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"You're the slayer. You were born for war, born to fight the darkness as the darkness." He smirked, but his eyes were sad, "Just took a spot of death to let you in on it."

Pulling away, Buffy scanned the room for her clothes, already angry enough with herself for being there. Should have known better than to have a conversation with a demon. "I have a life. I have friends," she shot out nastily, "I can go out into the sun. Take a stroll in the daylight and then tell me how dead I am."

Undaunted by her nasty tone, Spike continued, "Yeah, luv? Than why are you down here. With me?"

She stopped her futile search, sinking down on the bed, her back turned toward him. "You make me hate myself."

"I'm trying to make you find yourself," Spike sighed and pulled her back into his arms.

"But what if there's no Buffy left?"

His breath whispered in her ear, "You're the slayer. You're resiliant. You'll be right again, luv, you just have to give it time."

Closing her eyes, Buffy sighed, "I didn't ask to be brought back. To be alive."

"I'll trade."

She laughed, and Spike would have sighed in relief, if he breathed. One crisis down, eight hundred and ninety six to go - not that he was counting.

© 2006 - Del



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