Brief and still, an all-encompassing nothingness consumed everything, every aspect of existence. There was no color, no sound, no expression or thought. It was gorgeous in its lack of beauty, boisterous in its lack of sound, and utterly peaceful despite the disturbing lack of all things…normal. Despite the emptiness of her surroundings, a relaxing ease settled over her mind, assuring her that all was right with the world, and what was not right would soon be. It was the first time in all of her life that everything was good and okay, and it seemed proper that that reassurance should come with her death.
The corners of his mouth creased as they drooped, leaving the impression of agonized frustration in his eternally youthful face. Angel groaned softly, just enough to vocalize his aggravation but not so much as to wake the young woman sleeping by his side. In the cool darkness, he turned the page of a leather-bound book, squinted ever-so-slightly at the smudged hand-written text, and resumed his careful study.
It seemed hours since Buffy had passed out quietly beside him, her head sinking down into his fluffy pillow, her fingers wrapping lightly around the vampire's forearm. She'd wanted to stay awake, to help him study the impressive stack of spell books and ancient texts, but sleep captured her before she could make it across the first page. He glanced over her tucked shoulder at the small digital clock on his bedside table. It beamed back at him, switching the green glowing numbers from 2:00 to 2:01. It seemed hours, but it had only been half of one. In the recesses of his mind, he wondered how Rupert Giles managed to take so much enjoyment from the relentless study of old text.
This is Hell. Darkness crackled across the sky, where there was no sky before. A sound like thunder splitting open the earth, where there was no earth, echoed in her ears. Pain and fear lingered on her shoulders, whispering devastation into her ears. Whatever strength she might have possessed in life had faded with her death. There was no protection from the oncoming chaos, no way to break through or fight or run away. It was with this realization that she began to scream.
The book fell from his hands, discarded, unimportant. It slammed against the floor, pages fluttering, creating a great wham as it struck. Beside him, wrapped in the loose damask sheets, Buffy began to toss in her sleep. Her mouth fell open, though no sound emerged from her throat. Stringy, damp hair clung to her throat and brow, tangling her up, seemingly strangling her. She rocked back and forth upon the mattress, throwing her arms against the bed and into the air. Skin stretched taut as it healed shone with the soft green glow cast by the digital clock.
The small shaded lamps cast a sudden dazzling light over the bedroom. Angel leaned back over the Slayer, his hands on her shoulders to keep her from harming herself. The stitches in her gut were still fresh, and the bandages pasted over them were quite loose. Still, with his strong hands over her body, shoving her firmly against the bed, she fought. Sound welled up within her throat and finally wriggled out of her mouth.
"This is Hell."
Her shoulders shook as Buffy shed frustrated tears, fearful tears. Angel shook them in response, egging her out of the nightmarish sleep. Under her clothes, the muscles of her back and neck were taut, stretched to capacity and working themselves into strained, stressed knots. Angel tightened the hold, straddling her small frame to get a better grip. Again he shook her and again she elicited no response. Instead, her head lolled briefly against the pillow.
"Wake up." He paused, brushing her face with the flat of his hand. "Please…please wake up."
"Can't go back…not after this…" Buffy murmured, her eyes still shut, lips trembling as she spoke in a faraway voice. "Everything I touch…this is Hell…"
Fifteen minutes later, she was still sleeping, though soundly and in the cool darkness of the bedroom. Angel peered around the door frame at her, and then turned back, listening wordlessly to the gentleman on the other end of the phone.
"…I think this would be our best option, Angel." Wes was saying, his voice slightly sluggish.
"We need to get started as quickly as possible." Angel replied as he sat down on the edge of the sofa, holding the handset against his knee. "She's suffering."
"Yes…I'll write up a list of ingredients and have Cordelia pick them up on her way to the office. I'll stop by that shop in the industrial district and retrieve what we cannot obtain at the magic shop."
"Good, good." Angel nodded against the receiver, darting his head once again to make sure Buffy was still peacefully dreaming. "I'll see you in the morning."
The satin was warm and slightly damp against his skin, soaked through with sweat from Buffy's chaotic dreaming. Angel sighed quietly as he lay down beside her, coaxing her into the cavity of his chest with one muscular arm. His fingers drifted through the strands of her blond hair, sweeping them from her face and tucking them behind her ears. Her pulse beat loudly in his ears, struggling to live though the soul had wished to die many years before. He frowned as he tried to remember the sound of his own heart beating and could not.
"What does the spell do?" Cordelia asked as she tossed a cardboard box full of jars and brown paper packages onto her desk. Papers and file folders scattered to the floor as a gust of displaced air swept through the empty office.
"It turns back the clock to a date given in the incantation. In this case, we'll send Buffy back to the day Willow revived her." Wesley replied as he skimmed the pages of a dusty old text.
"But how can you keep Willow from doing the same thing all over again?"
"The spell is designed to grant the soul to the Powers that Be, and thus, they will keep it safe from any attempts at revivification."
"Interesting,"
"I thought so."
"Ugh, are these toad eyes?" Cordelia gagged, holding a plastic baggie out away from her face. It was filled with small marble-like eye balls. "You know, just once I'd like to do a spell that doesn't involve eyes."
"Third times the charm, right?" Buffy murmured, wrapping her arms around herself. A shiver wormed its way beneath her skin as she watched Angel sprinkle sea salt on the bare earth. He stopped, pressing one knee into the dirt, and drew his eyes up to glance at the Slayer, standing alone in the coming night.
"We don't have to do this," he murmured to her, clutching the remainder of a handful of salt in his palm. The glassy white grains stuck to his clammy skin, digging out graves in the folds of his flesh. "We can find another way…"
"There is no other way." Buffy's reply was distinct, almost cold in its expression. All emotion passed from her face. Sensitive and sweet green irises faded to hunks of featureless granite. "I have to go back."
"We'll get you there," Wes muttered, placing an uneasy hand on Buffy's elbow.
Cordelia surveyed the altar, glancing from the book's outline and description to the simplistic rendering on the bare ground. They'd found their altar in a vacant lot, set for development at least five years prior. Still, nothing had been done with the place. Patches of the ground were sprinkled with dry, stubborn grasses and weeds, but much of the rest was bare, dirty earth, a sparse amount of gravel, and the occasional dandelion. The body would need to be as close to the earth as was necessary.
Though a vampire had no use for air, Angel's breath seemed to catch in his throat, strangling off the supply of oxygen to lungs. He stumbled across the crumbling ground and caught Buffy in his arms, pulling her against his chest. Unsurprised, Buffy warmed to his grip, melting into the hold like butter in a hot pan. She tilted her head, inclining it toward his face. His eyes were glassy, building up a flow of tears that he would not shed. His arms and shoulders trembled though he held onto her as tightly as he could without breaking her.
A palm, sweaty with the nervousness of a twelve year old boy, slid beneath her skull, the thumb tucked in front of her ear to embrace her. Buffy found it difficult to meet his eyes, to face him with all the pain that had swelled up in her face. It was wrong and cruel to ask so much of him, to give him nothing in return.
"Are you still my girl?" His voice broke mid-sentence. The words tumbled out of him like shattered glass leaving the frame.
"Always," she replied, faintly.
Color drained from her face even as her lips swelled to a bright crimson, as though she had only so much blood to spare. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into a strong embrace; perhaps if he held her tight enough, she wouldn't be able to get away. Buffy's own arms, littered with scars and cuts, bandages and peeling tape, curled around his neck, holding on for fear the Reaper might drag her away before she was ready. Their lips matched perfectly, sharing their equally burdened souls. The touch was soft and light, delicate without urging. The passion of their embrace was hidden beneath the surface of a tender, longing, loving kiss.
"I'll always be your girl,"
Stay tuned for the last chapter of And You Were There, coming soon!