Dreaming with a Broken Heart
The room was quiet as they lay side by side, nestled together. They didn't need to speak. The feel of body against body was enough to convey their feelings. She let out a soft sigh and looked up at him and he couldn't help but run a hand over her hair. It felt right to be there with her, like she'd never left.
"I'm glad you're here." His voice was so gentle that it made her prop herself on her elbow.
"Me too." She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt against her cheek. Just as he was about to wrap his arms around her, everything changed.
He sat bolt upright in his bed and looked around wildly. He was alone. She wasn't there. She hadn't been there at all. It had all been in his head. It wasn't the first time it had happened since she'd died. Every night he dreamed of her; holding her, keeping her safe. And every time he woke up he was just as disoriented and disappointed.
In one fluid motion blankets were on the floor and he was rummaging for something, anything to drown the ache in his chest. His hand grazed the neck of a bottle and his fingers latched on. It didn't matter what it was, as long as it dulled the pain. As he tipped the bottle to his lips, he could hear the noise coming from beyond the walls of his crypt, the clicking and chirping of nature. It all sounded too alive, too loud and it made his head hurt.
"What have you done to me?" His voice was so weak, not carrying any of the anger he felt bubbling inside. He couldn't stand the feelings in his head and his heart anymore, the gnawing agony that she'd left empty like a gaping chasm. Even if she hadn't loved him, she'd filled a part of him. Now, he was empty; pathetic and empty.
The contents of the bottle were soon gone and he let it slip from his fingers, crashing to shards on the floor. He still felt empty. He downed another bottle but still that hole was there, taunting him. No matter how much he drank, the pain still persisted.
His vision blurred; his balance waivered as he made his way out into the world. The air was hot and sticky against his skin, even if he didn't feel it. He stumbled through the myriad of tombstones. His feet seemed to carry him on an unseen path until he half stumbled, half collapsed a tombstone. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes to read the engraving on the granite; Joyce Summers. He laughed.
"Oh…Joyce, what have I done?" He slumped over on the grass, gripping the grass between his fingers to keep himself steady. He stared at the headstone for a moment, just taking it in. How he would have liked for Joyce to be there, to share in his grief. Perhaps this would do. After all she was only six feet beneath him.
"What a mess this is, Joyce. Completely gone to hell…" A pause of silence. "It would have been better if it was hell." He let out a shuddered breath.
"You would have been proud of her. She was brave…and strong. She saved us all but she didn't have to die." He shook his head, as if he were having a real conversation.
"I should have saved her. I should have done more to stop it, you know? I promised her I would protect Dawn…I should have tried harder. See I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop them from hurting Dawn. I promised but I failed. I should have died. It should have been me, Joyce. Not her….not Buffy." He could feel tears beginning to slip down his cheeks but he didn't care.
"I know she never felt what I felt…for her. I know she never loved me. But…she meant the world to me. You understand that, don't you? She's this part of you…this part you don't even realize is there until it's not there anymore."
By now his cheeks were stained with the tears he'd been too embarrassed to cry. He'd tried to be strong. Buffy would have wanted it but Buffy be damned. He couldn't keep it inside anymore. It was burning him from the inside, like holy water pumping through his veins.
"It hurts so much, Joyce. Like you can't imagine." He paused again, trying to breathe. "Every night…every night I save her. I stop her from having to die. I rescue her every night, Joyce. Not when it counts of course…but I save her every bloody night. I have to." He was bent double, gripping the stone to keep his balance or perhaps he was trying desperately to hold a piece of Buffy again, just for a moment.
From a distance, three figures stood silhouetted against the dim lights from the street. None of them moved. All eyes were fixed on the man crumpled against the tombstone. Tentatively two of the figures made to approach him but the third held them fast.
"No. Let him be. He deserves to grieve…he lost her too." Her voice was commanding and yet, it held a quality that could understand what he was feeling. After all, she had lost her closest friends that night. Without a word, she led her companions back the way they had come. They didn't need to disturb him now. As they walked away, his body pressed harder against the stone, as if it would allow him some modicum of motherly comfort. It didn't matter that the sun would rise in a few short hours. Nothing mattered except her; nothing except what he'd lost.