Clear, like broth, and sickly-sweet – it burned her nose and mouth as it flowed, made her teeth hurt and her eyes water. She coughed despairingly, the muscles around her stomach clenching tight every time she thought the torrent might stop. Please stop, she thought, then retched again.

"Buffy? Oh..." Watering eyes wouldn't let her make out the figure at the door, but she could feel the speaker slide behind her, kneeling on the bathroom floor. Close enough to touch, waiting. Waiting as Buffy dry-heaved again and again, helplessly weeping.

"I'm sorry," she rasped, ashamed to lift her head. Too late, she felt a lock of hair swing down from her shoulder – momentum carried it across her lips, still slick with bile. She gagged again, barely noticing the quick fingers that snatched the lock away and held it back, uncaring of the slime that coated it. Buffy coughed. "You shouldn't have to do this, I'm so sorry..."

"Shhh..." The long fingers gently swept her tangled hair along her neck, twisting it out of the way. A repetitive motion, a thing to focus on. Soothing. "You do lots of things. I can do this."

Emotion rushed back, filling the empty spaces so recently purged. Shame and love, all bound up together. How could Dawn watch her like this, how could she stand her? She dimly remembered the way her sister used to pale at the mention of illness. Maybe Mom cured her of that. She flinched away from the unwanted thought. Unworthy thought. For Mom, it was worse.

The heaving finally ceased, the tide receding. It left behind a sour taste, a stinging film that seared her nose and throat. She tried to pull away from the hand that touched her shoulder, painfully aware of her appearance, her smell. But the touch was insistent, and she let herself fall back into the curve of her sister's arm. Long enough that it could wrap around her twice, it seemed. Dawn's hip was firm behind her, the long line of ribcage under her arm creating a hollow for Buffy to lean into. A shelter in a storm.

"If you get to take care of me, I get to take care of you. That's the deal." Dawn's voice was low, calm. She reached up to the sink, snagging a washcloth with practiced ease. She began to offer the dry scrap of towel to her sister, but thought better of it. She reached behind her with those arms that went on forever, twisting a knob with the tips of her fingers.

So tall – when did that happen? Buffy caught the random thought briefly, then let it flicker out, closing her eyes when the bright whiteness of the walls began to hurt. She thought she could hear the rumble of water against the tub, then the interruption when Dawn softened the facecloth. Sure enough, the next sensation was of cool terrycloth pressed into her palm. Damp and clean. She brought it to her lips, scrubbing the sick from skin, teeth, tongue.

She hesitated a moment at her nose before noticing the toilet paper that Dawn offered. Buffy gratefully traded cloth for paper, blowing her nose repeatedly; the action brought tears to her eyes again, her nasal passages burning fiercely. She didn't notice Dawn circumspectly using a clean corner of the washcloth to wipe off the fouled lock of hair. The room was thick with saccharine acid, a fainter touch of what Buffy smelled every time she took a breath; Dawn didn't mention the stench.

"Do you feel okay to head back to your room?" Dawn's voice was quiet - the voice she always used in this situation, Buffy realized. She nodded, heart sinking as Dawn gracefully got to her feet. This is all too familiar – I've done this to her too many times, Buffy realized.

She wanted to hide, scream, send Dawn to her room so that she could be disgusting in peace. But her sister knew her too well, and was avoiding the reaction by staying absolutely quiet. Dawn anticipated her every move, her every thought – and in doing so, left Buffy without ammunition. As if to prove the point, Dawn quickly filled a glass with water, but left it beside the sink. Completely unimposing, utterly blameless – perfect. Buffy bit back a wry smile. Smart girl. Dammit.

It hurt to stand. The cramped muscles of Buffy's stomach screamed as she straightened, causing her to lurch forward again. Dawn was by her in a second, careful not to pull her fully upright, one arm wrapped around her waist. Buffy  gasped a couple of times - Figures, the only muscles training doesn't cover - before gradually straightening up. It made her feel like an old woman.

She avoided looking in the mirror, instead focusing on the glass of water Dawn had left. It wasn't ice-cold to the touch; she sensed that would've set her heaving again. It tasted almost tinny in her mouth, making her jaw twinge. She ignored it. Three rinses, then one long swallow. She could sense the water sloshing into her empty stomach. Focused on something else.

Together, the two girls staggered back to Buffy's room. The window was open, letting in the balmy September air, and she tried to breathe in the scent of leaves - her favorite smell in the world. Her nose refused to cooperate, stinging instead at the deep inhalation. She felt sour and filthy as she settled onto the bed, her sweatshirt and pants sticking to her skin. She moved to yank off her shoes, but Dawn got there first, kneeling swiftly in front of her.

"What a cool sister you have," Buffy announced bitterly, watching as Dawn pulled off the sneakers, peeled away her socks. Dawn rolled her eyes, gesturing for Buffy to lay down on the mattress. It felt wonderful. "You must hate me, always seeing me like this."

"You only get like this sometimes," Dawn corrected, smiling sadly. She rested her chin on the side of the bed, her eyes never leaving Buffy. "And I only hate it because it hurts you so much."

"I know, but I don't want you to hurt at all," Buffy replied, tears beginning to prick at her eyes. She could feel her face getting puffy, her sinuses thickening, and shame made her flush red again. "I should be able to handle this."

"You could handle this, you do," Dawn soothed. She tilted her head, the sad smile lingering on her lips. "But it's not something to do alone."

Dawn stood and began to tug at the bedclothes. For some reason, it seemed important to coverBuffy; contain her. Wrap her in clean white sheets that would feel cool against her skin, that might smell of soap and water. Buffy shifted, trying to help.

"You shouldn't have to deal with this shit." Buffy's voice was hoarse, thick – exhausted. She kept her back to Dawn, breathing deep to keep her words steady.

"Neither should you." Dawn's eyes ran the length of her sister's body, her practiced gaze picking out the prominence of the bones. A hip that jutted too angularly, an elbow that threatened to pierce the skin. So thin, too thin. Thinner every year, it seemed, and every year more damaged. She drew the sheet up across Buffy's shoulders, hiding her sister's weakness. The sight of Buffy's golden hair spread out across the pillow, her skin glowing with a healthy tan, her delicate face – it contradicted everything Dawn knew about her sister's health. Stupid, that everyone else saw her as beautiful, ideal, the perfect shape and size. Dawn buried the thought uncomfortably and turned to draw the curtains against the afternoon light.

She returned to Buffy's bedside, kneeling silently. Buffy opened her eyes, smiling when she noticed the covered windows. "You take good care of me," she admitted weakly, quirking a smile. Dawn nodded, but didn't smile in return.

She twisted the fringe of the dustruffle in her fingers, hesitant. Swallowed. "Has it been happening more lately?"

Buffy considered lying, but Dawn's face was too trusting. She couldn't lie to her face.

"Yeah, a little."

Dawn nodded seriously. She thinned her lips. "How often?"

"Two times a week?" Dawn started visibly, and Buffy hurried to dull the blow. "Not this bad, though! Usually it's just a little, I don't get the dry-heaves, and usually I have something to throw up..."

"You hadn't eaten today?"

Buffy flushed. "No. I didn't feel hungry." She closed her eyes again, buried her face in her pillow. She could hear Dawn breathing beside her, a labored sound. She hesitantly turned back.

"You've got to eat more, Buffy..." Dawn said it reluctantly, aware that Buffy could use it as an out. Send her away, tell her to leave, yell. But Buffy was too far gone to fall back on that tactic.

"I know," Buffy whimpered. Her hand traced circles on the mattress. "I do eat, but it just sucks when I get these freak-outs, and then I throw it all up again..." And throwing up solids hurt, especially when your stomach was cramped with worry and fear, your mind racing in circles of death and destruction, the world bearing down on your shoulders and making you blind with panic.

"Did you ever tell Giles about this?" Buffy shook her head no. "The others? A doctor? It's not good..."

"Oh, that I know." Buffy's mouth twisted with the words. "Trust me, if I could stop it, I would." She sighed.

Six years of these episodes, when the silence got to be too much and her thoughts overwhelmed her, her body reacted in all the wrong ways. Trying to flush out the terrors in her mind, it only managed to exhaust her completely, robbing her of nourishment, a crumpled wreck on the bathroom floor with a sick-sweet taste in her mouth and nose. And slowly, they were getting more frequent, more violent. Another aspect of living past the regular slayer lifespan, it seemed. The older she got, the more she knew, the more responsibility she inherited - and the more reasons she had to be afraid.

One of these when I'm on patrol, and I'm dead. She pushed the thought away.

Dawn spoke up dully beside her. "Are we still not telling the others?" It was a question she'd first asked three years before, when Buffy's retching woke her from a sound sleep. It seemed time to ask again. Buffy winced, shaking her head.

"There's nothing they can do – it's not like a shrink will help me out, unless it's by locking me up." It was true, but Dawn didn't like to hear it. She set her jaw, nodded. Her mouth worked for a few moments, noiselessly, before she stuttered out her thoughts.

"I don't want this to be the thing that" (pause, a pause so brief that Buffy almost didn't hear it, almost didn't pick up on the unspoken word) "hurts you."

And Buffy crumbled. Shaking and stiff, she pulled Dawn onto the bed. Dawn climbed up willingly, letting her sister bundle her in blankets, smooth her face with their mother's touch, kiss her forehead with trembling lips.

"It'll be okay, it'll be all right," Buffy insisted, breath hitching in her throat. She made shushing sounds, grazed her fingers across Dawn's hair, and they both pretended that Dawn was the one being comforted, rather than the comforter.