Watercolors
It was dark. Black. A nightmarish sticky tar that could suffocate a sigh.
Buffy slowly pushed open those silhouette, double-doors in muted silence, in slow conviction. Piercing light escaped from behind the doors, breathing in relief. She walked into the light. It enveloped her like sunlight: the warmth, the brightness. It was blinding. Her long, white dress flowed behind her in a non-existent wind.
She opened her eyes.
She found herself in a building, a work place. There were people busily typing things on computers, filing things away, signing paperwork. They didn't pay any attention to Buffy, as she slowly walked past them, confused. This place seemed familiar…
There was a door to her left. Without hesitation, Buffy turned the knob and walked in. She stood in the middle of the office, conspicuous. Surrounding her in a semi-circle was a group of people sitting in chairs, obviously in the middle of a meeting.
Angel. Illyria. Gunn. How did she know these names? They all stared at her, annoyed at being interrupted. It was obviously an important meeting. Buffy blinked. Their faces were suddenly covered in violent gashes; dirt-smeared, bright blood dripping down at a leisurely pace. They suddenly turned their attention to someone behind her shoulder. Confused, Buffy turned around to see what they were all staring at.
Spike.
She gaped at him, and furrowed her eyebrows. "Spike?"
"No, it's the prime minister of Russia. 'Course it's me."
He was wearing his leather duster, and was not in any way a pile of dust. She looked at him in approval. "I like the look. Very…not dead."
He took a step towards her, bit his lip and smiled. His hand reached out to touch her cheek gently. "It's all over. The end of the world."
She sighed at his soft touch, looking deep into his eyes. Those soulful, Spike eyes. She gave him a grin. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."
He chuckled, and then grew serious. "Never."
The room suddenly blurred before her eyes. All the colors, the shapes, the people, blending together like a watercolor painting. Like beautiful impressions.
She grew worried, glancing around her. "We should go. Come on." She tugged at his jacket sleeve.
"Oh, love," Spike whispered sadly. "I'm stuck here. In this bloody Monet nightmare."
Buffy rolled here eyes. "No, silly. Just follow me." She turned around and pushed open the door. "See? Just follow me…" Her voice trailed off as she looked back towards Spike, but instead saw blackness. Nothing.
Buffy awoke. She had been dreaming. She sat up tiredly in her warm, downy bed, smoothing the white comforter around her. Soft like a dove.
She frowned as she recalled her subconscious's beautiful torture.
"I knew you wouldn't leave me," she spoke out loud, to her empty bedroom.
His voice floated back to her, like an underwater melody, like an intoxicating whisper. "Never."