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Author's Chapter Notes:
Plainsong lyrics by Robert Smith of The Cure
Sometimes you make me feel
Like I am living at the edge of the world.
(Like I am living at the edge of the world.)
It’s just the way I smile, she said.

Plainsong, The Cure


Willow booked a flight to Paris online right away. Kennedy didn’t have to say whether or not she was happy about the trip. She spent the better part of an hour humming “Come What May” from Moulin Rouge while Willow finalized their plans. By 2 a.m., Xander was driving them to Gatwick, complaining the entire time about the fact that they never made travel arrangements for the sane, rational people of the world.

Buffy and William had dusted another pair of vampires in an alley near a Leicester Station. The streets were empty by now. All the tourists had long tucked in, and the natives, with the exception of random ravers and dealers, avoided this area due to chance contact with said intrusive tourists.

“Shall we go again?” William said. He leaned against the whitewashed wall. “Think I’m getting a second wind.”

Buffy crossed the alley. She placed her hand on his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm. She looked up at him.

“It’s late,” she said. “We should call it a night.”

William fell still. She stepped closer, then reached for him. Reached to kiss him.

He put his hand up to stop her.

“What is it?” she said. Her voice was soft. He felt the warmth of her breath on his skin, and his new ability to breathe abandoned him.

She laughed, lightly. But he was not smiling.

“Will,” she said.

“Don’t. Unless you mean it, please don’t,” he whispered.

Buffy reached again. Again he pulled away. She took his arms in her small yet capable hands and pinned him.

“Let go, William,” she whispered.

He searched her face with his eyes. She looked about as playful as she was serious. He gripped her arms at the elbows and eased her back.

William bowed his head then, to almost touch her forehead.

“If I let go, I’m gone,” he told her, evenly. “Understand? No turning back. You know me.”

Buffy raised her fingers to trace the scar above his eye. She followed the line of his cheekbone to his lips.

“Good,” she whispered. She cupped his chin and drew him down to her, but waited. Waited, with her eyes closed, for him to reach for her.

William resisted for one second more before everything came crashing down.

~*~

They kissed lightly at first, but it was clear that would not do. Later, neither would be able to recount how they made it home. The moment they were inside, the tore at each other. They bumped against tables, almost up-righted Willow’s English ivy. They managed to take the stairs – god knows how – but the whole time, he was doing things to her, touching her. Clothes were clearly in the way.

Into the bedroom. Both shirtless now, working comically to remove pants; his, hers, didn’t matter. In the way.

Buffy pulled him to the bed, taking his hands in hers. He watched her eyes, the subtle changes in them. She was there with him, watching him. Her gaze burned right through him.

He knelt on the bed. She drew herself around him. Astride, eyes level with his, but not yet joined.

William lifted the hem of her undershirt, frilly thing, may as well have been paper. He drew it slowly up the length of her arms, over her head, loving the way it ruffled the fringe of hair that framed her face. She brought her arms down, skimmed her nails along the lines of shoulders, down the arch of his back. Her hands came to rest there, and she waited again.

He was aware of his breathing. The way it hitched now in his throat. The way he raced to catch it when she touched him.

Buffy nipped his ear. Her breath, his skin.

“Let go, William,” she breathed. “Let it happen.”

But he fought to control, to keep control. He recalled with aching clarity how their love – no, his love, her need – had once destroyed everything that it touched. No.

“Yes,” she said. She moved her hands to his shoulders. “Yes. William.”

He buried his face into her neck. Sank his teeth, not fangs, into flesh. Buffy cried out. It was maddening. He could taste her.

She found his eyes again. “Do it,” she said. “Let go. Be with me.”

He brought his body to meet hers. For a moment, he looked down at the place where their bodies met, this nexus, this fulcrum of their being. It was different now. All different.

William ran his tongue along the sweep of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the cup of her throat where rested the silver cross, twin to the gold one he wore.

She moved to meet him, brought her body to fit his. She ran her hands through his hair, over the arch of his spine. Chills spread over his skin. This, he knew, was what it meant to be alive, to be vulnerable to this touch. He fought to breathe. He brought his mouth to hers, meeting the need to devour, to drink her in. Teeth and tongue and blood. It wasn’t enough. Not enough...

Buffy parted their kiss. She pinned him with her eyes. “There you go,” she whispered. She nodded, breath rising in chest.

William swept her backward, eyes never leaving hers. He moved and she met him. Every breath they breathed together. Every heartbeat, matched.

William knew that what he sought, he found. This completion. Still, he held on, lacing his fingers in hers. Buffy curved against him, drawing into his arms. He felt the blood rushing in his ears, running its course, coursing... until he broke within the circle of their joining.

His molecules hummed. The objects around him – table, lamp, dresser – they all stood out in sharp focus. Never had he felt so alive. Not in his life before, not certainly in death.

After a long silence, Buffy was the first to speak.

“Well, now? How do you feel?” she asked. Her voice was gruff and full of sexy.

He said, “Strong as a kitten. Upgrade from small white mouse.”

She laughed. She stirred beneath him, sending fresh ripples of chills down his chest.

“We didn’t destroy anything,” she said. “Kind of a first for us.”

“Not true,” William said. “I think we wrecked the shrubs.”

“Ugh. Not the shrubbery,” she said. Buffy brushed her hands over his hair. She may have had something to say, but he stopped her mouth with a kiss. He wasn’t quite ready to part from her yet.

Buffy arched her brow. “What are you all smirky about?” she said.

He smirked.

“Oh, is that right?” she said.

“That’s right, luv,” he said.

Buffy drew her arms around him. It was going to be a long night.





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