She was asleep, arms folded over an opened book and her chin nestled peacefully in an elbow. She looked so peaceful when she slept, although her days felt anything but. Buffy had spent the last month living a migratory existence as she also awkwardly relived the weeks after the final battle over Sunnydale. The Malnosso had vowed to send them home and -- indeed -- they'd done that much for Buffy Summers. But they'd also sent her nearly a year backwards in her timeline, with memories intact. And a hitch-hiker in tow.

Tonight, she and the straggling remnants of her gang were overnighting in what had once been a Council safehouse in the middle of rural Southern England. Giles had supplied her with books, although she hadn't the heart to fully explain to him what it was she hoped to research. Albert alone could be told the truth of it -- a fact which didn't help an already paranoid team feel any more goodwill towards the strange man than they absolutely had to. They were polite to him when Buffy was in the room, for the Slayer clearly cherished his company. But when she was off on one of her sad, thoughtful rambles? They were distant. Almost cold. If she realized this, Buffy said nothing to them about their behaviour. She knew Albert could look after himself.

She sighed in her sleep. Mumbled. Shifted. And -- as the little cottage's fire began to wane and die out -- she dreamed about a life she'd gotten used to in a distant dimension.