Title:Landing on the Moon: a Coda
Author: seraC
Email: seraphcelene@yahoo.com
Spoilers: none
Archiving: Essential-Imperfect. All others, please ask.
Summary: An alternative ending.
Notes: This is an alternative ending, a coda, if you will, to Concerning Flight. Let's imagine that the original ending was just wishful thinking.
Feedback: Is like air and highly addictive. In other words - yes, please.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers Company, UPN, et al. I'm just taking them out for a little exercise.
Thanks: Big burrito thank you's to my wonder woman beta, Moonwhip. She does it all, folks. And I'm not kidding.
Dedicated: This is dedicated, with many thanks and much blame, to diachrony.She gave me a little gem of an idea and I was inspired. This is all her fault.

Landing on the Moon: A Coda

It's funny the things you remember.

That last time she kissed you, softly, on the cheek. The way her hair smelled like Pantene because it was on sale and cheaper than Herbal Essence; and even though she was smaller than you, the way her hugs always left you breathless. You remember the feel of her bones, dainty as a baby bird's, beneath your hands.

But, these are not memories that will last long. You've already begun to forget. Her baby-blonde hair gives way to honeyed brown, hazel eyes bleed into blue. Tara is spread beneath you like a buffet. She stares up at you with dead eyes; two perfectly round holes mar the ivory curve of her neck. She is still warm as you nuzzle the downy space beneath her left ear.

So, pretty, you think. And now she'll be pretty forever.

Lazily, you raise your head and scan the room. Everything is as it should be at Casa Summers. Funny, you don't even remember when everyone started calling it that.

The grandfather clock chimes in the dining room - one, two, three. The curtains, behind the couch, are drawn. There's a blood stain on one of the throw pillows and you aren't sure if it will ever come out. Xander lies crumpled in the corner, his head listing oddly to the right. Spike is in front of the fireplace, his body curled tightly around Willow's.

"Spike," you call softly. His fangs are buried in Willow's pale neck, his wrist pressed tightly against her mouth.

"Spike," you call his name again, louder.

Spike pulls away and stares at you petulantly.

"Shouldn't we bury them? So they'll last?"

"Course, pet," he purrs. "Provided you've done it right."

You smile and the edges of your teeth scrape against your bottom lip. It's a curious, new sensation.

"I learn quick," you say, slipping off of Tara's motionless body. "We'll bury them in the back yard. Under the tree."

Spike rises with you, Willow draped carelessly across his arms.

"Sounds like a plan."

You smile and the edges of your teeth scrape against your bottom lip. You decide to remember that you like the sensation.