DISCLAIMER: I don't pretend to be the creator or owner of Buffy and company, but it would be cool if I did.
TIMELINE: This would be post season five.
SPOILERS: "The Gift" for typical reasons~
SYNOPSIS: Buffy enjoys her long deserved rest.
DISTRIBUTION: Feel free, just let me know :o)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote it way past midnight, and as you're about to find out, when I'm up late I get poetic. This is probably a little too wordy, but I tried to avoid anything really clichéd. It's not very long, and hopefully that balances out the excessive use of adjectives, lol. Enjoy (maybe)!
FEEDBACK: That would be nice. By the way, thank you to everyone who wrote me about the last fic~
RATING: Harmless ramblings that are annoying at worst.That's what, a G? lol.

"Dreams can be such fun." Buffy thought to herself as she glanced around what had to be the inside of her own head. Everything was dim and tinted blush-purple. She raised her hands and skimmed soft hangings of gauzy linen and silk. It was warm and the air smelled like melting wax. Time moved sugar-slow. The slayer felt the pulse of infinite heartbeats as a subtle buzz in her fingers.

Nothing seemed real, and she wasn't surprised. In dreams, you had to be worried if it was real. if you were the slayer. Buffy couldn't see past the haze and she smiled, feeling the need for some peace and quiet. The presence of someone just beyond her was strong, but not worrisome. It was more comfortable than the dreams she had sometimes, dreams of being all alone and lost.

She closed her dream eyes and felt herself wrapped in smooth feelings, something like sheets fresh from the drier. still warm.

Buffy couldn't be sure, but she had the sensation of being cradled, rocked by airy hands and cuddled in down feathers. There were no sounds, and behind her eyelids the light was calm blue.

"Dreams can be." she thought sluggishly, her mind leaving the thought for other, simpler ideas. Touching, smelling the warm bee smell of the wax, watching the blue behind her eyes get deeper and deeper, becoming purple. Still, there were no sounds. Even the thoughts she had didn't come to Buffy as words. The voice she imagined she heard between her ears whenever she thought was silent. It was replaced, unnoticed at first, by her real mind.

Her Slayer's mind, the barest whisper of the stalked hunter, in no voice but image and intuition. Sensory memories and strained control seeped through the resting girl and took her back to the very beginning of Buffy. Even with the fight running in her, she continued to be babied by the dreaming. Buffy felt the floating consume her physical intelligence, erasing the idea of feathery warmth and the colors of blue and blushing purple.

The slayer was not alarmed, even as she began to lose herself. It was a continuation of the moment, every night she fell into bed. of the moment where the darkness became elastic and she swayed between sleep and consciousness. Buffy had no body, no eyes, no heartbeat of her own. The only tangible element was the thrum of other hearts.

It was nothing and every single moment that had ever occurred, ever, before light and time and thought, and after darkness, infinity, and apathy. She was purified by the connection of so many electric pulses, and began even to lose her mind completely. It was easy for Buffy to forget year after year of time until she had never existed in any form.

For whatever was left of the prism-eyed slayer, it was ultimate freedom.

Without form, she couldn't fight. Without secondary mind, she couldn't feel ruined, worthless, couldn't feel guilty. Without Slayer's mind, she didn't feel the pull of the fight, or the protectiveness.

Buffy was free of everything that had ever hurt her.

She was the sky.

But there was something else. and it dragged her together again.

It would have been a feeling, had she known what a feeling was. It was a need for something eternal, just like her, just like the sky. Something strange, foreign, was happening to her, as the sense of touch returned. Awareness swept her up quickly, and there was a flawless sensation she couldn't ignore. A hand, slipping across her skin, wove its impression into her vaporous mind and memory.

There was a whispering laugh, beside her ear, quiet and sad, tightening Buffy's grip on her personal reality. She smelled something familiar, wonderful, and old. Recognition poured into the breaks of her gathered self, and she was struggling to find its purpose. Behind her eyes color returned, still blue and purple and blush, and with them a faded bit of thought that echoed in visual reminders.

The place she rested came into soft-focus, with its silk drapery and sugar-time, and it began to lose its warmth. Buffy held onto her mind as a suddenly thoughts made themselves known, and were interpreted as Human thoughts, as a voice speaking between her ears. The slayer instincts and primitive, simple emotions returned to their deeper place inside her, quieting all but the bright thrall of something other.

Freedom, Sky-freedom, lost its meaning to Buffy as she carefully guided each part of her own self past the place of dreaming. She made her eyes open and see the world of calm, warm nothing fold into barely a pinprick of blush-purple night. The Slayer returned to the years of pain and persistent war, because there was someone waiting for her.

He would be waiting for her.

~~~~~

Heaven grieved for Buffy Summers, who left her place in the sky for the one thing that made heaven and sky possible. The Eternal Slayer was called by her Soul, which, even after death, remained with The Angel on Earth.

It was unusual. but expected of Her.

As it had been expected of Him.

As it had happened forever.since before time and light.

Before heartbeats.

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