Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own Buffy or Supernatural. Nor do I make any profit from writing this story. It would be cool if I did, but I don't.

AN: Ever feel like RL is kicking you while you're down? I have so much going on that I'm tense all the time and that's not conducive to writing. Thankfully, I got a chance today to just relax, answer some of my building email, and browse through the FFA's on Twisting the Hellmouth. You can see how that went, right?

This pairing (surprise) just grabbed on and I'm in love! I'm debating doing another ficlet or two as an add on to this one. We'll see. Let me know what you think. :)

Buffy Summers awakes in her coffin with a gasp of stale air. Panic washes through her, destroying the after shocks of pleasure that were still sweeping through her soul.

There's not enough air, one breath is all her newly restored lungs can pull in, and she claws at the wood above her. Splinters fall into her face, itching at her eyes as pain blossoms brightly as her nails break and tear.

Yet Buffy can't stop, panic and the will to live push her to continue scratching at the wood until it gives way. Her mouth is filled with dirt (grave dirt—her grave dirt) but any other thought besides that of fresh air is nothing but static in her mind.

Finally, Buffy breaches the surface, and she lies in the sprouts of new grass that are just beginning to grow on the turned earth as she pants. Her eyes itch and sting, but she doesn't dare rub at them for fear of doing more damage with her dirty hands.

Buffy blinks through the pain, eyes watering as she tries to get her first sight of where she is. The first thing she's able to glimpse is her headstone. She saved the world a lot? Buffy snorts. That is the best they could come up with?

The second thing doesn't so much make it into her limited vision as slice into her palm to make itself known. Buffy pulls it closer, disregarding the blood dripping down her hand. It's a sliver of something larger, smooth and slightly rounded, clay maybe? Whatever it is, is certainly magical in some way because it is now sucking up her blood. Buffy is now able to see the piece she holds. It might have once been a different color but is now a deep burnished red—the rust color of old blood but polished to a nice shine.

It is also looking at her. In a darker red is the drawing of an eye, much like the pictures of Egyptian hieroglyphs. Buffy quickly drops the piece she is holding as the eye blinks lazily. Whatever it is, is waking up, likely thanks to her blood, and further away the crushed pieces of the whole are twitching in an attempt to move closer to each other.

The fog is lifting in inches and it comes to her quite suddenly that this is probably the thing used to pull her back. There's only one person Buffy knows who is stupid enough to attempt human resurrection … well, two if you count Dawn's half-assed attempt to raise their mother.

But this isn't zombie resurrection. Buffy feels no urge to pull her body along the ground, no urge to taste human flesh. She still feels like Buffy—older, wiser, and a bit darker for sure, but that's what you get for spending a few centuries in a peaceful little corner of Hell. It makes her wonder just how much time has passed here on Earth if Willow is still alive to bring her back.

Buffy pulls herself up to stand awkwardly on shaky legs. Like a newborn colt, she thinks in disgust before she gives a shrug, pulling her thoughts back on track. It doesn't really matter how long it's been because they're all going to die anyway. Not by her hand of course, but they dared to pull her from the grips of Hell. They dared to take her from the King of Hell—from his arms, from his bed, from right beneath his nose.

Except he isn't just the King, is he? No, to her he is so much more. He is friend, protector, and lover. He is Crowley, and he is her Heaven.

They pulled her from Heaven, and she will not shed a tear when he destroys them.