It had taken her two hours. Two hours of washing, and soaking, and scrubbing until her skin was bright red from the friction-

-But the hamburger smell was gone.

Sighing, she raked a hand through her wet hair, her limbs heavy from exhaustion. She wondered why her bones didn’t creak when she walked, why her eyes didn’t fall out from the throbbing migraine pulsing behind them. The thought of blow drying her hair felt like a monstrous, insurmountable task as fatigue weighed forcefully upon her shoulders.

Shaking her head slightly, she steeled her shoulders and grabbed the blow dryer, shifting slightly so her reflection stared back at her in the mirror. She wasn’t sure why she stopped then, why she stepped forward to peruse herself critically.

Without the shield of make-up, her face seemed worn, tired . . .old. There were bags dipping slightly beneath her eyes, her cheeks thinner, gaunter, as if she hadn’t been eating.

Well she’d only missed a *couple* of meals. . .who has the time for food anyway. . .?

This is why she avoided mirrors as often as possible.

Sighing slightly, she combed back her hair and revved up her blow dryer, allowing her mind to drift as she ran the brush through her chin length bob.

Fifteen minutes later, her hair dry and the threat of pneumonia gone, she sat stroking conditioner through the shiny strands. The ritual a familiar one, a calming one, she didn’t even bother suppressing the distant memory that shifted gently into place. . .

She couldn’t remember what her mother had responded, could barely remember her mothers voice. . .Hell, she couldn’t even remember who the girl that said it was. . .Smiling wryly, she tossed the blow dryer in her drawer.

It didn’t really matter, anyway.

Glancing at the clock perched on her bedside table, she smiled slightly at the blinking red numbers. 7:45pm . Plenty of time for a short nap before patrol. Collapsing on the bed, the mattress felt like heaven to her worn muscles as she stretched languidly, yawned. Reaching over to switch off the light, she suddenly stopped:

The cake for Anya’s bachelorette party.

“Damnit. . .” She glanced at her watch, calculated the ten minute drive to the bakery, factored in another two minutes to get dressed, then dragged a hand through her hair.

“No rest for the weary. . .whatever that means.”

She got their just in time to see the ‘Open’ sign switch off. After much pleading, cajoling, and pestering, the disgruntled bakery worker shoved a pale white box in her hand.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Dashing off down the street, she grinned when the bakery worker shouted something that sounded rather uncomplimentary in Italian, followed by an annoyed “And next time, we close at eight!”

By the time she arrived back at the house, it was eight forty five and her mouth was sore from cursing the insane traffic jam she’d caught on I40. Sighing wearily, she left the cake box forgotten on the table, thumping up the stairs to gear up for patrol.

“Buffy, is that you?”

Forcing a smile to curve her lips, Buffy glanced up at her sister, who leaned against the banister above her. “Nope.”

Dawn grinned, shook back her waist length hair. “Are you ready to help me with my project?”.

Buffy stared at her blankly. “Project?”

“Yeah. The interview for social studies, remember?. . .” At Buffy‘s blank look, she furrowed her brow.

“You do remember, don’t you?”

Buffy groaned, rubbed her forehead tiredly. “Damn it. . .I’m sorry Dawnie. . .I completely forgot.”

Dawn shrugged lightly. “Its okay. You do have a lot on your mind. We can just do it now.”

Buffy cringed inwardly. “Dawn. . .I can’t. . .Vamp activity has been up and I have to go patrol a few hours early. . .I’m sorry. . .”.

The disappointment evident on her sisters face, she nonetheless shrugged indifferently. “Hey, its no big. I’ll get Willow to do it. . .She has time for these things anyway. . .”. Thumping up the remaining steps, she stepped into her room and slammed the door behind her. Buffy winced, squeezing her eyes tightly as the abrupt sound trembled through her throbbing brain.

Pausing outside her sisters door, she sighed. She’d broken so many promises. . .

Squaring her shoulders, she knocked lightly.

“What?”

“Can I come in. . .?”

“Whatever.”

Sighing at the curt response, Buffy entered the room slowly. “Dawn? Look, I still have some time, if you want to. . .”

Dawn lifted her head from the text book she’d been pretending to read, the token denial heartfelt nonetheless. “But you have to patrol. . .”

Buffy smiled, though the weariness tugging around the edges remained unnoticed. “Nah. Its no big. I’ll stay out a couple of hours later and mop up the nasties terrorizing Sunnydale.” Her younger sister smiled broadly, then shook her head. “Are you sure. . I mean I’m sure Willow. . .”

“Of course I’m sure. . .I’m super-Buffy. . .Who better to interview than she-who-knows-everything, huh?”. Dawn snorted and Buffy smiled in response.

Super Buffy. . .Right.

Now if only she could start believing that.

The cemetery was eerily silent, without the activity that had become the norm in the last couple of weeks. The stake warm in her hand, she continued her tread through the grounds, senses opened and alert as she waited for attack.

Thirty minutes later, still nothing. Sighing heavily, she took a moment to lean against a tombstone, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She glanced at her watch. 12:45am. She still had another two hours of patrol before she would allow herself to go home. Pushing away from the heavy monument, she took one step-then halted.

A scream. Faint but real. Adrenaline flushing her system, she began to run, muscles pumping force into her thighs as she carefully attuned her senses towards the direction from which the small sound came. It took her three minutes to sprint across the length of the cemetery, an eighth of the time it would have taken a mortal.

Then she felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Her gut twisted, her instincts roaring inside her brain as she realized she’d walked right into a set up. . .two seconds too late. She saw the lifeless body of a young teenager fall bloodlessly to the floor, and her heart twisted at the horror plastered across the girls face.

She’d been too late.

There was no time for mourning however, as not a moment later she felt the wind rush out of her lungs and a blunt pain bloom across her ribs. Grunting, she stumbled back, glaring at the rather large vampire who’d kicked her dead in the chest. She barely had time to recover before he advanced, able to block one meaty fist just before it crushed her nose and ducking low to deliver a sweeping kick to his knees. He fell beneath the force. . .and began to laugh.

“The noble are so pathetically predictable.”

She didn’t bother struggling when she felt a number of hands grab her from behind and slam her violently against a statue. There were too many, so resistance wouldn’t have made a difference. She counted six vampires, all massive, dressed in mud caked military uniforms littered with decorations. Wheezing as one vampire squeezed her neck tightly, she sneered. “You know me-Lil’ Miss Noble. . .Didn’t know the Army was recruiting.”

“There’s always room for new blood, slayer.”

“Oh, that was so cheesy.”

The quip ended in another grunt as one vampire plowed his fist neatly into her gut.

“Maybe we should have been more specific, little girl.”

Another punch, followed by a whopping roundhouse that knocked her head powerfully against the stone. She felt unconsciousness claw at the edges of her vision.

“We meant *your* blood. . .”

She bit her tongue to prevent the scream as she felt her own stake plow through her upper bicep. Warm fluid began to seep into her light jacket, the potent smell meeting the vampire’s sharpened senses and making them all but pant in desperate hunger.

Buffy smiled grimly. . .Hunger made them messy.

“Sorry boys, can’t say I’m into the whole drill sergeant thing. Its a discipline deficiency. . .you know how we young people are. . .” She smirked as they growled warningly.

“Besides, fatigues look horrible on blonds. Really. Its a total Cosmo don‘t.”

Grunting slightly, she jerked one leg up, using her numerous captor’s various grips as leverage as she felt her knee connect firmly with vamp #2’s groin. He groaned and fell to the ground, curling in on himself like an overcooked shrimp. Taking advantage of the momentary disorientation, she used the same leg to snap the third ones jaw, getting a sick sort of satisfaction when he spat out his own canines.

Her wounded arm sang with pain as she jerked sideways, slamming her head into the vampire to the left of her, jerking her uninjured arm from his taloned grasp as he stumbled. Immediately, her balled fist slammed the vampire to her right firmly in the nose, the brute force behind the punch causing the vampire to see birdies as he collapsed to the ground.

She just barely dodged the leader’s frenzied attack as he lunged for her, using his own momentum to slam his head into the stone monument. The monument crumbled around his ridged flesh. Reaching down, she snatched the stake tucked in her boot and made quick work of that one, her right leg snapping up and over her shoulder in an inhuman feat of agility to slam one recovered nasty, who’d stepped up behind her, firmly in the forehead. She felt bone give way to her trim leather boot and she swung around, planting the wooden object immediately into his heart.

Dust sprinkled about her as she stepped forward and planted her foot across another vampire’s neck to keep him immobile, bones crunching beneath her weight as she shoved her hand blindly behind her, catching the fourth one square in the chest. She heard the sixth vampire scurry into the adjoining woods as his fear overcame his hunger and smiled in grim amusement. Crouching, she smirked into the final vampire’s bloody, fangless visage.

“And I thought Army boys were brave.”

And with a mock salute, she shoved the stake home.

Sighing, the adrenaline beginning to fade from her system, she gritted her teeth against the flood of pain as her heart pumped blood out of the severed artery in her arm. Dropping the stake to the ground, she used her uninjured hand to tear the sleeve off her jacket, crying out when she squeezed it firmly across the wound.

The blood flow stemmed, she stumbled to her feet and began the harrowing trek out of the cemetery and towards the hospital for a little emergency surgery before bedtime.

She didn’t look at the body laying deathly still in the center of the clearing. She refused to even try.

That night, her wounds still throbbing beneath fresh bandages, she made sure to avoid any unnecessary human contact as she locked herself in her bedroom. She was so tired, so *fucking* tired.

She didn’t know what to do anymore.

Huffing out a breath, she studied herself in the floor length mirror, running a finger lightly over the bright bruise staining her cheek bone. Tugging up her nightshirt, she laid a palm carefully across her belly, still tender and a sickening mottled blue from the abuse it had received earlier that evening. . .morning. . .whatever.

She was just so *tired*.

Glancing at the clock blinking brightly from her bedside table, she sighed. Three o’clock. She had three hours of precious sleep before the clock would stop its blinking and begin its annoying life's work, reminding her with its semi-obscene beep that she’d have to file files for five hours, than flip hamburgers and smile at customers until 6:00 that night; If she was lucky enough to get a double shift, of course.

Lucky.

She snorted lightly at her thoughts, throwing herself onto her bed and snuggling deeply into the covers. Moments later, she could feel the black seeping over her, could feel sleep dragging her into its warm embrace. . .Vaguely, she wondered why this one felt so different. . .why she suddenly felt so achingly lightheaded.

. . .and when darkness slicked over her being, there was no more wondering.

And as sunlight cascaded across the bedspread, tickled lids shielding eyes moist with pain, the little slayer awoke in her pretty pink room, dragged her knees tightly to her chest. . .and wept with the tired sobs of the lonely. . .of the hopeless. . .of the dying.

That morning Buffy was almost. . .catatonic as she slipped out of bed, drying her tears before the mirror with hands ice steady. After a blessedly hot shower, she carefully brushed out her hair, moving her hands in long slow strokes, carefully, so carefully, as if to smooth every strand of spun gold was of the utmost importance. Her eyes held very little in the way of feeling, their color a dull sea green that expanded and contracted with the brightening sunlight as any other would do. . .But they lacked the expressive quality that made them so special. . .so Buffy. . .

Beneath the colored iris’, there was only cold. A vicious cold that radiated through her marrow, glistened in her blood, froze her thoughts until she was as numb as the wounds she’d received the night before. Something was broken. . .something had snapped deep within her and it had left her helpless. . .hopeless.

Hopeless. . .

The word seemed to echo hollowly in her head, the brush falling from her grasp as she lifted her hands to clasp her ears in defense.

No hope. . .no hope no hope no hope.

“Stop it. . .”

Her whisper shivered from her throat as she bent low against an onslaught she couldn’t hope to evade. The words continued to throb as her own mind turned against her in mutiny of its destiny, a broken sob pushing past her lips as she began to rock back and forth.

That insidious little whisper tickled the back of her brain with gleeful abandon as she pressed her hands tighter against her ears, their tender lobes turning pink from the pressure.

“I don’t know. . .stop it. . .please stop.”

“Nooo”

The moaned word ended in a whimper as she rocked herself before the mirror, sunlight bouncing off the pane and washing over her pallid skin in a mockery of brilliance.

She shook her head, her voice barely intelligible. “Stop. . .Your not real. . .”

“No. . .no your not real. . .its just stress. . .stress. . .”. The pleading desperation behind the words shook her body, and she curved her arms to wrap around her midriff.

“No. . .I’m just tired. . .need more sleep.” Her voice became faint, whispery soft as the rocking slowed to a stop.

//I’m you. . .I’m what you’ve become. . .//

“What? . . .I’m a what. . .”.

//Of course you are. . .You didn’t think you were still human, did you?//. The sly little voice dug itself into the weakest part of her soul with paper thin claws, infesting her with venom as it probed and prodded and pushed her to the edge.

“No. . .that’s not-not true” She shook her head, lifting it so her eyes stared into her own reflection. She held onto control with trembling fingers, her strength ebbing out of her muscles as she curled her hands into painfully tight fists. “What are you?. . .”

Vaguely, she wondered just who she was asking. . .

“No. . .not evil. . .I‘m not. . .no.”

Her fists pressed into her belly, ignoring the pain as waves of it seared up her bruised nerve endings to curl up at the base of her spine. “Not true. . .”

“No, I. . .me-”

“NO”. She bit back the scream, pressing her fists to her lips, ignoring the edges of pain as fingernails dug into soft flesh.

“No. . .not real. . .your *not real*”

“No. . .I didn’t mean. . .”

She moaned, a moan soaked in despair as tears crept steadily down her cheeks.

“But I didn’t. . .We. . .I. . .”

Falling over, she curled tightly in on herself, the fetal position a useless defense against the attack sneaking in through her broken defenses. She whimpered.

//Of course you do. . .// The voice crooned deep within her. //In that second. . .You wanted him to hurt. . .you wanted him to die. . .//

“NO. . .I Didn’t. . .”

The sobs were uncontrollable as her small form trembled, quivered, quaked like a fragile limb in the coldest winter. The soundless voice took on an eerily soothing quality. . .

The sobs continued as she clenched her fists with a violence that frightened her. The pain was vivid now, violently so, and vaguely she wondered how much of it was physical. . .The air shook around her, pulsed with heady moans as she clenched her eyes shut and willed the voice into silence.

“No more. . .no more. . .”

And there was quiet. . .and all was still. . .

“Hey, has anybody seen Buffy?”

“No. . .Not since last night. Why?”

“Because I just checked her room and she’s not there.”

“I though she was staying in today. . .”

Dawn glanced up the stairs with a worried frown wrinkling her brow. “Guess she changed her mind.”

Meanwhile. . .
-Los Angeles-

“Cordelia, I need that file on the Hedan’s case. . .” Wesley trailed off on a muttered oath as he rapped twice on her office window. Behind it, Cordelia and Gru were locked in a passionate embrace that obviously left them blind and deaf to the world, if their lack of response proved anything. Shaking his head in exasperation, Wesley headed towards the meticulously organized file cabinet himself, muttering unkind things beneath his breath.

From his perch on the arm of a couch, Lorn grinned. “Groo and Cordy have certainly gotten friendly since he’s come around.”

“Yes, and now I have two useless employees to. . .employ.” Pulling out the file, he flipped it open with practiced annoyance. Lorn glared indignantly. “Hey! I’m hurt! Besides, I’m not getting a paycheck, which is a definite perk of employment-”

“Not *you* Lorn.” Wesley muttered, adding the additional files and shoving the folder back into the cabinet. He glared back at Groo, who was preoccupied performing an emergency tonsillectomy on his would-be secretary. Lorn chuckled musically.

“She convinced you to put him on the payroll, huh.”

Wesley bared his teeth at the smirking, friendly eyed demon, then strode into his own office. Gunn quirked an eyebrow as he passed his angry boss on his way to the main lobby. “Still pissed about paying Groo?”

Wesley slammed his office door. Gunn shrugged philosophically. “Its his own fault for being such a pushover.” From her office, the object of the Englishman’s anger stepped out, adjusting her skirt with a slightly breathless smile. Glancing about curiously, she cocked her head. “Where’s Wes?”

Gunn nodded towards his office, hiding his smirk behind a folder as Lorn glanced warily at the door. The cheeky, green eyed empath draped an arm across her shoulders. “Uh doll, now wouldn’t be a very good time. . .”. Cordelia rolled her eyes, shrugging off his arm as she strode over to the office. Lorn sighed as he watched her skip into the war zone.

Not long after the door slammed ominously closed, they heard raised voices, the thump of a blunt object, then an angry shriek. Cordelia slammed out not five minutes after stepping in. Lorn was almost afraid to ask. . . almost.

“What happened?”

“The *nerve* of that upper-crust British yuppie who has tweed so far up his-”

“Uh Cor. . .?”

“-butt he couldn’t have it surgically removed without causing permanent damage.”

“Ahem, Cordelia?”

“-All I asked for was benefits. Is that such a *major* request? As an employee of this company, Groo has a right to full medical and dental-”

“Cordelia!”

“-coverage, damn it. WHAT!?!?”

Angel raised an eyebrow, the simple movement more than enough to drain the anger out of Cordelia and leave nothing but sugary sweetness. “Yes Angel?”

Wary of the candied sarcasm, Angel nonetheless plunged into the void. “I need the Horton file, and the Mirabi Text of Ancients. . .”. Cordelia smiled saccharinely. “Anything for you, your *highness*.” She strode into the file room in a cloud of rose perfume. Wincing as the door slammed behind her, Angel tossed a curious glance at Lorn, who simply raised his hands in exasperation and shook his head. Gunn squeaked audibly from his place behind folder, still fighting the laughter that threatened to erupt at a most inopportune time.

And out strode the war queen. Slamming the book on the reception desk with enough force to make a lamp tip over, she smiled prettily once more. “Anything else?”

“Uhh. . .No. . .Thanks. . . I think.”

Swirling around, she huffed into her office and slammed her door closed. Moments later, an audible moan slipped past the wooden door and Angel grinned despite himself. He imagined Wesley was in his own British huff by this point in the day, especially if the moanee was Groo- as he suspected it was. The bark of laughter from Gunn’s direction had Lorn chuckling in response.

Angel shook his head, picking up the badly abused book.

“I don’t know why I keep them around. . .”

Gunn smirked. “Because Wesley signs your check and you couldn’t work a computer if Bill Gates decided to stride in and give you personal lessons.”

Angel grinned again, heading towards his own office with files in hand.

“Right. . .Forgot that part.”

Suddenly, Fred’s wide eyed gaze popped up above the computer monitor she’d been sitting at.

“Did I miss something?”

Gunn grinned, his eyes soft as he glanced at his sweetly oblivious, southern drawled girlfriend. “Just our usual afternoon activities.” Fred glanced warily at Wesley’s office.

“Ohhh. . .”

Burying her head behind the screen once more, the clacking of keys began again. Nobody noticed the quiet swish as the front doors were pushed open, the small figure slip in with shoulders hunched, as if struggling to look as insignificant as possible. Nobody even noticed the slight clearing of a Sahara-dry throat as the visitor stepped tentatively forward.

The faces were all unfamiliar. The stick slim brunette typing furiously at a computer struck a nostalgic chord for high school Willow, the dark skinned male flipping through some file reminding her eerily of Forrest. There was a demon also, casually leaning against the receptions desk, but her instincts were quiet. There was no danger there. Clearing her throat once more, a bit louder this time, she suppressed the nervous jump when all three turned to stare at her at once.

Gunn glanced warily at Lorn then back at the visitor, noted the lack of surprise, and smiled in welcome, dropping the file to step towards her. “Can we help you?”.

She resisted the urge to shuffle her feet. “Um. . .yes, I think. . .is this Angel Investigations? I only had the old address, used the phone book. . .”

“That we are, beautiful. . .well, that they are, anyway.” Lorn smiled charmingly, his eyes eerily knowing. Buffy swallowed, smiled nervously. “Great. . .um. . .is-”

“Gunn did you take my Victoria’s Secrets catalogue again? I swear you are so *depraved*-”

Cordelia stopped abruptly, eyes widening as she stared at a girl she’d never thought she’d see again.

“Buffy”

Gunn glanced at Buffy, who had seemingly frozen where she was, nervously clutching a set of keys in her palm.

“Buffy? *The* Buffy?”

At that comment, Buffy darted her glance to Gunn, who gawked at her. So *this* was the slayer. “Uh. . .Hi Cordelia.”

Cordelia narrowed her gaze as she studied the smaller woman from behind the desk. Thinner certainly, her cheek bones more pronounced. The formless UC Sunnydale sweatshirt sagged at her hips, the simple pair of faded jeans and bright white sneakers screamed ‘scrumpy’. And was she wearing no makeup?!?

“Yep, that's her. She who brings trouble at her heels.” As opposed to a snappish retort, Buffy simply winced and remained silent. Lorn quietly overlooked the scene. Mildly surprised at the lack of response, Cordelia nonetheless quirked an eyebrow cattily. It was no secret there was bad blood between the two of them, but that wasn’t really the reason Cordelia was being so blatantly uncivil. Every time the blond bombshell crept into a conversation, every time Sunnydale was even mentioned, Angel’s eyes would darken, the smile she’d gotten so use to seeing would slip to a grim frown. Buffy hurt him, badly, when ever she was around. . .and Angel was one of her best friends. So, in his defense, she hated Buffy that much more.

Besides . . .What an awful dye job.

“So, what big baddie have you come about this time?”

Buffy cleared her throat, took a tentative step forward. “I. . .nothing. . .I need to talk to Angel. . .If he’s around.”

Cordelia sighed, shaking her head as she swung around the desk with lithe grace. The look in her eyes was weary, unwelcome, as she crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

“Buffy, What do you want?”

Each syllable was carefully pronounced, and Cordelia saw some of that old flame spark in Buffy’s dull green eyes. “*That* is none of your business.”

“Wrong Buffy. It *is* my business. Maybe in Sunnydale you called the shots, but this is *my* turf. And Angel is *my* friend, and I won’t see him hurt because you decided to drop by for tea and crackers.”

A nervous twitch at the mention of that oh-so-popular snack, as it delved into memories she‘d slammed behind iron bolts. Recovering quickly, she responded quietly. “I’m not here to hurt anybody-”

In a motion characteristic of Cordelia, she threw up her hands and interjected sharply. “Yes you are! You take one *step* in LA and all your baggage comes crashing down on him, and he doesn’t need it. He’s *happy*, truly happy. He laughs and smiles and makes jokes that sure aren’t really that funny but its the thought that counts, and he makes us go to boring ballets and he-”

Buffy’s eyes flinched at each barreled word, every one stabbing through her chest with icy accuracy. Though still reeling slightly from walking in on the tense situation slowly unfolding before him, Wesley nonetheless saw the small hand clutching the edge of the receptions desk tighten until the knuckles whitened from the tension and the wood groaned in defense. “Ah, Cordelia-”

“NO Wesley. She needs to hear this. You *hurt* him every time you come here. Don’t you see that? You *can’t be* together, he knows it, he accepts it. Why the hell can’t you? He doesn’t *need* your drama. He’s known enough pain. . .”. Cordelia sighed, running on fumes as the anger ran its course. “Don’t you see that? Don’t you see that it kills him every time he sees you? Angel’s happy here. . .and he doesn’t need you.”

There were no tears, no tears. . .none were left. The voices were screaming inside her head, the memories blending and fusing into one another until reality wavered around her. Thoughts were chaotic as she struggled to comprehend, the wound searing beneath Cordelia’s painful brand as she stood there taking the bombardment like a battered soldier. She’d come here because. . . Why had she come?

“Angel doesn’t need who?”

That voice. Smooth and deep and comforting, so comforting. Buffy closed her eyes and sank into it. She didn’t see him drop the file he had to the counter, didn’t see his fists clench as he stared at her. . .*her*. She was here. . .

But she opened her eyes just in time to see the flash of anger burn in his eyes, brilliant with resentment, with painful bitterness. She barely suppressed the whimper as she wrapped one slim hand lightly around her throat, struggling to contain the gush of words that threatened to flood out and break the last of her. He was blind to her, blind to everything except the memories crowding his brain that no one else could share, blind to the resentment he’d built to keep his loneliness carefully tucked away, blind as everything he’d built came crumbling down again.

Then. . .without another word, he turned around and strode into his office, slamming the door carelessly behind him. The pain roared up, lapped at her throat, drummed on her spine as she stood there helpless. Vaguely, she heard the laugh, the bitter, vengeful laugh, humming deep in the recesses of her mind, and her eyes widened. She looked around her, as if realizing her surroundings for the first time, her eyes blind with growing horror. Breath coming in short bursts, she backed away slowly, then spun around and ran into the darkened L.A. street. . .alone. . .always alone.

Cordelia stared after her with eyes shadowed with what might have been sympathy. Pain always seemed to follow her. . .From his place on the couch, Lorn carefully processed the preceding events. Lifting his gaze to meet Wesley’s, he shook his head slightly.

“She’s breaking. . .”

Wesley stared at him, still a bit shell shocked at the scene that had just lost its starring player. Lorn stood, raking a hand through his carefully styled hair as he struggled to dispel the lingering emotions that had seeped through the pretty blonde’s pores and screamed into his brain like a sharpened blade.

“Don’t need song for that one. . hell, with all the hurt she‘s harboring, it practically sings for her. . .She’s breaking fast. . .”

Cordelia sighed, slumped back against the desk. “There’s always heartbreak when they’re together.”

“It’s not just her heart. . .it’s everything. Mind, will, strength. . .that girl is tearing apart at the seams. . .It practically screams out of her head. Man. . .I don’t know how she’s survived this long. . .”

Wesley stared at the closed front doors, then glanced back at Lorn. . .

“I’m calling Willow. . .See if she can shed some light on this twisted situation.” Sighing sadly, Cordelia stepped into her office, the door closing quietly behind her. Wesley cleared his throat, still a bit shell shocked. “I’ll ring Giles. . .I doubt he knows the state his Slayer’s in. He should probably return to Sunnydale as soon as possible. . .”

“I don’t know if that’s enough. . .Don’t know if he’s enough. . .” Lorn shook his head sorrowfully, his heart breaking for the small woman cracking underneath the weight of the world. Sighing lightly, he glanced pointedly at Angel’s office, where the vampire prowled in angry silence.

Then, the door opened and out he strode, shrugging into his jacket as he growled angrily “Where is she?”

Wesley opened his mouth to speak, but Lorn stepped into Angel’s cross hairs instead. “Your angry, big guy. Give it some time till you cool off.”

Angel’s brogue deepened as he stared a Lorn with anger vibrating through his being.

“Where. Is. She.”

The demon simply sighed, shaking his head as he stepped out of Angel’s path. “Gone. . .she left as soon as you slammed the door in her face. All I got out of her was snow, lots of snow. Though where you‘d find snow in California is beyond me-”

But Angel was already gone.

The cliff had a magnificently steep drop before it leveled out to the glittering town of Sunnydale. Grass crinkled lightly beneath her as she stared past the rocky ledge, knees pressed tightly to her chest. The air was cooling and she shivered in response, the slight movement causing the tips of her sneakers to send loose pebbles clattering over the ledge.

She should probably move away from its jagged edge.

She couldn’t really bring herself to care.

The moon shined brightly down on her slim form, the cooling light soaking a false level of calm into her pores. It was such a pretty night. . .such a blindingly beautiful night. . .The poignancy of it slammed into her like a well aimed fist and she pressed her forehead to her knees. Why was there always pain. . .

She just wanted it over.

“Buffy. . .”

She gasped at the abrupt sound, then shook her head slightly, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

At her silence, he stepped tentatively forward, pausing when he saw her back tense at his footsteps. He didn’t like seeing her so close to that edge. . .

“Buffy, what are you doing?”

Again, only silence responded. Continuing forward at a slow pace, he didn’t pause his hesitant movements until he stood beside her. He glanced warily at the edge, before taking a tentative seat next to her. He couldn’t contain the hurt expression when she jerked her hand out of the way of his accidental brush. Still hesitant to disturb the silence, he studied her form in the thickening moonlight, sighing gently at what he saw. She was thin, gaunt even, her hair was cut short and formless. . .She’d always wanted long hair. . .She was wearing jeans, a particular article of clothing she had told him once was so “five minutes ago” . . .

And the look in her eyes as she shifted her gaze to his was. . .broken.

“How did you find me?” Her tone of voice could barely pass for inquisitive, her face drawn with a listless expression as she returned her gaze to the blinking lights of Sunnydale. . .

At the insidious little reminder, she whimpered slightly before carefully firming her lips. At the slight sound, he stared at her with a worried expression, then answered in a quiet tone.

“Lorn told me. . .” She looked at him blankly. He clarified. “The demon. . .he’s an empath.”

Silence slivered over them both as she made no motion of even hearing his murmured response. Finally, as the tension in his back grew to uncontainable proportions, he turned to stare at her.

“What’s happened, Buffy?”

For a long number of moments, she said nothing, simply clutched her legs to her chest with an unnecessary grip and stared out into nothingness. Then she responded, almost as if she’d ignored the worried question, as she spoke with a wry, jaded tone of voice.

“You know. . .It’s so strange. . .How they can live their lives so. . .simply, nine to five. Send the kids off to school with a paper lunch bag, go to work, smoke a cigarette in the supply closet, have lunch with friends, answer the telephone, slip in the punch out card, pick up the kids, cook dinner. . .” Her eyes closed as she continued uninterrupted. “then they let their fifteen year old walk to a friends house at seven o’clock, and he never comes back. . .I wonder if they know. . .somewhere in the back of their minds. . .that what destroyed their son was worse than death. . .”

Her quiet monologue ended on a puff of air, her eyes still staring at the night sky . . .looking, but somehow not *seeing*. His eyes narrowed with worry as he turned to stare at her, lightly touching her back with his hand. When she didn’t jerk away at the touch, he kept it there as he asked in a voice that almost didn’t want to know. “Has somebody died, Buffy? Did someone. . .” He shook his head at his assumption. . .someone would have called if that were the case.

Her response had him rocking as she answered in a wistful voice. . .“Everybody dies. . . Everybody goes away. . .”

“Buffy-”

But she was already shaking her head wearily. “Every body gets to go. . .they’ll all get to grow older. . .watch their children grow. . .watch their grandchildren grow. . .and die with a peaceful smile on their face. . .they’ll have retirement plans and pensions, birthday parties and holidays. . .and then they get to die. . .they get to rest. . .”

The wistful tremor in her voice had him rocking inwardly, as his hand firmed on the small of her back. “Buffy, what are you saying? That you want to die? How can-”

Her giggle, the desperation behind it, the quiver of her body as she rocked forward, back again, had him halting on a word. As the laughter grew hysterical, then subsided into heart broken sobs, he could not say a word. He’s been struck speechless by the level of hopelessness in her voice. . .a level he had known himself, so many years ago. . .A hopelessness he’d lived before he’d found her. . .Broken out of his thoughts with the quivering sigh heard from beside him, he remained silent as she spoke in a voice scraped raw and hoarse. . .

“Not even death can save me now. . .”

As the finality of her words struck him powerfully in the stomach, he stood, dragged a restless hand through his hair. “What the hell is going on, Buffy? Where is all this coming from.”

“I don’t know. . .”. Carefully, she pushed herself to her feet, poised at the edge of this cliff with the moon silhouetting her slender form like a harsh spotlight. Sightlessly, her eyes stared out over the twinkling town. “You should probably go.”

“Go?” The listless suggestion had his eyes narrowing as he grasped her by the shoulder and pulled her away from the edge, forced her to face him. “What is wrong with you?” Buffy simply looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. Sighing, he softened the grip he had on her upper arms, smoothing them gently against her until she glanced back up. His hand touched her cheek gently and she sighed, pressed against his palm. “What’s wrong baby? What happened to you?”

She didn’t respond, simply stepped into the embrace he offered and sank into the safety and protection he exuded. Feeling his arms close around her hesitantly, she pressed her forehead into his chest, murmuring quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. . .”

“Buffy-”

“I’m not strong enough. . .I can’t do this. . .There’s nothing left of me. . .nothing.”

Pushing her away, his hands came up to cup her cheeks, forcing her gaze to his as he struggled to find any of that glimmer he’d fallen in love with. He failed. “That’s not true, Buffy. Your the strongest person I know. . .You told me yourself, remember? Strong is hard, and its fighting, and its everyday. Your *doing* that. . .You can keep going. . .I know you can.”

She shook her head bleakly, looking up at him with dull green eyes. “No, I can’t. . .”

“Yes you can!”

His hands tightened as he gripped her, shook her lightly, his voice growing urgent. “Yes you *can*.”

Something crumbled deep within her and she pressed herself against him, a dry sob muffled against his chest as his arms came up and around her once more, soothing her with his touch. She was blind to everything but him, numb to everything but the peace he infused. Broken, she felt the pieces of her pride fall to the earth as she whispered lowly. . . “Stay. . .please stay. . .”

His eyes closed as pain hummed through him, that familiar pain that clawed its way through his belly and raged in his heart. Memories swam behind his lids as he pressed his eyes closed, memories she would never find comfort in, memories she would never have to suffer. For some reason, the one image that wouldn’t fade away was the picture of her, standing in the sunlight, looking back at him as he followed her into it. He couldn’t take that from her. . .he couldn’t take the sun from her life by keeping her in the dark beside him. Taking a small step back, he looked down and said simply. “I can’t.”

She felt herself grow cold in an instant, her eyes glazing over as she turned towards the sleeping town once again “Why.”

Aching to reach out to her, to reach out *for* her, he clenched his fists to quell the urge. It was better this way. . .he had to believe that.

“You know why Buffy. . .I could never give you the life you deserve. . .and I’ve already started my own. . .in L.A.”

Nodding imperceptibly, she sat at the edge once more, dragging her legs to her chest and perching her heavy head on her knees. She felt another hysterical giggle slip from her lips and she clenched them, muttering simply. “So its for me. . .your leaving for me. . .”

“Yes. . .” Crossing his arms loosely as he studied her with guilt shrouded features, he ducked his head. “And for me. . .”

She simply nodded, dull gaze reflecting the blinding moonlight as she said on a whisper.

“You should probably go. . .”

“Buffy. . .I can’t leave you like this.”

She simply smiled, a smile so infused with sadness it hurt her features to even try. Her gaze never meeting his, she clenched her hands around her knees. “Don’t worry about me, Angel. . .I’ll keep fighting. . .I‘ll keep fighting until its done or it kills me. . .There‘s nothing else for me to do. . .”

“Buffy, I-”

“Just go. . .please. . .just go.”

Sighing, raking a hand through his hair, he gazed at her, her moon soaked image burning into his memory before he turned around and walked away. And Buffy sat for hours, staring out over Sunnydale as the moon lowered, the sun rose, and another day arrived that she would have to survive. . .alone.