Disclaimer: The only thing that's mine is the story. Everything else...All Hail Joss.
Warnings: This one is a little angstier than I usually write, but hopefully in a happy way?
Author’s Note: This story was written in response to Prompt #7, Dreams, over at the LiveJournal Community 20_hot_prompts. Also, many thanks to the wonderful, amazing Holly for her beta-work, and who was so silly as to think that I would be mad that she did her job, and well. Yes Holly, how dare you do me this huge favor and make my story better? Shame on you! *glomps*

*~*~*~*~*

Pain. In all her life, Buffy had never felt such pain. It wasn’t physical. It was deeper than that, more desperate. And she couldn’t figure out why.

There were other things she didn’t understand. Her senses were going haywire--everything was on high alert. Panic was all around her, the air exploding with sounds of fighting and crashing, and she couldn’t see. She couldn’t see any of it. All she could see was the glowing figure before her--a sight which left her more confused than anything else.

It was Spike.

A foreign pang rushed through her at the sight of him bathed in the warm and golden light, his hands raised as though in supplication, his face a study of concentration and--oddly--grim satisfaction.

Despite her confusion, a wave of understanding washed over her, the desperate pain inside her increasing tenfold. She was crippled by it, paralyzed, and yet she saw herself move. Her hand reached out to Spike, fingers lightly entwining through his. He turned towards her slowly, looking surprised she was there, his hand tightening around hers all the same. Flames suddenly sparked and engulfed their clasped hands, but somehow she didn’t feel it.

What she did feel was all at once the greatest happiness and the greatest sadness of her life. She felt the ache of grief tear through her. She felt pride. God, she was so proud. So incredibly proud of him.

And she finally identified that horrible, amazing pain inside her.

It was love.

It was the truest love she’d ever felt. The truest love to ever exist, and its purity ripped her heart asunder.

She gasped, eyes burning and throat constricting, but forced the words out.

“I love you.”

She saw Spike’s face change minutely, and identified the shift from shock to peace with ease. So when he spoke, his words dropped the trembling earth from beneath her feet.

“No you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.”

The words were foreign to her ears. Her mind couldn’t reconcile what he said with what she saw with her own eyes. What she felt in her heart.

But she didn’t have time to figure it out. The world really did begin to fall down around her. She heard him yell at her to leave--to get out--and she did, because she knew he wouldn’t want her to get hurt. He loved her so much and he’d never, ever hurt her. So why did he say those things? Those awful, terrible lies.

No you don’t but thanks for saying it.

No. She did. She loved him more than anything. He just--

The sudden, horrible knowledge crashed down on her, and she nearly lost her footing as she scrambled away from the crumbling world.

He didn’t believe her.

She felt her body moving, running and jumping, escaping to safety as she leapt from the collapsing roof to the top of the bus. Felt her fingers grip the edge, her left hand burning. Felt her cheek press against the warm metal.

She felt all these things without feeling anything at all. She felt nothing--only an empty, clawing despair.

His voice raced alongside her thoughts, playing an endless loop through her mind.

I love you. No you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.

Oh, God. He didn’t believe her.

She loved him, but she’d failed.

He didn’t believe her.

And now he was gone.

Forever.


*~*~*~*~*


Buffy tore awake with a gasp, her heart thundering. A trembling hand rose to her face, encountering tears. She was sobbing.

Struggling to control her gasping breaths, she clamped a hand over her mouth, only to hiss and jerk it back as a sharp stinging sensation zinged across her palm. Brow wrinkled in confusion, she saw that the flesh on her hand was bright pink and tender, all along the palm and between her fingers…

And it all came flooding back.

“Oh, God,” Buffy choked. Kicking off the covers, she leapt out of bed and tore down the stairs, flying out the door without looking back to see if it shut behind her.

She ran. She ran with a single-minded need. She had to see him…see him with her own eyes, touch him with her own hands, make sure he was solid and real and still there. She didn’t question it. She couldn’t--not with his haunting words still ringing in her mind.

No you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.

Her vision blurred and she may have cried out, but she could only focus on was the pounding of her bare feet against cement, and then pavement, and finally the cool, wet grass as she entered Restfield. She rushed to the crypt door without a conscious thought. She ploughed inward hurriedly. It wasn’t until that moment she realized she might have cause to worry about her reception, given the way she’d last left--had it only been the day before?--but by then, it was too late.

Spike’s head jerked up sharply from the back of his comfy chair, his eyes blearily blinking into focus.

“Buffy?” he called out, voice rough with sleep, his body illuminated in the flickering light of his television.

Buffy’s heart clenched, though this time not because of her dream as she further took in his disheveled appearance: his button-down shirt open and barely hanging on one shoulder, his hair tousled and messy, bare feet giving him an oddly vulnerable look. A near-empty bottle of whiskey rested on the floor beside him. He was so thoroughly out of sorts and it was because of her. She knew it.

At the moment, however, she struggled with feeling badly about seeing him so broken just for the fact she was able to see him at all,--for the fact that her horrible dream hadn’t really happened.

Her left hand throbbed.

Had it?

*~*~*~*~*

Spike frowned, shaking his head to clear away his confusion. His sleep-and-alcohol-addled mind was having difficulty summoning a reason for the Slayer to have crashed into his crypt at five in the morning as though the hounds of hell were on her heels, her wide eyes stricken as though she’d seen a ghost.

A spark of hope flared in his chest. Was she having second thoughts?

He dismissed the notion as wishful thinking as soon as it occurred to him. He’d seen the conviction in her eyes--heard it in her voice--when she’d told him it was over.

Yet she still stood on his doorstep, unmoving, and he now saw silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Had something happened? Was she hurt? Was it Dawn?

He jerked unsteadily to his feet, calling her name again as he hesitantly stepped toward her. “Buffy?”

His voice spurred her into action, and before he could process it, he had his arms full of sobbing Slayer. He truly began to panic, now, even as his every cell rejoiced at having her in his arms again. It felt like it had been months, rather than a mere day, and he held her tighter, unable to stop himself from burying his face in her hair and inhaling her scent.

Buffy clutched Spike desperately, fingers digging into the muscled expanse of his back and weaving though his hair. She knew she was probably confusing the hell out of him, knew that she needed to pull herself together long enough to explain herself, but that would require the ability to string together a coherent thought beyond the ecstatic repetition running circuit through her mind.

He’s alive oh thank you God I was so afraid he was gone forever but he’s alive oh thank you…

When it became clear she wouldn’t release her iron grip on him anytime soon, Spike wrapped his arms around her waist and hitched her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, and settled them back in his chair. She continued crying against his neck, hot tears pooling at his shoulder and running down his chest. He murmured against her temple, speaking nonsensical, soothing words in an effort to calm her. He ran a hand up and down her back, his other clutching greedily at her hip, unable to help himself from pressing her close up against him. He was so desperate for the warmth of her body, especially when he’d been so sure such a short time ago he’d never feel it again.

Instead of pulling back from the hardness she surely felt beneath her, as he was half-convinced she would, despite the arms around his neck, she moaned and pressed herself more fully against him.

Spike couldn’t help but gasp and thrust up against her, the thin cotton of her sleep pants doing little to shield him from her heat, or the sudden rush of arousal scenting the air.

Though pressed as tightly against him as she could possibly get, Buffy was slammed with the desperate need to be closer. She mewled, finally pulling back so she could see his face. He looked confused and worried and not a little bit lustful. He was beautiful.

“Spike,” she gasped, reaching out to clasp his face between her hands, stroking over the familiar planes and angles, chiding herself for ever taking the sight of him for granted. Impulse sent her darting forward to capture his lips with her own.

Spike groaned at the taste of her, crushing her to him as he despoiled her mouth with his tongue. She met it with her own and whimpered into him, kissing him with hunger completely unlike any kisses they’d shared before. It was desperate, holding none of the old destruction; painful, but not filled with the despair to which he’d grown accustomed. She kissed him like she was dying without him.

He needed to know what the hell was going on.

With all the willpower he had and then some, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her away just far enough to disengage their lips; so he could see her properly. The mournful pout which graced her features at the interruption very nearly had him plundering her mouth again, but the sheer bizarreness of the situation helped keep him focused.

Sort of.

When denied his lips, Buffy began writhing mindlessly on his lap, each motion of her hips grinding the heated juncture of her legs against his erection.

His eyes rolled back and he called forward every concentration technique he possessed. It took a second, but Spike found his voice long enough to ask, “Buffy, luv. What is it? What’s wrong, baby?”

Buffy shook her head, knowing she’d never be able to articulate anything while she was in such need of him. “Spike, please,” she whispered. “Please, I just--I need--”

Spike frowned. She ‘needed,’ did she? Well, that was hardly anything new. “Gonna need a little bit more to go on than that, Slayer.”

She sobbed in frustration. “God, Spike, please. I need you so much…need to be closer. I can’t--” She shook her head again, babbling, “I can’t explain what--I just need to know--can’t you feel it?” Her left hand wormed beneath his right where he held her shoulder. Palm to palm, she interlaced their fingers and squeezed tight, and Spike felt a rush of…God, he couldn’t come close to describing what he felt.

He gasped, wrapping his free arm around her and jerking her close once more, his forehead resting against her shoulder. The sensations coursing through him were unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Their hands felt afire, and the heat radiated throughout his entire body. All at once, he felt suffused with peace and drowned in sorrow. There was a spark in his chest which both burned and healed. And there was love.

God, there was such love.

Love was everywhere. It was all around him, inside him, coming from…he could scarcely believe it. Could barely hope.

“Buffy!” he gasped, kissing her desperately, wherever he could reach. Buffy moaned, guiding his other hand between them and to the drawstring on her pants. It was quickly untied, and Spike wasted no time in diving his hand inside, finding her so swollen and so wet that her silken flesh seemed to melt around his fingers.

He groaned at the feel of her. “God, baby…so wet. Is that all for me?

“Yes,” she moaned.

“Need me inside you, don’t you?”

She whimpered and nodded hard.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Gotta get inside.”

Buffy shifted sideways in his lap just long enough to shove her pants off her legs, and by the time she righted herself he’d ripped open the fly of his jeans, his cock hard and bobbing heavily above his stomach. Before he could shift his jeans more than halfway down his thighs, Buffy took him in her hand, lifted up, and guided him home.

They groaned in unison as his cock pried apart her swollen flesh, sinking deeper and deeper until he sat balls-deep inside her. The wet, hot folds of her pussy pressed flush against him, grinding her clit against his muscled abdomen.

The world stilled around them, foreheads pressed together, hands still clasped tightly. They rocked together, the motion more reassuring than sexual, like two people grateful to have survived certain death.

In a way, they had.

Their embrace changed slowly, their tongues entwining as Spike sent his hand under her camisole. He slipped up the warm, silken skin of her belly until he cupped a soft breast, thumb flicking over a pebbled nipple and making her gasp and clench around him.

He hummed appreciatively. “Missed this tight little cunny of yours,” he purred.

Buffy shivered. “It w-was only a day ago,” she panted, “since you last felt it.”

“No,” he murmured between kisses, trailing his lips down her throat. “Was an eternity since I was last inside.” He nudged the collarline of her top southward with his chin and wrapped his lips around her neglected nipple.

“Yes,” she moaned above him. “Was forever. Missed you so much.”

His still heart jumped. “You did?”

She nodded, and to his dismay he saw fresh tears spring to her eyes. “I missed you so much. Thought you were gone forever.”

Spike knew the statement had to be related to whatever had sent her rushing to his crypt--and whatever had shot though him when their hands met--but he also knew explanations would have to wait. They were back where they both belonged, now; she in his arms and he inside of her.

His mouth returned to her breast, sucking the nipple between his lips and laving it with his tongue. Neither was willing to part their hands, to stop the incredible feelings rushing between them, so he sent his left between their thrusting hips and settled his thumb against her clit.

Buffy cried out and rocked herself against him, pussy grasping and pulling at his cock with every withdrawal and clenching tightly each time he was recaptured. Sparks of warm pleasure radiated through their bodies. Neither could hold back anymore, and their hips crashed together again and again, his cock piercing her depths as her heated juices scalded a trail down his balls.

Buffy trembled as Spike caressed her tenderly, his thumb lightly circling her clit, the dual and contrary sensations of his tender strokes against her flesh and the powerful thrusting of his cock inside of her sending her barreling to the edge of ecstasy.

She was struck with the sudden need to convey how she felt--how he made her feel--and instinct had her caressing and kissing all the places on his body she’d learned he enjoyed, even if she’d never before cared about his pleasure as much as her own. She stroked over his firm chest and stomach, flicking and pinching his nipples and smiling when he gasped. She suckled at the soft skin of his throat, softly then harder, marking him and making him groan and arch his hips sharply into hers. She reached behind her to cup and fondle his balls, rolling them gently in her palm as her fingers caressed the soft flesh underneath.

Spike whimpered, on sensory overload, his mind still racing to catch up to the situation while his body kept him firmly in the present.

“Ohhh…what’re you--unh--you’re makin’ me feel so bloody good,” he panted, his reverent and bewildered tone making Buffy both joyous and ashamed; happy to be bringing him pleasure while saddened that he would be so surprised by it, even if it was nothing less than to be expected.

The image from her dream flashed before her mind’s eye, his face bathed with light and drawn in resigned acceptance as he uttered those painful words:

No you don’t. But thanks for sayin’ it.

Taking in the way he looked now, his eyes drinking her in hungrily, aching pleasure reflected in his expression, Buffy knew what he needed, what they both wanted.

She slowed the rocking of her hips as they danced above his body, maintaining a torturously slow and rolling pace, squeezing his cock sweetly. She held his gaze steadily, and his eyes widened in surprise. It wasn’t something she usually did, always too afraid of the intensity and emotion she found there.

But she wanted it now. Now, she wanted to make sure he saw the truth in her eyes as well.

Despite her fear, the words came remarkably easily.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice steady and sure. Her body trembled, however, when Spike’s eyes grew wide and focused on her sharply.

“Buffy--”

“I do,” she gasped, once more intensifying their lovemaking, now with the words between them. She rose and fell above him fluidly, taking his cock in long, deep strokes, making him hers. “I do love you, Spike. Please believe me.”

He groaned. “Oh, God…”

“Believe me,” she whimpered against his lips before claiming them in a fierce kiss, pouring all her emotion into him.

Spike’s roar of completion was muffled into their kiss, as the knowledge that she loved him washed over him. He could feel that she loved him, feel it in every touch of her hands, every kiss of her lips, every look in her eyes. It was too much to bear, and he came hard inside her, emptying himself and thrusting up as far into her as he possibly could. Buffy trembled around him, the gentle pressure against her clit and the feeling of him pulsing inside her sending her tumbling over the edge.

“Unh! Spike! I love you so much!” she cried as she climaxed, her arm wrapping tightly around his neck as she shook against him. “Believe me…”

“I believe you,” he whispered, awed. He nudged her back enough to look into her eyes. “I love you, Buffy.” The words were even, no matter that his lips trembled. He stared into her eyes as though almost challenging her to hear him say it.

Her face broke into a beatific smile. “I love you, too.”

“Oh, God,” he choked, tears clogging his throat as he crushed her to him again. “Love you, Buffy.”

They stayed like that for several moments, locked together in the aftermath. Neither seemed able to speak, the air around them silent save their gasping breaths. After a time, their breathing synchronized, then slowed, an easy peace settling around them. Cheek to cheek, they stared at their clasped hands, and as one they gently disentangled their fingers and simply pressed their palms together, her small yet powerful fingers barely grazing his top knuckles. He curled the tips of his fingers over hers.

“What happened, love?” Spike whispered reverently, still unwilling to disturb the perfect peace.

Buffy inhaled deeply, trying to find words adequate enough to explain it all. “I’m not sure,” she breathed. “I…I had this--dream, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yeah. It was…so real. I honestly have no idea what was happening, but…you were dying,” her voice cracked on the last word.

He stiffened under her. “I died?”

She shook her head. “Not--not like, you got killed, or you were suffering.” She paused, her eyes growing distant as she called upon the details, trying to gather her thoughts. “You weren’t suffering, but you were in pain. Sad. So was I. There was fighting around us, but we were just kind of…still. Everything was muffled around us and…and I realized as I stood there with you that I was never going to see you again.”

Spike heard tears threatening to break free in her voice, and he gently extracted himself from her arms to slip his shirt off his arms and drape it around her shoulders. He wrapped his arms wrapping around her as she cuddled up to his chest. She lifted the collar to her nose, breathing in his scent and closing her eyes. Spike held her tighter.

“I knew a lot of things,” she continued, “without really knowing anything at all. I knew that it was the end for you…and for us. I knew that I loved you.” Spike inhaled sharply, but let her continue. “And I knew that what you were doing--that even though you were going to die--it was right. You were…” She trailed off, smiling slightly. “You were a champion. My champion.”

Any other time, Spike was sure he would have scoffed at the very notion. But the way it sounded coming from Buffy…well, it sparked something inside him. He wanted it to be true.

“I don’t think it was a slayer dream. It didn’t have that--doomed prophecy type feel to it. But…it did feel real. Too real. And something else happened that was almost worse than you dying, because at least that felt right. Something that I had to make sure didn’t happen, ever. And that’s why I came rushing over here.”

He waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent, lost in the memory of whatever it was she’d seen. “What didn’t you want to happen?”

She pulled back to look into his eyes, her own swimming again with unshed tears. “I told you that I loved you.” Spike frowned in confusion. “And you didn’t believe me.”

His jaw dropped, incredulous. “Buffy--”

“I don’t think,” she continued quickly, “that it was a matter of you not believing me. It was that you couldn’t. I’d given you no reason to. I’d failed, and then I lost you forever.” Her tears spilled over her lashes at that, trailing silver down her cheeks.

Spike reached up and brushed them away with his thumbs, and to Buffy’s astonishment, he laughed.

“Well,” he drawled, eyes smiling, “I guess that settles that, then.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Clearly, that dream wasn’t in any way real.” His voice was playful, but he held her gaze as he spoke, completely serious. “’Cause there’s no possible reality, in this life or the next, where I wouldn’t believe you. Not when it comes to that. To this.”

They kissed again, sweetly this time. So sweetly, in fact, that Spike’s cock began to fill once more, still nestled inside her warm depths. Buffy grinned against his lips.

“I am still kinda tired,” she murmured. “Wanna go to bed?”

Spike hummed in agreement. “Sounds lovely. ’Course, the one downstairs is still a bit singed. Still got the blankets and such on the sarcophagus, though.” He frowned. “I know it’s not the best, but--”

“Anywhere you are is perfect, Spike,” The conviction in her voice made him tremble. “Besides,” she continued lightly, “after we sleep the day away today, you could come enjoy the comforts of my bed.”

Spike stilled. “Your bed?”

“Mm-hmm. You could even bring a few things with, y’know, to make it easier to stay over more.”

Her almost flippant discussion of his essentially moving in with her was doing a number on Spike’s brain function. Not to mention his libido.

“You want me to…stay over…more?” He very nearly growled the question.

She leaned in to briefly capture his lips. “As much as you’d want to. Gotta admit, I’m not exactly loving the idea of having you out of my sight for awhile, not to mention out of reach. Ooh!” Her eyes lit up. “You wanna be my date to Xander and Anya’s wedding?”

In lieu of an answer, Spike lunged for her mouth, tongue pushing past her lips to tangle with hers. He surged up from the chair and walked them to the edge of their temporary bed, pushing her down on it while she kept a firm hold on his waist with her legs. He grasped her hips in his hands, and thrust into her hard, making her gasp and moan.

“I do,” he finally answered her cheekily.

Buffy rolled her eyes, but smiled. “I love you,” she said spontaneously.

Spike groaned, his hips slamming into hers sharply. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

Their eyes met, and they smiled.


*~*~*~*~*


Epilogue

The old woman sighed heavily, the last of her energy sapped. Slowly, as she did everything slowly these days, she rose to her knees, grasping the cane she’d left beside her in a remarkably strong grip and pulled herself to her feet.

She shuffled across the floor, her slightly dragging feet smearing the intricate circle of sand and chalk in which she’d sat moments before. But it didn’t matter, now. The spell was done. She’d felt the magic course through her.

She’d lived a long life. Longest one yet, in fact. It was hardly anything of which to be proud, but she knew it gave the others hope that they’d last as long as she had. She had no doubt that someone would break her record--they had a lot better odds in their favor, now--but ninety-two was still nothing at which to scoff.

He would have been happy she lived so long.

Yes, she’d lived a long life, and learned a lot along the way. She’d learned enough about magic to successfully cast a fairly complex spell. She’d also learned enough about time and dimensions to know, however successful her spell may have been, it wouldn’t do anything to change what had happened. What had happened in this life could never be re-written. She wouldn’t lay down in her bed tonight and wake in the morning to find him next to her.

She wouldn’t be waking at all.

But that was all right. She knew that she’d changed things for someone. For some her and some him. Of course, she had no way of knowing how she’d change them. She may have made things better. She may have made things worse. He may die for her sooner than he had in this life, who knew? But she did know that she’d given them a chance. A chance to be happy, and a chance to love. A chance to live, together.

The old woman settled down in her bed, a contented smile lingering on her lips. She thought back on her long life, her many loved ones, her happy moments and her sad ones, and knew, in the end, that she was lucky. Lucky to have known him, and to have loved him at all, no matter how bittersweet it may have been.

She closed her hazel eyes one last time, and after the briefest moment of nothing at all, Buffy once more found herself in a place where she was warm. And she was loved.

And she was finished.



END