Champions

Buffy Summers twitched in her sleep. For nearly a year, her dreams had been dark, filled with screams, death, and a fire that burned her to the soul, though her skin remained cool. In recent months, however, they had at last begun to fade, replaced by more mundane, ordinary things. Her life had taken on a smooth rhythm that she accepted with relish. Now that her life no longer centered on slaying, she was able to at last have the one thing she’d always wanted, but never though she’d have: a normal life. A life filled with sunshine and laughter; with friends, family and love. Love was still fleeing for her, but she pursued it with the whole of her heart, changing men almost as quickly as she changed her shoes. Each new male face she saw held the potential for Earth shattering love, but they always fell short.

Sometimes, late at night, she’d let herself think of him, but not very often. Thoughts of him were too tied up with a mixture of longing, pain, and rejection for her to cope with on a regular basis. When she had heard that he was alive, she very nearly got on the next plane to LA, but the knowledge that Angel was also at the end of that flight brought her to a screeching halt. Instead, she waited. Every night, she waited. To her, every car or motorcycle approaching carried him to her. Every echoing footstep belonged to him. Every time she opened the door, she had expected to see him there. But he hadn’t come. Month after month passed, and still he didn’t come. Not even so much as a phone call…

Now, she spent her nights trying to forget him. She went from man to man, but each wore his face in her mind. Each one whispered to her in that clipped British accent. Each one drove the pain just a little bit deeper, rather than relieving it.

The morning that Buffy awoke with the knowledge that her dreams had finally stopped had been the brightest morning she’d seen in years. The birds had been singing and the flowers bloomed, and she had been so certain that she had finally let go of the past. But she had been wrong.

She moaned low in her throat and clutched her blanket tightly in sweaty hands, her eyes shut tight against the horrors of her dream, though it did no good.

Darkness. She was surrounded by darkness, and could not see which way to go. She knew she had to hurry, but she was hopelessly lost and afraid. In the distance, a male voice howled in pain. Buffy’s head jerked in the direction of the sound and she locked onto it, her face set in a determined scowl. Without hesitation, she set off at a dead run, all the while, feeling impending doom nipping at her heels. In her hear lurked the ever present fear that she would arrive too late. How many times had she failed to save a life simply because she wasn’t fast enough? Too many, her soul answered, and she ran harder. This time, above all others, she knew she had to make it. This was one life she would not lose.

A light twinkled on her left and brought her up short. She spun to face it, dropping instinctively into a fighting crouch. She carried no weapon, but that was hardly a first. For a brief moment, the intense light blinded her, bringing tears to her eyes. Blinking furiously, she focused on the figure before her, and gasped. It was him. Spike stood before her, breathing light into the darkness of her world. He was heavily wounded, on eye almost completely swollen shut by a large, angry looking bruise. He coughed and shook his head.

“Glory never finds out,” he said with conviction.

“Glory…?” she whispered, and then she remembered. Spike had been captured by Glory. She had tortured him endlessly for information, but he had not betrayed her. She shook her head and realized he was still speaking.

“…anything ever happened to Dawn, it’d destroy her. I couldn’t live, her bein’ in that much pain. Let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did.”

She bit her lip in despair. Even without a soul, he had loved her enough to do that. She reached her hand out to touch his cheek, but he vanished before her eyes. She sensed movement at her back, and she spun.

“Spike?!” she called. He was before her again, but he was no longer bruised and defeated. He was resplendent in black leather, a sneer on his lips.

“Love isn’t brains, children, it’s blood…” He reached a hand up and clutched his chest. “Blood, screaming inside to work its will.”

She closed her eyes and felt him move behind her. Distantly, she heard another cry of pain. In her hear, she knew it was his voice, but there was nothing she could do for him now. She felt his arms circle around her waist, and she leaned gratefully back against him. His chest rose behind her, and she knew he was inhaling her scent, as he had so many times before.

“You listen to me. I’ve been alive a bit longer than you, and dead a lot longer than that. I’ve seen things you couldn’t imagine, and done things I prefer you didn’t.” She’d heard the words a million times in her mind, but they hadn’t lost their punch. “I’m not asking you for anything. When I say I love you, it’s not because I want you or because I can’t have you. It has nothing to do with me.” A tear rolled slowly down Buffy’s cheek. “I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re a hell of a woman. You’re the one, Buffy.”

“I love you,” she whispered quietly.

“No, you don’t. But thanks for saying it.” Spike’s voice was close to her ear. Slowly, she turned her face towards him, her lips open in anticipation.

Something sharp suddenly poked her in the back. Hard. She heard Spike grunt. Looking down, she was his hands on her stomach turn swiftly into ash and fall away. Shock seized her body, making her gasp a great lungful of ash. With horror, she realized she was breathing all that was left of him, and she nearly heaved. She whirled around, nearly loosing her balance.

A fey looking woman with deep brown eyes, the color of wet earth, stared back. Black wings unfolded from her back and she tossed the stake she held at Buffy’s feet. The girl crouched low and sprang into the air, disappearing into the blackness, her silent laughter echoing in Buffy’s mind.


* * *

“Buffy, are you okay?”

Buffy opened her eyes wide and tried to calm her breathing. S he was making loud gasping noises and she had ripped her sheets nearly into shreds. Andrew stood in the doorway, a robe draped around his slender frame and a look of concern on his face. He had awakened to the sound of crying in the room next to his and come immediately to investigate. He had been truly relieved when Buffy’s sleep had returned to normal, but he remained a light sleeper, always half listening for the sounds of distress. At long last, it had seemed that Buffy was on the path to recovery. She had tried for so long to fool them, but her friends looked at her and saw the pain barely hidden behind her smiles and witty remarks.

For long moments, Buffy stared blindly at the ceiling. She could still feel his hands around her waist…could still hear the mocking laughter. Slowly, the real world swam back into focus. She traced the curves of the crown molding with her eyes, and took long, deep breaths, attempting to calm her nerves. As she had done so many times while in Sunnydale, she looked into her mind, and wondered what the dream meant. Had it been prophetic, or was it simply her subconscious driving one more dagger into her heart? She hoped it was the latter, but knew better than to leave things to chance.

“I need you to look after Dawn,” she said, with only the slightest quaver in her voice. Carefully, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Andrew, true to his nature, nodded obediently.

“Any idea when you’ll be back?” he asked quietly.

“I’m not sure,” she responded, rising from her bed and turning on her bedside lamp. Her bare feet padded softly across the floor to her closet. She knelt and looked back at him over her shoulder. “It could be awhile,” she said, reaching in to the closet. With a grunt, she pulled out a familiar and well used suitcase. She flipped it open and began tossing cloths hastily into the dark bag.

Andrew crossed the room and sat cross legged on the floor, attempting to make some order of Buffy’s clothing. “They’re all going to be wrinkled if you do it that way,” he grumbled to himself, folding a frothy pink tank top. “I notice you’re not packing any of your warm…or modest clothing…” He placed another tank top carefully into the suitcase. “Does this mean you’re going to…”

“L.A.” she cut him off as she pulled a shirt over the sports bra she had been sleeping in. “Yeah.” For a moment, she contemplated putting on real pants, but decided she’d be more comfortable in her pajamas on the plane.

“It’s about time!” Andrew instantly regretted his scolding remark as Buffy spun and pierced him with a challenging glare. But gone were the days when he would have meekly backed down. With barely a falter, he continued. “We all expected you to go a long time ago.” He returned to folding her cloths, trying very hard not to look at her. “I mean, come on Buffy, when I told you he was alive, you cried for like an hour. But you didn’t go, and we thought maybe you just weren’t ready. But he was here! Barely three weeks ago, he was here. I told you, and what did you do? You grabbed on of your boy toys and ran.” A last, he looked up at her, exasperation clear on his face. “Why haven’t you gone to him?”

Buffy’s silence spoke volumes. Tears, which she would never shed outside of dreams, crowded in the corners of her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the floor. Andrew stood and moved swiftly to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Buffy,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s none of my busi…”

“I was afraid,” she interrupted, and jerked her head suddenly up to face him, something similar to her old uncertainties flickering across her face. “I was afraid that I would see him, and I would know…”

“That he didn’t love you anymore?” Andrew studied her face and saw her fear and her loneliness painfully exposed, and knew he was right. Gently, he drew her into a light embrace.

A slight sniffle built in Buffy’s nose as she fought desperately for control of her emotions. “When exactly did you become so smart?” She held on tight to the boy that had slowly, almost against her will, become a good friend, almost as integral to her life as Xander and Willow.

“I’m not smart. If I was, I would have made you get on that plane long before now.” He pushed her away slightly and smiled down on her, brushing an errant strand of hair way from her eyes. With a suppressed laugh, he pushed her back in the direction of her closet. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get packing. I’ll make some coffee.” And without a backwards glance, he turned and left the room.