Please Read! This is set in my imaginary post Season 7 universe. The Slayers have relocated after Sunnydale went bye-bye but haven't spilt into groups yet. Warren had been brought back by a guilty Willow and (as if you can't figure it out yourself) they've gotten together. If you don't like the pairing don't read and don't waste my time by telling my I'm sick or demented or whatever.

I realize I didn't actually add the words Willow and Warren in the text, and there's only three lines of dialogue, but I'm playing with writing styles right now so bear with me.

I don't own Willow, Warren, or any of the characters of Buffy. If I did the Trio would have taken over Sunnydale long ago.


She wakes to the sound of his panting, a harsh gasping that seems strangled as it passes his lips. In the light of the pair of blood red candles she always keeps burning, she can see his glassy brown eyes darting around wildly. He is a man reduced to a terrified puppy, and it's all her fault.

He has these dreams on occasion, usually when he is stressed or if they've had an argument. From what she's been able to piece together from the gibberish that used to follow these warped memories it's always the same. Running blindly into the darkness, the flash of an axe, merciless black eyes, pain ripping through his chest…and his skin. His skin peeling away as he watches, revealing the muscle hidden underneath inch by inch. It hurts like hell but he can't move, can't scream.

The cream colored sheets rustle slightly as he shifts to grab fistfuls of cloth, trying to anchor himself in the waking world. She wants nothing more than to reach over and embrace his trembling form, maybe even kiss the phantom pain away, but that isn't what he needs. Instead she reaches over and grips his arm, applying a gentle but unyeilding pressure until he is forced to release the Egyptian cotton.

She remembers how he did this for her the first time she had her own nightmares as she pushes back the covers, knocking his Mr. Spock comforter to the floor. The memories of the hellish night were scattered, but she still recalled the way he looked when he flew into her room, eyes wide with a different kind of fear as they searched for the source of her scream. He follows her now the way she did back then, unseeing and unresponsive to the world around him. He's still trapped in his head.

They pad through the halls quietly out of habit. No one is in the house except a few of the younger slayers who were sleeping off a bad bought of flu. The icy wood feels like needles jabbing into her feet with each step. She hates herself at times like these, if only she had learned to control the magic sooner…

She shoves him gently into the bathroom, locking the door tight behind them. Andrew had walked in on the pair once while she tried to wake her lover from his living nightmare; needless to say it had been a life lesson for all parties involved.

Undressing him is quick work. Due to their relative privacy that led to certain acts earlier that evening he is clad only in boxer shorts emblazoned with a symbol she vaguely remembers him explaining to her once. Stripping off the Boba Fett shirt she stole from him almost four months ago, she turns on the shower. He blinks as the sound of falling water slapping against the white tile fills the small space, but there is no real recognition.

Once steam begins to fog up the mirror she works up the nerve to propel him into the stream of warm water. The reaction is instantaneous. Strong hands grip her shoulders and her back is slammed into wall of the shower, shockingly cold compared to the steam filled air. His pupils are flickering rapidly, processing his sudden return to reality and he clenches his hands so hard she thinks she might have bruises in the morning.

"I'm sorry baby." He murmurs suddenly, releasing the iron grip and moving to give her some space, looking like an embarrassed child.

She feels the corners of her lips lifting up as she watches his already mussed up hair plaster itself to his head as his body is bombarded with water. "Shh," she puts a finger to his lips, "It's okay."

The bar of soap looks relatively new and she's relieved to see it's of the scentless variety. She refuses to share a bed with a man who smells like fruit punch ever again, no matter how distressed he is. Holding the bar under the flow she marvels at it's pearly sheen, as though someone cut a chunk of moonlight into an oval and stamped Dove on it.

She washes him from the feet up, rubbing his skin tenderly with hands covered in rich, milky soap suds. It's a comforting ritual for both of them and she can feel him relaxing as she massages her way up his body. There's nothing sexual about the act, it's just another way for them to cope.

By the time they reach his hair they are both cross legged on the ground to give her better access to his dark roots. There had been a time when he would have been nervous to have his back to her, but now he seemed to lean into her touch. She rests a cheek on his head, the red-blonde of her hair clashing with the inky blackness with a kind of beauty only found in the comparison of polar opposites.

They were not and had never been opposites. If anything they were more alike than they would have ever guessed. They had both started out shy and geeky, but as time went by their paths had forced them to turn into something they didn't really want to become.

That was why he was here in the first place. She had been trying to fix things, to change back into the mousy girl of yesteryear. It hadn't worked but she knew Tara would have been proud to see how much progress she had made. If her slightly faded but forever treasured memories of the timid Wicca were still true, then her girlfriend would have been happy to see her like this. Content to forgive Tara's accidental killer and even see the side of him most people ignored, limiting her use of magic simply because the impulse was gone. Why bother with a magic high when she could spend time with him.

The only noise in the room was that of the small jets of water being spit from the showerhead. There is nothing to talk about. It had been months since they'd discussed the events that had led up to this moment. His death and resurrection were locked away in a corner file cabinet in their minds. The Scoobies reaction had gone from fury to a reluctant acceptance like the one usually associated with Andrew. Any words of comfort or concern would seem superficial.

His fingers reach up to stroke her sodden hair, gently untangling the knots caused by sleep. Wrapped up in their own little bubble they didn't notice as the time passes, they're too far gone in their private form of Zen. She wishes it could be like this forever, just the two of them together, lost in their own thoughts.

"Hey!" Someone pounds fiercely on the door, the woods begins to creak threateningly. The hunters are home. "I'm covered in green shit would you hurry up so I can shower!"

He tilts his head back, smirking, and their lips press together. Oh well, they're almost out of hot water anyway.


There you go. Please review! Depending on the feedback I might continue with a series of Willow/Warren drabbles and such.