With a sigh, Buffy locked the door behind her before stepping out of her shoes and collapsing on the bed. It was a good thing that her new home was so small, that way she didn’t have to go far to get into bed.

Her second day at her new job was finally over. Second day in hell…

She cut off that train of thoughts right away. She wasn’t going to think of hell, wasn’t going to think of Acathla, and certainly wasn’t going to think of Angel. It was useless to dwell on those things. She tried to turn her thoughts back to her friends and mom, wondering how they were, if they were angry and disappointed with her. Probably. Thinking of them didn’t help much either.

Trying to distract herself, she got ready for the night, making a mental inventory of all the things she needed to buy to make her place more hospitable. It would take time, but eventually she’d be fine. She had to be.

Sleep was long in coming. It always was, now. She couldn’t rest before mentally reviewing all her mistakes that had let to the most recent fiasco in her life. All the mistakes she was determined never to make again. When she finally drifted off, her face and pillow once more held the evidence of her tears.


It had been five days since Joyce had told her daughter not to come back. Five days of staring at the note she had found on Buffy’s bed. Five days of making breakfast and dinner for two and hoping any little noise outside was Buffy coming back. Five days of glancing at the phone and hoping it would ring and Buffy would ask whether she could come home yet. Five days of hell. On the afternoon of the sixth, she decided that she had waited enough and needed to do something. Anything.

In an attempt to understand what had been going on exactly in Buffy’s life, what it mean to be the ‘Slayer’, and maybe to find a clue of where she had fled, she hunted down Buffy’s diary. Between the mattress and bed frame, she found a slim, girlish journal. She barely read the first few  pages before realizing that this couldn’t be it, it was just too plain and boring. A decoy. A more intensive search and she finally discovered an unadorned diary, hidden under a loose board in the closet. This was the one. She read it from the cover to the last entry. Until today, she had always refused to violate her daughter’s privacy, but there was simply no other way for her to get answers.

She didn’t particularly like the answers she found.

She didn’t like the repeated entries about late-night patrols and strolls in cemeteries hand in hand with Angel. The short notes, dates and names that she finally understood were death notices for people Buffy had known. The heart-crushing, tear-stained rendition of the day Angel had become Angelus. The despair and self-loathing hidden in the following pages, until that final entry where she stated that she was ready now to kill Angelus. And through it all, the constant references to Willow and Xander, who were apparently helping her slay, and to a ‘Watcher’, whose name Joyce recognized instantly.

As she closed the diary and absently ran her fingers over the smooth cover, tears began trickling down her cheeks. How could she have been so blind? How had she managed to delude herself into thinking that everything was perfectly fine and normal in their little family? By having a few drinks too many? By not asking enough questions about bloodstained clothing? By being oblivious to Buffy slipping in and out at all hours of the night? By simply being a bad mother?

When she had regained some control, she went to the phone. Willow had called twice since that fateful night, inquiring about Buffy, asking Mrs. Summers to call as soon as she came back. Joyce called her and demanded Giles’ phone number or address. She received both.

The sun was quickly descending toward the horizon, and she knew, now, the dangers of being out at night in Sunnydale; but that did not stop her. She hopped into her car, and five minutes later was knocking on the door of Sunnydale High’ librarian. Of her daughter’s Watcher. Of the man who was apparently a father figure to Buffy, a mentor. Because of this relationship, Joyce hoped that he might have an idea of where she was. Because of it, she also wanted to rip him to shreds for taking her daughter away from her, for encouraging her to be involved in such dangerous activities. When the door opened and he appeared, she wasn’t sure anymore whether to plead or accuse. Apparently, he was just as flustered by her presence, because he didn’t say a word, simply nodded and allowed her to come inside. They sat in his living room, both of them silent for a few minutes, until he finally asked:

“Would you care for some tea?”

The incongruity of the question allowed her to finally speak.

“No, but I would like my daughter back,” she replied blankly.

Rupert Giles sighed, and somehow suddenly he seemed ten years older.

“I wish I could tell you where she is,” he replied softly, “but the truth is, I don’t know any more than you do.”

With that, her biggest hope crumbled.

“I have been looking for her,” he continued, “and so are my colleagues. We haven’t found anything yet. Did she…”

He paused; long enough for him to remove his glasses and start polishing them. Long enough for Joyce to notice, of all things, that he had beautiful eyes.

“Did she leave any clue?” he continued after putting his glasses back on. “Do you know if she came back to your house after…”

Carefully, Joyce pulled the note from her purse and offered it to the man. He took it, read it, shook his head lightly, and gave it back.

“Yes, it doesn’t help much,” he conceded. “At least now we know she was well enough to get to your place and leave.”

The world froze. Six days and never once, not even for one second, had Joyce thought that Buffy could be anything other than fine, wherever she was. She was the Slayer, wasn’t she? Didn’t that mean super strong?

“Why… What do you mean, well enough?” she asked, half choking on the words. “What is it exactly she did that night? She didn’t…”

Buffy had not explained. But then, Joyce had not been ready to hear. She was, now, but it was too late for her daughter to tell the story, so her Watcher did. And quite a story it was. A demon made of stone, another demon wanting to send the world to hell, and her daughter caught in the middle.

“So, you don’t even really know what happened?”

Her voice was trembling, as were her hands. She tried to control both, but couldn’t.

“Not yet. I hope to know soon, though.”

Probably because he didn’t know what else to say, he told her about his ‘guest’, a  rambling vampire chained in his bathroom. About having hope he would allow them to understand what had happened and where Buffy was. Even dazed as she was, she recognized the demon’s name, and told the man about Buffy’s truce with him before she disappeared that night.

That surprised him. The surprise however was much greater when she insisted on talking to Spike.


It was a night full of surprises, Giles reflected as he leaned against the wall and observed the scene in front of him.

First, Buffy’s mother showing up on his doorstep. He had no idea before this that she knew what his role was in her daughter’s life; yet, her simple presence here meant that she was aware of it. Then, the letter she had showed him. Only a few words, but written after Buffy’s fight at the mansion, so at least they knew she was alright, despite Spike repeated mentions of her being hurt. The revelation that Buffy had made a truce with this same vampire. Mrs. Summers insisting until he allowed her to see the vamp. Finally, yet most importantly, said vamp being somewhat calm for the first time in days as the woman approached him.

“Don’t get too close,” he advised as she stepped next to the tub. “He’s still dangerous.”

A fact that had been increasingly difficult to remember, lately. Giles had no doubt – and it didn’t make for restful nights – that if the vampire had wanted to free himself, he would have found a way. Yet, so far, he had never tried. This didn’t mean he never would.

“Spike?” the woman said very softly, and the vampire’s eyes settled on her. “Do you know where Buffy is?”

Very unlikely, Giles thought. If Buffy had gone back to her home after leaving the mansion, how could Spike know where she was? Moreover, it meant that it was now useless to keep him around. Too dangerous also. Better to take care of it while he was still too confused to fight back, even if it felt like cheating. He kept his doubts and resolution silent though, curious to see if the vampire, suddenly so quiet after days of near constant muttering, was going to answer. Once again, the Watcher was surprised when he did, and with more coherence than ever so far.

“Gone,” he said in a raspy voice, repeating his answer from the first night. “Didn’t kill me and then she left. Why didn’t she kill me?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Summers answered. “Did she tell you where she was going?”

The vampire’s head tilted slightly, as if he was listening to someone, but no one was talking.

“She said she hurt,” he announced abruptly. “Hurt enough to die, she said, just like me. She was right. Do you think she knew about the spark?”

The woman shook her head, and Giles took a step forward to offer his support when she started shaking. For a few seconds, she accepted the hand on her arm, before eventually pulling free. She continued to question Spike despite the imminent tears all too clear in her voice.

“How was she hurt, Spike? Was she bleeding? Did she break…”

“No, no, no, no blood this time, only blood is on my hands, in my head. She just hurts, you know…”

Chained hands pulled at the sides of his shirt, exposing the shredded t-shirt underneath; and, over the vampire’s chest, where he was now pointing, were lacerations that Giles had never noticed. How could he have not noticed them? What had the vampire been trying to do, dig out his own heart?

Because of the sight or even possibly Spike’s words, Mrs. Summers covered her mouth with a shaking hand.  This time she didn’t, or couldn’t, swallow her sobs.

“There. Inside. Where the spark is. That’s where she hurts. Like me, but different. She cried, too. But you shouldn’t cry for me.”

Under other circumstances, it might have been humorous to have the insane vampire trying to comfort the Slayer’s mother, but Giles couldn’t see the humor in it. However, he finally could see the light. For days, the pieces of the puzzle had refused to click in place and he had been unable to understand what had happened to the vampire to put him in such a mental state. Until now… Mumbled words of sorry, torture, hurting, guilt, and now this, blood on his hand, hurting inside, a spark… The idea was ridiculous, and yet it made too much sense not to consider it.

The question fell from his lips before he could think it through.

“Spike? Do you have your soul back?”

Icy blue eyes turned to him, considered him for a moment, before Spike finally gave him an answer of sorts.

“They put the spark in me and now all it does is burn.”

As he observed the vampire, trying to read him for any kind of duplicity, Giles wasn’t sure what to think. On one hand, it certainly explained the madness that had seemingly taken Spike. On the other, it was extraordinary. Willow had cast a spell on Angelus, not Spike, so how could this have happened? Was it because they were from the same vampire line? But if so, why hadn’t Spike been souled when Angelus had been cursed the first time? What had been different this time? Unless… If Buffy had already sent Angelus through Acathla and closed the stone when the spell had been cast, it could have affected the closest vampire instead. That was the only explanation he could think of. It raised too many questions for Giles’ peace of mind. What was he going to do with the vamp now? Could he still stake him as he had planned to? If Angel’s example was any clue, he ought to. And still… was it why Buffy had let him live?

“A soul?” Joyce asked after a couple of minutes when neither of them spoke. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I understand either,” Giles muttered. He needed a drink. Or two. And not to be given choices like this one anymore.


Joyce crying is one of the things I remember most vividly from these first few days after it happened. At the time, I know I thought she was crying because of me, for me, because she pitied me and was showing compassion. I know better, now, of course. Back then, she didn’t know me enough to have this kind of feelings toward my poor self. She was also completely broken from the slayer being MIA. However, to my deluded mind, she was crying for my sins, and that this lady may find me worthy of her tears somehow added to my desire for atonement. I had no clue yet how to atone, but it was becoming a recurring theme.

I remember broken parts of a conversation, too. Giles talking about staking me because I obviously knew nothing more about Buffy. Joyce protesting loudly that Buffy had trusted me, not killed me when she could have, so what business had Giles to want to do it? There was more to it, but again, there were tears. It seems that Joyce couldn’t bear the idea of killing the last person who had seen her daughter. Lucky me.

Somehow, she made Giles promise not to dust me – at least not yet. He wasn’t happy about it, which was clear when he came back to see me after she left; but he didn’t stake me. He sipped a glass of scotch, and for a while, I just watched him watch me. In the end, before he left, he said:

“I won’t let you become a new Angel. If it means staking you, I won’t hesitate.”

His comment left my souled self rather confused. Of course I wasn’t like Angel, couldn’t the Watcher see it? I hadn’t run away, had I? It might have been a little hard to do seeing how I was chained to a bloody bathtub, but I hadn’t run away.

Even today, after all that happened, that’s still the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Angel. OK, the second. First is, fucking bastard. Second, ran away and left us. All he ever did was run, and try to escape the soul without understanding he couldn’t, or at least not like that.

And me, on the other hand, I…

What do you mean, I’m going too fast? It’s my story, I bloody well will tell it as I… Oh, fine, fine, go ahead, be my guest.