Where There Once was a World

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Summary: "She cannot adjust to the day. It feels wrong to her."; Buffy. Life. Death. Spike.

AUTHOR: Aurora
EMAIL: girl292@hotmail.com
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Buffy, vague Buffy/Spike
SPOILERS: Season 6
DISCLAIMER: I'm not Joss. I get no money from this, just jollies
IMPROV#33: sift - - crawl - - mint - - cross
DISTRIBUTION: Improv, lists, anyone who has permission - otherwise, just ask.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This takes place sometime after the events of 'After Life' and before 'OMWF'
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She dreams of soft light and the warm way that peace slipped across her flesh like new summer rain. There is no sound, just inherent knowledge that all is well. She is alone, but it is okay because she is loved, she is accepted... she is whole.

It's not real.

She hates those dreams the most. Waking slowly, the images lingering, taunting her as she slides back into consciousness to find only harsh reality waiting for her on the other side of her eyelids. She shivers when she wakes fully and the chill of the world settles back in between her joints, making her limbs heavy with a longing she cannot name for fear she will be crushed beneath the unforgiving weight of her pain in the next instant. She has to summon a strength of will, based solely in the force of habit, to crawl out from under the covers each morning. Wading through living air that stings her skin and closing her eyes against colors that seem too bright, too garish to her senses.

Each day she has to struggle to remember where she is, *who* she is. Has to sift through the remnants of a peace that now seems like only the cruel aftereffects of some childish fantasy, searching in vain for an identity that no longer wants her, only to have her palms shredded by the jagged edges of disappointment when all she finds are her friends' misplaced expectations waiting for her in return.

She has tried relying on instinct. Tried letting the Slayer take control to deal with the gaps where Buffy used to live. But it didn't help.

Nothing helps.

She feels like an impostor. A stand in for the real thing. Constantly checking over her shoulder, waiting for the Real Buffy to show up and make things right again, trying to not dwell on the very real terror that spirals through her gut when she realizes that she *is* Buffy. Again. Still.

She tries to tell herself that she just needs some time. Time to adjust. Time to figure things out.

Time to die.

She tries not to think about it. There's too much to do. So much to do. So much noise to drown out the call of the grave that echoes in her empty pulse.

Everyone is depending on her to lead the way. Can't turn back now. Can't go back now. Can't choose for herself.

Can't ever decide for herself. She chose to die. Stupid girl. Fought the good fight, saved the day, gave her gift. And they took that from her too. Made that decision for her as well.

No, Buffy can't die, she still has us to take care of. Let's bring her back. She'll be so glad to be not dead anymore. So glad to not die.

She's so not glad.

She tries to swallow the bitterness down with each mouthful of too hot tea on her tongue. She rolls the sugary mint of the liquid around in her mouth and refuses to stop and wonder why she can't distinguish between the sting of the peppermint and the weight of the six teaspoons of sugar she lumped into the cup to keep her hands from shaking in front of the others.

She tries not to worry about the way she gets lost in her thoughts and forgets that everyone else is still there, still waiting on her. The way the simplest thing can dredge up some long forgotten memory that sends her spiraling off into oblivion amongst scenes from a life she can see in her mind, but can't quite remember ever really living.

She has become a spectator to her own existence.

"Buffy?"

She blinks once. Twice. Three times and the light is too bright. She squints and her eyes cross as a wave of nausea spills over her with the weight of her friends' stares.

She takes a slow sip of her bland tea to try and cover up the fact that she has no idea what they want from her now. She hasn't been paying attention to the conversation since she sat down. Sitting still is the same as thinking about what's happened to her and both are at the top of her 'Don't Go There' list.

The Awkward Silence has arrived to hover over them and she swallows hard against what she wants to say and forces her lips to form other, shallow words for their benefit.

"I'm sorry, wha--what?"

Her mouth feels funny apologizing to them when it should be the other way around. Shouldn't it? Isn't that the proper thing to do when you wrench someone from eternal contentment and leave them gasping for air as they claw their way out of their own grave?

She holds her breath and focuses her gaze on a nick in the varnish of the table top as someone, she can't tell who through the hum of the fog in her mind, answers her.

"Do you want to?"

She has no idea what they are asking of her, but it is not the first time. She does not care to know the details and instead just nods her blank consent, which seems to placate them. She clenches her fists, digging her nails in deep against the persistent itch spreading under her skin, turning away from the last rays of sunlight streaming in through the dining room window, and silently counting the minutes until night will fall.

She cannot adjust to the day. It feels wrong to her. Too bright, too loud, too full of things that confuse her. Her only solace from the hell she now inhabits comes when her eyes find the muted black of the night sky. The only time she can remember to breathe is when her dry lungs pull in the cool air of evening, displacing the dust from her coffin that swirls within her chest and chokes her when she stops moving.

She does not listen to their arguments for why she should not be patrolling every night. She cannot abide their concern over her well being when they exhibited such a glaring lack of it in their decision to resurrect her.

No, she doesn't hear them any better in the dark than she does in the day, but she can hear *it* calling to her from the depths of the night. And each night she answers the call.

She may not know her place among the living any longer. She may still stumble her way through their world without a sliver of grace, but here... here her feet are sure beneath her as they tread the damp earth of the cemetery. Here they lead her without pause, without thinking, at home among the dead, seeking her peace among the buried.

She does not hunt as much as she is the hunted. She can feel the cry of need in her blood and does not care to keep it at bay any longer.

They may have stolen her away from death but it wants her back. And she wants to be taken.

She slows her pace as she nears the smooth and worn marble of the tombs. Her mind calms when her eyes land on his form, pale skin and sharp angles under the moonlight, still as a statue, silent as her pulse longs to be.

He is waiting for her too, but unlike the others, he *knows* and does not expect from her what she does not have to give. He does not seek to placate her hurt with false words chosen to hide his own expectations but simply lets his cigarette fall to the ground and opens his arms to her as she steps inside them.

She leans her body into his, the familiar brush of faded cotton and worn leather against her too tight skin, the scent of the graves hanging heavy in the air around them.

He brushes his lips across her forehead then rests his chin on top of her head. His arms pull her in close and he waits.

She does not say anything, and he would not answer her were she to try, they simply remain together. His body solid in her grasp, his hands of death tangled in her hair, her eyes closed against the truths she won't acknowledge.

She clings to him and listens to the muted echo of her pulse that taunts her from the still hollow of his chest, aware that this stolen silence is merely an illusion. But knowing too, that an illusion is as close as she's going to get to that place that still haunts her in her dreams, longing for death and knowing that life doesn't want her anymore.

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Aurora - girl292@hotmail.com