more of "Needfire" (note change in last line of first paragraph, continuation of previous):

My mother rang the bell of Carolan. We waited on the doorstep, listening to the echoes shrilling behind the gaily painted red barrier. The door opened, and I got my first look at Richard Giles.

It would be pleasant, soothing to my self-esteem, to look back at that first meeting and say that I saw something, anything, of what was to come. I can't offer myself that sop, however; it would be a lie. I felt nothing at all. Perhaps the rising need in me, the part of me that was Slayer, had taken on enough importance to smother or at least overlay the witch power I had always had. Even now, I don't know.

"You're Amanda?"

At that point, the first warning, the first trip of my web of survival, slid across my nerves. I disliked him - he had opened his mouth and spoken two words, and I disliked him. I disliked the question, which was asinine; how many young girls was he expecting, then? I disliked the voice in which he asked the question. It was a careful voice, coming from a careful mouth. His lips were too thin, without a trace of humour. I disliked how masked off he seemed; that was in part due to the eyeglasses he wore, a thick-lensed pair that I would come to learn, soon enough, was as much a weapon as an aid to vision.

But most of all, I disliked his treatment of my mother. She stood there beside me, her right hand resting on my shoulder, and he did not once turn the reflective glasses her way, or acknowledge her presence. I felt her hand tremble slightly, was aware that the corners of her mouth trembled, and understood that she felt dismissed, humiliated, invisible. A sudden anger came up in me. How dare this arrogant man treat my mother so?

"Of course I'm Amanda," I told the glasses, and watched his jaw tighten. "That's a really silly question. But you ought to be asking my mother that. Haven't you any manners? She's brought me down here and you haven't even said hello, or introduced yourself properly."

My mother swallowed a noise, undefinable, perhaps a protest. The man's thin lips stretched out, and I realised that this was, for him, a genuine smile of amusement.

"Outspoken." He fixed the glasses on me, and I knew what he was trying to do. He must be shown that I wasn't so easily awed, or put inwhat he seemed to think was my place. I fell back on one of my own favourite tricks of intimidation, raising my left eyebrow nearly to my widow's peak, leaving the right eyebrow where it was; that quickly, then, were the lines of battle between us set. His head jerked, then turned to face my mother.

"Mrs. Lisle? Please, come in. The girl is right, my manners need some review. I hope the train down wasn't too stuffy?"

My mother murmured something conventional. I pushed back my habitual exasperation with her timidity. Yes, I understood that she was an unwed mother. Yes, I understood that my father, that black-browed Frenchman whom I remembered from visits when I was very small, had been a man outside the fold, different, with talents and habits outside what the Church would overlook. And yes, I understood her terror of me. How could I not? From the day she had found her toddler daughter muttering in French, a language never spoken in our house and one which I could have had no way of knowing, she had been in terror of me. She watched me grow, my instinctive knowledge of how to manipulate objects, of how to make weather match my moods and a hated terrier who had snapped at her whimper away in protest after a muttered spell. She watched me grow and with me, her own sense of helplessness grew. I understood my mother's desire to stay small and hidden and to not upset anything or anyone, but this took nothing from my impatience, my exasperation, my wish that once, only once, she might stand and face the world and show some inner steel.

I don't remember if I posted this V!Giles bit

At the hospital, Willow kept hold of Tara's good hand, only letting go when Buffy carefully unwound her fingers so the technicians could take Tara to X-ray. Tara's frightened whimpers at being separated didn't help matters.

Willow watched the doors to the radiology department calmly. "Glory's at that apartment house next to the park, right?"

Buffy rubbed her shoulders. "Uh huh, why--Wills, no."'

"Sixth floor, was it?"

"You can't do this, Willow."

The look she got was calm and frightening. "Why not? You're the only one allowed to go after the baddies?" A crack appeared in Willow's composure. "She ate my girl's mind, Buffy. She has to pay."

"And she will! it's just--we're not up to it yet."

"And when will we be? The deadline is dawn, the day after tomorrow. Glory's going through us one at a time, looking for the Key. It's time to do something to her, instead of picking up the pieces of what she does to us. She nearly tore Spike apart, she took Tara's mind--who's next, Buffy? Xander, me, your mom? Dawn herself? What do you expect us to do?"

"I don't know! OK?" Buffy wiped her eyes. "I don't know."

Willow wrapped her arms around herself. "She laughed, Buffy. I saw it. And it hurt Tara. I tried to get through the crowd, and I saw Glory laughing and my baby in pain. It's got to stop."

Buffy went over to hug her. "I know."

They stood like that until Tara was brought back to the treatment room. Tara was crying in fear and reached for Willow.

"I'm here, baby, I'm right here." Willow took Tara's good hand and kissed her forehead.

Someone drew Buffy to one side as a doctor began prepping Tara's hand for a cast. Buffy started to bristle until she recognized the man in scrubs. "Oh, Ben. Hi."

"Hi," Ben said with a tired smile. "You're here a lot."

"Yeah. We ought to get good customer cards, one punch for each yard of bandage or something. Good for free coffee."

"How's your mom?"

Buffy managed to smile. "She's good. We've got her walking and doing small things. It's hard making sure she doesn't do too much."

"She should be fine, then." Ben glanced at Tara, who had her face buried in Willow's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your friend. We're seeing so much of this kind of ... attack. Sometimes I agree with the old timers: Sunnydale's cursed."

"Or something," Buffy agreed.

He fidgeted with his nametag. "You ought to just get out of town, take a break or something."

"A break? A vacation? I can't take a vacation at a time like this." She faded off. Maybe not a vacation, but maybe simply being elsewhere for the next couple of days. "I couldn't leave my mom."

"You wouldn't have to. She wouldn't be up to anything strenuous, but she could certainly sit in the car for a few hours. You've got all her prescriptions, and her therapy is as much simply getting up and moving around as anything else."

Her Slayer heart rebelled at the idea of running away, but the strategy drilled into her saw the wisdom in a tactical withdrawal, taking the Key and all the hostages to fortune as far from Ground Zero as possible.

"That might work," she said to herself.

Ben nodded eagerly. "Get as far away as you can for a couple of days, put all of it behind you. Everything will look differently in a few days."

Hope felt strange after so many days of fear. Buffy bounced up to kiss Ben on the cheek. "Thanks, Ben. A few days' break. And then we can deal with everything." She smiled, and it looked close to natural.

"But why can't she come home with me?" Willow's voice protested. "I can look after her."

"It's just for tonight, miss," the doctor said. "Some of the people who have come down with these ... seizures become violent, and we don't want to risk that. "

Willow continued to run her fingers through Tara's hair. "I don't care, I can take care of her, I can."

"Tomorrow."

There was no shifting them. Tara whimpered and cried when she was put in a wheelchair and pushed away from her lover.

"I'll be back in the morning, Tara," Willow called, trying not to cry. "It's just a few hours."

Ben leaned closer to Buffy. "It might be safer to leave Tara here for a few days. We're set up for dealing with the poor folks like this."

"'Fraid that's not an option." She smiled at him, wishing her life was in a place where she could pay attention to nice young men who did nice things for her. "We'd better go, we've got a lot to do."

"Sure. Don't worry, you'll be fine after a few days away."

He watched Buffy collect the crying Willow and walk away, and he ignored the headache screaming in the back of his mind, a headache that screamed his name and demanded to be free.

"Just a few more days for you, too," he muttered, heading back to the locker room and hoping he could make an escape before Glory broke loose again.

I'm very happy because I know what's coming!!!

I'm going to post my remix story here. It's unbeta'd, and I hope you'll be merciless in your criticism.

[link]

This is the story it is, err, mixed from. Take a look, please, and tell me how the comparison works.

The amazing thing is the clarity. It's like every sense is attuned; I'm hyperaware of my surroundings. The colours are so bright; the white of the bedspread pulled up to Buffy's chin somehow making her cheeks even paler, the placid blue of Tara's eyes, so full of life. I can see every detail - the soup stain on Tara's sleeve, the lankness of her hair, which I had not found the time to wash the previous day. There is salt caked on my skin from old tears, I can feel it pull with every movement of my face. I smell like stale fear and taste like blood and defeat. I can hear myself speak; the words are swift and tumble from my lips, but there is no connection. It's like I am observing things from a distance. From a bubble that holds me above everything. Light and floaty and removed.

Emotions flicker across Tara's lovely, expressive face. I watch her listen to me babble.

"Someone always has to be with Buffy." Sorrow, mixed with love. "It's very important that she's never left alone." And now she's nodding, but I have to make sure that she understands. "You can never leave a body alone because…" My voice is faltering. I really wish I could help me with this. "… Because..." Tara's forehead wrinkles with concern. "… Because... It's a Jewish thing. I should know this... I used to know this… I've forgotten why, but it's important." I don't sound very convincing, but Tara's face is filled with understanding, and she's nodding again as my words trail off.

"It's funny the things you remember. About what you learned when you were little. What they t-taught you." I'm nodding, I can feel my head bob and my hair brush my cheeks, but I'm not sure that I get her meaning. "My Church - my f-father's Church - when I was little." Her warm breath puffs against my face, she's struggling to talk. "It was - it could be ... rigid." She ducks her head, hiding her distressed eyes. "But they said that there was only one thing that couldn't be forgiven. That would damn your soul to eternal t-torment." I can't see her eyes, but I think that she might be crying, her voice is thick and her breath is hitching. "And that's despair. And when I was lost I despaired. I didn't think you would find me. I gave up hope. I shouldn't have. I should have trusted in you. Trusted you."

She's sobbing and I see my hand reach out to her, can feel her hair beneath my fingers, her jaw cupped in my palm. Tara turns her head and her lips are against my hand, kissing me. "You found me."

I don't know if I'm feeling the right emotions. She's upset, so devastated by her confession, but I'm glad, just fiercely happy about her reaction. She's Tara again. Herself again. I had reversed the damage Glory had done. I had made her whole again.

Listening to her talk, seeing her face, feeling the touch of her mouth - I have wanted this for so long. The bubble is thinner; we're connecting. I reach out for her, pulling her close against me, pressing my mouth against hers. She tastes like tears and heat and Tara. So alive. So mine.

"I did find you, baby. I told you - I will always find you." Kissing and crying and breathing each other in. "You're back, and we're together, and I won't let anything keep us apart ever again."

The bubble is gone. Nothing is separating us. I'm drinking her in, every sense is alive and open and feeling. I lay my head on her shoulder, the sharp bones biting into my cheek, just being with her. Tears blur my vision, but I can see Buffy on the bed. And reality hits me so hard that I double over, bringing Tara to her knees.

It hurts so bad. I can't breathe. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be alive.

"Oh, god, Tara. She's dead. Buffy's dead. I should have done something. I could have done something to save her. To stop her. To keep her alive."

I'm clutching Tara, and she's holding me tight. She's all that's keeping me from drowning.

"Baby, no, there was nothing you could do. You can't save everyone."

"There must have been something… I failed her. And Dawn…. Oh, poor Dawnie."

Tara's making nonsense noises, soothing and shushing sounds. But she's wrong. I should have been able to do something. All this power - so useless. I'm choking on sobs; I can't catch my breath. It hurts so much. My chest, my stomach.

"I'm gonna be sick." I have to crawl, I can't get up. Tara's following me, but she can't leave. I wave frantically, and I think she understands, because she stops in the doorway and she doesn't leave Buffy.

~~~

The porcelain is cool against my skin. I don't know how long I've been here, but my knees are sore and my throat is burning. When I stand up and flush the toilet my head swims. The mouthwash burns my tongue, but it's good to get the taste out of my mouth. I hold a cold washcloth against my face; I already feel more human.

I need to be in control. Dawn needs me. They all need me. I have to be strong. For Buffy. So I put on my resolve face and leave the bathroom.

There are voices in the foyer; Xander is talking to someone. I look down the stairs and see him help Anya over the threshold; Tara is hugging Dawn. They're back from the hospital. Everyone looks okay. I should go talk to…. Buffy. Who's with Buffy?

I spin so fast I get dizzy. I must have made it to Buffy's room, because I'm holding on to the door jam while my vision is starry and my ears are whooshing. But Tara hasn't let me down; Giles and Spike are standing over Buffy. I'm so relieved, I have to close my eyes, firm my resolve.

"There is too much at risk." Giles' voice is clipped, businesslike. Cold. So cold. "The demon population would run amok. As for Dawn. … I'll have to discuss things with her. I suppose I should notify her father."

"Whatever you lot decide, it needs to be quick. There's no time for debate, we have to bury her soon." Spike's voice is rough, I remember that he had been crying.

"Yes, of course. The longer we wait the greater the chance of discovery."

"Not what I was thinking about."

"Spike, please do me the courtesy of speaking directly - I haven't the energy to decipher riddles."

"Rupert, mate. … It might not be high summer, but it's still California and I don't know if we can turn the air conditioner high eno…"

"Stop. Please."

My resolve face is wobbling. Right around the chin area. I need to concentrate on firming it up and not think about the implications of what Spike just said.

Giles clears his throat. "Yes. A quick burial in a concealed spot."

"The wretch, concentrated all in self,/Living, shall forfeit fair renown,/And, doubly dying, shall go down/To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,/Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung."

Is it odd that a vampire recites poetry? I don't remember any other vampire doing so.

"No." Giles' tone makes me open my eyes. "I will not have it."

The look on his face… I have no words to describe the sorrow. I'm not sure that any words exist that could describe the sorrow on his face.

He's looking at me. No, he's looking right through me. Now he's focussing, he looks a little startled and takes off his glasses.

"Willow, I need a favour."

I'm staring at him polishing his lenses, so familiar, such a Giles thing to do; but I can't look at his face, it's too raw, too painful. I've learned something about myself. I've learned that I would do anything in my power to get that look off of his face; to see him smile again.

"Whatever you need, Giles."

~~~

I don't often drive; it's easier to walk or to get a lift with Xander. Cars make me nervous, they're big and noise and smelly. Anya once said something about lesbians and pseudo-phalluses, but I don't think that's the reason. The highway scares me. Too many cars going too fast. And I hate driving in the dark, but I want to get back. There's so much to do.

The Hyperion was deserted when I got there. I was relieved, sort of, because it meant that I didn't have to see Angel right away. But, then, I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, wanted to keep moving, so I went on my errands. I was glad to get out of the deserted hotel. It was eerie and creepy. I got what I wanted, no problem. Handed over Giles' credit card and letter of permission, told them what I needed. They didn't even question me. Which, disappointment, because I had a whole thing worked out about a play and temperamental directors who insist on authenticity. I guess they're used to odd requests because they just asked me what size I wanted and verified the spelling and dates and sent me next door to browse while they fixed things up. It didn't take any time at all. So I sat in the lobby for a long time, waiting. Wondering what to say.

Turns out I didn't have to say anything. They were so happy. Angel and Cordy and Wesley and their friends. They were laughing when they came in. And then Angel saw me and … And then he wasn't happy and laughing anymore.

I don't know what the deal was with the metal bikini Cordy was wearing. The really unfair thing is that I so want to tell Xander about that. His head would explode with every Princess Leia fantasy he ever had coming true. But I can't tell Xander about it. Because Buffy is dead and things aren't funny anymore. It's not fair. It's not right. It's not right that Buffy is dead and things are changed and worse.

It's not fair.

I'm so tired, and I've got so much longer to go. Then I can sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep is soon.

~~~

"But what's wrong with this outfit?"

"Anya, it's a halter top and miniskirt." I'm trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, but it's hard.

"She likes it. She wore it all the time."

"For dancing. Does she look like she'll be going to the Bronze anytime soon?" I think the annoyance won. Why does Anya have to be so Anya all the time.

"It's just maybe not appropriate." Tara's eyes are darting from me to Anya and then over to Dawn who is sitting hunched on the floor by the bed.

"Dawnie…" But I don't have anything to add, and she's not really paying attention, I don't think. Her head is on the bed, near Buffy's hand.

"Well, what about these?" Anya's holding Buffy's pajamas and, honestly, what is wrong with her? We're picking an outfit for Buffy to be buried in, not getting her ready for a slumber party.

"Anya, I don't think that the p-pajamas are right, either."

"But it's like she's asleep, isn't it? Isn't she having an eternal rest?"

"I like the pajamas." Dawn's words are muffled, her head is still on the bed, her hands twisted in the spread. "I want to keep them."

That managed to shut Anya up.

"Is there something you think she should wear, sweetie?" Tara holds out her hand and after a second Dawn takes it and gets up. They rummage through the closet, then Dawn pulls out a black dress that I haven't seen before. It's so … dowdy. I can't imagine Buffy wearing it.

"That doesn't look like something Buffy would wear." Why does Anya just keep talking?

"She bought it for the funeral."

Huh? Buffy bought her own outfit? What?

"My god, did she have a premonition?"

Dawn is actually smiling at Anya. "Mom's funeral. She was going to wear this but it scratched her so she changed." Her smile disappears as she presses her lips together. "But the scratchiness won't bother her now."

Anya's mouth is opening; I can't listen to what's going to come out, I have to stop her. "Shoes!" Little too emphatic there. "We should find shoes."

The strappy black heels are the best choice for the dress. They match, even if they aren't practical or seasonal. It's not like she's going to have to walk anywhere in them.

Buffy is lying on the bed and I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. How do I dress her? I haven't had a doll since I was five; I'm out of practise. I will figure it out. I have to.

"Willow, why don't you take Dawn to the kitchen for a snack. Anya can help me get Buffy ready."

I think that maybe my resolve face doesn't work on Tara.

~~~

"I'm not really hungry, Willow."

"You have to eat, Dawnie."

"When was the last time you ate?"

I really can't remember. But just thinking about food is making my stomach clench up. "How about some hot chocolate, then? Humour me?"

Dawn gets up. She's sighing, but she's getting mugs out of the cupboard, so I start to fill the kettle.

"I need scissors." Anya. Good thing we haven't progressed to the boiling yet; otherwise I'd be scalded and wet.

"Why?" Dawn is already handing scissors to Anya, and I don't know why I'm asking, but I can't stop myself.

"We need to cut the dress open at the back. Buffy's all stiff and we have to make her arms go in the sleeves."

I should know better than to give her the opportunity to speak. I don't feel like having hot chocolate anymore, and I don't think that Dawn does either.

"Wanna see what Xander's doing?"

"Okay."

~~~

The basement is darker than the rest of the house. Xander has the overhead bulb on, as well as a few hanging lights, but it's still dim in the corners. The pale wooden box sitting on the sawhorse is well lit, like it has a spotlight on it. I can't take my eyes off of it. Buffy's coffin.

Xander is running sandpaper over the lid, over and over. It's hypnotic. I can't look away from his hands as they move rhythmically back and forth, up and down, getting rid of rough edges. The air is thick with dust and redolent with resin. It smells like Christmas; I almost expect Xander to do the Snoopy dance.

"I'm just finishing the final sanding. I'm going to put a coat of stain on it. Redwood, I thought." He rolls his shoulder and I can hear his neck crack.

"I like it like this."

"Dawn, it's just plain pine. I want it to be special. I want to build her something special."

"It looks like her. It's white and gold and brown. Like her hair." Dawn stokes a finger across the top. "It feels like her, too. Silky and smooth and hard and strong all at the same time, you know?"

Xander lays his dusty hand on hers and squeezes. "Yeah. I know."

"Is it comfortable? I mean, will she ... Is there pillows?"

"Oh! I left it in the car. I'll be right back." I run up the stairs, out the door. The air is warm and clean. No sawdust. No death. It feels good to breathe. I get the bundle of fabric out of the backseat and stand there, breathing hard. I don't want to go back in there. Back to darkness and coldness and nothingness. But, resolve face. I have things to do.

The house is very quiet. I can hear Tara and Anya talking upstairs, but I don't check in on them. Giles is asleep on the couch, glasses dangling from his hand. I don't want to wake him. I'm at the top of the basement stairs and I need to square my shoulders before I go down into the gloom.

Dawn's talking; I sit on the bottom step so I can listen.

"Tara said that trees are aware. They have power and knowledge and comfort if you know how to listen."

"I get that. I know that wood isn't alive when it gets to me, but there is power. You can feel it. You can see its final shape in the grain, and if you don't follow the plan it'll fight you. It's like it has a destiny and you're somehow a part of fulfilling it." He's running his hands over the coffin; caressing the wood, smoothing over the edges, dipping into the curves. He gets so passionate about carpentry. Sometimes I listen to him and wonder if he's really talking about lumber, because he looks like he's thinking of things other than building and that makes me think unbuildy thoughts and I better stop him before we get there.

"Here." He fumbles the bundle I push at him. "It's white. They had white and oyster and pink, but I thought that the white would be best."

Xander stares at the material for a second, then looks at me with wet eyes. "Thanks. I'll be finished soon. You should get Giles."

~~~

It's silly. I know that it's silly - standing here with my arms outstretched. Like I could catch Buffy if Giles dropped her. Like Giles would ever drop her. I still can't look at his face. The way he's cradling her against his chest is hard enough to see. So tender. So much love.

We go into the dining room; the coffin is set up on the table. The satin lining gleams starkly white in the fading sunlight. Giles just stands there; he's not putting Buffy down. Poor Giles.

"Let me help you, Mr. Giles." He looks at Tara when she touches his arm. I can see him tense.

He lays Buffy in the coffin. Straightens her legs. Smoothes her skirt. Folds her hands across her chest. Tara leans down and arranges Buffy's hair. It's golden against the white of the pillow and the black of her dress. So vibrant; so alive. Dawn puts her hand on Buffy's cheek and then quickly backs away.

Buffy's in the coffin. It's really true. She's dead and we're going to put her in the ground. It's wrong. She looks peaceful. She's still and she's quiet and it's wrong. Buffy is never still - she fidgets and taps her pencil and laughs and talks and smiles and hugs and now Xander and Spike are putting the lid on and they are covering her up. I can't see her anymore. I can't breathe. This isn't right.

"Sun's going down. We should get a move on."

I think we all feel the wrongness, because we just look at the coffin and none of us is moving on.

"I need coffin nails." Xander is digging through his tool belt but looks up when Spike hands him a pack of cigarettes.

Xander is laughing. He distinctly guffawed, and now he's giggling. Buffy is dead, and he's giggling.

"Actual coffin nails. For nailing down the lid." He's not laughing now, but I think that he's still smiling around his eyes. "I don't know if the nails I have are long enough."

"It doesn't matter, Xander." Giles' voice is so tired. "As long as it doesn't jar loose on the drive it will be fine."

I suppose he's right. It's not like anything will be trying to get out of there.

Xander sets a nail against the wood with a hand that doesn't shake and he brings the hammer down with a quick and powerful movement and the sound of the hammer hitting the nail is so loud that it makes me want to cover my ears. I can feel the vibration of each strike move through me in a shudder. Giles is flinching like he's the one getting hit and Spike is staring and Anya has covered her ears and whatever is in Xander's face right now it isn't anything happy. The nails drive through the wood with a nasty squeaking noise - like something is screaming with each blow. The sound just keeps getting more and more horrible and it's all I can do to keep from screaming to cover the noise and I just want it to stop.

It stops. It's quiet. Xander is bowed over the coffin, one hand pressed against the wood, and the silence is terrible. It's worse than the noise. Because it's over. It's finished. It's real. We're going to put Buffy in the ground. And she's not going to come back.

~~~

We walk single-file; like children heading in from recess, solemn and subdued.

Tara's in the lead, head bowed, watching her step on the uneven ground. She's chanting softly, her words bringing swirling fairy lights around us. It's a charming effect, really. Sparkly and just bright enough to illuminate the meagre path we're on.

Xander and Giles are behind her; I can hear them breathing in ragged gulps. The have to keep rebalancing the coffin on their shoulders. It must be so heavy and awkward to carry. Spike, just behind them, isn't breathing heavily - or at all, really - but I somehow think that the heavy bubble-wrapped stone in his arms isn't any less of burden.

I'm glad that Dawn is in front of me. I feel the need to keep on eye on her, she's so fragile now; she seems so small and weak, I'm surprised she can carry the shovel Xander gave her. She keeps bobbing and weaving, keeping her eye on the coffin even though it makes her footing uncertain. Every time she stumbles I start to reach out to her and bang my shoulder with the shovel that Xander gave me. I should switch hands, but I don't want to drop the rock I'm holding. I don't know if there will be another one handy.

And I like having it in my hand. I like feeling the rough edges cut into my fingers; it grounds me, it's part of the earth. Without that it would be easy to let Tara's voice and the harsh breathing and the cautious footfalls wind in and out and together into a complex song of grief. It would be easy to get caught up in the details - like the way Spike's hair and Buffy's coffin glow the same shade in the flickering light - and if I get too involved in the details I'll just get all detached and floaty again and I have to stay connected.

Tara has stopped chanting, the fairy lights are fading, but the moon is bright enough to light the clearing. Giles and Xander are setting the coffin down; it's rocking, but the lid stays on. Thank goodness. Giles is kneeling by the coffin - in exhaustion? In grief? I don't know; I don't think I can tell the difference anymore.

Xander walks past me and takes a shovel from Anya. He's looks around and picks a spot in the middle of the clearing, looking over at Giles.

"Here?"

At Giles' infinitesimal nod he pushes the shovel blade in the grass, cutting the earth. He works carefully, breaking up squares of sod and setting them aside. I surrender my shovel to Giles; Spike reaches for Dawn's, but she holds back.

"Can't I help dig?" I feel bad for Dawn. There's so little she can do. She's helpless, powerless.

"No can do, Dawn patrol. Buffy had very old-fashioned ideas about division of labour."

Spike looks at Xander, his head cocked in that questioning way that would be sexy if I was into that sort of thing. I hear a funny sputtering sound and look over at Giles. Everyone is looking at Giles, because he's got a hand over his mouth and his eyes are closed and - is he crying? Should I go to him?

No. He's laughing. Buffy's dead, and he's laughing. He's taking off his glasses and he's wiping away tears of laughter. And now he's slapping Xander on the shoulder and they're smiling at each other.

"Come on lads, this is work for us menfolk."

Spike looks confused, but he takes the shovel from an equally baffled Dawn and starts digging.

We stand around, we women, feeling useless and left out. At least that's how I feel. Anya's watching Xander dig and if the dreamy expression on her face is anything to go by her thoughts probably don't include getting left out of anything.

Dawn is sitting on the coffin. Oh! I don't think that she should be doing that. But she's leaning over and laying her head on it; near to where I imagine Buffy's shoulder might be and I don't have the heart to say anything to her. Tara kneels beside her and lays her hand on Dawn's cheek.

The only sound is the muffled scrape of shovels and the pattering fall of thrown dirt. I have to do something, or I'll go crazy.

Spike had set his bundle down against a tree. I push aside the bubble wrap and look at the craved and polished granite. I reach out and trace the letters cut into the shiny surface. I need to keep my fingers busy - it's all I can do to keep from popping the bubble wrap. It's like a compulsion. I don't know how Spike kept himself from popping them on the walk here. I wonder it it's something that the demon part of him disdains, because I think that popping bubble wrap is a universal human pleasure. I wonder if vampires retain enough of their humanity to want…

Wow, this is weird. Until forty minutes ago I had never imagined Spike and bubble wrap together in any capacity, and now it's all I can think about.

My fingers have been wandering as fast as my mind. They're tracing numbers now. And I can't help but do the math. Two thousand and one minus one thousand, nine hundred and eighty-one equals twenty; and that's such a small number it can't be right. But math doesn't lie. It can't lie. You give it the numbers and it gives you the answers - every time. It's solid and steady and reliable; it doesn't change or stop working or die. But I really want it to be wrong this time. Just this once I'd like the answer to come back as eighty or a hundred or a hundred and ten. The answer is always twenty, and I feel oddly betrayed.

A thumping, then a grunting, interrupts my thinking. I look over and Spike and Xander are helping Giles out of the grave. Out of Buffy's grave. And it's time. It's time to put Buffy in the ground.

Dawn stands up in the protection of Tara's arms and they move back, away from Buffy and the empty hole. But Giles and Xander are whispering and they aren't doing anything and Xander moves back, away from everyone, and he's facing away from us and his voice is getting louder and it's so anguished.