TITLE: Yesterday's Child

AUTHOR: Drusilla

RATING: PG-13

PAIRING: Spike/Buffy, Max/Liz

SPOILERS: Season 5 of Buffy, Season Two of Roswell

SUMMARY: When Max is haunted by odd dreams of a certain petite blonde, he brings Liz along
to Sunnydale, California to investigate, in hopes of finding more of his kind.
Meanwhile, Buffy explores her feelings for Spike and discovers that everything
has changed during her absence. Set five years in the future.

Buffy/Roswell crossover, Spike/Buffy and Max/Liz 'ships.

DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Jason Katims.

DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please

FEEDBACK: Yes, please!



YESTERDAY'S CHILD

* * *

CHAPTER 1: Prayer

* * *


The lights slant across their faces, the impossible, unnatural colors dancing over their
brows like wildfire. He moves to the music, unaware of all that encompasses him, save the
girl.

She is a thin wisp of a thing, her pale face is dappled with freckles and tendrils of
scarlet hair cascading to her waist. She is young and foolish, swooning over college boys,
flashing seductive smiles to the young men around her.

The song ends and she disappears into the crowd again, and he begins to stalk back to his
table, when suddenly a flash of color catches him off-guard. That brilliant mane of gold,
it is all too familiar. It makes him somewhat nostalgic, and a strange emotion bristles
through him, a wave of loss and anger and regret all jumbled together into a torrent of
pain.

He follows that golden hair, and to his dismay the crowd has covered it for the moment. He
spins around, searching, and everything around him screams and melts together until his
world is blurred and spinning.

And then he sees her.

He blinks as tears come to his frigid blue eyes. She smiles at him sadly, her eyes tired
and her lips thin. She holds out a frail hand. Taking it, he kisses it and pulls her into
a slow dance.

They both know that this is not the time for words.

He kisses her dry lips gingerly, afraid that she will break.

As they move together, he speaks at last. "You're not real." He whispers. "This is a
dream. A good dream, but nevertheless, a dream."

She smiles and does not attempt to deny his words. "Shh.. Just dance, Spike. Just dance."
She whispers softly as she puts a slender hand over his cold lips.

He closes his eyes as he pulls her close. This one is so real; it is so hard, to not let
himself be fooled.

When the music stops, she takes his wrist and they sit down at his table. She smiles at
him gently, asking, "So how have you been?"

He swallows hard. "Missing you."

She looks back longingly at the group of dancers closest to her. "It's been so long." She
whispers. "I don't recognize any of these people." She says wistfully.

"Are you real?" He breathes. She feels real.

She smiles wanely. "I'm real." She says.

He has dreamed of this moment nearly every day for the past five years. He has prayed for
it, begged for it. He would have died for it. His dreams have materialized, have become
something real and solid. A burst of energy sparks through his body and he feels an over-
whelming desire to simply hold her and never let go, in case she falls from his grasp again.

"Where is everybody?" She inquires, interrupting his rush, and suddenly, everything becomes
very, very real. The screaming stops, and all he can see is her.

"Who?" He stares at her face distractedly. God, he has missed the warmth of her skin, the
ferocity of her eyes.

"You know, Dawn and Willow and Xander..."

His expression darkens, and she feels the blood drain from her face. Has something
happened to them? "Dawn is gone," He whispers sullenly, and her lip trembles in anguish.

She has no time to absorb the fact because Spike has pulled her to her feet.

"Let's get you home, pet." He says kindly, letting her lean on his arm like a small child.

When they pull up the driveway of 1630 Revello Drive, she notices that the house is in a bad
state. The paint has faded, and the grass is a scorched brown, flecked only with the green
of dandelions and other weeds. Fresh tears spring to her eyes and she breaks down at the
doorstep, remembering that Dawn is not there waiting for her.

Flesh scraping against cement, she cuts her hands, and Spike struggles to hold her up when
she is so decidedly set on lying on the cold ground.

He opens the unlocked door and carries her in. He closes the door behind him gently and
they both peer in around curiously. She studies the pictures on the walls with wet eyes
and sees that all the Dawn's face has been removed from all the photos. With a shock she
realizes that her memories are fading too, so that she cannot even remember the color of
her own sister's eyes, or the degree of her smile.

He begins to walk up the stairs slowly, haunted by the memories of the house and all that
comes with it. He has not returned to this place since she died, because it was too
painful, seeing the deserted house, and not his three favorite women inside.

He sets her down as they reach her room, and she collapses in a heap of tears onto her
dusty bed, never minding the disgusting state of her sheets.

Spike stands at the doorway uncomfortably, not sure how to comfort her, never mind whether
she would let him comfort her. He has been rejected and put off so many times by her that
he has no idea what to think, how to act anymore. He shifts a little and says, finally,
"Shh, Buffy, it's alright," as he kneels by her bed and looks into her eyes.

She stops shaking for a moment and hiccups twice, brushing her tears away. Their faces are
infinitely close without touching, and he can feel her hot breath against his cheek. She
sees a deepness in his blues, a warm against his shade of cold, a love against regulation,
a kindness against all boundaries.

Their lips lock, in prayer, as Juliet once said, and she feels herself become lost in his
embrace. When they part finally, she pants, her breath taken away by the strangeness of it
all.

"What can I do for you?" He breathes in a tone so low and quiet that it is barely more
than wind in her ears.

"Just hold me." She whispers, and he complies without a word. She clings to him tightly,
for dear life.

He is all she has left.


* * *


TO BE CONTINUED...

Please review! Constructive critism is always welcome, plus I need lots of ideas!