Buffy let the sweet sensations of his closeness, and the flowers that perfumed the room wash over her. She hummed with delight as Spike trailed his fingers lightly up her spine, his voice cooing as he nibbled on her ear, “Have you had enough, Pet?” he asked as he began placing gentle kisses along the length of her spine. He was playing her like a Stradivarius. And she didn’t mind one little bit.

“Never,” she smiled into the pillow, “And as soon as the tingly feeling stops, it’ll be your turn to be a puddle of goo.”

Buffy felt his breath against her neck, “I don’t know, Love. I like you this way. You’re happy. And that makes me happy.”

Buffy slowly rolled over so that she could look up into his face. She sighed with contentment at what she saw. His eyes were lazily drinking her in and the glint they held within them made her feel very much like a woman. It almost made her feel uncomfortable. She felt herself start to blush.

“Well, look at that,” he said thickly, “After all the things we’ve done, you still blush like a schoolgirl.”

“Don’t tease,” she pouted, “I think I’m a little drunk!”

He smirked, kissing the small wound he’d made on her neck, “More than a little, Pet.”

“How come you’re not?”

He kissed her eyelids lightly, “Who says I’m not? I can hold my liquor, that’s true. With a vampire constitution, it would take quite a lot to make me slur my words and stagger, but I still get drunk, same as you. And, don’t forget,” he said as he nuzzled her nose, “I’ve had twice as much as you have.”

He touched her forehead gently with his and chuckled when her face became tight with confusion, “Huh?”

“When we make love, and I bite you, like I did tonight, I can taste what’s in your blood. I take it in. So, when you get drunk, I do too. I’ve had double my share of celebration tonight. Yours, as well as mine, so if you feel drunk, if you are drunk, then so am I.”

“Oh. It’s kinda fun, isn’t it?” she asked as she drifted off to sleep.

“Yeah, it is,” he whispered.

As he listened to her breathing even out, he hoped he’d masked the unease he felt. Tomorrow, he’d get word to Giles. He wanted to know where the research was headed in regards to the thing that killed Talitha Sands, and he wanted to know fast. Because, something wasn’t right, and he knew it, because he’d tasted it in Buffy’s blood.
**********************

Buffy awoke once again to the scent of zinnias, azaleas, and dandelions. And forgot, briefly, where she was.

She didn’t want to remember. Her mind could be so cruel to her now.

She had been happy. She remembered it. She’d had the fairy tale. For nearly twenty-three years, she had her Prince. And, she was happy. She was. Until almost ten months ago. Buffy’s world had gone grey. Without him, there was no color. Somehow, the world had gotten smaller too. It consisted of four walls, a door, a window and a bed. There was a television too. It splashed images of the outside world across her vision, not that she cared. She wasn’t paying attention. She had enough trouble just remembering how to breathe.

It hurt too much to even eat. Everything tasted like cardboard. Her throat was so raw and tight that it was almost impossible to force food down. The only reason she even tried was because of a promise she had made him. And now they even took that from her. The intravenous line connected to the glucose drip took care of the hunger. It sat silently above her bed, forcing the nourishment in. It said nothing, and that was fine. She had nothing to say to it, either.

Her world had gone away. In one night, that’s all it took. Now she knew her world would never be the same again.

Is this what it felt like, to just exist? Was this what it was like for him? Was this what it felt like? Was this what it meant to be soulless? My god, why didn’t you tell me that it was this cold? That it hurt this much?

For a long time, it was like that, cold, grey, and lifeless. Until one night, he came.

Buffy didn’t know how, or even why, but she didn’t care. He stood there, a vision in black leather and peroxide. He looked disoriented. As if he wasn’t sure where he was. He seemed to be drinking it all in slowly. The walls. The window, with the tiny vase of flowers, they were the only things that even dared speak of life in this room.

He was pulled to the flowers, as if they spoke to him. And they had, once. Buffy remembered when he told her. She saw his shoulders slump under the leather, and his neck bowed a little. Was he praying? Buffy would have asked, but she was afraid to speak. She was too afraid that speech would break the magic, and he would be gone again.

Suddenly he began to turn, and Buffy saw his profile in the half-light of the window. He was as thin as mist. That was when she knew. He wasn’t real.

She smiled and spoke its name, “Spike?” she croaked, trying to keep her sanity against a tide of unreasonable hope.

Buffy could hear the hiss of unneeded breath, and watched the trapezius muscles rise and fall with the hurried breathing and she knew the hallucination was complete. She needed him, so she conjured him. He behaved in every way she knew he would. Every detail was perfect, right down to his almost feminine eyelashes, and the absolute blue of his eyes.

He turned. Blue eyes met hers and at once wept with joy and horror when he saw her, “Buffy?” it questioned as it floated nearer to her. It took in her clinical surroundings and her frail body. A genuine look of pain crossed its face, and for a moment, Buffy believed.

She hated how accurate her heart could be. Why did it have to torture her like this? Why had she chosen to bring this vision to herself? Why had she chosen to see her husband this way? Not the way he’d looked for nigh on to a quarter century, no. She had to see the Champion he had once been, instead of the frail and broken form he’d willingly become, to save her.

Buffy supposed there was a kind of mercy in that.

She could hear the longing and the pain in the voice as it asked, “Are you real?” the voice seemed stronger, “Buffy, are you real?”

She shook her head. She wasn’t real. Nothing would be, ever again.

The head fell to the side, “Are you ill, Love?”

Buffy only smiled a tearful smile.
**********************************
NOVEMBER 10, 2028-

Joni smiled to herself as she remembered the imaginary playmate she’d had as a child. He’d started visiting her when she was five, and left, for good and all, when she was about ten. Thinking back on it, Jonina realized that those were the years her Mom had been sick. Those were the years her Daddy had been consumed with grief, and had no time for her. She supposed that was why she’d conjured him up the way she did, to look like her Daddy. Her friend kept her company when her Daddy couldn’t. He taught her things she would later put to good use as a Slayer.

He would only appear when she needed him to. And when he did disappear, she could remember wondering where he would go when he vanished from her room.
********************************************
OCTOBER 15, 2003

He was back in the lab again, when only moments ago he was looking at Buffy, lying in a hospital room, wasting away before his very eyes. That truly was Hell. Fred had to help.

He turned to her and pleaded, “…Help me?”