Title: Sleep. Dream. Wake.
Author: Lint
Email: CrashDarby@aol.com
Disclaimer: All Buffy folk belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, and The WB.
Rating: PG
Summary: Do you dream in technicolor?


Sleep.

The thin layer of sweat covering his wry body becomes chilled as he falls against the cool white sheets. The bed is soft, which doesn't really surprise him. It is a girl's bed after all. She's already curled up into a ball next to him, and he tries to reach his hand out to touch her one more time but finds his arm is unwilling to move. His head turns in her direction, seeing the soft skin of her neck he wishes to trace his fingers over it once more, slowly tease it with his tongue. He wishes to turn her over and tire himself out all over again. He decides not to when it takes too much effort just to turn his head back toward the ceiling. He tries to mumble a goodnight, but his tongue feels weighted in his mouth and no words can come. He does manage a mumble that somewhat resembles English, but thinks it falls on deaf ears as he can already hear her light breathing next to him. He feels drunk with sensations he's never experienced, and while his body is begging for rest his mind is too jolted to sleep. It's like a firecracker, exploding with every realization.

His body has never burned this before.

His body has never felt this way before.

She wasn't supposed to be here with him.

He's glad she was.

His eyelids feel heavier than they've ever felt, like someone came along and parked a Buick on them. With great effort he rolls over lifting his arms that felt like dumbbells to clutch at the pillow trying to get into a comfortable position. He breathes slowly, each breath bring calm and giving into fatigue. The exhaustion finally takes its hold and brings him to slumber.

Dream.

He sees nothing but darkness and wonders if he's still awake with his pinned down clutching onto to her pillow. He wants to move but feels no limbs in which to rotate, no force to put to mass.

He sees nothing but black.

The burst of light all around nearly blinds him as it dances across his vision, and he wishes he had eyes to squeeze shut.

Sub-conscious has no eyes, merely a door kept open or closed. Awake or asleep.

The colors swirl in no particular pattern in the dome like ceiling from which hung, spinning their whirling crayola essence in circles that didn't seem to exist. Spinning in lines that hold no form. They remind him of blobs of paint left on some forgotten canvas by an artist who suddenly ceased to care.

He feels weightless, an astronaut floating in the gentle abyss of space.

The colors seem to call to him, inviting him to be close, not really asking but not forcing the issue either.

He doesn't know how to answer the request.

The colors churn faster, the yellows, browns, and peach tie-dyed variations twisting like a raging river spilling into the falls.

They reach out to him, stretching toward his formless existence.

Living paint.

Suddenly he feels a vortex sucking him down, he has weight and mass and eyes now, which he squeezes them shut trying avoid the blinding light.

In an instant the colors have form, though still too blurry to make sense any of it.

They reach to him again, speak his name, and ask him if he felt the same.

The same what?

He didn't understand.

The form takes more shape.

It moves closer and closer, speaking of things that he knows to be true.

They don't want us. We don't need them. We can have fun. We can be free.

The form of hazy yellow, brown, and peach hue's wraps itself around him.

He feels the heat radiating from it.

From her.

He feels need, elation, and arousal.

He loves every minute of it. He loves her.

His eyes close as he feels that soft, sweet skin of hers come to life under his touch. He feels her lips slowly moved their way from his neck to his chest. He feels his hands entwine in her hair but dares not open his eyes. He throws himself into every sensation blind; everything nearly amplified because of it. He feels his arousal. He can smell hers. His hands move slowly, mapping out every inch of her with his fingertips. He feels her lips guide her around his own body. They aren't themselves in this moment, not human, not alien, mere vessels feeding off loneliness and passion.

His feels her body, feels his mouth, feels her mouth.

So soft, so simple, so beautiful.

He hears his question.

"Do you want me to?"

He hears her response.

"Yes."

Wake.

"Xander," he hears being whispered into his ear, as the cool sheets materialize on the still slick skin of his back. His eyelids flutter but he can't seem to get them open.

"Xander," it says louder, accompanied by a hand shaking him.

His eyes shoot open.

In an instant he realizes a few things.

This isn't his room, this isn't his bed, he not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to be with her.

He lifts his head and looks to her awaiting gaze, those soft sweet eyes staring back at him.

He smiles.

He remembers wanting this, wanting her.

His hand reaches out to cup her cheek and she kisses his palm before smiling.

She wanted this, wanted him too.

"Are you okay Xander?" She says falling onto her back beside him. "You were talking in your sleep."

He smiles as his eyes fall closed once more, reaching a hand through her fine blonde hair. He leans over to kiss her. He feels her smile when they're done. He moves to lay back down but kisses her again. His hands slide around her waist and her arms wrap around his neck. Their tongues taste each other, moving softly against one another. He breaks the kiss and places one more on her forehead.

"What brought that on?" she asks with a shy smile.

"I just wanted you to know I'm glad you're here."

She snuggles closer to him, tucking her head just under his chin.

"I'm glad I'm here too," she says. "Good night Xander."

"Night Tara."