Get Lost With Me

He loves Buffy. He does. She's everything he ever wanted, everything for which he ever yearned, and when he's inside her he feels…

Well, he's not sure how to put it into words, but it's more– isn't it? – than anything he's ever felt before. And he'd never think to ask her for anything but what she already gives.

So how does he explain the dream?

It's the same every time, even as it changes, even as it becomes something just as real as the world he lives in with his eyes open and his cock inside Buffy.

"You're here again?" His voice is all posturing-casual, need concealed in the bounce off the stone of the walls – and not just the ones of this crypt.

"Always. I'll always be here, Spike."

Her walk is awkward-glide-into-grace. She's still the girl he first saw in fuzz and teach-me shyness… but she's more, so much more, and it makes his gut clench and his cock hard.

Today it's a tie-dyed t-shirt with long sleeves pulled over her head and a purple lace bra unhooked to reveal two pale mouthfuls of pink-tipped flesh. They're perfect, aren't they? When the dream first came, he wondered if they really looked like that. Now he doesn't wonder; he knows. Because this is real.

He's still naked from when Buffy left him – the dream always begins where reality ends, or is it the other way around? For all the demands the Slayer made (hard bruises and kisses that felt like fists against his mouth), he's ready for his girl… No, no, no! This girl, but she's not his girl. Buffy is his girl.

Isn't she?

His mouth, though – it isn't made for questions. Not now. Now it's caressing soft, white flesh as the music of her soft giggle fills his ears and they're all tangled limbs and a poetry William was never capable of writing as they tumble to the bed. It's always the same.

It's never the same.

Now it's her mouth moving down his flesh – as pale as hers, but it doesn't glow with the life she somehow imbues in every flick of tongue against his skin. Eve and the apple all in one – she's original sin.

But then again, she's redemption, isn't she?

Poor Angelus – he'll never know what Spike knows.

Her tongue tells its tale old as time over and over as her mouth slides up and down his length. It's like the first time – and not just the first time he had the dream. Every time is like discovering…

No, not that, but sex, maybe. Maybe sex. Not the other, because that's Buffy's. Buffy with her gawky limbs – that isn't Buffy, is it? No it's not. Those limbs belong to his…

No, no, no! Buffy is his shining, golden girl, with her smooth muscles and her Amazon strength and…

She's not here.

He doesn't want her to be here.

Can't finish, not now, it'll be over too soon, over before… But no, he doesn't want to hear that word. It was easier before, before he knew what was real and what was just some fool's dream, so he lets go and this time he closes his eyes (eyes already closed…aren't they?), not wanting to see that sweet face – innocence and knowledge and oblivion and truth all swirling under the pink of her cheek, the apple she holds out to him.

"Get lost with me," she says without speaking. "Please? Find me?"

He doesn't answer, just spills himself into what transforms into silk sheets and empty air mated around his thighs as his eyes open.

He's all alone.

Later he'll see the Willow he barely knows, twitching and needy and outcast, pining for Tara. Later still, Buffy's thighs will lock around his waist and he'll be home where he belongs.

Too late, he'll be with his Willow again.

The End.