A/N: This is a rewrite of an old story, first authored as a personal challenge right after the third episode of Season Six. When I saw how Buffy acted later in the Season, I went back and rewrote the ending so that it was a little truer to the show.

Spike is the only one that Buffy can really relate too after she is brought back to life. She sorts through her feelings and memories through the use of colors that aren't too harsh on her eyes and emotions.

Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, and other characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.


His old leather coat is black. It's warm, soft, and smells like him; expensive aftershave, tobacco, and the Jack Daniels whiskey that he likes so much. It's so much a part of him that the soft rustle of leather is comforting. I remember leaning against it when I found out about my mom's tumor, his arm around me, just comforting me. I remember him wrapping it around me last night when I sat shivering on the edge of his armchair. His old leather coat is black.


Those stupid rings he wears are silver. They're big, clunky, and cold. But they're smooth too. When I woke up from my nightmare, he was there holding me, stroking my face and wiping away tears. I feel the cool rings against my skin, and they make me remember another ring, the one he gave me two years ago. I still have it. It's the only engagement or wedding ring that I'm likely to get. Unless they keep dragging me back. But he won't let them. Silver will flash as his hands destroy whatever they attempt. Those stupid rings he wears are silver.


His shirt is red. It's soft as silk too. It's under my head and his leather coat is over me. I must have fallen asleep in the training room again. As usual he took care of me. I lift my head to look for him, reluctant to leave my makeshift pillow. His shirt is red.


His eyes are blue. I never noticed that before. They're that cold remote shade of steely blue that penetrate my silent, invisible walls. I can't lie to him, and I don't even have to say a word for him to know what I'm feeling. He's always been that perceptive, even before he fell in love with me. How can such a cold color be so tender and warm? His eyes are blue.


His skin is alabaster. He stands in front of the window silhouetted by the moonlight, skin and hair shining against his black clothes. He knows I'm awake and has turned to look at me. I realized something then and no words were needed. If I reach out to him, I know he will come. He always comes. I could whisper those three words that both of us want to hear. He would hold me and chase away the numbness. But he is perfect and I am not. I won't taint him. His skin is alabaster.