I barely notice the heat in the house, all these people in one place making the air thick and heavy. I barely notice the sound of rain as it shatters against the glass of the window beside me. I barely notice the bruises, the cuts, the rips in her damp clothes as she comes back from yet another knock-down, drag out fight with the Turok Han. All I notice is the sadness in her eyes. Amongst the worry, the anger, the hurting, even the faint shadow of fear that darkens her face, Buffy is one unhappy soul, and it makes me shudder. Nobody that remarkable should be that sad.

Faith brushes past me, filling the room with one more body, one more set of eyes to judge just how hurt Buffy is. I want to tell them all to leave, but I'm already in trouble for speaking my mind too much, and the rest of the girls are growing wary of me. I just feel different to them. I don't know why exactly, maybe it's an age thing. Maybe because I'm a little older, a little more sceptical, a little less eager just to follow without question. Whatever it is I get the feeling I'm an outsider. The girls don't exactly go out of their way to make me feel that way, they're nice for the most part, but I just don't quite fit in.

As my gaze follows Faith's slow walk towards Buffy I notice the girls tripping over their own feet to make way for her, to give the slayer room. Faith has a way of intimidating that is less about her reputation and more about her menacing aura that leaves you in no doubt she won't take shit any from you. She's done things that make us both fear and respect her - at least I respect her. I'm not sure many people here understand her, but I feel we have a few things in common. Not least the way she looks at Buffy. There's no mistaking the barely hidden longing that lives deep inside Faith. Buffy probably sees it too, but I have no doubt that she chooses to ignore it. She pushes it aside as a complication she can do without. There's a history there that none of the rest of us will ever truly know about, and it's probably best that way.

"He did a real number on ya, huh," Faith says, nodding Buffy's way.

Buffy says nothing, the silent glare in her eyes warning enough not to push her right now. The potential slayers she took with her tonight don't have a scratch on them, so she'd done her job and protected them. I can see she wants to say as much, but instead she turns to Giles, the glare immediately dropping, replaced with a warm familiarity in her eyes that makes me inordinately glad he's here for her.

"I couldn't kill it, again," she says, almost a whisper from her bloodied lips. "But we scared it enough for it to run."

The girls that had gone with her nod in agreement, their eyes still saucer wide, hands fidgeting and feet shuffling. They could have all died tonight.

"Well that's something," Giles says softly. He rests a hand on Buffy's shoulder and she flinches a little in pain. "This is only the second time you've run across this ancient breed of vampire, and I'm certain the third time won't be so lucky for him."

He squeezes her shoulder. She does her best to hide another flinch.

"We'll debrief in the morning," he continues, finally dropping his hand. If he hadn't I might have done something stupid, like ran over to him and yanked him off her.

I know he wasn't trying to add to her pain, and she can take all the pain thrown at her and more, but that tiny slither of vulnerability that lives under the surface of her thick slayer lining makes me want to protect her. To care for her.

The crush I've been cultivating for the past few weeks has reached a stage of embarrassing proportions. I stay out of her way as much as I can now, but I watch her. I watch her more closely than anybody else here does and I can see through most of her barriers and defences. I can see right through to her sometimes and it makes my heart ache in a way I really need to put a stop to. Fighting it has been fruitless so far, however, and even when she gets pissed at me for asking questions I can see past that anger to the concern and unease inside her.

Of course, I would never tell her that or even suggest it. She needs to believe we all think she's unflappable, the invincible leader. Most of the girls have all their faith in her, and sit around taking in every word that's meant to make them feel safe, lucky to be here. They don't see what's going on in the background, though a few of them are not feeling quite so lucky, and their whispers and doubts make for increasingly uncomfortable debriefings and lessons. I admit to adding fuel to that little fire, but only because we need to know the truth. We're all in this together, and Buffy needs to be able to trust in us as much as we're expected to trust in her.

I know if I keep pushing her now and then she'll see that. Unfortunately that also means I get the Buffy-glare more often that not, and we've hardly spoken a hand full of civil words to each other for over two weeks. That's probably for the best. If she was actually nice to me this crush would spiral even more out of control and I'd be going completely crazy instead of just mostly crazy.

"Ok," Buffy says quietly, "I'm going to go . . ." She points towards the stairs past my shoulder as I lean against the door jamb.

Giles nods, and begins to corral the potentials, checking them over, patting their shoulders. People begin to disperse and I step away from the door as Buffy makes her way to pass me on the way upstairs. I catch her eye, grit my teeth so I won't say anything useless, unimportant, and wait for her steely gaze to cut me down. It leaves me surprised and concerned when all I get is a small, broken smile, and a lifetime of pain in her eyes.

Wanting to reach for her, help her, I shove my hands into my pockets and give her a little nod. Say nothing, I repeat to myself over and over. How much more can she take? Not physically, but emotionally. Life is a mess, her house has been overrun, the town is practically empty, her doubts are taking over. My fingers itch to push away the wet strand of blond hair from her forehead as it drips into her eyes. I shove my hands even deeper into my pockets.

I catch the scent of rain, blood, and the salt of fresh perspiration as she passes me. No soft scent of her fancy shampoo tonight, it's buried under the tangled aroma of battle. As she gingerly makes her way up to her room, I turn to watch, yearning to support her. The crawling sensation of helplessness in my stomach makes me want to clutch at it, but I remain as still as possible in case, for some reason, she might turn to look my way again.

She doesn't, and as I begin to breathe again I notice Faith to my right, so close I can feel the warmth of her. She chuckles, a sound full of understanding and pity.

"Give it up, Kennedy," she says so only I will hear. "You'd never make it past the first brick wall."

I turn my head to look at her and she must notice my surprise, and the need to refute anything she might be suggesting. The last thing I need is for people to notice just how much Buffy gets to me, how helpless I feel.

"No point tryin' to deny it, hot shot," Faith persists. "It's written all over your face."

Playing dumb I turn fully to Faith.

"I don't know what you mean," I say with a shrug, crossing my arms and giving her my best attempt at nonchalant.

She laughs and takes one look at my defensive stance before shaking her head, causing me to drop my arms and hope to hell I can throw her off the scent.

"Seriously," I say. "No idea."

"Sure," Faith responds, clearly sceptical. "I get it, though. She's Buffy."

I furrow my brow, expecting her to elaborate, but it seems she feels it unnecessary to explain further. The thing is I understand what she means. Buffy is . . .Buffy. Something about her is magnetic, as much as infuriating sometimes. She has a way about her, an undeniable attractiveness that goes much deeper than her cute looks and killer body. Still, I'm not about to let Faith think she knows me, or about my mortifying crush on somebody I have no chance with.

"Anyway, you're barking up the wrong Scooby," Faith says, nodding towards Willow as she helps with the nightly routine of setting up camp beds. "You'd have a much better chance to score with that one."

My gaze follows hers to Willow and I smile. Yeah, Willow is sweet, and kind of cute, and gay, but she's not the one that stirs something inside me that takes my breath away when I look at her. I almost slip and say this to Faith, but catch my tongue before I make myself look like a fool.

"And you'd know that for sure because?" I ask, her assumptions irritating me.

I'm not sure if I'm asking how she knows Willow would go for it, or how she knows, without a doubt, that Buffy would turn me down flat.

"Hey, I'm just tryin' to help," she says with a shrug.

Wondering what she was really 'just' trying to do, I watch her wander back into the living room, her expression devoid of clues.

"Whatever," I mutter to myself, gaze flitting back to the stairs.

I could do without this. The world is on the verge of ending and I'm mooning over some chick I can never have, trying to avoid Faith's cryptic and slightly ominous comments - not to mention the glares I get from her whenever I approach Buffy - and fighting for sleeping space with far too many girls who think giggling at night is a national sport. I so did not sign up for this.

With a sigh I make my way into the kitchen, greeted by the sight of Spike hovering by the back door like a bad smell. That guy - dead guy, vampire, whatever - creeps me out. He does his own mooning over Buffy but it's way more obvious, and not at all endearing. I've noticed that Giles doesn't like him hanging around and I don't blame him. He distracts Buffy. He needs to go.

Ignoring him, I grab a soda from the fridge and decide to attempt to get some sleep. You'd think being older than any of the other potentials would get me a better sleeping spot than the floor in the living room, but I have to make do. Hell, the tag-along vamp gets the entire basement to himself, and Faith - ex-psycho - gets to bunk in one of the spare rooms upstairs with a couple of other lucky ones. We all drew straws, which I guess was fair, but I don't have to be happy about it.

"Whose sock is this?" I ask, pulling out my sleeping bag from the corner of the living room and plucking off the offensive article.

"Oh, sorry." Vi snatches the sock from my hand, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

Who knew a room full of barely dressed girls would be such a turn off?

I contemplate bribing my way into sharing one of the less populated rooms, but I doubt my chances. Space here is like a seriously good, gooey chocolate cake and everybody wants the biggest slice. There's no hope of moving, unless maybe I offer the vamp downstairs something good for a turn on his bunk.

Shuddering in revulsion at the thought, I unroll my sleeping bag and settle it next to Vi and Colleen. I'm better than this and should be treated better. It's no wonder I keep getting myself into trouble; I'm not sleeping so I'm snappy and pushing my opinions when I know I should just shut the hell up. But who can blame me? Even Buffy seems like she doesn't know what the fuck to do now, and if she's lost . . .then we're all screwed.

Tomorrow I'll ask again what her plan is. She has to have one, even if it doesn't seem like they know what the hell to expect next. They have to have figured something out. We can't all just be expected to wait until murder and mayhem lands at our door one too many times, until there's nothing left here but demons, until . . .it's too late to do anything at all.

Crawling into my sleeping bag I wriggle out of my clothes and into a loose pair of shorts, pulling on a tee shirt that has seen the inside of a washing machine far too many times. This will be another night counting sheep, then cows, then scantily clad milking maids until I'm pretty sure I've gone mad from exhaustion. Another night willing myself not to think of Buffy, or dream of her in the few hours I might be able to steal here and there; too many times now I've woken frustrated as well as tired.

I'm sick of this place, these chatty, giggly girls sucking up all my air. Sick of doing nothing. Sick of wanting to push Buffy until she's mad enough to throw me out even as I long to reach out and feel the softness of her under all those layers of armour.

This whole mess is getting to be more than a pain in my backside.

"Oomph."

I pluck the haphazardly dropped pillow from my head and thrust it up at Vi, glaring at her for good measure.

"Sorry," she mutters.

I've already turned away from her to bury my face into my own pillow. I close my eyes and pray for Willow to do some of her witch-y stuff, silencing the babbling girls all around me with a flick of her wrist, or wiggle of her nose, or whatever.

I repeat to myself, "Murdering them is wrong, murdering them is wrong."

Then switch to, "Do not dream about Buffy," when I find my mind quickly wandering back to her once again.

I have no hope in hell with that one.