Buffy hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked. Tears teetering on her lower lashes gave everything the illusion of a dream. Yet it wasn’t. Or was it?

Hundreds of times, in hundreds of different ways,she had dreamed, fantasized, or on that one rare occasion, there was a whole crazy montage—sans magically induced singing—about seeing him again. But nothing prepared her for the downward spiral into reality. The reality of her seeing him again meant he had been truly gone. With him being truly gone meant these past months had really happened, instead of the plaguing nightmares fading in the early mornings’ light.

Needing to make sure this wasn’t just another form of torture her mind conjured up, she closed hereyes. After counting to three Mississippis, she reopened them. He was still there. Cue the tears. Amidst the water works, she decided instead of lingering in the doorway, she’d force herself to step inside. As the door closed quietly behind her, she realized she couldn’t go any further.

All she could do was just stand there. Staring. It was a strange role reversal—she watching him, and he unaware. Creepy stalker-ness aside, for the first time, she understood the allure. Seeing him in quiet repose, it was as if she truly saw him for the first time. He looked so peaceful. So, dare she finally and freely admit, beautiful. Almost tragically so. It was so weird.

Casting immortality aside, he looked exactly the same. Well, the same except for the fact that his usual black-on-black-with-black-attire was traded in for a powdered blue johnny with bonus flash-everyone-my-biteable-ass opening. Of which, unfortunately, she couldn’t reap the benefits with him lying down. With a quick reminder that this was so not the reason she was hereby giving Ms. Slutty USA a big ol’ mental slap down, she approached his bed.

Great, more tears.

Buffy wanted so much to wake him. Wanted him to look at her with those perceptive, bluer-then-they-had-any-right-to-be eyes, give her that infuriating smirk and say her name.

Attempting to do the right thing instead of actually shaking him awake, she went with the more casual approach—the ‘throat-clearing’ route. Nothing. Then she tried the ‘oops’ bumping into this or that approach. More nothing. Losing patience, she finally shelved the maturity and decided to take out the big guns. Whether done in anger, lust or friendship, even that one time when she was invisible, Spike always knew and responded to her touch. Now, she wasn’t one for groping a sleeping person, especially one who was technically dead, but after convincing herself that this was for the greater good and that she’d keep this totally G-rated, she reached out. Her hand hovered briefly before she finally allowed herself contact.

Just as she remembered, his skin was cool and smooth, except for the new matching thin white scars circling each wrist. Her touch was gentle and tentative, and she hoped each caress conveyed the feelings she was at a loss in speaking. She watched his eyes fluttering beneath their lids. Needing them to open, she tried one more thing—saying his name.

Spike



Bloody hell

Whatever drug Spike had been given was messing with him on a whole new level. They flooded his senses and made him believe that, of all people, Buffy was at his bedside. Crying. Over him.

Convalescence started off brilliantly—minus the whole reason why he was laid up. His Florence Nightingale was an all-tits-and-ass succubus dressed in a porn-worthy nurse’s outfit, complete with a nursing cap, cleavage for days, and the hem of her uniform a stiff breeze away from showing Spike the promise land. She cooed and fussed over him. Even offered him a first rate sponge bath—with her tongue. Spike played the good little patient for all it was worth. Well, had until Angel, the bigtime fang blocker he was, ruined all his fun. Then, with a wink and quick plunge of the needle, she’d left.

Waiting for the drug to take hold, they talked. They reminisced. They self-flagellated. All in a broody day’s worth for his grandsire. Then the unexpected happened. Far beyond the camaraderie of death and destruction, he felt they shared a deeper connection. One forged from a mutual self-realization that they, too, were innocents—once upon a time. Then, just like the beginning of so many bedtime stories, these four words were the last thing Spike remembered before drifting off.


Spike stood on the beach. Every brilliant sight and sound of life flooded his senses—the saltiness of the sea, the steady rhythm of the waves beating against the shore, and off in the distance, the first rays of the sun as they crested over the horizon. Yet he wasn’t afraid. In fact, he welcomed its touch. At first, it was tentative. Gentle sweeps of warmth and tenderness that nearly brought him to tears. He felt loved, treasured. He never wanted to leave, yet a soft, sweet breeze called to him. A sound he was never able to deny.

Spike



Following the voice, Spike forced open his eyes. His lids fluttered like a newly emerging butterfly drying its fragile wings. He tried to focus but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate. When his sight finally cleared, it wasn’t anything he’d ever expected. Or deserved. Buffy was at his bedside. Crying. Over him.

He tried to speak, but his tongue had joined his eyes in going completely rogue. Plus, since reaching out with his still numb, newly reattached feelers was out, he went with his only option: staring. For several minutes, they were locked in this weird contest. Neither blinked nor looked away. Then, he closed his eyes briefly, and following a few throat clearings, his tongue felt less like a useless fleshy lump and cooperated. Though he had a million things he wanted to say, he figured simple and straight to the point was the best way to go. For now.

“Hello, Buffy.”

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Big thanks to my beta, SlayerDaniWho