It's night and my whole body aches. Twisting around in the arms of my boyfriend, I ignore the leering looks of his many friends seated around us. My stomach is rolling and I feel sick. Rubbing my bandaged arms, I peek up at his face, hoping he won't be angry at me for speaking. “Johnny…”

He ignores me. I should have figured that. We're with famous people now, and as he told me, “No one wants to hear what a little nothing like you has to say.” But I also know that he wouldn't want me throwing up in front of all these stars, so I tug on his shirt.

He looks down at me, and only I can see the glitter in his eyes. “What?” he asks impatiently.

“I feel sick,” I whisper and he shrugs me off him.

“Go then, Lizzie.”

I hate when he calls me that. But I get up and walk away from the little gathering of people in the far corner. The dim interior of the New York City nightclub is smoky and my eyes burn. We've never gone to this one before, and I don't know my way around. That makes me feel nervous. It's a huge place and is packed with small tables where people sit and drink their champagne and their tequila, trying to add meaning to their lives.

I've found that New York is an empty place. Never mind that it's packed with people. It's just a shell. Picking my way through the tables and sweaty bodies, I find the bar and pull my skinny self up onto one of the padded stools. I don't know if I should get a drink. I always carry the money, cause Johnny doesn't like to. For one wild moment I imagine spinning around and walking out the door. I could get a new place. I could move away. But that's just a dream burning behind my eyelids.

“Can I help you?”

The bartender. I hang my head and then say, “Yeah, can I have a shot of tequila please?”

He sets it down and I give him the money. It burns the back of my throat and I toss back my head, my blonde hair flowing down my bony shoulders and the hollows of my back. I really should eat. But there's no appetite left in my body. “Another,” I croak to the guy. It's so dark in here I can barely see his face. Or maybe it's just the fact that my head feels muzzy. My stomach seems to have calmed down though, and I figure it must be the alcohol.

The tiny shot glass lands in front of me and the drink slides down my throat like liquid silk. He's staring at me. The bartender. I wonder why. “What?” I pant and lean my elbows on the counter. “Think I'm having too many?”

He clears his throat and for a moment I think the sound is familiar. “No,” he answers. “You…” he trails off. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?” I laugh, taking another shot. “Lemme guess…some girl you used to know. Oh…and you used to sleep with her…so you wanna fuck me now? Is that it?” It's the same old story. I sway in my seat and feel his hand reach across and steady me. His fingers are reassuring.

“Yeah…actually you do remind me of a girl I used to know,” he responds and his hand leaves my skin.

“Oh…so your room or mine?” I giggle and lay my head on the counter. I'm going to throw up. I try and focus on him, but everything's blurry.

“No one's room,” he replies and sets down the bottle of tequila. “I'm getting one of the waitresses to take you to the bathroom.”

“Nooo….nooo…” I moan. “I can't go anywhere. My boyfriend—he'll be mad…”

I hear him sigh. Oh, so I guess I'm just an inconvenience for everyone these days. What happened to the time when I was the saviour, the Slayer, the girl who would and could kick anyone's ass? “You know what, forget it!” I say, and manage to make my voice clear, and for one moment I recognize myself. The girl I used to be. “I can find my own way and don't need to take anyone along with.”

He goes still, and I almost laugh. Finally, a reaction from someone. Maybe I am still a force to be reckoned with. Then his voice…confused…familiar. “Buffy?”

I can feel my stomach bottom out and fall. I can hear the roar in my ears and feel my eyes watering and everything going fuzzy. My feet are uncertain and I sway, staring at the dim figure behind the counter. “My name's Elizabeth. Never heard of Buffy,” I respond, but my voice is trembling.

“Buffy…” Oh no, he's not convinced. “It's me.”

Doesn't he think I know who he is? And that's why I'm trying to run away? I can't do this. I have to go, I have to run. But my legs are so bony I doubt they would be much use right now. I've let them get too little, all angles and hollows. No softness. I want to cry. “I'm sorry, I don't know you,” I pant and feel my chest heave.

“You don't know me,” he repeats and his voice is almost mocking. “So you don't remember that we've known each other since you were sixteen…that I know everything about you…you don't remember that?”

“I don't know you,” I cry out and ignore the looks I'm getting. My arms flail out as I gesture emphatically. “I'm no one…please leave me alone.”

Trying to walk away, I only get as far as the door when he catches me and his hands aren't reassuring this time. They're choking me. “Please…no…” I moan helplessly and he grasps me tighter.

“Why are you trying to run away?”

“I'm not…” I groan and look up at him. “I swear, I'm not. I have to get back to my boyfriend. He'll be looking for me.”

“Your boyfriend,” he reaches up and touches the purplish yellow bruise blanketing my upper cheekbone. “Is he the one that gave you this? What happened to you out here Buffy?”

“Nothing.” My voice is little and sullen. I didn't want to be found. Certainly not by him or anyone else. “Please Xander, just leave me alone.”

“So you do know me,” he pounces and I sigh, shaking my head.

“Of course I know who you are… I gotta go.”

“You think I'm gonna let you go?” he asks incredulously. “No way. We've been wondering where you got to for all these years, no way am I letting you go now.”

His hand grips my arm tight as we leave the club. There's no way I can get away. He has more muscles than I remember as he hustles me into a cab and I see them ripple underneath his T-shirt. Xander Harris, all grown up. His hair is still rumpled and longish, brushing and curling around his collar in a manly disarray. His eyes don't look at me, but I know they are still that brown but…wise, none of the goofiness from earlier years.

“Where are we going?” I inquire almost politely. He fixes me with a look.

“To someone who can look after you. I can't. Shani works late and she's always tired. I don't want her sleep interrupted.”

“Shani's your wife?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“Girlfriend.”

The word is curt. He's not pretending to feel for her what he felt for Anya. Anya who's been dead for six years. She and the others enter my dreams at night. I can't chase their ghosts away no matter how hard I try. They curl around at the edges of my sleep, screaming at me, asking why didn't I save them. But I don't have the answers.

The cab smells of sweat and old coffee, but I barely notice it. Lights flash by us as we drive through Manhattan, the roads clogged with taxis and people, all thinking they have the right of way. I don't know where we're going, but dimly I recognize the charming streets of Tribeca. Mostly rich people live here. I know John Kennedy Jr and his wife did before they died. Died…my head hurts as I press it against the seat, rubbing my sore stomach.

“Are you sick?” Xander inquires softly, and I see his gaze becoming gentle. He can't stay mad at me for long, because he remembers the girl I used to be.

I ignore his question and ask, “When did you realize it was me?”

He smiles. “When you told me off. It was vintage Buffy…”

I don't answer and instead go back to staring out of the window. A tremor goes through me, and my eyes fix on the blur of the buildings as they go by. A mess of brownstone and grey and splashes of glass as we pass shops and closed markets, newsstands and hot dog vendors. A part of me wants to know where he's taking me, but an equally large part doesn't care and I suspect that's sad.

The cab pulls beside the curb and Xander handles me more tenderly as he takes me out of the car and pays the driver. We're standing in front of the usual apartment building in New York. But it's considerably expensive, that I can tell. My head is jumbled, and I feel another tremor go through me like a sheet of glass slicing into my organs. I don't need this right now. I hope it's not starting. His fingers encircle mine and the doorman lets him go in, obviously knows him. Maybe this is Xander's building though I'm doubting a bartender could afford to live here.

We go up in the elevator and I feel the shivering starting. No, no, not now. I control it as best as I can and we walk out, to the sixth floor. Xander goes to apartment 612 and knocks. I stare at the brass numbers on the door and concentrate on not throwing up. My head hangs as the door opens. I catch sight of bare feet, and bare legs. Then the edge of boxers and a flat belly. My eyes keep going until I hear a husky, “Oh my God…”

Xander stops me when I would've run away. “Stay here, Buffy. He's the only one I could bring you to.”

I glance up at him, my eyes pleading. “No, please, Xander.”

Angel stares at me as he leaves the shirt he was pulling on, half-unbuttoned. His eyes are dark and wary, and he takes me in, all the milky paleness and bony angles. I feel ratty and not at all pretty and stare back. He finally speaks to Xander. “What happened?”

“I found her at the club where I work,” he responds and yanks on my hand, pulling me with him as he walks inside. My arm brushes Angel and I cringe. My body is tingling. “I need you to look after her, cause I gotta get back and be there for Shani when she gets in.”

Angel nods. “Of course… where has she been?”

My eyes flash. “She can speak for herself.”

He turns to me and it looks like it hurts him to do. Maybe he hates the sight of me. “Where have you been all these years, Buffy?”

“Like you care,” I respond coldly. “Where's the wife?”

Angel strokes his forehead with fingers that shake. “We're divorced. She's probably back in California, living the good life.”

“Oh,” I answer, feeling like maybe I should be gloating or happy over that revelation, but my eyes are starting to water.

Xander lets go of me. “I really have to go,” he says and starts for the door. “Is this all right?” he asks Angel, who nods.

“I'm glad you brought her here,” he responds and sees him out. Xander doesn't say Goodbye to me, and I don't care at all, because my stomach is boiling round and round in a sick mess. Stumbling slightly, I glance at the walls, and feel like they are closing in on me. Angel comes back, and his fingers reach out. He smells of sleep and warm blankets. Gasping, I try and evade him, my ribs caving in on me, clamping down until I feel like I can't breathe. Cold sweat drips down my breast bone and I can see Angel's concerned face.

“What's wrong?” he asks and I would laugh if I didn't want to weep so much. He wants to know what's wrong. Oh, what could possibly be wrong with this situation?

Finally his hands land on me, gripping my lower arms. His thumbs brush against my flesh and I hear his startled sound. He pulls me into the light of the window and looks down at my arms. His finger runs down the insides and roughly he yanks off the bandages. I know what's there. I see them all the time. The needle holes, the thin flesh, the redness, the swelling, the bloodless areas…the mottled mess that are my inner elbows.

“Buffy…” he breathes and our eyes lock.

you're life has been so hard, its dried up angels can't keep going
I'm trying to reach your hand, but I'm on fire
I never meant to fade away…

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