Déjà vu.

Time stopped. Heartbeat, breath – stopped.

The room around her ceased to exist, faded to black. Her vision tunnelled to where he stood, her whole world focused entirely on him.

He died.

"Spike?" Unsure whether she said the words out loud or in her head. And because she had dreamed of this, because she had conjured up this image so often, she had to ask... "are you real?"

I saw him burn.

The floor was shifting beneath her feet, reality and imagination merging and bleeding into each other. She held on to the lifeline of his eyes, thought she heard him say "Last time I checked. But what with one thing and another, never can tell these days..." hardly able to focus on the words, avid for the sound of his voice.

I saw the Hellmouth bury him.

She crossed the room as if in a dream, raised a hand slowly to his cheek. She hesitated, eyes locked with his. Very carefully, she touched his face.

He died.

Cool skin, smooth beneath her fingers; familiar contours, fingers tracing planes and hollows, the hard edge of his cheekbone, the firm line of his jaw. A finger trailing across the soft curve of his mouth. Blue eyes... so blue... blue eyes holding hers... drawing her closer...

Real.

He was real. Oh, god...

Reality hit home on black wings of panic. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest, air rushing into her lungs on a gasp of pain. She drew her hand back as if the coolness of his skin scalded her. The floodgates opened on the months of pain and confusion and loss she had carefully locked away. She was drowning. She backed away from him, pale faced and trembling.

"No."

"Buffy..." Spike took a half step toward her.

"No." She shook her head, cast a horrified glance at the faces turned toward her. "This... I can't..." With a final panicked look at Spike, Buffy fled. The bathroom door slammed behind her.

There was a long, stunned silence.

"Well," Angel was the first to speak. "You handled that well."