It wasn't like it was bloody unexpected. Every time he was with her, he was expecting it to be the last time—not that he wanted it to end. He could just feel it. As far as Buffy was concerned, he wasn't forever.
It was different toward the end. He stopped kissing her and grabbing at her like it was his last chance. He learned to enjoy himself—not that it wasn't enjoyable to start with. Bloody well was. Toward the end, though, he stopped lettin' himself get distracted by the blinding light at the end of the tunnel and just let himself live. In her. For her.
Huh. Live. Not quite the right choice of word.
She asked him if he loved her. If he wanted her. He told the truth like he always did. For a bit, he even let himself get caught up in the idea that maybe he meant something to her. She didn't love him. He knew that. But she wanted him. He let himself believe she even needed him—that she needed to be needed. That she needed to hold on to something, to be held by something… if not warm, then at least solid.
Now he had nothing to hold on to. His arms were empty and burning with the memory of her. While she went on living, he was dying more every second. Or maybe he was becoming more alive. Whatever it was, it hurt like hell.
It was worse than before. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't drink. Well he could drink. Alcohol, though. Stuff that burned in a way that matched the fire in the spot his heart used to fill. He couldn't stop thinking about her. About her skin. About her thighs. About her lips—the way they tasted like goodbye the last time he had them.
It wasn't goodbye. It bloody well wasn't. She wanted him. He could see it in her—smell it in her. And she would take him again if it killed her.