RATING: PG
CONTENT WARNING: Buffy/Angel angst.
SUMMARY: This happens exactly 3 years after Becoming II. Please be warned that we are experimenting with an alternating story-telling style. Lil-Wolf will be writing the odd numbered sections, ie. "the past", Willow rescuing Angel from Hell. I am writing the even numbered sections, ie. "the present", from Buffy's perspective. There may be some logical flow sacrificed for the sake of emotional symmetry and artistic endeavor, but I believe that the overall affect will make it worthwhile. :)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Buffy & Co. Joss Whedon and the WB do. No copyright infringement intended..

The winter here is cold and bitter
It's chilled us to the bone
We haven't seen the sun for weeks
Too long, too far from home
--"Full of Grace" by Sarah McLachlan

At the hands of the temperamental Pacific, California suffered yet another "unusually" wet spring in the year 2001. May, in particular, proved to be wet, cold, and miserable. The sun's occasional appearances served as an unwelcome reminder of its conspicuous absence, rather than as relief from the almost constant rain. Meteorologists who'd initially called this "El Niņo" an aberration, now acknowledged it as part of a global climatic change with far reaching, and long-lasting effects.

"Like livin' in Oregone," Henny grumped, slapping a salmon down onto the counter. Oregone. That's exactly how she pronounced it; as if by doing so, Oregon might go gone. With an unhappy *whack*, the fish lost its head. "Move all the way down here to ge' me away from this crappie weather an' it does nuthing but fuckin' rain twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week..." *Slap, whack* San FRAN Cisco's supposed to hav' nice fuckin' weather, all year roun'." *Slap, whack* "I'm so fuckin' sick of this fuckin' weather tha' I may jus' move on back to Oregone." *Slap, whack*

Buffy 'Winters' nodded her head absently, not really hearing the old woman's monologue. She'd heard it all countless times before. During the three months that she'd worked in the cannery, she'd grown accustomed to Henny's endless bitching. This job was much like any other that she'd held during her travels. A dozen states, a hundred cities, always running... Buffy tended to her own fish and thoughts in efficient silence. Personally, she didn't mind the rain that much. For the most part, the weather matched her mood.

*Slap, whack*

Three years now, to the day...

*Slap, whack*

Three years since she ran her lover through...

*Slap, whack*

Three years since she condemned an innocent soul to Hell...

*Slap, whack*

"OW! FUCK!" Dropping the cleaver, Buffy grabbed her injured hand by the wrist. She lifted her hand, finger extended to get a better look at it. Blood poured freely from her injured finger, spilling over the table, the salmon, and the floor. Luckily, she hadn't lopped off her digit.

"Be careful with that fuckin' thing," Henny snarled, her homely, fleshy face pulling into a fierce frown. *Slap, whack* "You're gonna take off a fenger." *Slap, whack* "How many times hav' I told ya to PAY attention to what yer doin'?" *Slap, whack.*

"Go on," she growled, as Buffy pulled off her plastic glove. "GIT." She gestured sharply with her large, misshapen head towards the break room. Buffy stared at her in momentary confusion, lifting her bleeding finger to her mouth. Was she being fired? Somehow, the prospect of losing her only means of support didn't overly disturb her.

*Slap* "Don't jus' stand there like a stup'd mule, girl!" Henny exclaimed, waving her cleaver this time. Then with a quick, casual flick of her wrist, she brought it down. *Whack.* "GIT yer lazy carcass inta th' back an' GIT tha' fenger cleaned up."

Buffy leapt, scurrying to get out before the old woman changed her mind. Three years ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of letting anyone talk to her that way. The last three years on her own had taught her some hard lessons about life. She'd learned the hard way about real life, about money, about what it meant to be cold, hungry, and alone on the street.

More than anything, Buffy wanted to go home. She missed her mom and her friends, Willow, Xander, and God help her, even Cordelia. She missed her Watcher, and studying. Now, even being clean, well fed, and having nice things were nothing but fond memories anymore, like dreams of a past life. If she could only go back, she'd never again complain about having to save the world occasionally or killing a few demons. Saving the world? She'd done it so many times now, she'd lost count. Slay a few dozen demons? All in a night's work. Being the Slayer just wasn't a big deal anymore.

Buffy reached the grimy break room and walked over to the sink. She rooted around under the counter for a minute until she'd located the dingy, white first aid kit. The top latch was broken, making the kit easy to open with only one hand. She reached inside and picked up a Band-Aid. For a second, she stopped, staring at the hands holding the case. Her skin was dry and rough, her fingernails torn and ragged, her hands heavily callused. She almost didn't recognize the worn hands, shaped by years of hard work and lack of care, as her own. Then she shrugged and returned to her task, still mostly absorbed in her inner reflections.

So why hadn't she gone home? The answer was easy. She'd long ago admitted to herself that she hadn't left to protect anyone but herself. She'd run out of fear and she'd stayed away out of pride. Pride... Pride didn't permit her to return home. Pride didn't permit her to go crawling back to her parents, her friends, her lost life. But was it really pride? Or was pride merely the easy answer? Pride, or fear... Buffy wasn't certain. More fear, she acknowledged bitterly. Her pride was mostly gone. Fear that they wouldn't want her back, or worse, that they wouldn't let her come home...

She finished bandaging her finger and closed the tattered first aid kit. Absently, Buffy cocked her head. She couldn't hear the rain anymore. Her heightened Slayer senses still made her aware of a plethora of little details most of her co-workers never noticed. The sound of rain hitting the old aluminum roof, the ultra-powerful smell of fish entrails rotting on the cannery floor, the *slap, whack* of dozens of cleavers humming along together like an immense hive working in harmony.

The thought of a moment of sunshine beckoned to her irresistibly. That, and the freedom of one moment alone... Worth risking her job for? Oh, yes... One moment of escape in sunshine was worth risking anything for... Buffy hurriedly eased out of the break room. She used her Slayer skills to expertly and stealthily pass a small group of her co-workers lounging outside. They never even noticed her. Within a minute, she stood in the first sunlight she'd seen in over a week.

Wearily, she closed her eyes, leaning back against the cannery wall. She stretched her tired arms, luxuriating in the warm patch of light. Absently, Buffy pulled off the hair net which bound her blond locks and shook her head, letting her hair fall free. It swung down around her face in a disarrayed mess, feeling good in the way that unbound hair feels after it's been let down. It moved in a living mass, catching rainbows from the sunlight, shining like spun gold. Despite the fact that Buffy seldom even looked in a mirror any more, her hair remained one of her best features.

For a second, she watched her hair move in the slight breeze blowing in off the bay. Then, she closed her eyes again. For the countless time, she wondered why she was still alive. By all rights, she should be dead. No Slayer lived to be twenty. No Slayer, but Buffy Summers. It was unprecedented, but she'd done it. Contrary to what she'd been told, contrary to what she'd believed. For her, slaying kept getting easier.

Her opponents grew more powerful, but still died quickly and easily by her hand. She kept getting stronger; her abilities were now honed to sharp, almost animalistic, instincts. She slayed and slayed again and again in an unbroken ribbon of kill, kill, and then kill again. The demons just kept coming; Buffy just kept killing. She no longer questioned, regretted, or lamented her destiny. She never even really thought about it. She simply existed to kill and killed to exist. Simplicity. Beauty. The purity of a fully functional, utterly dedicated Slayer.

Someone entered the alley. A large man wearing expensive leather shoes so new that they still creaked with each step. Buffy tracked his every step with closed eyes. She knew his every movement as he approached her and could have handled an attack blindfolded. Her senses told her he wouldn't attack. The sunlight told her that he wasn't a vampire. He stopped directly in front of her and waited. Expectantly.

Finally, she grew tired of waiting for him to speak. He'd proven stubborn enough to out wait her, and she didn't have enough time before she needed to be back inside to indulge his games. She opened her eyes to glare at him and found herself looking up into the face of a ghost. A living ghost...

"Angel."

CONTINUE