The train station in London is cool and smells like blood. I watch the way Spike grips my sister's white hand as they make their way through the crowds with me following closely behind. I don't remember the last part of the ride over the ocean. I slept- I think- but it's blurry and I feel slightly disoriented. Every so often I glance up at the sky. It's flooded with a grey breeze, and the air is as smooth as chalk dust. I feel like I did that summer after I killed Angel. It was as if I wasn't myself anymore. My skin hurt so much sometimes I'd scream at night and wrench at my hair- begging to be let free, begging for someone to come and kill me. Preferably Angel.

I always wished he'd walk into the room- brandishing a sword and split me open at his feet. I wished that he'd take me in his arms and press a kiss to my forehead, whispering “We're even. Come to hell with me, killer. My love.”

I wish that now, too, as I hurry after Spike and see his fingers tugging on the ends of Dawn's hair. I used to do that when we were children. I can't barely remember now. But I recall that Mom would yell at me for it and my sister would cry, because she always acted like such a little brat.

My stomach hurts. I think I need to sleep.

For a long,

long,

long,

long,

long time.

“Would you bloody well hurry up, blondie?!” Spike growls, jerking my arm with his punishing fingers. I look up in surprise. I hadn't realized he was so close.

“I'm going as fast as I can,” I mutter, and Dawnie's palm snakes up my neck.

“Maybe we should just kill her, lover. I'm hungry. She's tiny but she could be a snack.”

I stare at her, not comprehending anything she's saying. Is that my sister?

Is this my life?

God. Angel's dead and I don't understand anything anymore.

“Would you *shut* up, Dawn? We're not killing her.” Spike snarls, his arm going around my waist as he pulls me close and I smell dust and Sunnydale. I feel like I'm going to throw up and I curl my cheek into his chest, closing my eyes to the swirling silver of the sky.

His voice is low. “What is it, luv?”

“Nothing,” I murmur and my eyelids open slowly as I gaze into the crowds. “I feel like I'm dead.”

“Well you were for four years,” Dawn drawls, giggling. “Maybe it's just the after effects, huh sister dear?”

I'm going to suffocate. Their arms and bodies and fangs are all around me and I have to fight (Fight!) if I'm going to survive. I'm the Slayer. Or am I? Who brought me back to this Hell? I take a step with my incapable feet- try and breathe and wish for tears. I should be crying. People cry when the love of their lives die. When all their friends and family die in one way or another.

But I can't. I was supposed to leave them behind. Angel was supposed to mourn *me* this time. Pulpy gasps leave my cracked lips as I bend over and Spike's palms are rough against my back.

“Not now pet,” he whispers desperately. “We have to get to the hotel. Then you can scream as much as you like.”

Not now?

When?

This is a nightmare. It has to be. I bite my lower lip between the sharpest of my teeth and thin trails of blood spill past my tongue. Is it wrong to like to make yourself bleed? My belly smolders with fury. Was I stupid to think that everything would work out if I could *just* save Dawnie? I remember kissing the softness of her cheek, feeling the heavy, thick fabric of her dress beneath my thumbs as I touched her that one last time. She was my sister. I couldn't let her die. I recall the way I ran- if I hadn't ran- I might not have done it- and I saw the white valley as I dived into it.

Too late—

Much too late.

I never regretted it. Even when the pain ripped through my skin and the fire flailed the flesh from my body… I closed my eyes and thought of silence. I slipped into the void and it was the sweetest sleep I've ever had. It was as if I had taken a long, deep drink of a salty ocean. I was drifting, bone-less and nothing hurt, or stung, or breathed in me for such a long time.

“What are you thinking about?” Dawn asks me suddenly, curiously, her head tipped to the side. The ends of her hair brush my arms and I feel goosebumps rise up underneath my skin.

“How I died,” I snap. “For you. Little good it did though, I see. Can I ask you something, Dawn? What in the fuck were you thinking, letting Spike drink you?”

She appears startled and smiles, her lips shiny and red. “I wasn't thinking. I don't remember. The big vampires came and we hid. I was scared. Spike helped me, didn't you, lover? I was cold. I remember how blue my skin got. The sun was gone for days, you know. He wanted to help me. He just wanted to help me.”

I hear her babble and stare at the platinum blond vampire dumbly for a moment. “Did you make Dawnie into a vampire to save her?”

His eyes lock with mine and he laughs softly, yet with harsh intent. “No, I didn't, Slayer. As much as you'd like to believe that wouldn't you? I made her into a vampire because I wanted—“ he breaks off and turns a corner. “What does it matter anymore? We're here. This is the hotel. I know the guy who runs it. Morah demon. Nice fellow. If you can overlook the horns and the murderous nature.”

Something flickers in my mind.

Morah demon.

(Nooo… it's not enough time…) I shake my head.

Angel is dead.

Oh, God. I can't think anymore. Spike leads us into the hotel, which is large and looms over me like a raven with enveloping wings.

For a split second I feel an imaginary flutter of wings against my cheek. Jerking, I glance up but see nothing except black and red ceilings and walls. It's dark in here and Dawn purrs against Spike as he gets the keys from the monster at the front desk.

Our room is large, overlooking the street. A curtain is drawn between the two huge beds, and I glance at them with disinterest, thinking blankly of Angel's apartment with the covers as red as spilled blood. The coppery smell on them when I woke up that morning and had no idea everything had changed forever.

I was such a little fool.

Spinning, I go to the window, and press my nose to the glass. There are so many faces in the crowds. So many demons. Vampires look the most normal- with their only badges- milky pale skin and occasionally the horrific visage.

Xander.

I miss Xander.

I need to cry. Why can't I? My eyes feel as dry as a burning desert, and their flick shut as I remember the way Xander smelled- of musty laundry and “man's cologne” as he used to call it with a wry shrug. I wonder how they died. How they screamed and fought and how their blood looked- flowing messily from wounds too deep for---

“Slayer—“ Spike says in my ear, his hand on my hip.
“What?” I ask huskily, my mother's face swimming before my glowing eyes. Joyce Summers. I think I hear windchimes. If I went back there- to that room- would the vomit stain still be marring the carpet? Would the sun still be hot on my face as I listened to the children playing and saw the crumpled paper towel out of the corner of my eye?

(Probably. It would probably wouldn't have made a difference. The exact word they used was 'probably'. I haven't told that to anyone--)

I loved her. Because she was my mother. But she's so blurry now.

Is she just a memory? The woman who birthed me?

No.

No.

Mommy.

Angel's dead. I need to sleep. Jesus. Please… help me.

“Slayer…” Spike's voice sounds so far away.

“What?” I answer for the second time.

“Are you all right? Dawn and I need to go get some things. Supplies. Will you be ok?”

“What do you care?” I slur, the air whirling as I stumble to the bed, sitting down and pressing aching wrists to my temples.

I feel the quick, dry slide of his mouth against mine. It's too quick—but it feels golden—and he murmurs, “I care, pet. Sleep, now.”

I sink down onto the heaviness of the covers and feel my eyes drifting into oblivion.

I dream of the night.

Of patrolling. The taste of the dust when it would settle over my face after the kill. The sleekness of the wood in my hands- how I'd get splinters sometimes and Angel would pick them out for me, impatient with my grumbling- yet tender—

(It'll only take a second. You have to get them out, or they'll get infected.

Are you sure this isn't some ploy to get to my blood?

Buffy…

Ok. Fine. But for the love of… well, for the you not wanting to get your ass kicked, be careful and don't hurt me.

(slight smile) I won't. I'll never hurt you.)

Such a liar.

I dream of the library- of researching long into quiet nights with only the stench of the musty books to keep us company. I dream of my Willow- of my best friend. Perhaps we got a little less close as the years went on. So many things happened. Riley. Oz leaving. And I didn't care enough. I never took the time, or she never took the time. But she was always my Willow. My best friend. I dream of her and she's in a field of sparrows and flowers, her smile like the birds. I grin and wave and she---

She--- whispers, “Buffy… you need to remember. Remember yourself.”

I'm confused. “What do you mean, Will? I'm right here. Hey, I know me better than anyone.”

She still sits, and strikes a match against a smooth stone, the flame shining from her eyes. “You'll never be able to let go if you don't make peace,” she murmurs. “With so many things. You've never remembered that girl, Buffy. The girl you once were.”

“Willow?” I yearn for her to hug me, to say something and laugh with her laugh that sounded like a million melodies in one joyous song. But she is serious, and the match continues to burn.

“Don't let anyone smother you,” she says softly. “Don't let anyone hide you away with lies. Remember who you are, Buffy Summers. Save everyone who needs saving.”

I stare, as the field dissolves, and the sweet music of the sparrows gives way. I slip deeper into slumber and everything is dizzy.

I see nothing.

Angel's dead.

(Remmmmmmmmmmmember…)

The body's cold? No! No!

My Mom—

You still my girl?

Still?

Always

My girl?

Keep your Slayer friends out of our---

Out---

--your friends

If there's a chance Riley's the guy—

(No… no… you forgot him)

I'll never forget—

Never—

-forget—ever—not enough—time—

--- your heart beat

I have someone

-in my life—

(worthless life. Liar. Liar. You forgot)

that I love

Is that her? No. That's not her.

she's gone.

Buffy? Buffy?

(hand outstretched. Acathla's hungry tonight…save him? There's no saving him. He's a killer. You're a killer.)

Hello, lover

Mommy?

We're not supposed to touch the body

the body?

Who else can claim that pathetic a social life?

Oz is gone.

(So is Angel. And no one cares. Screamsssssssssssssssss)

What are you? Who are you?

I'm the Slayer.

Look it up.

You think you know?

What you are?

“Angelllllll!” I scream as I wake up, and feel the joints in my bones throb.

Dawn mumbles in the next bed over. I see the flicker of a lighter and feel the burning splash of orange and black ash on my neck. Spike lies stretched out beside me and his hand strokes the wet hair from my face.

“Can't stop having those nasty dreams, can you, Slayer?”

“Spike?” I question shakily.

“Yeah?”

“Why don't you ever call me by my name?”

He sucks in unneccessary breath. “She's dead, blondie. That girl's gone. I bled for her a long time, and it's over. Just be content with who you are, now.”

“Who am I?” I ask, not even sure.

I can tell he smiles. Sadly. Bending over me, he lets a swirl of hot sweet smoke punch between my lips. I choke a little. He's smoking a joint, I realize and inhale deeply, the drug weaving through my brain cells with mellowing force.

“Don't ask me, blondie. I don't even know what in the fuck you died for.” He kisses me, sort of, his mouth touches mine and it feels like fire- cool fire- from the marijuana and the sweat and the pain.

“Neither do I,” I laugh quietly, and turn over onto my belly, snuggling into the pillow. “Life's a bitch.”

“And then you die,” he finishes. “Go back to sleep, pet.”

I don't sleep. I lie awake for the rest of the night and wonder again if I would have leapt from that tower had Angel still been with me and loving me.

No.

I wouldn't have.

That hurts.

When the first lights of dawn streak the sky, I slide from the bed on aching legs and wobbling knees, walking over to the window, ready to draw the curtains for my two companions.

That's when I see a flash of cool blonde, far down on the street.

“Darla?” I breathe.

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