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.