It's good stuff, connie. As normal: more! Please, more!

Kat, lovely, lovely piece of writing. Also, thanks for the Spanish help. It's just for a couple of lines, but I think it's something that's important to get right.

connie, I am in love with this story. The whole hidden-depths thing with Xander is heartbreaking. The monastery sounds wonderful and oh so peaceful, which just makes me all the more worried about what's going to happen next.

Joyce needs to lie--not lay--down. Sorry, one of my personal tics.

But, but...monstering..! Ach, my heartstrings. Oh, oh.

OK, I'm about to post the first fanfic I've written since 1995 or so, so obviously my first Buffy fic ever. Also, only the second sex scene I've ever written, fanfic or otherwise. It's a finale interlude, my take on what might've happened between Buffy and Spike after that fade to black when they're staring at each other across the basement. It's wee. A tiny little baby ficlet.

The Slayer doesn’t fear death. She knows it too well by now, and knows with a certainty the most devoutly religious would envy that there’s something beyond it. And she’s pretty sure that, rocky as the past two years have been, she hasn’t done anything in them that would wear out her welcome in the heaven she knew. So, death? Not so scary. But she doesn’t crave it, either. She’s fallen back in love with the world, and all its daily little carnal joys—heaven as she knew it was incorporeal, and if she dies tomorrow she’s going to be homesick for chocolate, the sun warming her skin, all the songs that pull her to her feet and make her dance, the feel of a man’s body naked against hers, that sort of thing.

So she loses herself in the moment, as if it were the last time she’d ever experience a pure, simple physical joy, because for all she knows, it is. They’re quiet, and slow, and gentle with each other tonight, which they’ve never been before. But they’re different now, better, and she knows without quite being able to put it into words that what they’re giving each other is a gift of wholeness and strength. That if one of them dies tomorrow, the other will remember with compassion, grace, and yes, even love. That they’ve learned to make the passion that’s always been between them a blessing and not a curse.

She comes for the first time, with a soft cry, and opens her eyes to look down into his face. He gazes up at her with that rapt expression of wonder and awe she usually finds so unsettling. Tonight it seems right. It’s not just for her; it’s for them and the wonder of this moment stolen from the shadow of death. She eases down atop him, kisses his lips, his forehead, the planes of his cheekbones, and doesn’t know if the salt she tastes comes from his tears or hers.

By unspoken consent, they roll and reverse positions. They hold still for a long moment, solemn, and watch each other’s faces. She loves the way his pale skin and pale hair reflect back every little bit of light in the dim basement, and she runs her hands over her shoulders and down his back. She wants to memorize what he feels like. If death makes a third and final claim on her tomorrow and she goes back to that bodiless heaven, or if he’s the one to fall—either way, it’s important that she remember.

Then he begins to thrust, and she matches his rhythm. They stay serious at first, but she notices a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. It’s infectious, and soon they’re laughing at each other, laughing at themselves, and there’s a kind of sacredness and benediction in that, too. No greater gift in the world than simple joy. And after that it’s just sex, good sex, and she abandons herself to the pure pleasure of it as they come almost at the same moment.

She wishes they’d taken it even slower. “One more time?” she asks, though her body betrays her and the words come out through a yawn.

He kisses her brow, and settles her against him, spoon-fashion. “In the morning, love,” he promises.

They sleep.

Aww! Susan, I like.

(About to post my own take on the missing scene, but shall leave it for a separate post) I love the bit about being homesick for chocolate if she dies.

Leaving Terra

if you're a thought
you will want me
to think you
and I did
and I did
--Tori Amos, Scarlet's Walk

She's there for a good minute and a half before he notices her. She's tempted to break the moment, to make some joke about the necklace he's holding, how between its scrubbing bubbles and the slicing dicing scythe, their weapons should have their own infomercials. Instead she just stands there until he looks up.

There's no turning back now, not from any of it. Slowly, deliberately, she removes her coat, taking care to keep her eyes on his face. For once, she can't tell what he's thinking just by looking at him. She thinks she sees yearning there, hope, but she can't be sure. Then his face disappears behind the fabric of her shirt as she pulls it over her head. When it reappears, he's smiling, but it looks more like mourning.

In a way, it is. What could have been, what might have been, what was. How it all ended. She takes the first step, like she knew she'd have to, closing the gap. Waits a moment before erasing it completely. Erasing. That's what she's doing. Erasing the ugliness and the pain. Taking away any advantage the First might have over them.

He lifts trembling hands to undo her bra. He's never trembled like this before, never felt unsure. His touch is familiar and yet not, like him. She burrows her nose in his shirt, smelling smoke and something she's never quite been able to define. Spike-smell. She giggles a little at the thought.

Undressing didn't used to take them this long. He opens his mouth to say something, but she can't risk hearing it, can't risk the intrusion of speech, so she presses her hand against his lips and shakes her head. Words are bad. Words are what come back to haunt you, what wind up twisting against you.

She can't say what she needs to say with words, not tonight. Maybe the Germans have a word for it, for "I forgive you, I need you, I'm sorry, thank you, please let this be enough", something long and twisted, maybe with umlauts. Buffy's not German; all she has are her hands.

On his cot, looking into his eyes, she flashes back to the first time. The startled look in her eyes reflected in his. Realization. Alarm. Connection. It feels like a lifetime ago, feels like yesterday. She reaches for his hand, clutching it like a lifeline as they shatter the walls one last time.

Very nice Plei.

I still like it that we don't know what happened in that scene, but this is the possibility I like the best, I think.

Aww! Susan, I like.

Thank you! I like yours a lot, too. Very evocative. Especially love the bit about the Germans having a word for it, and the memory of their first time.

I wonder how many versions of this scene are already out there!

Maybe the Germans have a word for it, for "I forgive you, I need you, I'm sorry, thank you, please let this be enough", something long and twisted, maybe with umlauts. Buffy's not German; all she has are her hands.

This, this is wonderful, I say, having lived in the land of gemutlichkeit (cannae do umlauts, sorry).

Susan, that was lovely, and quite possible.