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chapter eleven – buffy

She brushed the long thick strands of gold hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears as she leaned forward to see her shimmering reflection beneath her. Buffy's heart fluttered as a rainbow spilled onto her legs while her feet danced on top of the riverbed. She'd been sitting on its banks for an eternity, studying its ripples as they flowed by. It was a mysterious place – this quiet red lake with its pale pink and white roses floating on top of sun-streaked orange waves. She yearned to swim in this juicy sea.

The cold swept over Buffy, saturating her body from the top of her damp head to the moist ends of her toes and fingertips. A madly comforting chill was spreading through her, settling itself into her bones and behind her eyes. It seeped into her pores and pushed out through the frozen sweat on her brow. Buffy had never forgotten being dead, especially after the second time. But this was the first time she could remember dying.

She wanted to jump up, scream, and never stop – never stop screaming. If she screamed loud enough, long enough, no one would have the courage to talk to her about anything ever again. Or, ask her to do anything ever again. Or, force her to pay attention to their problems, their worries, their lives. She would no longer be a hero, a slayer or most certainly not one of Angel's beloved champions. She'd exist in a room filled with the sound of her own screams, and they'd become her lifeline to peace, quiet and…

She was only twenty-five freaking years old, and she was dying again!

For what? She needed to know why, to understand. Almost dead again, she choked silently. And why?

It had to be a dream. This has to be a dream.

Then suddenly her chest heaved, or at least she tried to will her chest to heave, to move, to stretch up, collapse down and then up again because that meant breathing, which meant life. Except it was too hard. She so wished it was easier. Though nothing about being Buffy had ever been easy.

Not now, not yet, please, God. Not yet. Not again. Her brain's rambled thoughts were an anguished plea as she felt the pressure of death resting its weight decisively upon her chest.

Can you feel us, Buffy?

Thoughts were coming to her out of the dark.

Yes, but I don't want to.

Smoke, dust and life – yes, life – wrapped in black leather. They were there. Angel and Spike. Spike and Angel. Nearby. Close to her and to each other. Could she touch them? If she'd been capable of moving, she'd caress their faces. Tell them it was okay. Tell Spike…

The weight pressed down on her chest again, heavy, solid and strong. She screamed within herself.

No! I am only twenty-five years old!

She remembered she'd reached out for Willow, to free her from the portal's clutches. But a barrier, a wall of pain stopped her. All of a sudden, Buffy was on the floor, lying next to Spike with pain in her body so intense, she felt numb all over. She'd said something to him, her mind refusing to give up on Willow, but the Noise and the pain were swallowing her whole. Then abruptly, the Noise ended and in the silence, the pain exploded.

Her body was nearly useless now but somehow her mind was connected to the two vampires nearby. She could feel Angel and Spike. They were in her thoughts. No really, deeply infused into her thoughts. Spike, he was praying. Literally, calling upon deities and idols, and the Powers That Be to help her. How could that be? Can demons pray? She wondered. Such a silly question, Buffy frowned inwardly. He could try; nothing could stop him from trying. Dear Spike, he was so…complicated.

Her demons – her souls. They stood guard, waiting. Of course, Angel wasn't praying. He wasn't even afraid. He was solemnly angry – pissed beyond reason. With only one simple thought on repeat in his head: “Don't die. Don't die.”

Then Buffy sensed another mind within her own.

The easy giggle of a woman's voice she recognized as Lillie's was racing around the room like a rubber ball gone mad. Except there was no funny here. Just Buffy dying – again, she wanted to cry.

No, not dying. The voice said. Just becoming…more.


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“Spike!” Angel was angry and frustrated. He was watching something he'd never planned to see ever again. Buffy dying; she was dying in front of him.

“Spike!” Angel practically screamed this time. Spike was nearly deaf. Angel had figured that out after the vampire had collapsed to the floor appearing more dead than usual when he couldn't hear Buffy's faint heartbeat, making its small attempts at life. Angel suspected that the Noise had damaged Spike's hearing. It had hurt him, too. But his makeshift earplugs helped.

Now he was dealing with Buffy's wounds and Spike's panic-stricken dark blue eyes boring into him whenever Angel said a word. He'd had to repeat several times that Buffy wasn't dead. She was still alive. Barely, but her heart was beating. Though each time Angel said it, he could only wonder how long much longer that would remain the case.

They'd had no choice but to bring her up to his apartment. The Noise had destroyed the clinic and most everything else in the building. Oddly, Angel's apartment had escaped the destruction untouched. He didn't know where Wes and Gunn were. He certainly had no idea of Fred's whereabouts. He'd left her in a clinic bed. No sign of Lillie, either. And there was no doubt from what he'd witnessed that Willow was no longer within the dimension the LA branch of Wolfram and Hart called home. Frankly, from what Angel could sense, nothing was alive inside Wolfram and Hart except for Buffy and her faint heartbeat, it was a dead, barren place.

Once inside Angel's apartment, he and Spike had immediately set to work, treating the unexplained gash in Buffy's side. Angel couldn't figure out what had struck her or what she'd hit to cause such an ugly wound. But as soon as he'd leapt into Wes' office, the smell of her blood was overpowering.

Lifting Buffy's small body from the floor of Wes' office, Angel had wanted to walk right out of the building, find some other location to regroup, find Wes and Gunn, and return with reinforcements to find Fred and free Willow . Spike would have followed him out if he had Buffy, so no problem there. But, of course, they couldn't get out of the building. All exits were sealed. Typical Wolfram and Hart security. As he'd experienced a few years before, W&H defended attack by entrapping its employees. The company's safety procedures didn't include an employee evacuation plan. Just like the old Los Angeles branch, this branch's foolish system preferred its employees dead (or zombies). Damned risk-management. Now, here it was fucking with Angel again.

As Buffy lay in Angel's bed Spike stood stiffly in the doorway of the bedroom like a statue incapable of changing its focus. He was staring at Buffy, his entire body attuned to the Slayer's small attempts at breathing. Angel knew he couldn't hear her, but he was trying with all of his senses to feel her. Angel sensed that.

He looked at Spike and said softly, “I sometimes forget you're dead.”

“What?” Spike finally tore his eyes away from Buffy's face and looked into Angel's eyes. “She's still alive.” Spike spoke loudly, but not so much asking a question but stating what his senses had told him, figured Angel.

“Yes, but not for long,” he responded.

“What did you say?”

“Spike, I've got to go and get something. Stay here. Stay with her. Stay close. Stay near her. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”


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Does love really stop? Does it end? Can't be right. She'd loved Angel with more passion, more soul, and more texture than anything she could ever imagine weaving or spinning in her dreams. She'd worshipped the sacrifice of loving him. He was the essence of love gone horribly wrong.

Her mind and memories were twisting through dimensions as she was called, summoned to the end of her life. She didn't want to go yet. No matter what. She had to stay for Spike. He was important. He was…different, and her need for him was what had brought them together in the dream. She knew that had to be what had happened. She'd wanted him in this dimension and in the other place. It struck her that her need for Spike had always had a lot to do with colors – the color of his eyes, his translucent skin, and his oftentimes-white hair. He was light and dark in cellophane, barely concealing the blackness that was underneath, the darkness that was his demon. Even with a soul, she could always find his monster. No matter, though. She was Color, the conduit. The soul of the Seven Wiccas. She heard Lillie's voice claim her spirit.

Buffy opened her eyes. She'd been lingering in the in-between place where she couldn't remember being any place other than where she lay now. Except, she was no longer unconscious. She was awake, and it was time to go.

Soft voices told her that Willow was all right. Fred was okay. And Lillie needed her right away. Her sisters had gathered with the elder Lilith, and were waiting for her. Calming thoughts, if the Slayer chose to believe these voices. But in her soul, Buffy knew this was bad. Worse than she'd ever imagined. She was not going die, though. She was ‘Color' – the fifth of the Seven Wiccas, and they had called her to them. And she had to get up – now – to meet them.

Spike. Oh God, Spike was in the way.


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