It's been three days since I last saw Liz and Michael. After our talk in the cemetery, I was too scared to even look for her. Scared she would start to speak about missing me and of Chinese food and candy kisses. I remember looking at her arms and seeing purplish bruises from where Michael had gripped her, and feeling my thighs tingle and my insides go heavy with some yearning I didn't care to identify. I've tried to forget our time in Roswell- tried to push it to the back of mind over these years, and now she's back and everything is crumbling.

        Climbing down the steps, I say to Giles, "I've gotta go."

        He looks concerned. "Where are you going, Buffy?"

        "Out," I answer vaguely and smile at my friends. "But I'll see you guys later."

        I can hear the protests, but the roar in my ears ever since I got back is louder, so I'm able to ignore them. Outside, the cool sun still burns and I take off my coat, wanting the feel of the rays on my shoulders. My head aches slightly and I walk down the road, taking the pack of cigarettes out of my purse and lighting one with careful hands. The smoke winds it's sinuous way down my throat and into my lungs as I breathe deeply, the throb at my breastbone easing.

        I walk to the Sunnydale Motel. I don't want to. Am I answering some sort of siren song? Sometimes I hate her and I hate Roswell and I hate the fact that I ever went there. And yes, sometimes I hate myself for killing Angel and not just sending us all to Hell- in that glowy dawn Acathla's mouth was creating. At least then I would have been able to let my last memory be Angel's eyes and his sweet kiss. Instead I watched him gasp like a fish on a hook and reach out to me and all I remember is thinking- nononono this isn't happening nononono--- not him I wouldn't do this to him—nononono---

        But it was happening and I had done it, so I ran away. That's something I never, ever do. And then I found her and I suppose there was an irrevocable split between Angel and I the day I fell for someone else. The day I found a new life after taking an old one. It wasn't the same as it was with Riley. Riley was my sunshine escape, not someone who saw me through the darkest days I'll ever know.

        The motel sign boasts "No Vacancy" in garish red letters and I step up through the doors, thinking that every small town hotel is the same.

        After asking for Liz and Michael's room number, I ascend the stairs, and my lungs, unused to smoke after so long, wheeze a little at the exertion. My stomach cramps for a moment and I stop, feeling the slight trickle of blood, wet down my thigh. Damnit. Not what I need now.

        I knock on the door and it's long minutes until I hear a semi-crash and it's opened, by Michael, shirtless and slightly sweaty in worn jeans. He looks at me closely, and mutters, "Buffy..."

        "Hey Michael," I greet him and shift uncomfortably. My underwear move with me, clinging damply to my flesh. I can smell the blood. Metallic, sharp, sweet. "Is Liz around?"

        "She's in bed," he returns, and rubs his forehead, near the hairline. "But come in. I'm sure you've seen it all before."

        I wince, walking past him and into the darkened hotel room, which is messy and smells like alcohol and sex. A figure lies on the bed, naked, shiny and asleep. It's Liz, and I breathe in, my belly tightening with a bolt of fierce desire and recognition. She stirs, her eyes opening slowly. "Buffy?" she questions. "What are you doing here?"

        "I wanted to see you," I say helplessly. "There's... there's things to say, Liz."

        "Like what?" she replies, her voice wobbling. She hasn't bothered to cover her skin and I turn away, fixing my eyes on a point near the light suspended from the ceiling.

        "I'd rather say them alone."

        Michael snorts. "Do you think I'm gonna really give a fuck?"

        "Michael—" I protest. "We used to be friends. What happened?"

        "What happened?" he repeats blankly. "What happened? The love of my fucking life died. The reason I stayed on earth is dead. The woman I—" his voice cracks and I see the bright tears in his eyes, hovering near the surface. "Maria's dead," he finishes. "Nothing else matters."

        "Except sleeping with Liz, apparently," I point out calmly, and he gazes at me with such apathy that I instinctively recoil.

        "That's nothing," he dismisses. "Liz and I understand each other, don't we?"

        She stares at him and then glances at me. "Yes," she answers. "I think we do, Michael."

        He tugs on a shirt and grabs his wallet. "I have to go get some groceries. Do whatever you want."

        The door slams behind him and I wilt. "He's angry."

        "Of course he is," Liz replies without inflection. "Maria's gone."

        "I understand," I say and I do. Of course. Angel's been gone for so many years that it's almost as if he's dead. Maybe it would be better if he still was. Immediately I feel sick at the thought, and lean on the desk holding the TV. "Liz... what are you doing in Sunnydale?"

        "Running away," she answers. "I think we already established that."

        "Were you running to me?" I ask softly, and she flinches.

        "Do you honestly think I would after how it ended?"

        "Maybe," I say honestly. "I don't know, Lizzie."

        The awareness is thick and hot between us. She squirms a little on the bed, pushing her masses of dark hair off her shoulders. I want to walk around the bed and touch the spot on her lower back that always gathers sweat. I want to kiss the hollow of her neck, where it meets her shoulder. I want to caress her lips, lick up her come, cleave her body into mine so I won't feel so empty. She's so familiar, so Liz. So of the past- the past I swore I'd forget and push away but it's not working, and oh God, oh God, what am I going to do?

        Her eyes bore into mine. "What are you doing here, Buffy?" she inquires for the second time.

        "I don't know. I guess..." I pause. "I guess I came here for you. Are you satisfied Liz? I'm not over you. I don't think I ever got over you. Happy now?"

        She laughs harshly and wraps the sheet tight around her slight body- which is even skinnier than before. I can clearly see her ribs through the thin fabric, see her breast with their tiny nipples, like roses. "Sure, I'm happy. I wish I could see you begging at my feet for what you put me through."

        "What I put *you* through?" I snap, my hands and wrists trembling. "Do you even know what I was going through that summer, Liz? Do you even care? I killed my boyfriend. My boyfriend. The love of *my* fucking life- the person I cared about the most in the world. I had to watch him die. I stuck a sword through his gut and watched him as he whispered my name. So don't even think about trying to compare what we went through! All right?" I'm shaking so hard I can feel my teeth rattling. The tears stream down my face, tiny droplets coming to rest in my palms. I squeeze them together, the salt burning my skin. "You can't know. You can't know what I was feeling- what I was going through."

        "I have a pretty good idea," she cries. "Wasn't I the one who fucked you senseless all summer? Wasn't I the one who kissed away your tears and was there for you and loved you and begged you not to leave me? Jesus, Buffy, you'd think you have a monopoly on pain..." she trails off, and stands. "I know what Hell's like. I'm in it right now. So.. so... just stop. Please. Maria's dead and I'm so tired..."

        My hands rake at my hair. "You don't think I am?"

        "I think—" she pauses and then asks quietly, "do you want something?"

        "What do you mean?"

        "A tampon or something."

        I stare at her and then inquire slowly, "How did you know? Don't answer that."

        "You don't remember?" she asks sadly. "How it was when—"

        "Stop," I warn her, my voice reedy even to my own ears. Of course I remember. I'd just lied to myself enough to believe I'd forgotten. How I'd tease her during that time, saying I could smell her and she'd blush and stammer and forget what she was telling me. But then... after a while, she got more womanly- more confident, and it was then she who would tease me. Touch me, her fingers slick and pink and murmur how slippery I was. I remember. She liked the colour pink. Pink blush and pink fingers and pink lips.

        She liked it when I had copper smears on the insides of my thighs. I used to whisper it was the animal in her. She would whisper back that I must like that. "You're the Slayer. Aren't you the animal- in all of us?"

        Icy fingers crawl up my spine. I look at her. "I remember. I don't want to, but I do."

        "Do you remember everything?" she says wearily, and touches my arm.

        It burns. "That's what makes it so hard."

        "What?"

        "Having you back here... Liz... it's too complicated."

        "You loved me once," she whispers soft, sliding her hand down my waist, and I shiver, trying not to arch towards her.

        "I love you now. Or at least- I love that seventeen year old I left—but—I don't know you anymore. And you don't know me. I'm not the same person I was, Lizzie. A lot has changed. People died. And Left. And I... I've done some things, had some things happen to me- that I guess have changed me forever. It can't be like Roswell."

        "Who says I want what we had in Roswell?" she counters quietly. "I've changed too. But... I still want you, Buffy."

        I shudder at her words. I can almost taste her. A bead of sweat clings to her upper lip. She's shaking. She's not Spike. She's not Riley. She's not Angel.

        That's good.

        I want to forget.

        Just for once. I want to forget that I come from dirt. That I have dreams about killing Angel every single night. That my Mom died and left me alone. That my sister is going to starve if I can't find a way to pay the bills. That Spike wants to be inside me. That I don't think I'll ever love anyone the way I loved Angel.

        That I'm a dead girl walking.

        Leaning in, I touch her lips with my mouth. She moans, slightly, and her fist locks on my hair.

        "Let's go," I whisper. "Let's go to the beach."

You still have grace, you still have mercy
To keep kissing my face
Even though I am wrong,
please don't go, without you, I am weak
Find myself drinking and sinking and seeking
Please don't go
Sometimes
It gets so cold

        "Grace" Chantal Kreviazuk

        I can feel the sun on my back as I draw off my shirt and pants, un-hooking my bra and sliding my stained underwear down my legs. Tossing them in a pile, I don't watch as Liz undresses slowly, her movements careful. I used to come to this deserted little cove when I was a child. With Dawnie and Mom and we'd splash amongst the creamy waves, making sand castles with our small fingers. Was there a dark cloud hanging over us even then? I shield my eyes and squint- gazing far out to where the mermaids and the shipwrecks dwell.

        Maybe there was.

        I don't know.

        "What are we doing?" Liz asks, her tone wary, confused... soft.

        I turn back and see the desire in her eyes. But she's afraid. I can't blame her. My hands encircle her tiny waist. "We're swimming, Lizzie. Just swimming."

        "You left so long ago," she leans into me, and her rosy nipples- tiny- press into mine. Her breasts are small, perfect. Like the rest of her. The colour of ripe peaches and thick cream. I imagine them slick with water- remembering the day with the lake and the desert and the burning sand.

        "I didn't want to," I say quietly. "You know that. But I had to go. I have commitments here. Still."

        "Why did Angel break up with you?" her voice is brittle, angry. "You did leave Roswell for him, after all."

        The sound of his name pinches something deep in my belly. I smile sadly. "I don't even remember. It seemed important then- like lots of things. I thought I had to kill him. He thought he had to leave me. Now... it's been so many years. We don't even know each other anymore."

        She doesn't really respond for a moment, her eyes large and unseeing. I think she is remembering things that have nothing to do with me. And then she speaks. "Has there been anyone else? Were you... in love with anyone else?"

        "I thought I was," I whisper. "After Angel... there was two. Parker- he was a one-night stand. He even had red sheets. It was meaningless. But Riley... I thought he'd be something more. We went out for a year. I was obsessed with him- at first. Wanted everything about him... the sex, the normalcy. I ignored my friends, threw myself into this—normal thing. I thought it was what I should want. But after awhile... it was like, 'Goodbye novelty'- hello reality. I just... didn't need him anymore. It was cruel. He served a purpose. I wanted it to work, but it didn't."

        "Did you break up with him?" she asks, reaching out with a shaky hand and trailing it in the salty waves.

        "No," I say. "He left me. I made him go. I couldn't give him what he wanted... I was never there for him. Not, really. Not like I was for Angel... it was different. Everything about Riley and I should have been perfect, but it was empty."

        She nods. "I know. I had someone- Sean- after... after things happened with Max. He was great, you know? Funny and normal. I slept with him and thought things would be better. But they just... I couldn't love anyone else but Max. He had this hold over me."

        Laying back, I stare up at the sun, dreamily wishing myself into the sky. "And what about me, Lizzie? Do I still have a hold over you?"

        I can hear her sharp in-drawn breath and she touches my face. A lock of her hair drips over my ribs and she leans close. "What do you think?"

        I kiss her. Cupping my hand around her head, I bring her lips to mine and she slides over my body, her sun-warmed skin a blessed relief, after the cold of this Hell I've wandered into. Her mouth tastes like strawberries and her tongue is smooth as butter as it licks my neck. I feel her hand between my legs and know she likes the colour pink. I can feel the wetness on my inner thighs- the blood and musk staining her fingers as she sucks on my sweat-drenched nipples, my moans joining the cries of the seagulls as they soar in the sky.

        "Buffy...Buffy..." she groans helplessly as I turn her over, my hands and lips and tongue searching for the hollow her lower back, sweet in it's perfection, slick with ocean water. The tide is coming in but I don't feel it. She pushes herself against my face and I remember- God I remember- how addicting she was- as I grip her knees tightly with my Slayer hands (killer hands) and drink her come. She screams. Just once- and it's a wind chime in my memory. The sound of death.

        We're drowning in each other once more.

~~~

        Lazily, I swim, the slaps of my legs against the water a soothing sound. Liz drifts close to me, her hair wet over her tanned shoulders, her mouth red and swollen. All I can see is blackness. The water is dark, cold, curling around is like a serpent, it's claws opening around its prey. Overhead the stars burn.

        "What are we doing?" she asks.

        I shrug. "Something extremely dangerous? Swimming at night is never a good idea."

        She giggles, ever so slightly, and I remember that sound too. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

        I smile, a little. "I know. I don't know what we're doing. We're... we're doing what we want. And why shouldn't we? I've certainly had enough shit in my life lately. I deserve some happiness. So do you."

        She flips over onto her back, her hair fanning around her, disappearing into the water so all I can see is a white face and black ocean. "And who says we make each other happy? Can kissing you make me forget Maria?"

        "I don't want you to forget Maria," I murmur, a pain lacerating through my stomach. "I won't forget her. But we could...dull the pain."

        "Use each other," she says without inflection.

        "No..." I mutter, and reach out for her hand through the water. Her fingers are like pale fish. The moonlight shines on her eyes, turning them into diamonds. "Well, yes. Maybe. But... I want to forget things. Don't you?"

        She nods, her legs tangling with mine. "Was that all we were ever about? Forgetting?"

        "No... but I don't like to think we were something more," I answer bleakly, and kiss her lips. They taste bitter, like tears and a touch of something else. Pink. Pressing my cheek against hers, I listen to her wary reply;

        "Why?"

        "Because it makes me wonder if I made a mistake. Leaving you."

        She doesn't respond and I don't blame her. We stare at the stars, the water lapping hungrily at our skin as we drift for a long time, but never seem to reach the other side.

        ~~~~

        When we enter the hotel room, I notice the light by the side of the bed is on, casting a strange, watery glow over the room. Michael sits by the window fast asleep and holding something in his hand. As we edge closer, I realize it's a picture of Maria. She's turning around- probably at the photographer's urging- and is half-smiling. She looks beautiful and my chest squeezes.

        Liz gasps and points to Michael's eye. Blood rings the outside of it, which is quickly blackening into a purplish bruise. She sighs wearily, "He must have gotten into another fight. Would you stay here for a moment while I get some ice?"

        "Sure," I reply, guessing from her tone that this happens often. She leaves the room, dropping the sodden towels we brought on the way out. I shift uncomfortably. My underwear are damp from blood and sweat. The room smells like sex. Michael shifts drowsily, his eyes opening.

        "What are you doing here?" he asks, squinting against the light. He places the picture of his dead lover on the windowsill carefully. "Where's Liz?"

        "She's gone to get ice," I reply. "What happened to your face?"

        He shrugs, then flinches at the obvious pain. "Some jerk at the bar. I didn't like the look of him."

        "Or maybe you were just feeling sorry for yourself?" I suggest lightly.

        He scowls. "Shut up, Buffy. You don't know anything about me. I don't think you ever really did."

        "Didn't I?" I murmur. "We were friends."

        He barks with harsh laughter. "Friends huh? Maybe so. But Liz was a mess after you left. She just got smaller and sadder every day. Maria missed you like Hell. Maybe I even missed you a little. Friends don't do that to you. Don't expect to just pick up where we left off."

        "I understand," I say softly, and I do. He's lost the love of his life. Nothing will ever be the same again. "Did you... what happened with you and Maria before she died?"

        "What do you mean?" he asks, startled.

        "Something happened. I can tell."

        His eyes are far away. They well with tears and he clenches his jaw and gazes resolutely out the window. "She called me from work. Told me she had big news. God... I can still hear the way she laughed. Teased me. She must have been in a hurry- she was going 100 when some asshole was driving home from a friend's. Drunk. In the fucking middle of the day. She died on impact. They told me... they told me at the hospital." He pauses, and picks up the picture of her again, touching it with his thumb, smoothing the tiny creases in the bent material. "They told me she was pregnant. One month."

        I can't breathe. Tears swell and drip from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks. He doesn't look at me. Reaching out, I lay my hand on his. He doesn't return the gesture, but he doesn't pull away. "I haven't told anyone that," he whispers, his voice reedy. "Not even her Mother. Not even Liz. They... they shouldn't know. It'd be too much."

        "What would be too much?" Liz's voice breaks the moment and Michael jerks away from me, standing and walking over to her. His hand brushes her cheek as he takes the ice.

        "Nothing, baby," he mutters. "Just talking about the past. Thanks. My eye's really killing me."

        "Buffy?" she glances at me questioningly.

        "What he said," I tell her, my knees wobbling. "Just the past. I have to go, Lizzie... I'll see you, ok?"

        She takes a step towards me. "But—"

        I know she wants to come home with me and I cut her off, "No. Just... stay... look after Michael. I really have to go. We'll... I'll call you tomorrow."

        Hesitantly, she nods. "Okay." Michael goes into the bathroom, shutting the door. She rushes toward me, and tugs me into her arms, her lips on mine. I kiss her, feeling her warmth against me. Without her- I think I would sink again. I need her. Liz. She buries her face in my neck, whispering, "You will call me, right?"

        "Hey," I murmur teasingly. "Of course I will. Night, Lizzie."

        She smiles against my lips. "Night Buffy."

~~~

        As I walk home, I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window. My hair is tangled, hanging over my shoulders in a thick and salty mass. My skin is red, my clothes damp with seawater and scratchy with sand. Mascara smudges adorn the spaces underneath my eyes and I grimace, wishing for nothing more than a shower. I can see the copper-coloured stains on my pants and know they are from Liz's fingers and my insides. Will everything I do always be soaked in blood?

        I step up the stairs to the door of my house, sighing as I wonder how I'll sneak in without Willow and Tara noticing. As I ponder this, I hear a slight cough in the shadows and breathe out.

        "Spike."

        He appears as if out of nowhere and tilts his head at me. "Where have you been?"

        "Around," I answer vaguely. "Look, I'll make this easy. Tell me what in the fuck you're doing out here and I won't stake you."

        "Waiting for you," he replies, flashing me a glare.

        "Why? So you could watch me undress?" I inquire, folding my arms over my chest.

        "Maybe," he drawls.

        I sigh tiredly. "Get lost."

        "What an original response," he sneers, and sniffs the air. "What is that I smell?"

        "I don't know," I answer quickly.

        "Blood," he continues as if I haven't spoken. "Blood and sex. What have you been up to, you naughty Slayer?"

        "Nothing," I snap. "Even if I was, it'd be none of your business."

        "Maybe so," he smiles toothily, but there's no warmth in it. Only a cold menace. "But I could make it mine. By say... telling my old Grand-Sire that you're back. Oh yeah. Don't look so surprised, Buffy. I know you haven't told the Great Pouf that you're alive and well. Wouldn't he be even more shocked to find that not only are you alive and well, but you're shagging someone else?"

        "I am not sleeping with anyone else," I snarl. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't breathe a word of this to Angel."

        "Or you'll what?" he laughs. "Get really mad? Threaten me for the thousandth time? And you are so shagging someone, you dumb chit. I can smell it all over you. Just like I can smell that it's that time of the month. 'Course, your mood gives that away."

        In a flash he is up against the wall, my hand at his throat, holding him in place. "Look. If you so much as step foot in LA, if you so much as speak one measly word to Angel, I'll stake you this time, Spike. I don't have time for you." Suddenly I notice something. "Is that blood on your lips?"

        He shrugs away, straightening his leather jacket. "It's pig's blood, blondie. Had myself a snack. If you're done beating me around like a I was your favourite punching bag, I'm gonna go."

        I watch him leave, walking in the house with the feeling that something... something isn't quite right.