So he was home. If this could be called home.
Didn't feel much like one, not for any of them, not even Dawn or Buffy. It was just a house now. Whatever scent that had belonged to Joyce had long since evaporated, pulling with it any lingering trace of her gentleness.
The others hovered; discreetly, but it was hovering all the same. Never out of earshot, knowing they were now out of his line of vision.
So you're the One Who Sees.
He snickered wildly and felt the glances upon him. He just as soon dismissed them, knowing they probably thought the meds had made him crackers. Maybe they had.
Or just maybe he now saw things more clearly than ever before.
Willow flitted around him like a nervous bird. Dawn, when she was able to meet his eye, shot him looks of such heartbreak, he was forced to look away.
Giles couldn't look at him, but tried to convey his love and support. Anya used sarcasm and rage to cover her fear and impotence, all of which was a thin veil to disguise her utter devastation.
Faith said nothing, for which he was grateful, but he knew her as well as he always had, and he knew she partly blamed herself.
Kennedy was the worst, however; she wore her guilt like a shroud and it was slowly suffocating him.
Well-meaning people poking him with well-meaning sticks.
Except for Buffy. Her silence threw stones.