Interlude IV

Since You Been Gone

He drank with the Whelp and Giles, he patrolled with the Bot, he watched over Dawn, and he grieved.

The moment she dove into the portal, there was a flash of pain in his hand, and he knew she was gone. His palm was smooth and unscarred once more, and he would give his entire unlife to have that scar back for only a second longer. He would trade the inferno for one bright, shining moment with his golden girl.

If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

And if wishing for a scar could make it return, then he would wish on every star, every night. Would hunt the earth for obscure wishing rituals just to wish for that moment. But wishes don’t come true, and there was no Blue Fairy to make him a real boy again.

And Buffy was never coming back.

Days blurred together in an alcoholic haze, one that he snapped out of first. He impelled the Watcher, and then the Whelp, yelling and snarling about her wishes at the end, and their duty.

She left them to guard the Hellmouth and her sister, and by all the gods in heaven, he would.

Days he spent on Revello, trapped in a house that was a shrine to all things Buffy. Sometimes, when Dawn went with her friends and Willow and Tara were gone, he would go upstairs and stand on the threshold, staring into her room with longing and tears on his face. Her essence was strong here, but he knew that it would fade with time.

He looked at the bed, where they had lain together once, twice. Remembered her words, her expressions. The way she had looked, lying beneath him, her eyes round with delight and lips parting with that kittenish pout. The way she panted, right before she came. The look in her eyes when she took him in her mouth.

He didn’t just remember the good, either. He recalled nights standing beneath her window, memorizing her scent on the wind, wishing she would let him in. Days trapped in the bloody crypt, wondering when or if she would be by to see him. His mouth twisted bitterly, remembering the night she told him she would rather die than let him touch her. He never realized his waffling caused her such pain, then kicked himself. He treated her like Dru had treated him for so many years.

It was the only times, besides the first time, when he ever let himself cry. Even the strong such as Samson were weak in the face of love.

He never let Dawnie catch him crying.

He cried, and he went on. He mourned, and he patrolled. He grieved every minute, waking and sleeping, and still cared for Dawn, took their abuse, suffered their paranoia, and put up with the Whelp’s comments that grew snider and more pointed by the day. He did it for her. He did everything for her. So she could rest.