Title:  Pillow Talk

Author:  Miss Murchison

Rating:  PG so far, unless references to Christina Aguilera really terrify you

Disclaimer:  All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.  Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.

Notes:  Currently a standalone fic taking place during early Season Six.  Expect that like most of my fics, this will go AU as it continues.

Thanks: To Keswindhover and revdorothyl for the beta.

The story begins here.

Chapter 4

            The rush of adrenaline that had prompted Buffy to escape her house trickled away quickly, and she found herself plodding from one cemetery to the next, counting her steps, wondering if Rest Haven was more than 200 paces away.  She was pretty sure she could manage 200 paces, but 201?  Not so much. 

153, 154, 155… She could see the hedges surrounding Rest Haven now.  176, 177, 178...  At least it was one of those modern cemeteries with flat markers and no granite stones to trip over and bruise her legs.  It made it easier to spot disturbed earth and disturbing demon things, too.  181, 182, 183... 

Even though it was an easy gig, Buffy hoped everyone at Rest Haven would actually be resting tonight.  She wanted another nap. 193, 194.  She was going to make it in under 200 steps.   Hooray.

Rest Haven lived up to its name for once, but 483 paces later she encountered a fledgling just outside the gates of Peaceful Acres.  He was so new to his unlife that clumps of dirt clung to his hair and clothes.  He and Buffy stared at each other for a long moment, and before either moved, Spike tossed a stake over her shoulder and into the vamp’s heart.  Buffy trudged through the ashes and on to the next stop on her rounds. 

…7, 8, 9... That was the problem with reaching a goal.  There was always something else that had to be done, and instead of being almost there, you had barely started on your way to wherever the next there was. 

Buffy didn't want to start again.  She wanted to stop.  She ached with the passionate desire to do nothing.

             Less than an hour after leaving home, Buffy found herself sitting next to her mother’s grave, Spike hovering behind her, his unobtrusive presence signaled by little more than a thread of cigarette smoke and the occasional scrape of his thumb against his lighter’s sparking wheel.

            The grass had had time to grow thick over the site, and the earth had settled a bit.   A comfortable sag, like an old mattress that had molded to its owner's body.  Buffy remembered Dawn's desire to bring their mother back, and was grateful for this proof that Joyce had not been disturbed.  No vampirizing, no zombification, no cheesy semi-resurrection of any kind would be allowed to harm her mother.

            "I won't let them get you," she whispered.  "I promise."

            She heard Spike move behind her.

            Damn.  I forgot about vampire super-hearing.  Now I suppose there'll be super-snark about Slayers who talk to themselves in graveyards.

            But she wasn't really surprised when he said nothing.  She just wasn't sure if that was because he'd changed over the past few months or because surprise was too energetic a thing to bother feeling. 

Buffy looked over her shoulder.   Spike was leaning against a tree, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers.   She shouldn't have been able to make out his expression in the shadows, but somehow she thought she could.

Maybe I just really want someone to look like they understand so I can stop thinking I'm crazy.  But how crazy is it that the person who understands is a vampire?

Thinking was as hard as feeling surprised.  Buffy wondered what it would be like to melt into the ground, swimming down into the depths of the grave to be with her mother, huddling next to Joyce, hiding there where none of her friends could seek her out.  She'd cling to the darkness and dirt and decay, and no matter how many times they yelled, "Marco," she'd press her lips tight together, not yelling "Polo," not even whispering it.  She was sure she could keep from giggling and giving away her refuge.

Well, actually she was sure she couldn't do that, not really.  But she knew she couldn't stand up either. 

"Is it okay if I rest a little?"

"Sure thing, pet."  Spike's voice was a neutral rumble.

Stupid vampire.  He's afraid if he sounds too nice I'll hit him.

 I would too. I'd hit him for treating me like he's afraid I'll break.  I would, I would.

Buffy realized how childish those thoughts were.  Then she realized how much she wished she was still a child. 

She lay down on the grass, her head near Joyce's tombstone, and closed her eyes.  "I won't be long," she assured Spike in a low murmur. "I just need to rest a minute."

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