Author's Note: This chapter is written in Buffy's POV and starts right
episode 7.22 "Chosen" ended.
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My gaze is frozen on the sunken crater, a collapsed mess of cement, Earth
and steel that used to be the entrance to Hell. Clouds of dust billow
upwards as the 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign falls off the precipice and
crashes onto the rubble. I can hear the voices all around me but none of
the words make any sense. All I can do is stare into the Hellmouth, not
really seeing the desolation that surrounds me; I can still see his face in
my mind, his voice ringing in my ears as I ran away from the crumbling high
school. It's almost like a part of him is still with me, like my champion
defied Fate so he could stay in this world.
Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat and dried blood. I want to wipe away the moisture, to clear the burning pain that sears my eyes as the dirt mixes with salty teardrops. But my hand is frozen, wrapped around my waist, tightly clutching the tattered edges of my shirt. His presence is still embedded in my fingertips; I can still feel his cool skin beneath my hand as I caressed his cheek, my trembling digits grazing over those impossibly high cheekbones. So I don't wipe away the stinging moisture, because it would be too much like erasing him from my psyche.
Faith's voice cuts through my memories, disturbing the images of him that I've trying to preserve. She's muttering something about being normal girls who get the chance to live normal lives. I want to scream at her to be quiet, to force her to stop talking before her words destroy the illusions I'm building around myself. Instead I twist my mouth into a tightlipped grimace, a poor imitation of a smile. When she pauses to take a breath, I nod my head so everyone thinks that I'm engrossed in the conversation.
I feel like I'm trapped in some kind of time warp where the world's been turned upside down; my friends want me to be happy so I project the happy persona, because that's what they needed to see. Only this time he isn't here to rescue me, he isn't here to see through the façade and break down the walls I built to lock myself away. He isn't here to save me.
Dawn touches my shoulder and I have to resist the urge to shake off her hand. Shaking my head, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and try to make sense of what Faith's saying. It's a hopeless battle; I can't concentrate on Faith or anyone else, my mind is filled with images of him. I won't cry for him because I can't admit that he's really gone, I don't want to face a world without him. He's been a part of my life for six years, whether he was my mortal enemy, my informant, my confidant, my lover or my friend. I need him and he isn't around. He's dead; really dead, not like before when he was undead.
Now Xander's making some terrible joke about pushing Giles into the Hellmouth, and everyone's chuckling instead of sobbing. Their laughter grates on the one nerve I have left, it just seems so out of place but I don't have the heart to play the authoritarian general who maintains order. Then I realize that I'm laughing too, a high-pitched hysterical giggle that just cuts through the air. My knees can't support my weight anymore and I collapse in a heap on the ground. The dust fills my consciousness, sticking to my wet cheeks and coating my mouth; it doesn't matter though because my peroxide blonde punk rocker poet is gone.
A rough voice cuts through my emotional rollercoaster, the familiar accent reminding me of a thousand moonlight patrols and a hundred conversations under starry skies. Great, now I'm hearing things. I can feel a hand on my back, the long fingers rubbing wide circles over my rounded shoulders. If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend that it's his hand and that we're lying in a tangled heap of limbs on his cot. There's that damn voice again, a rich baritone that sounds so much like him. "Buffy, look at me," it pleads, losing some of the harshness and sounding like a shy schoolboy. My heart hurts so badly, it wants to believe that the hand on my back is his, even though I know that's impossible.
I lift my head up, slowly rolling my eyes upwards from the ground to look into the face of my mind's illusion. But this doesn't feel like a dream, it doesn't feel like something my mind conjured up to torment me with; it feels real. The piercing azure eyes look real, just like the platinum blonde curls and the leather duster look exactly like they did the last time I saw him. His words are slowly penetrating through my exhausted mind; he's asking me something, but I can't figure out what. Now he's turning away, talking to Giles, shaking his head. He's disappointed in me, I let him down again. It's sad how I wasn't even upset that he didn't believe my spontaneous declaration of love right before the school collapsed. In the back of my mind I knew that he wouldn't believe me, hell I wouldn't believe me either. I'm emotionally closed-off, with serious emotional and relationship issues, topped up with a superiority complex about being the Chosen One. What's not to believe?
"You're not real," I choke out. I don't know whether I'm trying to convince myself or if I'm trying to convince him. He smiles, that sexy half-smirk I love so much. "Yes I am," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "No," I repeat, standing up until I'm face to face with him. His hand reaches out to cup my cheek and I can feel my resolve weakening at his touch. We inch closer together until our noses are almost touching. He tilts his head towards mine, his lips parting slightly. "Yes," he whispers before he places a feather-light kiss on my lips. My fingers tangle themselves in his curls, deepening the kiss. I don't want to think about what twist of fate brought him back to me, I don't want to analyze this moment, I just want to concentrate on the feeling of his arms around my waist; I just want to savor being with my love again.
Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with the sweat and dried blood. I want to wipe away the moisture, to clear the burning pain that sears my eyes as the dirt mixes with salty teardrops. But my hand is frozen, wrapped around my waist, tightly clutching the tattered edges of my shirt. His presence is still embedded in my fingertips; I can still feel his cool skin beneath my hand as I caressed his cheek, my trembling digits grazing over those impossibly high cheekbones. So I don't wipe away the stinging moisture, because it would be too much like erasing him from my psyche.
Faith's voice cuts through my memories, disturbing the images of him that I've trying to preserve. She's muttering something about being normal girls who get the chance to live normal lives. I want to scream at her to be quiet, to force her to stop talking before her words destroy the illusions I'm building around myself. Instead I twist my mouth into a tightlipped grimace, a poor imitation of a smile. When she pauses to take a breath, I nod my head so everyone thinks that I'm engrossed in the conversation.
I feel like I'm trapped in some kind of time warp where the world's been turned upside down; my friends want me to be happy so I project the happy persona, because that's what they needed to see. Only this time he isn't here to rescue me, he isn't here to see through the façade and break down the walls I built to lock myself away. He isn't here to save me.
Dawn touches my shoulder and I have to resist the urge to shake off her hand. Shaking my head, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and try to make sense of what Faith's saying. It's a hopeless battle; I can't concentrate on Faith or anyone else, my mind is filled with images of him. I won't cry for him because I can't admit that he's really gone, I don't want to face a world without him. He's been a part of my life for six years, whether he was my mortal enemy, my informant, my confidant, my lover or my friend. I need him and he isn't around. He's dead; really dead, not like before when he was undead.
Now Xander's making some terrible joke about pushing Giles into the Hellmouth, and everyone's chuckling instead of sobbing. Their laughter grates on the one nerve I have left, it just seems so out of place but I don't have the heart to play the authoritarian general who maintains order. Then I realize that I'm laughing too, a high-pitched hysterical giggle that just cuts through the air. My knees can't support my weight anymore and I collapse in a heap on the ground. The dust fills my consciousness, sticking to my wet cheeks and coating my mouth; it doesn't matter though because my peroxide blonde punk rocker poet is gone.
A rough voice cuts through my emotional rollercoaster, the familiar accent reminding me of a thousand moonlight patrols and a hundred conversations under starry skies. Great, now I'm hearing things. I can feel a hand on my back, the long fingers rubbing wide circles over my rounded shoulders. If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend that it's his hand and that we're lying in a tangled heap of limbs on his cot. There's that damn voice again, a rich baritone that sounds so much like him. "Buffy, look at me," it pleads, losing some of the harshness and sounding like a shy schoolboy. My heart hurts so badly, it wants to believe that the hand on my back is his, even though I know that's impossible.
I lift my head up, slowly rolling my eyes upwards from the ground to look into the face of my mind's illusion. But this doesn't feel like a dream, it doesn't feel like something my mind conjured up to torment me with; it feels real. The piercing azure eyes look real, just like the platinum blonde curls and the leather duster look exactly like they did the last time I saw him. His words are slowly penetrating through my exhausted mind; he's asking me something, but I can't figure out what. Now he's turning away, talking to Giles, shaking his head. He's disappointed in me, I let him down again. It's sad how I wasn't even upset that he didn't believe my spontaneous declaration of love right before the school collapsed. In the back of my mind I knew that he wouldn't believe me, hell I wouldn't believe me either. I'm emotionally closed-off, with serious emotional and relationship issues, topped up with a superiority complex about being the Chosen One. What's not to believe?
"You're not real," I choke out. I don't know whether I'm trying to convince myself or if I'm trying to convince him. He smiles, that sexy half-smirk I love so much. "Yes I am," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "No," I repeat, standing up until I'm face to face with him. His hand reaches out to cup my cheek and I can feel my resolve weakening at his touch. We inch closer together until our noses are almost touching. He tilts his head towards mine, his lips parting slightly. "Yes," he whispers before he places a feather-light kiss on my lips. My fingers tangle themselves in his curls, deepening the kiss. I don't want to think about what twist of fate brought him back to me, I don't want to analyze this moment, I just want to concentrate on the feeling of his arms around my waist; I just want to savor being with my love again.