Summary: A few months after Buffy's death, the gang is still having sleepless nights...
Spoilers: Through The Gift.
Disclaimer: Joss made Buffy, not me. He also killed her-- that wasn't me either. I'm just writing off of his mean ideas.
Rating: Mild R for language and some sexuality.
All my thanks go to Tracy, who manages not only to beta for me (and beta well), but also to make me feel good about my stories, which is an accomplishment in itself.

The Nights
By Amy
-----

~Xander~

He wakes up shaking sometimes. Shaking for her, feeling the pain that she
must've gone through. Sweat covers him and it takes him a moment to realize
that he's safe in his bed and months and months have passed since that
fateful morning. And Anya is always beside him, waking up the second he
does, there to soothe away the ache welling inside of his chest, to loosen
the knots in his stomach. She patiently wipes away his tears-- the tears he
doesn't even realize are streaking down his face until her soft little hands
reach up and stroke them away-- and talks quietly to him, comforting him,
calming him.

He'd never have thought it, back in high school. He'd gotten lucky that he
found a girl who loves him so much. Even if she is an ex-demon who used take
such pleasure in killing guys like him that even now, as a human, she still
looks back on it fondly.

And he loves her too. Strangely enough, he really does. She brings out a
part of him that he likes. The man who is nothing like his father... The man
who is responsible and kind, who's tender and funny and takes care of his
friends. The man who would never use intimidation or his fists to make a
child call him 'Sir.'

But there's someone else he loves. Someone who he can't talk about anymore,
because it still hurts too much. They say the pain will go away someday and
he wants to track down these elusive 'they' to kick the shit out of them
because 'they' obviously don't know what 'they're' talking about.

Because he doesn't know how he'll ever stop loving her.

He thought it was just a crush. Maybe it was. He thought they were a
family. And maybe they were. But there was more there, deep down, that he'd
never talked about since the night he'd gone to her lover's apartment to find
out how to reach the Master. To save her.

~You're in love with her...~

~Aren't you?~

Never again had he admitted that his feelings went so deep. But maybe she
knew.

And now he dreams about her every night. Dreams about her golden hair and
laugh and the sweet curve of her smile. Dreams about her jokes and her
amazing roundhouse kick and her love of swing sets. Dreams about her passion
and dedication and ability to forgive. Dreams about what a good friend she
was; a great friend... A best friend.

He dreams about the morning she died; just as the sun was coming up.

He'll never appreciate the daylight in the same way. Which makes it damn
hard, because he hates the night too.

Thinking about these things, he closes his eyes again with the other woman he
loves wrapped around him, her steady breathing bringing him joy that she
should feel so safe in his arms. He turns his thoughts to her until he's
back asleep.

And then he dreams again of Buffy, like he knows he will for every night for
the rest of his life.

* * * * * *

~Willow~

She feels like she hasn't gotten a moment of rest in months. She resents
Buffy, for her lack of sleep and the sadness that lingers inside of her and
won't go away; resents her for dying, and then hates herself for it.

The mornings are better. The days pass, and she keeps herself busy, doing as
much as possible to think as little about everything as she can. It works,
sometimes. There are days when she'll take Dawn to school or be walking down
the street holding Tara's hand and things are better.

Well, not better. Just... Distant.

There's a numbness to everything now. The world still rotates, only in
shades of gray. No blues. Buffy's eyes were blue, and now they're closed
forever. No golds. Her hair was gold and soon it will be falling off in
clumps as her body continues to decompose. No pinks. Her lips were pink and
now they're pale and silent, issuing none of the laughter and sharp, witty
remarks Willow had gotten used to hearing in the past five years.

Now there's nothing.

When Joyce died, Willow thought, 'Things could never get worse than this,'
but she was wrong. It never occured to her that something like this would
happen. That her best friend would die.

Of course, she still has Xander. When he comes over, they talk and pretend
fleetingly that things aren't so horrible. And then the inevitable silence
will fall, the silence that means they're both thinking about her, and he'll
reach over and grasp Willow's hand tightly. It helps, some.

Not enough.

And she still has Tara. Tara, who she was amazed to have found, and she
feels blessed to have her in her life. She feels like she's found a part of
herself, a piece that was missing for years and years. Like how Oz made her
feel. Only... Different. And she doesn't know what will happen, but she's
content when Tara cuddles her, kisses her. When they kiss, the worries and
fears and tensions and disappointments slip away for a little while. Just a
little while.

But even with that piece of Tara filling her heart, she's not whole. Not
anymore. For a time, she was. She was completed, surrounded by people who
loved her, people she loved.

And now one of them is gone.

She used to talk to Buffy all of the time. When something was bothering one
of them, they'd pick up the phone-- no matter the hour-- and make a call,
telling their doubts and sadnesses to one another. It was a comfort. Like
chocolate, only better. Friendship.

Sometimes she'll be feeling so sad that she'll lean over to pick up the phone
to call Buffy. Then she'll realize that she's sad because of Buffy. Because
she's dead. Because Willow can't call her anymore.

It would be so much easier if she could hate Buffy for leaving, for dying,
but she can't. There's so much anger sometimes, but no hate. Buffy died for
her. For Dawn. For Xander and Giles and Angel and even Spike. For Faith
and Wesley and Cordelia. For Anya and Tara. For the world.

Buffy was good at saving the world. She was capable, better than capable,
under the moon and the black sky.

Willow remembers what Buffy looked like in the moonight, and suddenly she
wants to cry.

Buffy had always been beautiful. But especially then.

* * * * * *

~Giles~

He'd never wanted children.

He thought that need was disconnected from him because of the way he was
raised-- in training, always in training, beaten if he was sullen... Beaten
if he obeyed. Broken into his destiny with a harshness that a child should
never have to experience. And when he came into his own at nineteen, when he
rebelled and ran away and experienced so much freedom-- even though it
ultimately led him back to his calling-- he knew that he would never have
children of his own. He knew that he would never be a father, never see
someone look at him with such adoration and respect.

He accepted that. For years, he accepted that.

And then he met Buffy. And when he'd met her, she'd been funny and
different. Nothing like what he'd been told Slayers were. She was
determined, yes, and strong. So strong. But there'd been a gentle side to
her, a tenderness he hadn't expected. She was sweet and smart. She'd talked
back, argued with him, annoyed him, delighted him, made him think, made him
laugh... and more than once, she'd made him cry. She'd tuned him into those
feelings; that hunger for family, for connection.

And before he'd realized what was happening, he found he was a father.

No man could've loved her more. Her own father hadn't. Giles loved her
deeply, implicitly, unquestioningly. Forever. As if his own blood ran
through her viens, he'd tried to care for her, to keep her safe. To keep her
alive.

He'd failed.

~Giles, I'm sixteen years old... I- I don't wanna die.~

He doubted her feelings had changed about that, even four years later. But
she was gone nonetheless. He couldn't save her from her duty, after all.
And though he knew it had been her choice, knew that she knew what she'd been
doing, it didn't ease his pain.

The loss of his child. The worst pain on Earth. He'd thought he'd know pain
before-- the pain of killing, of being tortured... Of death. But he hadn't.
That was nothing to this.

From the day he'd met her, she'd been the shining star in his life. Constant
in her love for him. And he was constant in his for her. No matter what she
did, she'd known that, after everything, Giles would be there for her. Ready
to help, if he could, or simply offer comfort if he couldn't.

He has an extra drink every night now. He toasts Buffy. Toasts her life and
indulges himself in memories. In guilt. He sits and drinks and thinks of
her, and sometimes he smiles and sometimes he cries. He feels no shame in
his tears, as once he might have. Instead, he feels justified in his pain.

She was a beautiful, beautiful girl. And he loved her. And he can only pray
now that she knew that then.

He should have told her. If she were alive, he'd tell her now. He'd tell
her everything he'd been too proper to say, too polite to voice.

Fuck proper. Fuck polite.

Now, he wouldn't care. Now, the words would easily come. Now, he'd know
that the way he'd say the words, the awkwardness, wouldn't matter. All that
would matter was that he'd said them.

But there was no now, anymore. Not for Buffy. His Slayer. His child.
There was no now.

There were only memories.

Only yesterday.

He'll toast her tonight, thinking of this.

* * * * * *

~Angel~

Somewhere, deep inside of him, this had been his fear. He'd always had fear
for Buffy's life; it had been heightened when he realized that he might live
as a human again one day. He never acknowleged it, pretended that it wasn't
a consideration, but it always was. Because when he pictured a human life,
he pictured it was Buffy. Only Buffy.

Always Buffy.

And now, he didn't want it. Now, he wanted the curse and the unending guilt
and torment. Now, it was almost a comfort to him. Something to focus on.
Something to pour his despair into, his fury. And he was furious; so angry
at fate, for making him love her the way he did, angry that he could never
hear her voice again, or see her smile or feel her touch or taste her mouth.

He remembers the nights they made love. That first time, how she blossomed
under his touch, unsure of what she was feeling, the sound of her sighs in
the dark. He remembers the salty taste of her skin under his tongue, the way
she held him close as he entered her, and the startled surprise in her eyes
when she came, her muscles contracting around him, amazed that there was such
bliss in the world. He remembers the tears slipping down the sides of her
face as she whispered that she loved him, over and over, and that she always
would.

The trust in her words, the openess of her gaze, the dreamy smile playing
with her lips as they lay together, still joined, afterward.

He thinks about that night a lot. The specialness of what she gave to him.
Not only her virginity, not only her love, but also the first sense of peace
and joy he'd ever really known. He'd found himself in her arms that night,
found out what bliss was, found that life was not always something desperate
or depraved.

He thinks about when he came back from Hell, when he stood in front of her
and whispered her name in disbelief as she stared at him, not knowing how to
react. Thinks of how he fell to her knees and wrapped his arms around her
waist, holding her close, his face buried in her stomach, his tears staining
her shirt. Thinks of how he always wanted to fall to his knees and hold her
like that when he was around her, how grateful she made him of his horrible,
tormented unlife because without it, he would never have known her.


The nights are the longest. It was the nights they shared, hunting together,
fighting together... Being together. The nights under the stars and trees,
near cemeteries and monsters. Sometimes when it was quiet they would talk
and she would tell him about her childhood and her dreams, and he would
reciprocate, making her laugh with stories about what a rotten child he had
been, what a shameless man.

When Buffy laughed, the entire world slipped away for a moment and there was
just her and that smile and those eyes, looking at him with longing. He
loved to see her laugh.

He longed for her, too.

Above all else, he longed for her. Ached to make her happy, to touch her, to
be near her, to be inside her, to comfort her and treasure her and protect
her... And love her. He wasn't allowed to, but he always loved her.

He hadn't believed in love at first sight until the moment he saw Buffy.

And then when she loved him back...

~I love you.~

~I love you too. ...What's happening?~

~Shh... Don't worry about it.~

A nod. A small smile. Total trust.

~Close your eyes.~

He closes his eyes now, wishing he could sleep. The sun will be up in
minutes and the night will be over. Their night. The image of her lingers
behind his eyelids, the sadness in her gaze right before she'd stabbed him
that he hadn't understood then.

He sighs, wishing he had never caused her that pain, wishing he had never
caused her a single second of pain. He squeezes his eyes tighter, wanting to
forget that this dream of her is all he can ever have now.

But he'll never forget, and he knows it.

So he simply prays for the night to end.

Sunrise is minutes away, but he's sure the night will last forever.


The End

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