Spike glanced at Buffy for what was probably the tenth time in as many minutes. She was slumped against the door of the car, eyes staring sightlessly at the blacked-out windows. She hadn’t looked at him or spoken to him for miles.

He was losing her again.

The entire morning had had a kind of desperate, pointless energy to it, from the time Dawn had pounded on his door and hollered something about room service. They’d gotten up too late and ended up bolting down their food, and Buffy and Dawn had argued over the shower, and when he’d suggested--for once in his life, completely without innuendo--that Buffy use his shower, she’d looked at him like he’d just suggested she jump naked and unarmed into a mob of vampires. Not exactly a recommended part of a balanced breakfast, all things considered.

At least then she’d been looking at him, though. And she’d had the grace to cover her shock with a laugh, as if he’d been joking. It had gotten progressively worse since they’d left the hotel. They’d checked out at the last minute, Dawn and Buffy lugging their armfuls of baggage to the car unassisted while he’d rushed out in his smoking blanket like a mobile baked potato. So much for being normal. Dawn had talked incessantly for the first hour or so of the drive, as if she could prolong the last twenty-four hours by sheer force of will. But finally, she had given up and gone to sleep again in the back seat. A glance at the rear-view mirror revealed that even in sleep, she had a tiny, frustrated crease in the middle of her forehead.

And then there was Buffy. He’d been watching her since they’d hit the road, and he could practically see the worries, the responsibilities dropping back onto her shoulders one by one as the miles passed. The weight of the world, he thought sadly. It was a surprisingly physical change--her shoulders slumped, the circles under her eyes returned, even her hair seemed to lose its luster. There was almost no sign of the confident, warm woman who’d giggled and sighed in his arms the night before. In a matter of hours, she’d gone from laughing and vibrant to cold and empty.

It was like watching her die again, in slow motion. And it was tearing his heart out.

He could feel the wall building between them again, too, and his own pain and resentment returning. He found himself wondering what excuse she’d find to live with what she’d said to him during the night, what they’d done. How she’d choose to frame it, how deep the words would cut. And he knew that when it happened, he’d lash out at her, with words or fists, and they’d be right back in the same sodding pattern. As if nothing of the last two days had ever happened.

You knew what the risks were, mate, he told himself firmly. You wanted to give her two days, and you did. And you got a little something for yourself in return, more than you deserve. But from the beginning, you knew it couldn’t be forever.

And at least, on those days when he was ready to kill himself or her or both, he’d know that for one night, she’d been happy with him, and they’d been good together. She’d try to deny it, try to twist it, but he’d know. And that was something, anyway.

"This helps," she’d said. "A little."

A little. He’d just have to hold on to that.

He pulled into the driveway of the Summers’ house, in time to get them home before Red came back and realized just who had provided the wheels for this little trip. He set the brake, turned the key in the ignition. Holiday officially over.

Buffy reached back and nudged Dawn. "We’re back, Dawn. Time to go."

"Leave me ‘lone," Dawn whined. Buffy’s mouth narrowed into a thin, hard line.

"Come on, Dawnie. You’ve got homework to finish. You promised."

"Fine." Dawn ducked away from her sister’s hand, flounced her way out of the car. Spike looked at Buffy.

"I’d give you a hand with the bags, luv, but--"

"I know, I know. Sunburn." She didn’t move to get out of the car, though, and he cocked his head to the side a little, confused. "It’s… it’s so much. I forgot how much it is."

He swallowed. "I want to help, Buffy, if you’ll let me."

For a split second, he thought she might agree. But then she shook her head. "It’s mine. My responsibility." There was a brief silence. "It was nice while it lasted. But now it’s over." She opened the door abruptly, stepped out of the car.

"Come on, Dawn," he heard her saying. "If you want help with your homework, we’ll have to do it soon. I’ve got to work tonight."

"I want to say goodbye to Spike." The pout was obvious, even though he couldn’t see her.

"Well, hurry up then. I’ll see you inside." He heard her footsteps moving away. Suddenly, Dawn flung herself through the passenger door and pressed her face into his shoulder. He could feel her tears through his t-shirt.

"It’ll be all right, Little Bit." His hand went to her hair automatically.

"I don’t… I don’t know if it helped, Spike," she sobbed. "I thought it did, but now I don’t know."

"This helps. A little."

"I don’t know either," he told her, honestly. "But… I think it did. It’ll just take time, pet. We’ve got to be patient."

"Patience sucks," she muttered rebelliously. He chuckled.

"You’re a girl after my own heart, platelet. Now go on. Your sister’s waiting. And you’re mussing my shirt."

That got a tiny laugh out of her, and she stuck her tongue out at him. Then she nodded, wiped her eyes, and got out of the car. He had just enough time to see her square her shoulders determinedly before she shut the passenger door and was gone.

Through the small clear space in the windshield, he watched them walk into the house together. They were strong. They’d get through this.

He just hoped that he could.

END