He wanted her to be comfortable with the idea, so he phrased the suggestion as carefully as he could. "If you're interested, there is a spell which, if performed properly, would allow you a few days' worth of freedom. It's both fairly simple and obscure enough that there isn't a simple counter spell to defeat it. I thought perhaps you would enjoy getting out of the house."

Buffy gave him a strangled smile. "I take it you're that sick of having me underfoot?"

That wasn't quite how he would have put it, even if there was a grain of truth to the words. "It isn't so much that as concern for your well-being. The life you described cannot have been pleasant, and neither, I imagine, is having to rely on me for everything. It might make it easier if you can at least come and go on your own terms."

"I guess there's just one way to find out." The hint of fear was mingled with something almost hopeful. "When?"

"Tomorrow night would be the soonest possible time, assuming I can find everything I need while I'm on my lunch break. If you're certain you're ready, it would give you the weekend."

He breathed a sigh of relief when she nodded her agreement.

• **

She'd forgotten just how much she really didn't like spells. They tended to be stinky, or involve a lot of touching and hand-holding, or lead to weird physical symptoms. This one had all off the above. The acrid smoke rising from the small brass dish filled her nose and throat and made it hard to breathe, and whatever was in the oil Wesley was stroking lightly across her forehead made her skin tingle. At least the oil smelled better than the smoke.

Soft words she couldn't understand filled her ears, throwing off her balance. They rose and fell in time with his touch, choking and smothering her in sensation, until everything blurred and darkened.

A cold washcloth on her face brought her to.

"How do you feel?" Wesley was watching her with an expression of distant concern.

Buffy pushed his hand away and sat up, coughing as she inhaled too much of the smokey air. "Dizzy. Kind of drunk."

The calm detachment didn't waver for a second. "Both of which are to be expected. The side effects should wear off in an hour or so."

Except for the head-spinning, she didn't feel any different. "How will I know if it worked?"

He pressed the cloth against her face again before answering, "I expect you'll have to test it by going out to places you'd be better off avoiding. I can give you a list of them."

"You keep lists of bad parts of town?" Of course, this was Wesley. As much as they'd both changed, she was willing to bet he kept lists about the bad parts of town, the good parts of town, and the parts of town with overly-small parking spaces. He seemed the listy type.

"I keep lists of places where I can meet with contacts. I've been doing so for the last decade; I find it comes in handy."

"I bet."

She struggled to her feet, careful to avoid the still-smouldering bowl and the remaining stubs of the candles. Hanging out where demons go to relax wasn't really something she was looking forward to, but it would be the best test. If the spell hadn't worked, she'd probably find out as soon as she walked through the door. If she lived that long.

Not exactly the most cheerful thought she'd ever had. She watched him gather the various items and place them back in their respective boxes. He probably had a contingency plan set up just in case. She hoped he had a contingency plan. She should probably ask him about it.

"Wes?"

He put one last candle stub in its metal box, then turned to face her. "Yes, Buffy?"

"What if it didn't work?"

He pulled a cellphone out of his belt and tossed it at her. "I won't be more than a block away. Hit 1 and send. Or just say my name."

"When do we leave?"

"As soon as you feel you're ready. I'd recommend changing your clothes first."

• **

Demon bars didn't follow antismoking laws. Or laws against firearms, gambling, or murder, for that matter. Buffy also strongly suspected that health inspectors never bothered with the places.

She'd been in this one for half an hour, and no one had bothered her. Five fights had broken out during that span of time, one of them fatal, and it was all she could do to get the bartender's attention long enough to order a drink. No look of recognition on any of the faces, no threats to her person, surprisingly good music playing, and dollar well drinks.

Heaven smelled worse than she remembered.

Tequila, on the other hand, smelled and tasted a lot better. So did whisky. And rum. And beer. She'd never been much of a drinker, but she was starting to see the appeal. It made everything warm and relaxed. The night wore on, and she kept making up for lost time. When she found herself flirting with the closest-to-human looking guy in the place, she considered cutting herself off, but as the barkeep hadn't, and she was having fun for the first time in forever, she didn't bother.

Instead, she had another shot of something, and asked Mr. Tall, Blue, and Kind of Okay for his phone number. Not that she planned on calling him, she just liked being able to ask for it.

Wesley was waiting on the sidewalk when she staggered out after last call. He didn't look very happy. She frowned, trying to figure out why he'd be unhappy; the magic was doing its thing, and she'd left his house for a few hours. He should be happy.

His fingers bit into her arm as he lead her to the car. Nope. Certainly not happy. The drive back was silent, stripping away her good mood minute by minute; by the time they were home, she was about one step away from angry.

Tripping on the step up from the garage to the hallway didn't help. She swore, catching herself before she could fall and brushing off his efforts to help her.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"You're drunk." The chill in his voice made her shiver.

"That," Buffy found herself enunciating carefully, "is what you do in a bar. You drink."

"You were there to see if the spell worked, not to see if you could consume half your body weight in alcohol, Buffy."

• **

He watched as she straightened up and walked away as best she could. Intoxication appeared to have dulled the lingering pain that had been so obvious the night before, and there was a certain fluidity to her movements that hadn't been there previously. Unfortunately, there was also a certain lack of balance to them as she zigzagged through the hallway.

She'd been in the bar for four hours. He'd ducked in periodically to make certain she was still fine, watching as the number of empty shot glasses in front of her increased with alarming regularity and she struck up a conversation with, as luck would have it, one of his less trustworthy contacts.

"Reckless disregard for your own safety isn't what I expected of you." He heard his anger at his own misjudgement snake outwards, sharpening the unearned rebuke.

His words made her stop and turn slowly towards him. The night's excesses had brought a flush of pink to her nose and cheeks, and an unfocused glitter to her eyes. She looked five years younger, more than a hint of the attractive young woman she'd once been showing through as painted lips parted in a nasty smile.

"Reckless disregard for my safety is what lead up to this in the first place, or don't you remember? My life, my future... I was just another tool to you."

"It wasn't like that."

"Wasn't it? You as good as admitted it the first day I was here. You did it for Faith. Faith, the one who always needed one of you to save her, no matter what it did to me. Even after she took everything from me, you all just lined up to try and help her. Tell me, Wes, were you sleeping with her?" She took a step in his direction, a slight and deliberate sway to her hips, the smile hardening on her face.

"Buffy..."

"Were you? Even after she'd beaten you black and blue, you looked out for her, sacrificed me to try and save her. That's something you do for a lover, not for someone who tortured you for fun and games. Is that what I needed to do, to make sure that someone would look out for my back?" One more step brought her close enough that he could feel the heat rising from her skin even before her hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers drifting over his lips. "Is that what I need to do now? Fuck my way to salvation?"

He closed his eyes. "Buffy, stop it."

Her hand fell to his shoulder, but she didn't remove it. "I haven't, make that hadn't, even had a beer since I found the bodies," she said. "I hadn't had a beer, haven't had a date, haven't dared to make friends with anyone in seven years because I couldn't risk it, and I still barely made it to thirty alive. Don't talk to me about reckless. This wasn't reckless."

Arms tangled around him with drunken grace as she pulled him closer, tugging his head down to her own and meeting with shamefully little resistance. Her lips, he noticed, were soft, tasting like treacle and alcohol and desperation. The curve of her back seemed just the right size for his hand, and this wasn't an especially good idea. The attraction had taken him by surprise, although it would go a long way to explaining why just knowing she was in his home had been making him so uncomfortable. He pushed her away as sanity returned. "You don't want to do this."

The sharp crack of her laughter split the room. "I don't? Did you miss the part where I told you everything I haven't done in the last seven years? I flirted with some random demon who looked like an overgrown Smurf. I even asked him for his phone number. At least you're human." She burrowed against him again, working her hands under his shirt, her fingernails dancing on his spine as she pulled herself up until her mouth reached the base of his neck. "And you smell good. Taste good, too."

Wesley shivered, trying to work up the strength to push her away again instead of pushing her up against the wall. As she said, he was human; he'd been single for far too long, and she was far too good at this. "And you're quite intoxicated; you wouldn't be doing this if you weren't."

"Would too." Her laugh was softer this time, almost a giggle. "Do I have to keep reminding you about how long it's been?"

"When did you have your last drink?"

"Right before the bar closed," she muttered absently as she relaxed against him. "You're very warm."

The timing meant she still wasn't feeling the full effects of her indulgence. Controlling the damage as best he could suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Against her protests, he dragged her to the kitchen and sat her down at the breakfast table. He should have taken into account what the taste of freedom would be like for her before just leaving her to her own devices.

"Drink." He set a glass of water in front of her. Thank goodness it was Friday, because this had every marking of a long night in the making.

"This is stupid." She reached for the glass, misjudged the distance, and sent it crashing to the floor. "Even if you do find a solution, it's not like I'm going to suddenly know how to live a normal life when half of it's been abnormal."

"People recover from adversity all the time, Buffy." Wesley dug through his cupboards looking for plastic mug, finally finding one tucked in behind the wine glasses. He filled it, set it down and guided her hand until he was certain she had hold of it, then went and collected the mop and dustpan to clean up the mess she'd made. "It's one of the more remarkable aspects of the species."

She pushed away the empty mug and made to stand. Years-ago practice with Cordelia alerted him to the signs of collapse, and he was able to catch her before she fell. Her skin was clammy, and the earlier flush had turned to an unhealthy pallor. Knowledge gained from his own experiences with overindulging found him half-carrying, half-dragging her to the bathroom.

The toilet was the first stop; he held her hair out of the way while she emptied her stomach, then held onto her until the dry heaving passed. The handful of steps from toilet to bathtub seemed like half a mile with her semiconscious form draped over him. He stripped her quickly and climbed with her into the tub.

The bruising, he noted as he held her under the steady stream from the shower head, had faded from more than just her face. The worst of it was still purpled at the center, but the cuts on her hips and thighs had healed. He turned off the water as she started to stir, then toweled her off as best he could before throwing a robe around her and leading her to the sink.

"Can you handle your toothbrush?"

Buffy nodded, letting him prepare the brush and guide it to her mouth before taking over. He slumped against the counter, ready to intervene in case she started gagging. This had to be some sort of karmic pay back for every stupid act he'd ever performed while drunk, and perhaps those committed by others.

She didn't gag, though he suspected it had been touch and go for a few minutes when she reached her molars. Hopefully that meant her stomach was settled for the night. When the movement of her hands slowed, and she spent more time staring vacantly at the sink than cleaning her mouth, he gently pulled the toothbrush from limp fingers and set it aside.

"Let's get you to bed."

She gave him a weak smile and grabbed hold of his arm, letting her guide her back to her room.

"Sorry," she muttered.

He tucked her under the sheets, waiting until she was asleep to go and change out of his wet clothing and prepare himself a pot of coffee for the duration. There was still an off chance that she wasn't done vomiting; he didn't especially feel like running the risk of her asphyxiating should that eventuality occur.

Curled tightly as she was in the middle of it, the double bed seemed to engulf and swallow her. Wesley shifted uncomfortably in the armchair he'd appropriated from his study. He'd be as useless as she'd be in the morning, if he managed to remain awake. The cumulative effect of nights spent researching and plotting strategies alone had already started to take its toll. This should serve to push him over the edge into blithering incoherence.

If her hangover was as bad as he suspected it would be, at least they'd be a decent match.

When she started struggling against the bedclothes, he set down his fourth cup of coffee and went to check her. It was small comfort that the struggle was merely the byproduct of some nightmare rather than of the alcohol. At least the latter would eventually work its way out of her system; the former was something he about which he could do nothing.

He'd made the right choice seven years before. He had to believe that, had to believe that no matter the cost to the woman in front of him, the serving of a greater good had be worth it. It had been easier when he hadn't been living with the collateral damage. Sacred duties and solemn oaths aside, there should have been a better way. There simply hadn't been time to find it.

She calmed when he sat down on the bed and pulled her towards him. He stroked her damp hair and murmured soothing nonsense until he felt her relax, at which point he swung his legs up to join the rest of him, and simply held her until he drifted off to sleep.

• **

This was the good dream, the one that happened once in a blue moon and always ended up leaving her with an aching feeling of loss as soon as she woke up. In this one, someone was with her, just being there. Sometimes Angel, sometimes Riley, or Spike, or some faceless other. That she was aware she was dreaming usually meant she was about to wake up, no matter how much she just wanted to stay asleep, stay dreaming. The jackhammer in her head was growing stronger, ripping her away from the comfort and warmth; she couldn't fight it.

The pounding headache meant it took her at least three tries to process the fact that she really wasn't alone.

She groaned a little and shifted. There was no memory of putting on the oversized navy bathrobe she seemed to be wearing, no memory of going to bed, and when she thought about it, no memory past a blurry blue face and a couple of tequila shooters.

The hand around her waist wasn't blue.

That was good.

Buffy rolled over, her head and stomach both protesting the movement. Dark hair with a smattering of grey, slightly furrowed brow, a face trapped somewhere in between pious and pretty--well, the who was obvious. She looked away from Wesley for a moment--her room, so that answered the where. The what, when, and how were going to have to wait until he woke up. Unless, of course, the hangover killed her first and she didn't have to face whatever awkwardness had happened while she'd blacked out.

At least he was on top of the blankets and fully clothed.

Whimpering, she pulled away from his touch. Nausea and nerves fought in her stomach, and she had a feeling if she didn't get to the bathroom soon, they'd try and take the battle outside of her body.

He was awake when she stumbled back to her room. She watched quietly as he straightened the linens, the slight frown that seemed to be such a permanent part of his features deepening while he tidied the room. He moved over to a chair she didn't remember seeing before, gathering a stack of dishes with a quiet clank that sounded to her like a cannon going off.

Noise, she noted, was not her friend.

"How are you feeling?" He didn't bother to look at her when he said it, which didn't bode well.

"Like a marching band crawled into my head and my guts decided to make a break for it through my mouth. Did I... do something last night? Other than getting really, really, really drunk?"

"You broke your water glass, nearly passed out in the kitchen, and threw up for about half an hour."

"Nothing else?"

He finally looked up at her, his face unreadable. "Nothing important, no. Get dressed. You'll need to eat something."

"Actually, food's about the last thing I want right now."

An amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. "Buffy, believe me when I tell you that I've more than enough experience with the morning to know what will help your head and stomach." With that, he left the room, dishes in hand.

"I'll take your word for it," she muttered.

Food smelled as bad as it sounded or worse. Maybe taking his word for it was a bad plan. She pulled herself into a chair, trying not to gag as a plateful of scrambled eggs appeared in front of her.

"Drink some of this, first."

She stared at the thick red sludge in the glass, trying to identify it. "Tomato juice?"

"Bloody Mary."

"Hair of the dog that bit me?"

"Something like that, yes."

A sip followed by a mouthful of egg seemed to work. She repeated the action until her drink was gone and half the plate was empty, amazed to realize he was right. She felt almost sentient. Maybe when she finished the rest of the plate, she'd feel all the way human.

"Thanks."

Wesley set a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down with his own. "Feeling better?"

"A little." She pushed the last of her eggs around the plate. "I don't remember anything after I left the bar. Actually, I don't remember leaving the bar."

"It's not surprising. You were rather intoxicated."

"I think I flirted with a demon." It came out as a question.

"As I said, you were rather intoxicated."

"I'm going to take it that's a yes."

He nodded, not looking up from his coffee.

There was definitely something he wasn't telling her. "Did I flirt with you?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh."

• **

Wesley sipped his coffee and waited for her to ask another question he didn't feel like answering, but none was forthcoming. Probably for the best, though the silence that followed her soft "oh" was uncomfortable enough to make him shift in his chair. She had made another one of her occasionally too-perceptive comments the night before, in addition to making him aware in more than the abstract that his project was a lonely and rather desirable young woman.

It was, as she had told him, his responsibility to find a solution to her problem. She didn't need to be subjected to his fits of middle-aged lechery. That was just the sort of thing that lead to trouble, hasty decisions, and lasting sublimated regrets.

"I won't fail you, Buffy." The words slipped unbidden from his lips, startling them both. "Not again, not if I can help it."

She set down her fork and stared at him, her eyes clear and solemn. "You didn't fail me the first time. You were right, I was warned what might happen."

"Yes I did," he said bluntly. "I didn't spare more than a passing thought for you in seven years. I was aware of the deaths of both Giles and your sister, and even with the weight of the re-formed Council behind me and Giles having been a part of it, I neither sought you out nor sent anyone to look in on you. You didn't deserve to be left to your own devices, simply because you were a reminder of Faith's death, and that is essentially what happened."

"I talked about her, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"What else did I do?"

"You've already asked me that."

"So answer." She was starting to sound testy.

"As I said, nothing important."

"Fine, let me rephrase the question: what did I say about Faith?"

"You asked about the motivations behind my actions, why I would sacrifice you one way or another for her sake." It wasn't the entire truth, but he hoped it would be serve as enough of an answer for her.

It wasn't. "Did you give me an answer?"

He chose his words carefully. "I owed Faith a great deal, Buffy. In part because she risked her life to save Angel, and in part because I failed her as a Watcher. She'd worked too hard for redemption for me to put her in a situation where she had to kill someone she cared for, no matter what was at stake."

Buffy got up from the table and headed towards the hall. "I'll be back in a few hours."

• **

Her chest felt tight. It was one thing to suspect something, another to have it confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt. She'd been expendable, like she should have suspected when Faith had taken her place. No, not taken. Taken she could have dealt with. Been given. Faith had been given her place; Buffy had been expendable. It shouldn't hurt. Faith was dead; she didn't have any power over her anymore.

Which wasn't completely true. There was no final reckoning, no resolution. Faith would always be the one who'd been in everyone's good graces, because that's how she died. And of course, Buffy was stuck with the unvoiced resentment of those last few weeks. Every betrayal, every sacrifice she'd been expected to make with a smile, every minute she'd spent realizing that the choice she was being asked to make--death, de-Slayering, or Armageddon--wasn't really a choice so much as going with the lesser evil, all of it had been swallowed without a word when she saw Faith fall. At least now she could get rid of the survivor's guilt.

This wasn't helping. She needed to figure out something to do to take her mind off of it. Shopping. She had enough left in her account for a little retail therapy, as long as she kept the keyword little. Maybe a haircut. Definitely a haircut. And highlights. She was starting to look like a mouse with split ends.

She spent more than she should have on her hair, but the result was probably worth it. It was pretty amazing what lopping off a couple of inches could do improve a mood. Wandering around in crowds completely unmolested also helped.

For once, being completely alone didn't feel so bad. It didn't feel as good as it would have if she hadn't gone on a bender the night before, but she'd grown used to operating at less than one hundred percent. Besides, it was better than being cooped up in the house with Wesley, torturing herself by asking him questions when she didn't really want to hear the answers.

Unfortunately, the sun and the heat made her hangover worse, so she headed back home after lunch. With any luck, she'd be able to sneak back into her room without having to attempt interaction.

As usual, luck was in short supply. She made it up to her room without a problem, but Wesley was already there.

"I wanted to be certain you made it back safely," he explained. "About this morning--"

"Can we just not? Talk about it, that is. I'm kind of thinking I'd like to stay in avoidance-land for the rest of the day."

"You are the one who brought it up, Buffy."

"Much to my eternal regret, yes. And now I'm the one dropping it."

"I would have killed you."

This wasn't dropping it. This was picking it up, noticing it was pointy and knife-shaped, sticking it in her gut, and twisting it. "I see."

"Do you? I'm not telling you this to hurt you."

"Then why?"

"Because I need you to understand how far I'm prepared to go in order to help you." He sounded tired. "You have the rest of today and tomorrow before the spell wears off. Is there anyone in Los Angeles you would like to look up?"

"You mean like Angel." It didn't seem very likely that he'd be talking about her father. Angel was another subject she'd been hoping to avoid. It was almost a miracle that he hadn't come up before today.

"He'll know you're in town soon enough, if he doesn't already. He's more than able to protect himself, even if he didn't have the full weight of the Council protecting him." Funny how young he still sounded when he was being open an earnest.

The part of her that would have leapt at the chance to see Angel had taken a long time to die. She still felt its echoes at the suggestion, but it was just phantom pain. "No."

Wesley looked startled at her refusal. It was almost comical. "No?"

"I don't want him to see me like this. It's not that I'm ashamed, I just want him to have that memory of me so that someone does. I'm not the girl he knew anymore, and I miss her. I'd like to think she's alive somewhere."

She wasn't prepared for the agonized expression that crossed his face at her words, or the halting apology that went along with it. "Buffy, I'm so very sorry."

Nor was she prepared for her reaction to it, which was to reach up and cup the side of his cheek with her palm. "Don't be," she said softly. "It's not like it's a bad thing. Besides, I'm older than he is now." She frowned, looking at her hand, still pressed against his face. It felt too familiar. "This is something else I did, isn't it?"

He reached up and covered her hand with his own. "Yes."

• **

She was too warm, and he still hadn't sorted out any of what he'd realized the night before. If he had any sense, he'd push her hand away instead of holding it there. Instead, he found himself stroking the side of her hand with his thumb, watching in fascination as her lips parted slightly, her breath catching when he slipped through a slight gap to caress her palm.

It would be so very easy to let one thing lead to another; all he had to do was keep touching her. Very easy, and also completely unethical. Not that had stopped him in the past. Not with Lilah, nor with Faith.

"Why were you in my bed?" The sound was little more than a whisper.

"You had a nightmare." If he shifted his head just slightly to the left, he thought, his mouth would touch the base of her wrist. He tried it, and felt her pulse grow faster beneath his lips.

"I have nightmares all the time."

"I'm not in your room all the time." He was there now, though he should really be going, not sliding his hand down her arm, or slipping his other hand around her waist to pull her close to him, and certainly not bending to kiss lips parted in a slow, startled 'O'. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and released her.

Her dazed expression faded into panic and confusion. "I didn't--you didn't---we didn't--"

"No, we didn't. Even if you'd wanted to, you were in no fit state to consent to anything." He ran his hand through his hair with a sigh, wondering if he should say something more. "Regardless, Buffy, I am not a good man. I haven't been a good man for some time, if indeed I ever was. I want you remember that. I've committed horrible acts with the best of all possible intentions, and I bartered whatever remained of my soul when the Council was re-formed. Were I a better man, I would promise to stay as far away from you as is possible given that we're living in the same home."

"I know," she said quietly. "I kind of noticed you didn't promise that last bit."

"I can't."

The corners of her mouth quirked up for half a second, though her eyes remained serious. "I know that, too."

"You realize this means you should make every effort to stay away from me?"

Buffy shrugged. "I can't promise that, either."

It would be better if one of them could. If anything did happen, it was unlikely to end well. At the very best, it would end uncomfortably. He nodded. "I need to gather some books from my office. Take the phone with you if you go out."

The building was blessedly quiet, its air-conditioned confines smelling as comfortably sterile as always. He navigated through the various security checkpoints, going from badge to palm scan to retinal scan before reaching the sanctity of the Council offices.

Translation and interpretation of minor tomes and prophecies served as a welcome respite. Most of it was for the investment branch; they always wanted to know where and when demon risings and other mystical disasters would be occurring. The bulk of his work revolved more around saving or raising profit margins than saving the world. Not that there were that many apocalypses left to worry about these days.

He rather missed them.

Balance was all well and good, but it lacked a certain excitement. Of course, this did pay significantly better, and with somewhat less risk to life and limb. His head cleared, he unlocked the desk and drew out his notebooks. Half an hour layer, he had crossed out three more potential options because they each were a minor risk to the stability of the Slayer line, and one because of the risk to Buffy. The list was shrinking considerably, and it it hadn't been long to start out with. Monday he'd see if any of his contacts had possible leads.

The books he had come for were a floor up. He re-filed everything, locked up desk and office, and got into the elevator, punching the code for the thirteenth floor. Four people besides the occupant knew of its existence; Wesley was the only one of them with carte blanche access.

He blinked his eyes as he adjusted to the reduced light. "Hello, Angel."

• **

The problem with haircuts was that no matter how careful the stylist, little irritating bits of hair managed to work their way under your shirt. Buffy stared at her hair with regret while she ran the bath. She'd never be able to recreate the just-styled look. Not that anyone had noticed the difference.

She brushed off as much of the hair as she could before turning on the jets and slipping into the water. At least Wesley's townhouse was pretty nice. Cushy, even. Her last apartment hadn't even had a tub. Closing her eyes, she ducked her head beneath the surface, holding her breath for a three counts of ten before surfacing.

As she dried off, her eyes caught hold of something pale and pink shoved into a corner of the room; it looked suspiciously like her bra. Undressing was another thing she didn't remember doing. She sighed and collected it, her nose wrinkling at the scent of cigarette smoke that clung to the thing; hopefully, smoking wasn't one of the various vices she'd decided to experiment with during Buffy's Night Out.

She dressed quickly, pulling on t-shirt and a pair of sweats, and tried to decide what to do for the rest of the day. A few experimental stretches told her she wasn't quite ready to work out, and she'd had her fill of crowds for the day. She called her dad's number, leaving him a short message. Buffy didn't bother to leave a number. He hadn't even called back when Dawn died.

At loose ends, she wandered into the living room. She stood for a long time looking at the stack of books and notes on the coffee table. Technically, it was snooping, but if it was about her, it couldn't be too wrong. Well, it could, but she pushed that thought aside and started reading.

The arcane spell books in languages she couldn't even identify went to the floor as she spread out the various papers and piled the readable books in order of interest. Wesley's handwriting was a cramped mess, and his papers were filled with crossed-out lines and notes about notes. They were almost as unreadable as the spell books. Her head still hurt enough that she wasn't up to deciphering them, so she re-stacked them and opened the first book in her stack. Giles's diary, Vol. #1.

It wasn't anything she didn't already know. After all, she'd lived through everything he'd documented, so it was kind of like looking through a really embarrassing baby book. Even some of the earliest pages included mention of her sister. Pretty thorough monks.

She and Giles hadn't quite healed the breach between them before his death. Another one like Faith, stuck forever in what-if. Buffy flexed a hand, watching the tendons in her wrist move as she squeezed her fingers. Her muscles still looked the same, even if they didn't have the strength to take out anything more than a mid-sized human mugger. They wouldn't even have that if she hadn't kept training like her life depended on it, which it had.

Giles would be proud of her discipline.

The books contained no answers, just memories. She learned about the summer after her death, how Giles and Anya had somehow managed to order a coffin claiming it was for the Magic Box's Halloween display, and how Xander had come up with a headstone from out of town. Willow rebuilt the 'bot while Tara watched over Dawn and Buffy's body lay hidden in Spike's crypt, wrapped in plastic and surrounded by dry ice until they were able to bury her at the edge of the cemetery. Apparently, she had looked "serenely beautiful" in death, at least according to Giles. Well, that was something at least. She would have guessed she just looked dead.

Post-resurrection, the entries grew increasingly sporadic. A few pages where he worried about her recovery, more than a few about his need to let her fight her own battles, an embarrassing entry from right before Giles took Willow back to England, focusing on the Spike situation and Giles's second thoughts about the wisdom of having left her alone and vulnerable.

The rest of the last volume was all about the potential Slayers and the First. Several months before the final battle, there was an entry about visiting something called Beljoxa's Eye and learning about the instability in the Slayer line. No wonder he hadn't looked surprised when Wesley had shown up in Sunnydale shortly after Faith, possible solution in hand. The entries where he agonized about possibly having to kill her to fix things explained both how weirdly he'd acted those last few months and his insistence that she go along with Wesley's plan.

She wondered if Wesley had read it yet. If he hadn't tried to save Faith from having to kill her, Giles would have done the deed, the mystical juju surrounding the Slayer would have mended, and Faith would have been fine. No gory death, no additional weight on her conscience. She looked at his notes. Nothing beyond the second-to-last volume, the one with all the burial and resurrection details. Good. Bad enough that she knew. Carefully, she put everything else back the way it had been, and took the last volume up to her room, stuffing it under the mattress until she could figure out what to do with it.