Buffy had stopped listening to the voices of her mother and the doctor a while ago, but the vague sounds of conversation still registered on her periphery. Her thoughts were occupied with other matters, things that had very little to do with what was being said in-between those four walls.

And what ugly walls they are...Buffy noted silently, gazing at the sickly yellow the cramped office was painted. The carpet didn’t help much either, a dull grey, with a suspicious stain over in one corner. She’d been in this office at least a dozen times and it never ceased to depress her. The desk was made of cheap mahogany, small and nicked in many places, as if they’d had trouble getting it through the door. It was littered with papers and files; her own lay sprawled across the desk obscenely, airing her dirty laundry out for all to see. Or so it felt like. The doctor’s coffee cup had left watery rings all over the desk, which had stained it. Buffy was willing to bet it was the same mug that rested on the desk right now, temporarily forgotten. It was white and chipped on the top, the message 'World’s Best Father’ displayed proudly. Only, from where she was sitting it looked like it said ‘Word’s Best Fat’.

There were a row of dark green filing cabinets behind the desk, off to one side from where the doctor sat talking animatedly. They were battered in a few places and looked well used. Buffy’s gaze flickered to the state-of-the-art computer on the desk. She wondered why there was still a need for filing cabinets. Wasn’t the whole point of computers to get rid of those bulky monstrosities?

She sighed to herself, looking over at the window behind the desk. It was partially obscured by the doctor’s balding head but there was still too much of it showing. The slatted blinds were opened letting the Californian sunlight stream in across the desk, reaching towards her menacingly. Buffy shifted back defensively in the plush chair.

She would have thought a doctor who specialised in burn patients would know better than to have his office bathed in glorious, and deadly, light. Obviously not.

Buffy wondered why the office was so crappy. From what she could see this guy had it made. There was always a need for doctors in Sunnydale and they charged a high enough rate to splash out on some new carpeting, or some decent paint. Not that she truly cared about the state of the office. She was just trying to keep her mind occupied. It had been two nights now since she had woken up in a drowsy stupor on the living room couch. Her mother had been staring down at her with this look of total and utter hopelessness and disappointment.

Buffy was more concerned by the fact that she herself wasn’t dead. She had taken enough methadone to sink a small elephant. The hazy memory of hurling everywhere and the horrible taste of salt in her throat had only just started to come back to her.

That and the lingering ghost of a voice in her ear ‘The Slayer doesn’t go out this way!’ It made absolutely no sense that he would save her life. First of all – she hadn’t wanted to be saved, and second of all – he was Spike.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Miss Summers?”

She blinked and looked up slowly into the bespectacled eyes of the doctor seated across from her. He was staring back at her expectantly. Buffy flickered her gaze to her mother and saw she too was waiting for some sort of response.

Buffy stared back blankly, “Yes?”

“Have you given it any thought?”

She shifted in the seat, pulling herself further upright, feigning attention, “Given what any thought?”

“The skin graft,” he replied, fingers tented in front of him, “Your mother and I were discussing it, and we’ve agreed that now is a good time to consider it.”

Buffy gripped the arms of her chair tightly, her fingernails digging into the leather. She turned to Joyce and tried to read her mother’s expression. It was strangely similar to the one she had worn when she had found Buffy half passed out on the living room chair. She hadn’t said a word then, remaining silent but cagey. She never even mentioned the mess in the kitchen, or the muddy footprints that clearly didn’t belong to either herself or Buffy.

It was like she was a muted version of herself. Not quite Joyce Summers anymore.

Buffy knew this was her fault. It was her attitude and unwillingness to deal that was dragging her mother down with her, but just because she was aware of it didn’t mean she was going to address it. There was a time to heal and this was not it.

“What does it involve?” Buffy asked finally, her throat dry.

“We would take some skin from your thigh and transplant it onto your back. We will have to do this a number of times over a number of months but the end result should be satisfying,” The doctor smiled thinly.

“Should be?” Buffy whispered incredulously.

They wanted her to go through dozens of operations for a ‘should be’? This was unreal.

“Now, Buffy,” He breathed nasally “We can’t expect miracles. There could be complications. However, I have the utmost confidence –”

“What exactly does ‘satisfying’ mean, anyway?” She interrupted “Will my back look normal again? Anything close to resembling normalcy?”

“Some scarring will still be visible and the nerve endings will never fully –”

“So, you want me to endure all the pain, all that...misery,” Buffy spat, “for essentially nothing? Scar me up everywhere else so I can be your pin cushion so maybe, possibly, one day I should be satisfied?”

Joyce reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder “Buffy,”

“I can see you’re upset,” The doctor sat back in his chair “I suggest you mull it over for a few days and then get back to me.”

“No.”

The doctor frowned, quirking his head “I beg your pardon?”

“No,” Buffy stood slowly, her eyes catching the sun and causing her to squint, “I don’t want to mull it over. I’m stuck with this body. I really don’t want to make it worse. If that’s possible.”

Her mother stood up next to her and took her arm “Honey, you’re tired. Let’s go home and I’ll make you some soup.”

She shook her arm free “I don’t want any goddamn soup!”

The room was suddenly too quiet.

And the sun was still in her eyes. Buffy lifted a hand to shield them from the light. She looked at her mother. It was all too much. She had to get out.

Grabbing her jacket up, she slipped it on and left the office. The door clicked softly behind her as she padded down the air conditioned corridor. Buffy turned the corner, breezing past the snooty secretary and out of the heavy doors. Humid air enveloped her and she ran her hands through her hair, eyes closed. This was all too much. Everything. Her life was hell. Maybe that’s why Spike had stopped her ending it. Maybe he wanted her to suffer.

“Is that what you want?” Buffy spoke softly.

There was no answer.

Her mother appeared next to her silently. Buffy glanced at her with what she hoped was a halfway apologetic expression. It wasn’t her mother’s fault. None of it was. It just happened that she was the only one who stuck around long enough to feel the Buffy Summer’s wrath.

Buffy couldn’t remember that last time she had seen Xander or Willow. She supposed they were consciously avoiding her. She didn’t blame them for that. Buffy wouldn’t even blame her mom if she threw up her hands and said she had had enough. Instead, she slipped an arm around Buffy’s shoulders cautiously.

Just this once she let her.

+ + +

Spike drained the very last drop from the boy he held in his grasp. The body had stopped thrashing around a while ago, slowing to twitch every now and then until it went deathly still. The vampire reared his head up and wiped the blood from his lips, sucking it from the ends of his fingers. He sighed in contentment and let the body drop to the floor with a thump. Spike stepped onto the dead boy and over him to fling himself in an almost threadbare armchair some lackey had retrieved from the home of a family he’d killed. It wasn’t half bad. Comfortable, if a little stained from the bloodshed. Slinging one leg over the arm of the chair, Spike lit a cigarette and took a deep drag from it. “Spud!” He yelled.

The vampire trundled into the lair obediently “Yes sir?”

“See to it that gets dumped somewhere,” He motioned absently at the body on the floor, “It’s already starting to stink to high heaven.”

“Right away, Sir.” Spud hefted the body over his shoulder and left, whistling a jaunty – and bloody annoying – tune.

Spike scratched his chin and looked at the blood splatters that remained on the dusty floor of the tunnel. It had been good to get a decent meal again. Having laid laid low for the past couple of days to make sure the Slayer wasn’t trailing him, his stomach had started to rumble painfully.

“The Slayer,” Spike murmured to himself.

That, in itself, was another problem. How to deal with the Slayer. Every time he tried to kill her, he seemed to end up saving her life. Clearly, he’d entered the Twilight Zone. There was only one real option left. Spike would go to the Slayer once darkness had fallen. “And see what the night brings,” he whispered to the empty room.