HANDS

DISCLAIMER: Not mine

SETTINGS: Rewrite of Season Six.  Begins during Afterlife, after Buffy's gone to bed, but before the psycho vision that Willow and Tara get of Buffy.

PAIRING: Buffy/Tara

NOTE: This idea would just not leave me alone at all.  I dunno why not, but…eh.  I've been wanting to do this pairing for ages, but I could never think of when to set it.  This is what I came up with.  Oh, and the whole Nerd Trio thing is not an issue this season.  They were tremendously lame, and I can't be bothered writing them in.

ONWARDS:

CHAPTER ONE: BLOOD

She couldn't sleep.  Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was the blackness that had encapsulated her within her own coffin.  She threw the covers off her body, not liking the heaviness off the sheets or the duvet.  She sat up slowly and looked around the darkened room that hadn't changed in the five months that she'd been…dead.

Her eyes scrunched up slightly and she felt a sense of panic begin to come over her.  She struggled for breath and fought to get to her feet, swinging her legs over the bed and staggering over to the window.  She fumbled with the lock catch, her fingers not quite working properly. She accidentally brushed her knuckles against the woodwork on the window and bit back a yelp as she realised that her hands were still bleeding and broken.

She managed to unlock the window and quickly opened it, drawing huge gulps of fresh air into her lungs.  Tears stung at her eyes, which had yet to properly fix themselves.  Everything still seemed to have a fuzzy edge to it, a blurriness that didn't quite fit.  Everything was slowly coming back to her, smell, sound, sight, feel, taste.  And all of it felt so much harsher than she remembered.  It felt so much more painful and real.

She rested her elbows on the windowsill, leaning her upper body out of the window as she sat at the window seat.  She remembered a time long ago when she'd sat in the exact same position with Angel on the outside, leaning in so that Buffy wouldn't be in trouble for leaving her room.

She tried to calm her breathing, forcing herself to remember the mediation techniques that Giles had taught her so long ago.

Giles.  It was strange.  As much as she didn't care about anything at the moment, except for the depression and fear and anger that was rising inside of her, she missed the gentle British man more than anything. 

Several minutes later, Buffy pulled her head back in and closed the window.  She sat back down on her bed, trying to work out exactly what had happened to her.  Everything was still a little surreal for her.  She couldn't even try to comprehend what had happened.  All she knew was that she was back and she didn't particularly like it.

She took another deep breath, but knew automatically that it was a mistake.

The air didn't feel so fresh as it had when she'd had the window open.  It smelt stale, it smelt fake, and she could feel the walls beginning to close in on her. 

Without even thinking, she ripped her door open and dashed downstairs, and outside, through the kitchen door.  The cooling night air hit her entire body, comforting her.  If she was feeling a breeze, she couldn't be in her coffin.  And if she wasn't in her coffin, then she wasn't really dead.  And if she wasn't really dead, then she didn't have to worry about digging her way through six feet of dirt and roots and grass to be able to breath.

She flopped ungracefully onto the porch, drawing her knees up to her chest as she gulped in more fresh air.  When her breathing had finally calmed itself down again, she rested her forehead on her knees, her arms around her bare legs as the boxer shorts she wore only went to mid thigh.  She shivered slightly, but did nothing about going back inside.  She couldn't bear to go back in just yet.

She moved her arms slightly, holding up her damaged hands in front of her face, the pale moonlight illuminating the red stains that marred her pale flesh.  The tan that she had worked so hard for over the years was completely gone, and she knew from Dawn's earlier bathing ritual that she desperately needed to colour her hair again.

She sighed quietly and with a shaking hand, touched one finger to the opposite hand, feeling a stab of pain shoot through her arm.  She winced slightly and pulled her other hand away.  She wondered if her knuckles would scar over, or if her Slayer healing would completely get rid of the marks that reminded her that she had pulled herself out of her own coffin.

She swallowed hard and looked up at the stars, trying to pretend that this night had never happened.  That she was still up in heaven, her mother's arms around her, while she knew that the people she loved were relatively safe. 

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Been wanting to write something on Buffy's first night back in Sunnydale for a while now…hope you enjoy…more to come soon!

DKG.