Sharp cold reality surrounded her on the streets of Sunnydale, bright and dark all at once. Impenetrable and distant, yet so natural to everyone else. She’d been in peace for too long, now she couldn’t bare the endless horror of everyday life. How could they find meaning in this existence? She knew she had once, but she was young then. Buffy was twenty one years old. She felt a thousand lives press and burn behind her eyelids, and knew she was still young. And they expected her to be. She’d faced horrors most people couldn’t imagine, killed her first love and grown up in a moment of determination. And still she’d been young. Hopeful. Even happy at times. She had been forced to become strong, learnt how to find happiness and meaning. She had carried so much, but then it had all been lifted from her shoulders. Peace had filled her veins and for the first time content, she had rested. But then it came hurling back, urgency and pain, fear, longing…life. She had braced herself from the pain, even managed to block all of her feelings. And now she had to fight to have them back. Because nothing was worse than being empty. She would even welcome pain.

So she gave in to what could make her feel again. She felt. But she knew it wasn’t right. She should be strong and righteous, and he was so wrong…Evil. And she knew he loved her, no matter what her friends thought, she knew he did. And she was wrong for wanting to see his eyes shine with adoration, wrong to want him close. She wouldn’t return it. She couldn’t…? He was the bad guy. But she couldn’t keep using him. That was wrong too.

Buffy walked down the streets holding a piece of paper, labelled “New Rentals”. Her big scary enemy…was three dorks. Nothing seemed important anymore. How hard could they bring down the world? Why should she care? She was too detached. Buffy tried to pull together, find a reason. The streets were dark, everything perfectly surreal symmetry. The lawns were all mowed, lit by the warm glow of the lamp posts. Cubic white identical houses all seemed to fit in so well along the streets. Inside black gloves her hands squeezed the paper, a black knit cap braced her from the cold. Her leather jacket comforted her. Sighing, she glanced at the paper, frowning slightly and looking from the paper to a dark littered alley. Abandoned cars, litter bins and containers lined the street, as well as junk and bushes. Buffy started walking towards the alley, when she felt the presence of a vampire. Desperately trying to calm, she turned to face him. “Spike.” She hated the tiny tremor in her voice. He looks so…no. He looks evil. Evil is what he looks. Evil and bad. Bad and evil. Not irresistibly irresistible or oh-God-so-hot or I’d-jump-you-right-nowish or…crap. She couldn’t stand his gaze, so she stared down at her shoes.

“Why are you here?” she asked softly, wishing she had the strength to be rude. Wishing that for a moment she could be angry with him, wishing she wouldn’t feel this…

“Buffy, behind you!” Spike yelled.

She spun around blocking the punch from a bald waxy-looking demon. It’s eyes were glazed and reddish, it’s skin sickly white. It was covered in a leather coat, and it seemed to have tentacles around its neck. No, wait. That was the fashion mistake of a collar.

“Oh. Hi.” Buffy said, kicking the demon in the chest causing it to stumble backwards. “You didn’t by any chance happen to just eat a couple of nerds, did you?”

Growling, the demon advanced again. It took a swing at Buffy and she ducked, meanwhile Spike had moved around them facing the demons back. He threw his arms around the demon, which shot a thin bony stinger out of its knuckle and slid it into Spikes arm. The vampire groaned loudly, his arms lost their grip as he slid down on the ground with a soft thud. Buffy stood up and threw a punch at the demons face, but it anticipated her move and shoved its stinger through her shoulder. She gasped as the world suddenly lost focus.


***

He was strapped to a bed, thrashing from side to side, screaming and sobbing.

“Where’s that tranquilizer?” A white clad nurse yelled, desperately trying to hold down the struggling man in the bed. “Oh, come on William, don’t be such a bitch” she mumbled under her breath, reaching out for the syringe and pressing the needle into his arm. He writhed and moaned, back arching, until finally the medication calmed him into sleep. The nurse sighed and wiped a strand of hair off her face.

She turned to her co-worker, “Boy, if this guy gets any worse, we’ll run out of medication.”

The second nurse rolled her eyes, “Yeah. He’s a real nutcase, that one. Coffee?”

The two nurses started walking towards the diner, when a piercing scream echoed in the hospital. The women looked at each other, “Summers again huh? Weird that the two of ‘em always have attacks at the same time.”

***

Buffy opened her eyes. She was sitting, hugging her knees in the corner of a white room. Sharp white light almost blinded her. Buffy glanced down and saw loose white clothes covering her body. Her hair hung over her face, tussled and dishevelled. Her feet were bare against the cold floor. At her side was a bed, all white except for the leather restraints across it. Two male nurses held her arms firmly; a man in doctors clothes sat on his heels in front of her. His dark face seemed to be the only thing not shining with a bright painful light, the only thing soothing. He inspired a strangely familiar and safe feeling.

“Buffy?” he said, “Buffy, can you hear me?”

“What is this?” She whispered, fear evident in her eyes.

The doctor watched her closely, “do you know where you are, Buffy?”

She stared at him in confusion, what was going on? “Sunnydale” she whispered. Something was wrong. She knew it even before he spoke. Her body tensed as to shut out the blow she knew was inevitable.

The doctor shook his head in compassion, “No, none of that’s real, none of it. You’re in a mental institution. You’ve been with us now for six years. Do you remember?”

Buffy looked at him with confusion…six years? But that couldn’t…she…but…she was in a mental institution? She wasn’t in Sunnydale? How? She stared at the doctor who started to reach out for her. Flinching, she tried to crawl deeper into the corner. Her life wasn’t real? She turned away form the doctor and started banging her forehead against the wall. Go away, go away, go away…I’m real! …I’m real? Please…? I’m real…


***

Spike slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on something soft, a bed, he realized. He tried to move his arms, but they were stuck at his sides. He glanced down and saw that his arms and legs were restrained to the bed. Where am I? Why am tied to a bed? His head felt light, and little black dots danced in a very annoying way just in front of him. He felt a warmth spreading across his face and chest; with a sharp intake of breath he realized it was the sun. Spike started panicking and writhing, trying to get away from the sunrays. He couldn’t move, but suddenly he noticed there was no pain, no smoke, no bursting into flames. Awed, he stared at his hands, and suddenly felt the urge to check for a pulse. He kept silent and tried to hear a heartbeat, but couldn’t decide if what he heard was just wishful thinking or something else. He sighed, and got an idea from the sound it had caused. He held his breath, but at a certain point he just couldn’t hold it anymore. He had to breathe. He could feel his heart thumping faster. He was alive.


***

Warm tears trailed down her cheeks. Her hair hung loose over her face, closing out the clinically white walls. The hospital smell reminded her of death, made her nauseous and tense. If this was a dream, or a hallucination, or whatever…why didn’t she wake up? Why hadn’t anyone shaken her out of her sleep? Was it really true? Was she insane? So messed up she had created her own world, where she was a hero who saved the world at a regular basis. It didn’t make sense. Not the life she’d lived…but this? Insane Buffy in a mental institution? She couldn’t understand…

“Miss Summers?” A woman cut off Buffy’s thoughts. She extended a smooth well manicured hand, and tilted her head when she spoke again. “I’m Doctor Hill, do you remember me?”

Buffy frowned. “Not really…” she whispered. She wondered why she suddenly felt so shy. This wasn’t even real…?

“I’ve been your doctor for three years, and you and I will be meeting a lot from now on.” Dr. Hill’s blue eyes were warm and friendly, and reminded Buffy of the expression her mom used to save for the times when she’d been in need of comfort.

Buffy closed her eyes and tried to fight back the tears. She felt so insecure, so weak…Everything she’d been sure of was gone. And this wasn’t a dream? Only one way to find out. Trembling, she pinched her left arm hard. “Ow.”

***

“William?” The doctor asked, careful to keep his voice low and soothing as to calm the shivering man who sat staring at the wall, “William, do you know where you are?”.

The man turned his head with a snap, his blue eyes expressing pure confusion. “Sunnyhe--uh, dale. Sunnydale.”

The doctor sighed patiently. “William?”

Spike stared at the doctor. “How do you…? My name, I…The slayer put you up to this?” His eyes glazed with hope and desperation, Spike tried to cling to what he’d been relying on for a century. I’m dead. I’m a vampire. Right. Vampire with a pulse.

“William? You’re in a mental institution. You’re not a vampire, and neither Sunnydale nor the slayer is real. They exist merely in your imagination.”

“No. I--But… Buffy?” He pleaded. His heart thumped loudly, the unusual sound making him shiver with distress. His world was shaking around him, coming undone even faster as he tried to hold on.

“I’m sorry. She is a part of your illusion.”

Sobs overtook his body as the words started sinking in. This was worse then when she died. At least, then he had the memories. But now…Now this doctor told him she had never existed? Spike stood up shakily. “I want to go back. Don’t care if she’s real or not. Just take me back.”

***

Spike stared at the white ceiling. He felt numb. The restraints itched from the sweat caught under them; his arm ached slightly where the syringe had pierced his skin. The tears had dried on his face, he felt as though his life had left with them. The thoughts overwhelmed him, he didn’t know which memories were real and which were pure insanity. Each one of them felt so real…Technicolor and raw hurt, loneliness, fear and ecstasy. He wondered how he had been able to fit in more then a century in less than six years. He must have a bloody huge imagination.

She didn’t know when she’d realized it. It wasn’t a conscious thought or a moment of clarity. No eureka. It had sneaked it’s way into her, slowly nested in her mind. Filling her with despair darker than she’d ever known. This was real. This world, not the other. Not Sunnydale, not the chosen one, not…not her friends. None of it. Only this. Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch the wall above the clinically white covers of the bed in which she sat. The hand didn’t pass through the wall. She let out an uneven breath, or maybe it was a sob. She’d been sure when she went to sleep that she would somehow wake up in her own bed. In her usual life. But she awoke to a nurse’s bright voice, friendly chatting while opening the Venetian blinds and letting in the harsh and bright light of reality. The nurse hadn’t expected an answer, and Buffy didn’t feel like shattering more dreams. Didn’t want to hear all the things that had ceased to be true. Tears were stuck in her throat, aching and making her nauseous. She felt so cold. Buffy sighed and got under the covers, closing her eyes with a sigh. She tried not to think, tried to brace herself from the questions. She was slowly rocked into blissful warm sleep as the thoughts lost their grip on her mind.

Buffy heard the door open with a soft pop, and almost started crying at the sound. She didn’t want to fight this fight anymore, why couldn’t it just be simple for once? She knew that the moment she opened her eyes her thoughts would come rushing back, and she’d do anything to keep that from happening. But it was too late, she was already awake.

“It’s time for your medication Buffy” The nurse said. She walked into the room and placed the tray with medications on a white bedside table and turned to Buffy. “Doctor Hill wants to talk to you after breakfast”

***

Spike would have been comfortable living a lie. He’d done that for a century. Unlived, that is. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just been strapped to a bed for a couple of years. The restraints were still holding him down in the bed; the itching had turned to a numb ache during the night. The pale morning light fell through the Venetian blinds in stripes over his face. He’d lost the concept of time. Maybe it was early in the morning, or maybe it was noon. He hoped this wasn’t tomorrow, but it might as well be. And what did it matter anyway? Not like he had anywhere to be, anything to do, anyone who waited for him. The medicine must still be working, because the painful lump in his throat hadn’t returned, and nothing stung behind his eyelids. But there was a faint pressure, a light tickle spreading trough his skeleton. He’d felt that before. Apathy or depression making his inside itch. And he knew the tears would come.

***

Spike’s nose seemed attached to his knees. The soft white pants were moist in uneven circles on his knees. His butt had fallen asleep on the worn soft covers on the hard soothing bed. Sobs that he denied came in quick hard pants as he tried to keep them in his chest. His sodding nose was running and his world lay in crumbles on the sheets. The illusion that was all he’d ever known had lost its color and left his throat pounding with swallowed tears. Insecurity, that’s all it was. Inferiority complex twisting him until he had his own personal hell to punish himself in. And he’d been ruthless. When he sat in the doctor’s office he’d been shaking like a leaf, and he still quivered. It had all been so clear to Dr Jacob Stephens behind his desk. He’d looked at Spike with calm compassionate eyes while acid dripped down behind the blue eyes of a lunatic whose world just got pulverized. And the doctor told him to forgive himself. He’d snorted or sobbed or screamed, turning away from the warm comfort that was crushing his entire existence. He knew this was real. It was callous and cruel and too difficult, but it was real. And he had to forget all he’d ever known, forgive and forget. Make room for reality. “You have to rid your mind of that world”

***

Buffy sat in a soft green armchair, facing Doctor Hill behind a dark wooden desk. She couldn’t meet those eyes again, she knew it would make her cry. She stared at the wall above the Doctor’s head, it was filled with diplomas. Her feet were cold and still bare. She positioned them on the armchair as well, drawing her knees up to her torso and hugging her legs in a unconsciously defensive position. The office was warm and cosy, making her feel at home. The feeling confused her. It contrasted so strongly to what she felt inside, the tumult and chaos that whirled in her. She kept trying to label what she felt. Confusion. Fear. Horror. Safety. Even relief. There was no balance, no sense to it. At times she felt blank. Grey and empty and apathetic. And at other times she felt as though she would be torn apart by the uncertainty and insecurity. She wished someone could just tell her what was real, wished she wouldn’t have to decide…

A high-pitched signal made Buffy jump; Doctor Hill sent her a little smile as she picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh, you can send them right in. Thank you.” She turned to Buffy, still smiling in a comforting manner. “I know this is overwhelming, Buffy. And that’s okay. It’s okay to be confused.”

Buffy looked down. She didn’t know what to say. No, I’m fine. Smash my life, shatter my dreams, tell me everything I’ve known is a lie, and I’ll be fine. I’m not overwhelmed. Everything I’ve known, I made up. The person I thought I was isn’t real, I made her up. All those years I struggled to survive, learn things, find a meaning…I spent those years strapped to a hospital bed. And this is okay? It’s okay to feel weird? Good. Cause I kinda do. The grip on her legs tightened, as if she could hold her feelings together by curling up. And her feet were cold.

“Look who’s here” Doctor Hill told Buffy with a growing smile, and motioned to someone behind Buffy to come in. Buffy closed her eyes for a second, trying again to pull herself together. She slowly turned her head. A gasp escaped her involuntary, tears burning behind her eyelids. Her parents stood in the doorframe, her father’s hand on her mother’s shoulder. They looked like they belonged together, trusted and loved and would never let go of each other.

A soft smile lit up Joyce’s features. “Hi sweetie”

Buffy drew a shaky breath, and managed to whisper “Mom?”

“Oh, baby, you’re really here” Her mother’s eyes glazed with tears and she looked agonizingly hopeful. She squeezed Hank’s hand and then walked up to sit on her heels in front of Buffy. Hank followed her and crouched behind her back, hands on his bent knees.

She didn’t believe it. Shouldn’t get her hopes up. This might not even be real. She shouldn’t hope…But she looked so much like her mother. And talked like her mother. Buffy had missed her so much…What if this was real? What if Joyce had never died? And her father was crouched behind Joyce’s back, hands on his bent knees, concerned yet hopeful look on his face. What if he had never left? Her mom and dad were still together…?

“Dad?” She whispered.
“Sweetheart ... we've missed you very much. Honey, can you hear me?” Hank said, voice calm. She could see how he struggled not to get his hopes up, how used he was to disappointment. She knew she must’ve caused them unbelievable pain through this…illness.
The tears that had been stuck in her aching throat now wet her cheeks and dripped heavy on her chest. She tried to hide them, stop them from coming with her hands. She’d dreamed of this for seven years. She shouldn’t be crying.

***

A strangled sob broke the lonely silence. The room was white and so empty his eyes could never rest. He kept remembering things and people he’d never see again, kept trying to understand he shouldn’t be missing them, because he’d never met or done or seen any of it. Her face kept penetrating his thoughts, kept smiling that loving smile he’d never seen on her lips. Spike wondered why he even missed it. The love. That torturous ache in his throat, the light squeeze on his silent heart every time he thought of her. It wasn’t even gone. He’d still do anything for her, even though there was no her. Strange, to be in love with a figment of your own imagination. I must be bloody self-centered.

Time passed so excruciatingly slow when all you had to occupy yourself with was thinking. It was boring. Slow and dull for as long as you could fight off the thoughts, and when you couldn’t: filled with horror. This was breaking him down, worse than any torture he’d ever been through…and, right. He’d never been through torture. Have to forget, have to free myself…illusions, that’s what it is. Have to forget…

The door opened, he couldn’t muster enough feeling to be annoyed that no one ever knocked. And after all, he was used to it. A nurse stepped in; he couldn’t tell if she was the same as last time. They all seemed too grey and dangerous. “William” she said softly, and he couldn’t help but notice the compassionin her eyes, “the dinner is served, do you feel like eating with the others?”

“Um” He looked down on his naked feet. Did he feel like meeting the rest of the loonies? What would they be like? Drooling and covered in straitjackets? But being alone with nothing but his thoughts seemed worse, so he mumbled a silent “yeah”. When did he become so timid?

***

Buffy walked down the corridor, eyes on the nurse’s back. She wondered when they’d give her shoes. Maybe she’d never get shoes. Maybe some patients were violent and would use shoes as a weapon. Maybe there was a way to kill yourself with shoes. But she could at least have socks? Or maybe you could strangle people with socks, or stuff them down the throat and suffocate. Maybe I should just eat on my room. Her heart jumped slightly as she caught sight of a tall, dumb-looking man slowly walking in a rocking kind of way between two nurses. She took a deep breath and tried to calm. The nurse turned around a corner, and she got full view of the corridor. A man stood frozen in a stare a few feet in front of her. The world around her lost its colors, and all she saw was him. He wore the same loose white clothes she did. Dark hair in playful curls, blue eyes wide and shocked like her own must be. Even without the bleached hair and annoying smirk, he was still the same. “Spike” She whispered inside a gasp.

He forgot about forgetting. She was here. She was real. And tears trailed down his cheeks without grace or dignity or shame, and he saw those tears glistening on her cheeks too. His eyes never left hers, and suddenly her arms were around him, his face in her hair and her breath on his neck. The world twisted and liquefied and slipped around them, but she was here. He didn’t care what shape the world took, because she was here, and his face was in her hair and her breath on his neck and she sobbed and he sobbed and they were together. Together.

She’d missed his arms. They were wrapped around her just tight enough to not let her fall apart, tight enough for her to hear her heart beat against his ribcage. She whispered his name over and over, her tears mixing with his on their cheeks. Her lips chanted his name tightly against his warm skin, bathing him in tears of relief. She held him as tightly as she could. He was solid and real and so soft. Confusion and thoughts would have to wait, because his arms were made of comfort, and she knew his face like it was her own. She’d traced it with her fingers in secrecy, loved it in her dreams and beaten it when they were awake. She knew those blue pools where his feelings swam unashamed an screamed to her even when his lips refused to. And she knew the lips that moved in her hair. Knew how they felt on her own, and far too well how their absence left hers lightly tingling at first, and achingly lonely when her conscience kicked in. She knew all of him in her mind, all the lines and curves, the soft and hard and dangerously vulnerable…her arms tightened around him, and she could feel each one of his breaths in her spine. Her heart shivered with the soft warm ache of safety as she nuzzled her face to his neck, silently placing feather light kisses on his bare skin. Time, reality, fear, loneliness…it all slipped away as they sighed and melted into each other.

***

They struggled. Fierce and wild and desperate, they fought with the strength of pure panic. The nurses that tried to pull them from their embrace suddenly had no problem imagining them as warriors. Orders, requests, and even pleas were shouted through the white corridor. But the couple in the middle of it all heard nothing but each other’s breaths, saw nothing but each other’s eyes and felt nothing but the air between them. Tears wet their bodies and shadows gleamed in their eyes, until syringes pierced their skin and weighed down their eyelids. Slumping limply into the hands of the nurses, the couple lost their heroic glow and became once more only two broken children in a hard world.

***

Spike sat shivering in a green armchair in Dr Stephen’s office. He tried not to stare at her, but he had to constantly reassure himself she was there, really there. She sat just beside him, hugging her knees in an armchair just like his. He’d be able to touch her, if only he reached out his hand. Her hair hung limply over haunted eyes, the soft white clothes made her look fragile. His heart ached with every shaky breath she drew, and still he could feel his own breaths were the same. He’d woken this morning, numb, exhausted, and covered in yesterday’s tears. He’d been sure she was a dream. But then he’d thought about it, and hope had coursed through his body in thick painful waves. But what if she was just a part of his illness? Would he be forced to fight her back, abandon her? Panic flooded him and dug its harsh claws into his flesh, tearing at him. Spike knew he wasn’t strong enough…he wasn’t strong enough to resist her. If she asked him, he knew he’d give in. Whatever delusions, punishments, whatever torture he’d have to endure…she’d be worth it. It scared him. And then a nurse came chitchatting in with his breakfast, telling him brightly that Dr Stephens expected him and little miss Summers in his office. Spike’s heart stopped, then raced, and pushed his tummy into rebellion. He was terrified and relieved…and shaking with tears. The nurse had tried to comfort him, telling him Dr Stephens wasn’t that bad, nothing to be afraid of. But he was. That doctor held his world. That doctor…could take her away. And what if she didn’t even remember him? And what if she did? What if she was just a trick of his mind, what if she’d just dissolve and float away? Spike glanced at her again. She was still there, her contours sharp and unyielding. Painful happiness pressed in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He had to fight the sobs again. She was really there.

***

Buffy shivered. She knew she must look silly, but it wouldn’t stop. Her brain felt wrapped in cotton. Hope glistened and crystallized in her veins. Cutting or caressing her, she didn’t know which. She didn’t know if souls were real anymore, but hers seemed to tremble. Seemed to have its own will. She felt it push in her chest, wanting to flow out of her and wrap itself around the man who sat just as trembling beside her. I really am insane. But…How could he be here? Real? If he was part of her imagination, and this asylum wasn’t…how could he be here? And which world was real again? If Spike was real, then maybe this wasn’t? Stupid hope was cold, and tasted too much like fear. She tried to fight it, but it just kept growing. Buffy turned her eyes against the doctor, facing him with silent desperation.

“Miss Summers, Mr. Pratt.” Dr Stephens greeted them gently, “I’m glad to see you both.” In almost comical unison, Buffy and Spike lost their breaths. So the doctor could see both of them. They were both…not illusions? Was this the part where Allen Funt popped out of a cake? The doctor looked like the two of them being there, both of them, wasn’t strange in the least. Suddenly she was angry with the doctor, just sitting there, not explaining. Who did he think he was, torturing her like this? He knew he had the power over her, why did he make her wait? She opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly fear and shame raged in her chest. “But why--” She whispered in a small voice, and was cut off by Dr Stephens.

“For reasons that are not clear to us, you and Mr. Pratt, or Spike if you prefer, seem to share your entire delusion ” his face was kind, but the words cut in her flesh and she heard Spike hiss as he strangled his tears. “We have no clue as to what caused this sharing, nor how you’ve managed to adapt your illusions to each other’s and maintain the chain of events that surface in your reality exactly like the other’s. And all without ever having met or interacted in real life. Your case is extremely rare. In fact--” He stared fixedly into first Buffy’s, and then Spike’s eyes, “I’m not sure there is another case like yours.”

Her breath shivered, and caught in her throat again. Funny how breathing never had seemed like a hard thing before. But it was now. Every little thing was different now. She wasn’t sure anymore that if she reached out her hand, she could move it where she intended. In fact, she was sure it’d shake, or just go limp if she tried. Doctor Stephens watched her with an attentive expression in his softly dark face. She felt like a guinea pig. He thinks it’s interesting. Fascinating. Oh, let’s study the crumbles of Buffy’s world! But then she saw his eyes. Gentle, sad understanding. She had to look down again. And the anger returned. Who was he to flash puppy dog eyes at her? How could he possibly understand her? Had he gone through what happened to her? Had he ever had some nice compassionate doctor rip apart the ground he stood on? Had he lived a life full of horror and insecurity, struggling to learn and survive and become happy, only to discover none of it was true? It was like getting up really early, even though you were tired to the bone, brush your teeth and go to school, only to discover your lesson and the big test wasn’t until two hours later. All for nothing. And all the big test? You still had to do it. Only later, and after a long period of waiting. She had to do it all over again. Find something worth living for, figure out who she was, what she wanted. And fight the past. Fight her entire life up until now. Erase it, start over. It was so unfair. And doctor Stephen’s face was still filled with compassion, like he could read her mind. Or maybe it was her immobile face or shaky breaths that told him he’d crushed her world yet again. There were no tears left, but she had to fight off a dry sob anyway. The office seemed both soft and cold, harsh and warm, soothing and filled with bright horror. Confusion embraced her again, still she’d been so certain just hours ago. Her calm seemed to drain, and without even noticing herself, she fumbled to reach Spike’s hand. He jumped slightly, then squeezed her hand with a little sigh.

***

They were led to their rooms by silent white clad nurses. Numbness and exhaustion were all Spike felt now. And emptiness. He couldn’t figure out what was real and what wasn’t, and right now he didn’t care. Maybe nothing was real. The nurse swung the door open and stepped aside to let him in. He slowly entered the sterile white room, and the door shut behind him. Why was everything white? White and steel. He climbed into his bed. The bed end was cold steel, and the covers felt harsh against his skin. He knew they’d warm up soon, but he felt frozen through. Closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep.

***

Spike awoke in the same mood as when he’d gone to sleep. He could hear muffled rustles and footsteps from the corridor. It made him feel like he’d slept over and missed about fifteen years. A knock on the door startled him, but before he could panic a middle aged brown haired nurse’s head peaked in. “So you’re awake now?” she flashed him a hurried smile, “Good, good. Well come on then, breakfast’s on the table” she said, leaving the door open and hurrying away again. He felt like a little child. Shuddering slightly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, putting his bare feet on the cold floor. He’d slept in an ugly hospital gown, the kind that made you smell disinfected. His loose white shirt and pants were carefully folded on the metal chair beside his bed. He sighed and put them on, wishing he’d had something a bit more…personal. Or maybe that was it. He didn’t have much of a personality left, it seemed, and what he had…was that him or the sodding vampire? Well then, impersonal and boring it is. He’d finished getting dressed, and now stood fumbling with the strings in his pants, staring at the door. What now? Would someone come to get him, or should he just walk out himself? He scoffed at the doubts and marched to the door, only to turn as he touched the doorknob. Why was everything like this? Every single, tiny little detail? Hard, and filled with anguish? Walking out through that door just seemed impossible; still, not doing it was just as bad. He took a deep breath, but it stuck in his throat. He held his breath and slowly, shakily exhaled. Damn inconvenient, all this breathing. Made a bloke long for peaceful death again.

Heart thumping loudly, Spike threw himself at the door and stumbled out in the corridor. Nobody looked his way. In fact, there were only two other people in the corridor, just a bit ahead of him. A nurse slowly led a stiff-looking woman with a pale, almost greyish face. She was young, maybe in her twenties, but her eyes were glazed and empty. Spike shuddered and tried to find his courage somewhere. He started to walk, passing the nurse and woman. He guessed the diner was straight ahead, since they’d been walking in this direction yesterday when— she stood in a short line up to the breakfast table, staring at him. “Buffy” he mouthed, and before he knew what he was doing he’d walked up, standing next to her. “You…you okay?” he whispered throatily, tears damming up his throat again. She cast her eyes down, agonized look on her face. “No” she whispered so low he could barely hear her. She stepped closer and slid her arms around him, pressing her eyes shut against his neck as to hold inside the pain.

***

Buffy tentatively reached for the doorknob. Doctor Stephens had told them they were allowed to visit each other. The door slid open easily, almost against her intention. Insecurity harsher than she’d ever felt before made her every breath shake. As if she was cold. Shaking her head at her own fear, she took a step closer. As it always seemed to, the fact that he was real shocked her. Spike…William…sat on his bed, a guitar in his hands. It seemed awkward to her, like he’d never held one before. He didn’t look up from the guitar, but she knew he could still feel her presence. Always could. Maybe he’d just heard her in the door.

“Don’t remember how to play” he told her silently. “They tell me I used to be in a band” Spike chuckled bitterly. Suddenly his eyes met hers, and she felt intensely bare. His eyes made her whole body shiver, somehow making her feel sick. “The band I played in…” his lips tightened. “We used to call ourselves Spike” his eyes quickly moved to stare at his hands.

Buffy didn’t realize she’d held her breath until she let it out in a sigh of sympathy. They’d both had their share of shattered dreams, but this…this was his name. His identity. The one thing you always remember, that never changes. This was the name he’d given himself…And suddenly it had lost all meaning. She stepped in to sit down at his side, slowly putting her arm around him for comfort. She didn’t know if she was comforting him or herself, or maybe both. With a soft sigh she rested her head on his shoulder, and felt peace spread through her limbs as his head came to rest on her own.

***

She knew she was silly lying sleepless listening to his breath. Like new mothers used to listen for their children’s breath, terrified it’d stop. But she remembered a time, fictive of course, when he had no need for it. She’d used to feel embarrassingly uneasy when his breath seized, and finally poke him with a finger in his ribs so those old reflexes kicked in, making his chest rise and fall in a soothing rhythm. She’d used to find it strange he still had those reflexes after all these years. Now she felt the need to make sure he didn’t forget them again.

Buffy stared trough the darkness at the roof. She wondered why she had made herself so unhappy in her own made up world. Maybe she had known all along that some day she’d have to return, maybe she had known it would be now. Maybe she’d tried to prepare herself, tried to make it easier to let go of that world. If that was the case, it didn’t work. The pain of that world constantly interlocked with that of this one, leaving her no chance to forget it. The only way to escape it seemed to be occupying herself with something else. So she ignored her own pain and concentrated on his. She took a strange comfort in soothing him, smoothing the frown on his face and letting him drift off to peaceful sleep. She felt so protective over him, but she didn’t want to think about what that meant. She pushed it away, like she did with the insecurity and doubts. Even when she was the one helping him, he had a way of making her feel safe. It was strange. They didn’t actually know each other, all they shared was insanity. But she couldn’t help but think, didn’t that give them insight? They’d seen the worst of each other, the dreams, the hopes and fears. They’d used, abused and…loved? She quickly shied away from the thought. But she couldn’t help to feel connected to him. He was the only person who knew her the way she did herself. The only person who would accept her past after truly understanding it, and he was the only one she would let in…

She tired of thinking and analyzing and making excuses. She curled up beside him and let herself be embraced by his familiar safety. His warmth was still a little mystery to her. She was used to having him warm up from her, not the other way around. He was a relief to her. The only thing she was still sure of. He was there no matter where she went. Whichever of these worlds were real, he’d always be there. As sleep overtook her thoughts, only one remained. We belong together.

Spike awoke, a nightmare in his eyes, panting, sheets tangled around him. Sweat soaked the fabric, cold now, making him shiver. Making him frozen…But something warm was at his side. Something soft, comforting…”Buffy,” he mumbled, drawing closer to her. Still asleep, she pressed her lips against his, moaning his name in her sleep. She was so warm. This was something he remembered well from his memories that weren’t. Her incredible warmth, that seemed to take over his body whenever she slept at his side. He slid his arms around her, placed a light kiss on her lips and buried his face in her neck. Her breath warmed the top of his head; waves of heat spread through his body with her every breath. His eyelids grew heavy as he fell asleep in her arms. Blood and fangs and horror left his dreams, leaving place for feather light hope. His light snores would’ve made her giggle, if she hadn’t been curled up around him, wheezing all the same.

***

The next day started in chaos. The nurses were scandalised, yes, shocked that the two patients had found a way to subside the rules and sleep in the same bed. Although Buffy was pretty sure she remembered the doorknob being turned and a head peaking in to make a little surprised sound, only to disappear again and tiptop down the hall as to excuse the intrusion. They must’ve been way cute and romantic, and she kinda didn’t mind. She felt a bit light headed. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t have to save the world right now. New, that one. No wrinkly old master, no Frankenstein-like monsters, no bitchy Gods with bad home perms. But no family either. No friends. And no sister to yell at, sacrifice your life for…no sister to kiss on the forehead and wish goodnight, to worry about and love and miss…but she did. She missed her semi-spoiled little sister who’d lived through so much and was still considered fragile, who felt alone in a room full of attentive people that loved her and who still sought attention even when she was the centre of her sister’s world. Buffy had sacrificed her life for Dawn, and then her death. And the girl felt unloved.

A sob broke through Buffy’s body and she missed Spike so intensely she had to slowly rock on her bed, pillow closely clutched to her chest while she tried to push back the sadness with a hand over her mouth. She was afraid that maybe if she let go, she’d wail like a big idiot. And then there’d be the heartbreaking comfort from a compassionate doctor she’d met just days ago, a doctor who’d known her for six years. She was afraid that if she stopped crying, if she was comforted, then this was really undeniably real. And there were no friends, no family, no mission. There was only him. Her sobs died out and were replaced by a slight aching feeling in her chest. There was only him, and maybe she didn’t mind. Maybe things were alright. The sobs returned violently and tore at her body again, but now…now she grieved with desperate finality. Because they really were gone. And this really was real. And there was only him. And she didn’t mind.

***

Spike faced the door shivering, this morning like the one before. Was he supposed to go out for breakfast, or was he…grounded? He gritted his teeth at the stupid thought and took a step towards the door. Buffy’d smiled and brushed her hand over his cheek before she was shooed out by an insistent nurse. He could still feel her touch, ponce that he was. So he slid into the white loose daytime clothes that made him feel like a bloody marshmallow and pushed open the door. The corridor lay empty and white. Maybe he’d missed breakfast.

Spike took a deep breath and started walking down the hall. He managed to turn the right corner and saw the table being emptied of the dishes. A young brunette nurse smiled at him shyly and nodded discreetly against a glass door. He just stared at her, dumbstruck, until her hesitant smile faded. Embarrassed, he shrugged off the stare and flashed her a grateful smile before turning to look in the direction she’d pointed him to. All the noisy feelings that tore in his body calmed as he made out the form of her back through the glass door. Funny how every part of her could amaze him with its beauty. Even her back made him think of poetry and long for his…quill? Oh, bloody hell… Still a poet, as much as he never was.

He walked up to the door, and as he opened it, she turned her head to greet him with her pale glow. She wasn’t pasty, mind you, just the creamy shade of someone who’d spent a long time hiding from the sun. She wore her hair up, just the way he secretly loved it. It exposed her lovely face, showed up those hazel eyes he’d drowned in so many times. But he’d stopped complimenting her before he’d even begun, afraid it’d drive her away. And now…things had changed. Now her hazel pools caught the sun as she saw him, her lips forming a soft smile. He thought he’d die from the joy, because how could this feeling fit in his chest?

“You look like a dream made of silk,” Spike blurted out before the thought reached his brain, and groaned when it did. He didn’t dare look at her, but he couldn’t stand not to. And when he looked at her face, she wasn’t frowning or scowling like he’d feared. She was blushing through a shy smile, eyes shining.

“You mean that?” she asked silently, looking deep into his eyes.

“Yeah, I—uh, I didn’t mean to…I…” Spike panicked, what if she was making fun of him? She couldn’t…they didn’t even know each other. All they knew about each other was on which level of mouth-foaming, bug-shagging craziness they were. Spike studied his shoes with burning intensity.

“You don’t?” Buffy asked, insecurity clinging to her voice they way it had ever since they woke in this world, only now more pronounced.

Spike stared at her. Her expression of hope made his courage grow and his tongue work again. “I…would you mind ‘f I did?”

Her smile returned again. “No” she said happily, “Not one bit”. Her hand reached for his, their fingers entwining and eliciting content twin sighs from the couple. “Spike?”

“Yeah pet?”

“Do you ever…do you miss it? The old world, all the people?” He could see her pain trying to hide in her eyes as she looked down, blinking a few times and looking away from him. He ached for her, for all the suffering she’d been through. He didn’t know how she could be so strong, yet look so frail. Ethereal, soft, and easy to shatter.

“Dunno,” he answered softly, “You?”

“I…yeah. I miss it.” Her gaze stayed absently on the white picket fence that braced the institution from the world. It was a strangely idyllic thing in the home of insane people. Such a contrast. Calm and chaotic…but then again, that seemed to be life now. Boredom or panic, over and over and over…until you were too exhausted to feel a thing. Buffy turned her head and looked into his eyes, serious like he’d never seen her before. Not even in the face of death, she’d looked this…mature. “I miss the meaning, the purpose, the knowing what you’re here for. The mission.” Her lips grew a bitter smile. “Never thought I would, but I do. Sure, it was hard, but at least I knew why.”

She looked away again, exhausted. “Not like I do now,” she said quietly. She turned to him, leaning in and shyly sliding her hands around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. Spike had to stifle the tears that suddenly grew in his throat. It was becoming a habit. But he couldn’t remember Buffy ever being this close to him, without mocking or hating or kissing him. This was different. This was trusting, sincere and insecure—and maybe even affectionate.

“I don’t, you know.” He regretted it the instant her head left its position on his shoulder and her suddenly dark eyes stared into his. “I don’t miss it.” A light frown marred her pretty face at his words, and he cursed himself for placing it there. “They all…nobody…I couldn’t be loved.” he said, eyes burning with unshed tears at the look of pity on her face. He tried to look away, but her eyes wouldn’t let him.

“That’s not true” Buffy said, wearing a small smile in the corners of her mouth, warming his entire body.

But suddenly a world of doubt came crashing down on him. He looked down. “Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured. He looked up when she didn’t answer, only to see tears forming in her downcast eyes. “Doesn’t matter though, does it?” he said. “None ‘f it’s true anyway. None of it happened. And you and I…we don’t really know each other, only met a couple of days ago.”

The tears seemed to walk back into her eyes, building a shimmer that made them look almost feverish. “Yes, we do.” She said with soft clear certainty. “We belong together…William. No matter where we are, in our own world of heroism and punishment, or…here. We belong with each other.”

Spike drew a sharp breath, trying hard not to cry. “You sure?” he whispered, so awed it hurt.

Her soft lips met his in a shower of tears, and he knew. This was right. This was real. It was the way it was supposed to be. And she knew it too.

***

Screw the rules. They were rebels. Snuggly-wuggly rebels, surrounded by pink rose petals in their soft bed. Or maybe not rose petals, but whatever. He was warm and soft and wearing a smile that made her heart ache. His eyes amazed her. The way they spoke his feelings so loudly she got dizzy, they way they saw through her, melted her. She’d used to think they were always blue, but she’d been so naive. In the frail evening light that poured through Venetian blinds, his eyes were grey. And she felt she could look into them forever, drown in them…I’m drowning in you, Summers.

Buffy saw the questions in his eyes, and felt them probe in her own. She wasn’t used to this. She’d never allowed him tenderness before. Used to look at him with disgust, or maybe fear. She’d used to challenge and push him. Never care for, never comfort him. But now…now she just needed him to be happy. Needed him to look at her without pain or longing or even…resignation. She’d seen that. She knew she’d hurt him more times than she wanted to think about, more than she could take. But then again, was that really her, or just his imagination? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. He needed her to heal, and she needed him too. So she asked him to stay, and they curled up around each other. He fell asleep in her arms. They were rebels, sleeping like children.

***

Spike was propped up on his elbow, studying her closely. She smiled at him and said a sleepy “G’mornin’,” with a touch of yawn. His smile grew so intensely loving she lost her breath. His hair was messy in the sweetest way, and she reached out to make it messier.

“Marry me.”

His blue eyes locked on hers, painfully sincere and so vulnerable her heart ached. She let out either a sob or a giggle, maybe both.

Buffy hid her face in his shoulder, and when his silky warm lips started tracing patterns on her neck she wet him with soft tears once again. He couldn’t be serious, but she knew he was. She could feel him tremble, and looking up, she drowned in his eyes again. Before she knew it, her lips were brushing gently against his while she whispered her yes.

Was she insane? Well duh, that’s why he proposed to her in a hospital bed. Her heart tingled hysterically, and joy bubbled in her throat. She needed no romantic dinner or bubbly champagne to marry her insane ex-vampire, so she flung her arms around him and tickled the soft white shirt from his chest. She wondered absent-mindedly how he’d gotten all those yummy muscles when being locked in a mental institution for six years.

And then his hands slid around her waist, making her whimper at the swooping feeling in her tummy. It was everything she remembered, but with a newfound insecurity and a love that still scared her shitless. Smiling, she lowered her head until her mouth was in level with his crotch. Smile growing mischievous, Buffy gripped the lining of his pants with her teeth, pulled away and let the pants snap back. Spike let out a mix of a hiss and a snort at the giggling form at his feet. She was adorable like this, carefree and at the same time awed, not to mention sexy. He tilted his head and smiled at her. Those muscles around his mouth were beginning to get overused. He was happy, he realized. And they were gonna make some more happy. Right. Now.

Spike shifted on the bed, putting a fist on each side of her and crawling up her body until his tongue was on her pounding jugular. A light bite elicited a giggle, that soon turned into moans as he kissed his way down her throat. He tugged lightly at the hem of her shirt, asking for permission, she realized. Buffy sat up and practically tore the shirt off her torso, flinging the shirt far away, and her arms around his shoulders. Desperate to feel his skin against hers. Their lips met for a kiss full of mutual need, and the love none of them had yet spoken in words.

***


The red-haired woman took a deep breath and closed her eyes, revealing a sticky red fluid on her eyelids. A faint yellow light swirled up from the red color, forming a circle and chasing its own tail three times before fading down into the woman’s eyes again. The skin on the eyelids drew away slowly, revealing two wide hazel eyes. The woman gasped, looking up in a foreign white ceiling, before her head convulsed three times and her eyelids turned back to pale skin.

A man rushed forward, yelling her name and softly caressing her cheek. “Willow! Are you alright?” A hint of desperation invaded his voice. The woman looked up on him with teary eyes, her own again. “It’s no use Xander, I—I’m sorry!” She gasped, breaths heavy. “Oh God, Buffy…”

“Willow!”

Buffy awoke by her own agonized cry, soaked in cold sweat, shivering. Her heart beat so quickly, she felt like her body vibrated in the same pace. Hard sobs broke through her body and tore in her throat, until warm arms snaked around her, and soft lips murmured soothing words in her ear. She clung to him, sobbing. He rocked them gently until her cries died down and turned to drained sleep. He lay down, trying to warm her. Their sheets were wet from sweat and tears, chilled by the pale night air.

---

A deep breath, and her shaky legs were forced over the cold white sheets and down onto the floor. Cold, that’s why she shook. That dream or hallucination or…stroke, whatever. It still lingered, making her sanity feel frail again. Like glass. And she was afraid she was just as see-through. She made her way to the bathroom door and reached out a hesitant hand for cold metal that could swing open and reveal a whole different world. She was being silly, she told herself. This wasn’t some stupid Narnia. Should she be expecting to see fur? Probably not, she decided kamikaze-style. Buffy pushed through that silly barrier of trauma, forced her toes to sweep across the chilly bathroom floor until she faced the sharp image of herself in the mirror. See, nothing to be afraid of. Except for the fact that someday in a not so far away future her face would transform into one giant dark bag under her eyes.

Buffy felt sick. And she knew she must be. Because again, she wasn’t sure. Which world? She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to be. Superhero with sore shoulders from carrying the world, or drooling lunatic strapped to a bed? Neither seemed healthy. Now patented sobs grew in her throat, and she wiped furiously at eyes that hadn’t even begun to flood. She was tired of this, tired of not knowing, just crying in that hopeless defeated way. Fury saved her and she breathed out those tears in a shaky sigh. She raised her eyes to the mirror. The gasp seemed to empty her lungs. There, in the mirror. Insanity. Just behind her left shoulder. Willow, face determined and mouth moving in relentless chanting. She could hear it in low whispers now, strange words spoken by a familiar voice.

The world seemed to spin and waver before her eyes. Light swirled in the mirror and reached for her in smoky wisps. She could feel the air growing thinner and a sensation of having something liquid slide off your senses overwhelmed her. Like she was waking up, or breaking the surface of a calm, cold lake…she tried to fight her way out of the bathroom that seemed to fade with each of her panicked pants, because suddenly all she cared about was whether he was fading too. He couldn’t be! He just—he had to be there. Because if she lost him now, now that he’d become the reason and purpose and only thing solid…no. If he faded away now, she knew she’d shatter in a million sharp pieces that no glue was super enough to fix. She needed to cling now. Cling to his arm and be swallowed by safety. Now, please.

The world wavered before her and nausea crept into her panic. Buffy forced her sweaty cold body towards the door and heaved through it at the same time as it stopped existing. Time stopped. Or maybe it just started again. It was like waking up. Like shrugging off your clothes and standing naked in a cold wind. She felt like a smothering cover of air liquefied and slowly ran off her with every quake. Her eyelids seemed to penetrate a heavy fog and at once the world became clear and focused. Sharp. Light. Buffy tried to fight the nausea as she stared into reality. She closed her eyes for just a second and allowed herself to wish she could have had it the other way.


***

Spike pushed through the illusion with a gasp. Felt the scales fall from his eyes, or some bollocks like that. He felt sick and weak, like a wrung-out towel. He lay in a bed, soft and warm. Reality had reclaimed him. This was reality, no doubt. And it crashed down on him. He lost the breath he suddenly didn’t need again. All they’d experienced in the institution…nothing was true. They were back to where they started. He was back to soulless thing. She was back to Slayer. She was again above him, and she felt nothing for him. Nothing except repulsion. That was all he was now. And even if she did need him, he’d be convenient at best. She’d never again let him in, let him be close. She didn’t love him. She couldn’t, because…because he was…bad? Spike swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hardly noticed he was in Buffy’s room, receiving a concerned look from Dawn who stood in the doorway. The room was dark, yet too bright for his eyes. He knew he was crying as he pushed past her, not hearing a word she said, just shrugging off her hands and focusing on moving forward. Buffy never loved you, he tried to convince himself, never has. Get over it, mate. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know how he’d survived before. Spike got down the stairs and through the door without falling. A miracle, since his whole body felt limp and unsteady. His shoulders shook as he hurried into the dark. Where he belonged.


***

“Willow?” Buffy’s voice was smothered against her friend’s shoulder. Willow sniffled and squeezed her best friend a little extra before pulling away.br>

“I was afraid you’d be comatose for all eternity” Willow said throatily, taking hold of Buffy’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re back!”

“Spike?” The question left her lips before she could even think it. Her body hummed with both fear and anticipation for the answer.

“We couldn’t risk taking him to the hospital, since…kinda dead?”

Buffy’s eyes widened in horror.

“But in a live way, of course!” She added. “Dawn’s been taking care of him” Willow smiled reassuringly.

Buffy looked around warily. She was still in a hospital. Things were still white and sterile. “How did you…?”

“Magic.” Willow looked guilty. “I know I said there’d be no more magic, but I couldn’t just…I couldn’t just leave you like that. I’m sorry. It was just…there was no other way. And…” Her eyes widened and she squeezed Buffy’s hand in sudden panic. “I didn’t pull you out of heaven again, did I?”

Buffy flashed her a faint smile. “Not so much, no.” She’d missed Willow a lot, she realized. Even before she went nuts they’d been so distanced from each other. Absorbed in their own problems.

“Phew.”

Buffy squeezed Willow’s hand. “Can we go home now?”

“A-are you sure? I mean, you did just wake up from a coma. Shouldn’t you be resting, a-and having tests and stuff? And jello! You should have jello! There’s no point in hospitals without jello!”

“I’ll survive. “ Buffy said dryly, “Don’t like jello anyway.”

“But! But…jello?”


***

Buffy walked up the stairs and shakily opened the door. Her room looked the same. The only traces of him were the rumpled sheets in her bed. She knew he must’ve left the moment he could walk, not knowing how she’d react to him. She couldn’t blame him, because she didn’t really know either. She was tired of having her world turned upside down, tired of thinking. Tears tickled their way down her face. She was so used to it by now; it made her cry even harder. And she knew. She just wanted to bury her face in his shoulder, no matter where they were. He was safe and soft, and she…she loved him. A little smile broke through the tears, and she got on the bed, curling up around her pillow. It smelled like him. Not cigarettes and leather, just…him.


***

Heavy darkness surrounded her as she sat on the porch, brooding with all her soul. Raw cold had her hugging herself tightly. Or maybe she just felt lonely. Her breaths were shaky again. She could vaguely remember a time when breathing seemed natural. Easy, even. The door behind her opened softly, and Tara’s mild voice asked for permission to join her. Buffy smiled faintly and patted the wood beside her. “Sure. Join the brood-mood. We have cookies. Or we would have, if we bought some. Brooders don’t bake.”

Tara smiled and sat down. “Are you doing okay? Dawn said you and Spike…uh, you shared the illusion?” she said, worried smile forcing up the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, uh…yeah. Yep. Sharing the insanity. That’s us, me and S—yes. Same illusion.” Buffy stared down, tried not to blush or burst into tears.

“So, was it—did he…how…?”

“I don’t know, I just, I…” Buffy stared through the darkness. “When everything else around you crumbles and fades…you hold on to what is left. And I saw him. Him. What he is if you take away everything…I saw what was left.” She turned to look into Tara’s eyes, lips tightening in a strangled smile. “And I love him,” she whispered. Buffy turned her head quickly to stare out into darkness again, afraid of Tara’s reaction. She knew it was…controversial. Hard to grasp. But not wrong, not anymore. It was different now. She was different.

“You should talk to him” Tara said quietly.

“Yeah. I really should.” She turned to Tara and smiled her first genuine smile since reality had ripped through her illusions. “Thank you.”


***

She walked through darkness that fed her insecurity. She hadn’t been afraid of the dark for a very long time. And maybe it wasn’t the dark she feared as she made her way past familiar tombs. It was one of those nights when mist swirled around your feet and you expected vampires to sink their teeth through your soft skin to taste your crimson blood, or zombies to reach warty greenish hands through the soil and close their fingers in a firm grim round your ankle. It was a familiar, safe feeling. Safety was sucked into a black hole as he caught sight of him, leaning against a mausoleum wall, smoking. He tossed away the cigarette and looked up, straight into her eyes. Straight into her core.

“Hi.” She looked at him tentatively, searching for the right words. Words had always been important to him, and she had to do this right. ”Spike, I--”

“You love me,” he interrupted; breathlessly waiting for the rejection he knew would come.

“Wow, color me transparent,” she snapped, mad at him for making this so hard.

“Right.” His features froze. It made him look so fragile. His shoulders rose in a defensive gesture, and he started to move away from her.

Buffy panicked and reached out for his hand. “Spike!” She watched him turn, saw him struggle with his hope. She cast her eyes down; let them rest on the dark ground.

“It was a beautiful dream,” she told him, watching his world crumble and all hope die. Her eyes met his, and she whispered, “Most of it was true.”

He frowned, eyes shining with sudden tears. A faint smile tugged on the corners of her mouth and her face softened. “We belong together,” she said with certainty, soft tears in her voice. Like the ones stuck in his eyes. “I love you.”

A gentle, awed kiss drew their lips together, surrounded by the fading world. Because it isn’t when your world crumbles that it fades. It’s when you don’t need it anymore.


The End