Title: What Dreams May Come
Author: snowpuppies
Fandom: BtVS
Character/Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Genre: Angst/Dark/Romance
Rating: R
Highlight for Warnings: ** gore**
Disclaimer & Distribution: Recognizable things aren't mine but the fic is. Please don't archive or distribute without asking.
Summary: When she falls, Spike follows. They don't end up in heaven.
Word Count: 481
x-posted to: TBA

A/N: for fan_flashworks: 25 - Borrowed Title; inspired by the movie What Dreams May Come
A/N2: for sb_fag_ends: Beyond the Veil - Hallway - A sudden chill

Beta'd by velvetwhip




What Dreams May Come


He watches as she falls—an angel, the curtain between worlds fluttering like butterfly wings. She is, at once, full of power and grace, the lethality of the Slayer, and the fragility of the girl.

Breathtaking.

His poet-heart soars at such beautiful agony, even as it crashes with grief and shame.

And as the light begins to fade from her eyes, death's shroud concealing her light from the world, he chooses, and he leaps, and he falls…


Darkness before him grows (pulsing with
shadows) consume, demons (greater than he, with his
spikes and fangs) devour, rend flesh from
flesh and bone and breathless falls over his
heart, despair crawls through his veins,
sluggish like tar and pitch, and there is no
light (no light ((no))), extinguished and
frail, and he (remembers)…


He can't find her.

He looks, but the dimension he's fallen into is unfamiliar, jagged and misshapen, like a mirror cracked. Nothing is as it seems.

He remembers.

Remembers her.

Her.


Warmth fills his battered
being, unworn and close. The folly
of his yearning spilled over, a stain of
crimson (metallic, foaming, blood, life) on
his chest. She is…
She is…
She is the sun, bright and
effulgent (he bursts in a spray of vicera
and ichor). He longs…
He longs…
(what is the sun?)


They tear him apart, put him back together. Laughing, mocking, as his severed head rolls across the earth, grime and refuse filling his mouth, his nose, his eyes and ears.

His screams echo in the darkness, melding with the sick, wet thwack of his spinal cord being ripped from his body.

He falls to the ground; they snicker at the half-breed, not demon enough to live, not human enough to die.

They gather his pieces, forming a lump from his cold, dead flesh.

A chill sweeps through his being.

He knows what comes next.


Screams. There is nothing
but the jagged voices of the
fallen (purgatory, unending
misery) He cannot. Can't. Won't
No. (no) There is something…
someone (her), he recalls, but can't
think past the screaming, filling his
head with pain. Pain. Pain underneath,
behind, always, everywhere (everywhere
and always and inbetween) and then
a glimmer (shards of truth) and he
knows ((she)).


There was a reason.

He came.

He fell.

Yes. A reason.

No.

Just pain.

Just agonydespairnopleasedon'tstoppainpainpain and I'msorrysorrysorrymotherdon'tleavepainpainneveralways.

And then, it stops.

A primal screech fills the deep, a bird of prey, a raptor, a goddess, a savior, a warrior.

She is there.


Blind. Crashes of ocean
waves against his skin (salty
spray tears fall). She spins, herald
of light, of peace (peace, yes), of
vengeance fills his heart (unbeating,
yes, but not unfeeling). Moth to
flame (the stench of burning flesh, of
death and decay and fury, bright)
and clear in his mind, she glows.
((She glows)) and he finally
remembers…



She takes his hand.

The darkness melts away.

(Buffy)









FIN.










***

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