Cuddle Battle

[Casi]

Okay, so there is a journal that randomly hosts Fiction Battles. The way they work is that for like, seven days, the mod takes prompts that must include fandom, pairing, and word prompt. Then for seven days, you can post fics from those prompts. The catch is that the fic must fit in a Livejournal comment box, meaning no more than 4,300 characters. Not words, characters.

Usually these are porn battles. This time, it was cuddles. It's just that time of year I guess.

So these are my submissions for the Cuddle Battles.

[Casi]

They’d been close before, but tonight definitely had a feeling of next levelness to it. Riley let a soft, golden curl wrap around his finger as he looked down at Buffy. How could she manage to look at him like that? Like she was a sweet and innocent little thing who was about to do the nastiest things ever thought of by a human being? He brushed the hair back off her shoulder, and that’s when he saw it. He’d never noticed it before, but then he’d never been in a place to. A small scar. It looked like a bite mark.

“That looks like it was bad,” he said in a small talk type voice, running his finger over the smooth, shiny skin. He smiled a little but let it drop at the look on her face. He wasn’t sure, but her eyes looked a little bright, and her mouth had gotten thin and tight.

“It’s nothing,” she said in a voice that suggested it was much more than nothing. She moved a step away from him, her eyes darting away. “I think maybe I should go. Willow is probably…wondering where I am.” It was an excuse and he knew it. And she knew he knew it. She looked like she’d just been backed into a corner.

“Hey…” he said, a little confused. “What just happened here?” She didn’t answer as she edged towards the door. “Buffy,” Riley said, putting a hand on her arm. “I’m kinda lost here. What did I say?”

She didn’t cry. Not exactly. She didn’t look the type to cry, not to him anyway. But it looked like she crumpled inwardly. A bit reluctantly, she sat on the edge of his bed.

“It’s nothing, really.” She shook her head. “Long story. Long…pain filled, occasionally homicidal story. Bit of a mood killer, all things considered.” She looked up at him, looking slightly apologetic.

Riley sat down next to her. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. Part of what he liked so much about her was everything he didn’t know yet. And knowing what she was…well, he supposed he could imagine the sort of stories she didn’t want to tell. With a small, encouraging smile, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and was instantly rewarded as he felt her weight settle against him. She was so warm. Sometimes he felt like she must be on fire, the way it felt when he held her. Buffy’s head rested against his shoulder and she sighed in an almost contented way. With an inward sigh of his own, Riley rested his head on top of hers and reveled in the feeling of just being next to her.

[Casi]

The first glow of morning sunlight crept across the Buffy’s bedspread. Inch by inch, it worked its way forward, announcing the coming of dawn and the start of a new day. And, as it touched the inert fingers that lay sprawled across the blanket, it started a small fire.

Spike yelped in a most unmanly way as he jerked awake. Dragging his hand away from the offending sunlight, he smothered the small flames with the blanket and cursed loudly. Buffy mumbled incoherently as she opened her eyes and scowled at him.

“You’re scorching yet another of my blankets?” she asked grumpily.

“Not my fault, Pet. Told you to close the bloody drapes.” He was just as cranky as she was with the unexpected wake up call and no amount of large, pouty lips was going to change his mind. Except that those lips were so ungodly beautiful, just aching to be kissed and plundered and completely defiled. He sighed heavily.

With a clearly superior smile, Buffy tossed her blanket off and strode to the window. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, and the swing in her hips made Spike’s mouth water. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a saucy wink before closing the curtains on her window and moving back to the bed. She slid back under the covers into the small pocket of body heat that was still left. One downside to sharing a bed with a vampire was that they couldn’t keep it warm once she got out. Buffy slid her arms around Spike’s bare torso with a contented sigh and felt him almost instantly begin to absorb the heat of her own body. It was a nice sensation, feeling him warm up right under her fingers.

Spike wrapped his arms around her and fought to wipe the ridiculous grin from his face. It never got old, having her there. And every time she touched him, he still felt surprised and grateful. He didn’t think that would ever change. And as she lay there, nuzzling in under his chin ever so slightly, Spike felt like he was as close to heaven as a demon like himself could ever hope to come. He kissed the top of her head and held her just a bit tighter. =

[Casi]

Dean ran forward and put his hands flat against the Impala’s hood. There was a layer of grime over every inch of the usually shiny exterior. With a sigh of relief, Dean leaned over face down on the hood. Sam grimaced behind him but held his tongue. But, after a few long moments, Dean still hadn’t moved. Same cleared his throat in an irritated way.

“Shut up,” Dean grunted, but did at least push himself upwards. His body was clearly outlined in the dirt on the hood.

Dean pulled the driver’s side door open, and the familiar creak seemed to give him intense pleasure. He swung the door experimentally a few times, as though expecting it to fly off its hinges. A slightly musty scent rose from the interior, causing Sam to take a step back. Dean, however, wasn’t fazed. He slid into the car on his knees, running his hands over the worn leather in what was almost a caress. Sam quirked an eyebrow behind him.

“You know, I gotta say,” Sam said, interrupting Dean’s inspection, “this is the gayest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Dude,” Dean said in a tone that implied Sammy had crossed a line. He shot a frustrated look over his shoulder. “It’s been two weeks since that guy took my car. While you, I might add, stood by and did a whole lot of nothin’. You get all Dawson’s Creek on me over people we don’t even know every time we hit a new town. Right now you owe me about two hundred hours worth of shut the hell up,” he finished angrily, turning back to his inspection.

“Dean! What was I supposed to do? We had a job, and it would have been wasting time those people didn’t have.”

“Sammy, dude, just shut up,” Dean said with a little sigh. Sam jerked his head away in a manner that suggested he couldn’t even stand looking at Dean at the moment. His mouth pursed in an agitated way as his brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet.

Dean had nearly finished his perusal of the front seat when he found it: a small tear in the leather near the passenger side door. He slapped the back of the seat angrily, raising a cloud of dust that was nearly suffocating.

“You’re paying for this!” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Paying for what?” Sam snapped, still irritable.

“It’s ripped,” Dean explained, looking for all the world like Sam had just punched his best friend, and, brother or not, a man had limits. “And you’re paying for the wash, too.”

“Dean,” Sam sputtered indignantly, “I didn’t do anything to your car!” But Dean wasn’t listening. He had slid into the driver’s seat properly and slammed the door. He gave Sam a look through the window that quite clearly said get in or I’m leaving you. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Sam slid into the passenger seat, trying hard not to breath in the copious amounts of dirt that now floated through the air.

[Casi]

The glow of a cigarette in the darkness announced his presence before she’d really seen him. Three days since the funeral. Three days of nightly wandering, in numbness and despair, and Buffy was mildly surprised when she realized that she hadn’t seen him since then. She sat down on a cold mausoleum and waited as he made his way over and sat down beside her.

The moon shone bright and full over their heads, making the cemetery look oddly bright. Buffy had already patrolled this particular graveyard three times, but couldn’t bring herself to leave. There was only one stop left on her patrol schedule. And that particular stop had a still fresh grave that she was not anxious to visit again so soon. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face. Spike flicked his cigarette away in a momentary blaze of red and she felt him stiffen beside her as though preparing for the worst. Then, as he’d done once before, she felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder, awkward and stiff, but there nonetheless.

For a long moment, there was silence. And then, because she knew it was probably her only chance, she let it out. For several long minutes, she sobbed into his near unresponsive shoulder. Spike kept his arm clamped tightly, almost desperately around her shaking shoulders. Angel had been there, and she hadn’t cried. She’d looked at her sister, and she hadn’t cried. She’d been comforted by her friends, and she hadn’t cried. But this time, under the sightless moon, in the arms of a man she loathed with every fiber of her being, Buffy Summers cried for her lost mother. She cried for her sister. She cried for her friends, and her future, and a world that would have to go on without Joyce Summers in it. And, for just the briefest moment, she cried for herself.

When at last her eyes where dry, Buffy stood. Spike looked at her, one eyebrow raised in clear question. Was she going to be okay? She didn’t know. They didn’t speak, but he nodded once, and turned his back. Quiet, and alone, they left in opposite directions.

[Casi]

Andrew liked this mission. He liked it a lot. What was better than flying into almost certain death on the back of a manly hog behind a known killer? Well…maybe he wasn’t flying into certain death…more like possible scrapes and bruises. And while the bike was indeed manly, it was made less so by the bright blue and white football helmet he was wearing. Not that he would dream of taking it off. Safety first, after all. And true, the vampire in front of him had been known to kill, and rather recently at that. But Andrew had trouble thinking of him as anything other than the coolest guy around. But delving too far into that idea brought up confusing memories of Warren and life before this whole end of the world thing. Andrew shrugged it off happily, much more content to focus on the dazzling heroics at hand.

And then, of course, there was the ride itself. Spike never let Andrew go with him on missions so this was very much a big deal for him. And what was more…well that was dangerous to think about right now too. Much easier to just wrap his arms tightly around the strong body in front of him and enjoy the ride.

The simple truth was that Andrew, through his whole life, had been basically friendless. With no strong male role models in his life, he’d latched onto the first one that came along. And Warren had taken extreme advantage of that situation. It was hard for Andrew to not think of Warren fondly, even though he knew now what a bad guy he’d been. But it had left him feeling so confused. And there was Spike, another strong male, who’d probably protect him if someone was watching, or if he was bored. That was something, right?

Andrew scooched as close behind Spike as he thought vampire would allow, and let himself give in to the exhilarating feeling of being there, with a strong man in his arms, and certain death on the horizon.

[Casi]

Mal couldn’t remember ever seeing Inara cry. Particularly when she had no call to. But there was no mistaking the blurred makeup on her usually perfect features or the puffiness of her eyes.

“What do you want?” she said in a tone that was anything but ladylike. There was a huskiness to her voice that suggested she’d been crying for quite some time before he’d come in.

“Just wanted to let you know, other shuttle’s home safe an’ sound. Won’t have to sully yours with my presence anymore.” He was angry, and he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe because she always seemed so strong and seeing her break like this, well it was downright unnerving.

“Good,” she said shortly. It wasn’t like her not to look at him. For all she acted like she hated his presence, he’d never known her to be so short and so distant. Maybe they didn’t always get along, but this was something else entirely and Mal wasn’t exactly sure he liked the change. “And how were things with your blushing bride?” Her voice snapped like a whip and Mal repressed the urge to visibly flinch.

“Oh I left her good and lifeless, like any good husband should.” He thought it was maybe a little much, baiting Inara when she was in this kind of a mood. But old habits die hard, and he was completely thrown by her behavior. But not so much as he was a moment later, when Inara began to cry in earnest.

She turned her back to him so that he couldn’t see her face and, from the sound of it, every tiny sob had to force its way through every ounce of her will power to make it as far as her throat. Her shoulders shook with the effort.

Against every instinct he had, Mal took a step closer to her. “I know it’s probably the gentlemanly thing to leave you in private, but, well, I’ve never been much a gentleman.” He voice held a note of humor, and he smiled, but she didn’t turn to face him. With a feeling in his stomach that he had always associated with pre-battle butterflies, Mal put on hand on Inara’s shoulder.

Her skin was cold as ice, and it trembled under his fingers. He didn’t like to admit it, but Inara was one of the strongest people he knew, which was probably why they butted heads so much. This wasn’t like her at all, and now he knew he didn’t like it. Using advantage of his slightly superior height, Mal leaned over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of her face. The faint smell of her perfume wafted up as a curl of dark hair tickled the side of his face.

His closeness seemed to be Inara’s undoing.

She did not throw herself at him, though that was the impression Mal had of the situation. Rather, she turned, and rested her head on his shoulder. Her arms circled his neck, and she cried in earnest, without speaking a word to him. Feeling distinctly awkward, Mal tried for several unsuccessful moments to find a safe place for his hands. At last, feeling foolish leaving them hanging at his sides, he circled them around her waist and locked onto his own wrists, not daring to touch her more than she offered. There were times when Mal forgot that Inara was a beautiful, seductive, ultimately perfect woman. This wasn’t exactly one of them.

For long moments they stood that way, while Inara cried into his shoulder and Mal tried to keep his thoughts clean, all the while wondering what could have brought this on. It couldn’t possibly be what his overwhelmed brain was starting to tell him, but it seemed the only thing. But how could the whole fiasco with Saffron get to her so much? She hadn’t even liked the girl.

And then, as though it had never happened, Inara drifted away from him. Sitting down amidst the bright colors of her domain, she looked up at him, her eyes like bits of steel, and said, quite calmly, “What have I told you about bursting into my shuttle?”

[Casi]

Buffy Summers was a leader now. A real one, with a shiny rank and everything. Not that anyone knew it. No one needed to. She was Buffy Summers and that was all anyone needed to know. But it still got a bit lonely, sitting at the top. Only three people in the whole compound even called her by her name.

A tap at her bedroom door made Buffy look up. She had been pouring over the reports from that day’s training sessions with a small frown on her face. A tiny worry line, evidence that she was, against all odds, getting older, deepened on her brow. She wasn’t expecting anyone. It could only be Xander then, maybe with a late night cup of coffee, since he knew she’d be up anyway. With a sigh that was equal parts grateful and annoyed that her work had been interrupted, Buffy opened her door.

But it wasn’t Xander waiting for her there, with his oh so masculine ducky pajamas and sly little smile. No, it was someone else entirely.

“Giles?” Buffy asked, as though she didn’t dare hope it might really be him. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had masqueraded as one of her close friends in an effort to get her on her own. But she knew in an instant that it really was him. No one else had that smell…the smell of tweed and tea…and musty old books…and maybe just the tiniest hint of brandy or scotch. He looked down at her with that gaze that, no matter how old she got, still made her feel like she was back in high school, waiting for him to tell her all about the newest big bad.

Without stopping to think that she was now twenty three years old and the leader of one of the largest supernatural armies the world had ever seen, Buffy collapsed onto Giles like a wave breaking on the shore. She wrapped her arms so tight around him, she heard him wheeze, and instantly loosened her grip. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Nearly a year at last count. They talked often enough, but it just wasn’t the same. Sometimes, for no reason at all, Buffy just wished he’d been there.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said, his voice sounding amused. But she knew he had, and that was all that mattered.

[Casi]

John looked down at his son. His first son. His oldest son. His favorite? Well he’d never really admitted that out loud, and shied away from the thought when cropped up on him. But he supposed it was more than a little true. Dean…how many times had Dean been there at that perfect moment? How many times had he saved John’s ass, though John would never admit to it? How many times had he been everything John had ever wanted him to be? And now, there he was, lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of him and looking, for all the world, like he was very much ready to die.

Reaching out, John smoothed a bit of the medical tape that ran across Dean’s cheek. It had started to come up at the edges a bit and, in his present condition, John wouldn’t have been surprised if that little piece of tape were all that held his son together. And this was all his fault. He’d lost so much, and fought so long, he’d forgotten that he still had something to lose. Maybe he’d thought Dean would always be there. That even when the day came that some lucky demon ended John’s life, that Dean would be there to carry on the fight. John had never stopped to fathom what his world would be like without his son fighting at his side.

His thoughts strayed to Sam. Little Sam…who would take care of him if Dean was gone? John knew he couldn’t do it. Sam had been an enigma to him for so long there were times when he felt like a stranger. Dean was Sam’s protector, and had been since that first night so god damned long ago. If John had known what kind of burden he had been laying on his son with that simple command…

” Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now Dean, go!” Dean had been carrying little Sammy ever since. And he had to be there to keep carrying him. He had to.

Leaning forward, John kissed Dean’s cold forehead. It didn’t matter how big he got, how much John tried to think of him as his little soldier. There were times when John had to accept that, before all else, Dean was his son. Straightening up, his decision made, John left the room.

[Casi]

Willow had been in a funk for days. Oz had been gone nearly two weeks, and still she had not risen from her slump. There were moments when she seemed almost normal, and most of the gang shrugged it off as part of the healing process. But there was one person who knew her too well to be fooled. He watched her and he wondered how he could have let this happen. He was her best friend and, as idiotic as it seemed, he felt responsible for her pain, like he should have tried to shelter her from it in some way.

And there was more to it than that. Hadn’t her relationship almost ended once already because of him? Hadn’t it caused almost as much pain? That had been his fault too. But then, a voice he usually ignored, spoke up from the back of his mind. It asked what if? What if he hadn’t been so easy to push aside? What if he’d actually tried to make a relationship between the two of them work? She wouldn’t have gotten back together with Oz, and this whole fiasco wouldn’t have happened. But he hadn’t. He’d rolled over like the coward he secretly thought he was. There had to be something he could do, now, to make it better. If anyone could, he thought it just might be him.

And then it came to him.

Three hours later, Xander stood outside Willow and Buffy’s dorm room. He knew Buffy would be out on patrol and Willow was probably sulking, alone, as usual. The package felt oddly conspicuous under his arm, particularly since the girl at the store had wrapped it in a lurid pink paper that he was sure could be seen from space. Willow opened the door, the pathetic strains of some sorrow ridden song of heartbreak echoing through to the hallway.

“Hey, Will.” Xander said with his patented, ear to ear grin. “Got a shiny, materialistic pick me up for you.” He brushed past her without waiting for an invite. It was Willow, and Willow would always let him in. It was the one constant in his life.

Xander sat down on Buffy’s empty bed and tossed his bright, girly package at Willow, who caught it out of reflex. She didn’t comment as she sat on her own bed and ripped off the paper. From across the room, Xander could see the permanent smile on the Barbie’s small plastic face beaming up at Willow. He smiled.

“See, I thought it was time I gave that back to you, only I couldn’t find it. This one’s better though. Comes with a hair brush and new shoes.” He smiled at her again.

But his present wasn’t exactly having the effect he’d hoped. A heavy sniffle came from Willow’s bowed form, and she practically melted over top of the thin cardboard box. The remaining paper crinkled noisily under her fingers.

Without stopping to think about it, Xander took the only course of action available. He crossed the small space between the beds so fast, he nearly knocked over the lamp, and wrapped his arms around Willow’s violently shaking form, pulling her sideways against his chest. She wasn’t crying. He guessed that maybe she’d done that so much recently that she didn’t have the energy to really cry anymore. But this was worse. Xander had never seen her this helpless before. Holding her tight, Xander closed his eyes, and waited for the worst of it to subside.

[Casi]

Sammy stared at the gun in his hand like he didn’t know what it was for. At nine years old, he knew exactly how to use it and was probably a better shot than most of the local law enforcement. But he was still confused and scared. The weapon hung limp in his hand and he looked from it to the door of his bedroom with a slightly befuddled expression. The hall light outside his room flicked off as his father returned to bed and, his confusion and fear mounting, Sam whimpered in a most unmanly way. The dignity of his nine years shuddered as the sound echoed in the dark room, but it couldn’t stop his lower lip as it began to tremble. He cast a dubious glace at the darkened shadow that was his closet door. It was still slightly open…his father hadn’t thought to shut it.

Dean sat up in his small twin bed. Truth be told, they were getting a bit old to still be sharing a room, but Dean wouldn’t have had it any other way, even if they had been staying someplace bigger. At the manly age of thirteen, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. And as puberty played its cosmic joke, he felt more and more every day that he was becoming his father. And the thought always brought a little smile to his face. But at times like this, he knew the difference between him and his Dad. He took the gun out of Sammy’s hand.

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” he said, his voice only cracking just a little bit. Barely noticeable. “I’ll watch it.”

Sammy looked up at him uncertainly. But Dean always had a way of looking at him that made said everything was going to be okay. He crawled into bed without thanking him and resolutely closed his eyes tight, putting all his faith in his brother.

Dean sat down on the floor with his back pressed against the foot of Sammy’s bed. He knew he didn’t actually need the gun, but he held it anyway. He knew, in fact, that he didn’t have to watch the closet door. But, long after Sammy’s breathing had taken on the regular cadence of sleep, Dean sat there on the floor, watching and waiting, just in case.

[Casi]

Spike was roused from fitful sleep by the smell of garlic floating down the stairs. He sneezed violently before realizing what that meant. For the smell to be getting this far, the door to the basement must be open.

“Oh bollocks…” he muttered, not daring to open his eyes for fear of seeing some new recruit staring down at him. It seemed like every time a new girl came into the house, they had to get a look at Buffy’s pet vampire. They didn’t seem to care how often they saw him in training. No, they had to see him on his own, as if it they could catch him doing something that would prove he was a monster. He opened one eye a crack. But there was no one there. He repressed a sigh of relief.

Grumbling, Spike mounted the stairs. His internal clock told him it was late enough in the day that he would probably be okay. Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn were pretty much used to his presence, and had sense enough to keep the curtains closed most of the time, just in case. But the new girls…they couldn’t be taught. No respect for a man, that. He half wanted to burst into flames, just once. Maybe that would teach them.

The house was, shockingly, empty. Or at least, almost empty. The sounds of cooking rang from the kitchen, and Spike made his way cautiously towards it. He didn’t need to breathe of course, but it was a habit, and fighting the urge to draw breath was a bit distracting. Peering around the kitchen door, Spike saw Dawn busy at the stove. A pot of spaghetti was boiling to one side, while what looked like her own recipe of spaghetti sauce simmered on the other. Spike knew at once that it was homemade due to the incredible amount of strange things that seemed to be a part of it. The base looked generic enough. Dawn had apparently decided that it also needed mushrooms, large pieces of green pepper, a little bit of what might have been salsa, and so much garlic just being in the room with it was making Spike’s eyes water.

“Trying to kill me, Niblet?” he asked roughly, and abruptly sneezed again. He had to breathe to speak, and the air he had drawn in was making his throat close up. Dawn looked up, then down at her sauce, then back at him. She immediately went into a fit of apologetic babbling.

“Oh my God! I wasn’t even thinking! I didn’t think you’d be able to smell it all the way down there…oh Spike I’m so sorry!” She flapped him out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Spike tried not to laugh as she stared into his face, obviously expecting him to break out in hives or some other such dramatic gesture. In a bold move, she grabbed him by the head, one hand on each side of his face, and inspected his streaming, and now rather bloodshot eyes.

“Oy, let a man have a bit o’ dignity,” he said gruffly, fighting off another sneeze. “Just warn me next time you decide to try somethin’ like that.” He couldn’t stay mad at Dawn. His itchy eyes were still a bit miffed with her, though.

Without warning, Dawn hugged him. It was a very one sided hug. She grabbed him around the waist and held on tight for all of about three seconds before pulling away. He didn’t even have time to react.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, her eyes rather bright.

“No harm done, pet,” Spike said, completely wrong footed. He couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“I just…I wasn’t thinking. I’m here all by myself a lot, so I just…forgot.”

And that was it then. Spike put a hand up a bit awkwardly and gripped her by the shoulder. “Wake me when you’re done with that lot,” he said and jerked his head towards the kitchen. “We’ll play cards or some such.” Dawn shuffled her feet and looked to the side, obviously feeling rather foolish over her outburst.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Spike wasn’t very good at giving comfort, particularly to teenage girls that he still though of, more or less, as Buffy’s tiny little sister. Certainly not the increasingly hard to understand young woman she was becoming. But he’d offer what he could. If scary stories wouldn’t hold her attention like they used to, well…he’d try something else, he guess. Trying to ignore the thought that, someday soon, she might not need him to look after her at all, Spike headed downstairs for some more much needed sleep.

[Casi]

Dad was out hunting and Dean had fallen asleep in his chair. The TV was droning on in a tinny kind of way, and Sammy cowered on top of the bed with the blanket pulled around his back and over his head like a hood. Only his tiny face was left exposed, scanning the room for any signs of monsters, ghosts, or bugs. At five years old, Sammy found it hard not be afraid most of the time. He looked at Dean while he slept and amused himself for a brief moment by imagining him in shining armor like the knight in his picture book. He pictured Dean taking down a dragon with his sword. The thought made him smile. Dean was always doing heroic stuff like that.

But Dean was asleep now and Sammy felt very alone in the big dark room. He hunkered down further into his blanket refuge. And then an idea came to him, and he set out to put it into action.

When Dean woke up, he jerked out of his chair almost immediately. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. His Dad had told him to watch Sammy until he got back. Dean had only made it ten hours before giving in, but he couldn’t believe he’d been so weak. He spun around to check on his baby brother and, for a moment, couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

Sammy had built himself a fort. He had pulled the cushions out of the moth eaten love seat on the far side of the room and used them to make two walls, pressed up against the headboard. He’d used the bed pills to cover the front, still leaving himself a small door. Inside the tiny compartment, he was curled up like a kitten, fast asleep, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He looked so small.

Dean stood and watched him for a long time before turning around and switching off the TV. Then, pulling the bed pillows away to make more room, Dean climbed into the small fort, wrapped his arms around his little brother, and went back to sleep.

[Casi]

Tara.

Just thinking of her, Willow smiled. The smell of incense was still heavy in the room. How long had it been? A few hours? It didn’t matter. Something about her just made Willow feel so good about life that she couldn’t keep it contained. The whole giddy feeling of new friendship would just burst from her when she least expected it. Thus far, it had manifested in some shocking moments of complete spaciness during some rather important lessons, smiles that prompted several quirked eyebrows to follow her down the halls, and one profusely adorned rose bush that had sprung spontaneously into bloom as Willow had passed it just that afternoon. She hadn’t felt this good since Oz left.

Oz…there was still a twinge there, yes. It was a bit more than a twinge on occasion, but in the past few days, it hadn’t plagued her nearly as much.

No, Willow found herself, more and more, remembering other things. She remembered the way Tara had shyly smiled her way as they passed in the hall yesterday. Like they were sharing a secret and wasn’t it so wonderful that no one else knew it but them? Or the way her voice went up in that odd way, almost hesitant. Or just the feel of her elbow brushing against Willow’s sleeve at lunch a few days ago.

But nights were something else entirely. Willow tossed and turned, thinking of Oz, thinking of high school, feeling so homesick she could die. But it wasn’t really homesickness because she didn’t want to go home. She just couldn’t think of any other word to describe this particular sensation of queasiness, unease, and just a hint of guilt. It felt like she was longing for something she’d lost, but she didn’t know what it was. It couldn’t be Oz…she’d cried so much over the whole situation that she didn’t think it possible to feel any worse about it. And she wasn’t even sure this was worse…she just knew it was different and it gave her the peculiar feeling that her stomach had decided to do a vigorous two-step around her insides.

Tara.

It still brought a little smile, even in the depths of her confusion. And confusion there certainly was, in the center of it all. Willow couldn’t help but wonder where she’d felt this sensation before. It seemed so oddly familiar, and it made her think of Oz much more than she particularly liked. What was it?

It’s almost like…when I first saw Oz…when I first realized I liked him. But there was more to it. The guilt, the weird sense of losing something…that was definitely a familiar feeling. She felt it almost every time she looked at Xander, even now. But what does it mean?

Willow had never found herself particularly attracted to women, though she’d thought about it before. She supposed every girl asks herself that question at one point or another. But no…she liked boys. She had loved Xander almost as long as she could remember. And she had loved Oz more than she thought was possible.

I’m just jumping the gun, she thought to herself. It’s been a long time since I had a new friend. Since Buffy came, actually. My head’s just all fuzzy ‘cause of that. And she could tell herself that, over and over again. But it didn’t change the fact that, each night, before she went to sleep, one memory in particular would worm its way to the front of her thoughts.

Willow hadn’t met Tara under the best of circumstances, but it was that first moment of connection that she couldn’t get out of her mind. She would feel it all again; the hesitant brush of Tara’s fingertips against her own, and then the firmer pressure as their palms met. She could feel Tara’s fingers pressing down on the back of her hand. She could feel her touch, and it made her shiver. And, every night, Willow would drift off to sleep with the memory of a woman’s touch making her heart race, and her skin ripple with goose bumps.

[Casi]

Mary shifted on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Eight months into her pregnancy, there weren’t many such positions left. Her back ached most of the time and she’d have given quite literally anything for a solid night’s sleep. She could hear the TV still going downstairs and knew John probably wouldn’t be available to rub her back for at least another hour. She sighed.

The door creaked slowly open. Just past the edge of her bed, Mary could see a small pair of eyes looking hopefully up at her.

“Dean, honey? I thought you were asleep.”

Dean clambered up onto the bed as soon as he realized his mother was awake. His breath came in small little grunts of effort as he climbed up to her and settled in beside her. Only then did he offer any kind of explanation.

“I had a bad dream.” His voice was small and quick, as though he didn’t like admitting that he’d been scared. Her brave little man. Mary kissed him on top of his head and gathered him close.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” she said in placating tones. “You’re brother’s been keeping me awake,” she added with a hint of humor.

Dean looked up at her, his face alight at the very idea. “He has?” he asked in hushed surprise, as though he didn’t want to be heard by the tiny brother in question. Mary nodded indulgently, smiling down at her son.

Slowly, and much gentler than Mary expected a boy his age to be, Dean sat up and leaned across her stomach, waiting. He wasn’t disappointed. After a few seconds, as he held his breath and listened, Dean felt his brother move. His face broke into a wide grin and he looked up at his mother. She smiled and ruffled his hair.

For a long time, Mary watched her son. She couldn’t help but feel calmer, watching the excitement on his face. Slowly, she drifted off to sleep, her hand wrapped around his waist. But Dean stayed awake for some time more, unable to go back to sleep…unable to pull himself away from the gentle stirrings of his baby brother.

[Casi]

Buffy is dead. She’s dead.

Spike sat in the darkened living room of the Summers home and tried to force himself to accept that knowledge, but he just couldn’t. He smoked an endless line of cigarettes, knowing how Buffy had hated the smell of it in her home. He could imagine her now, coming down into the perpetual cloud he had created, and laying into him about it. Once, she’d not only railed at him about exposing her sister to second hand death, but she’d even managed to somehow talk him into taking the couch pillows to be cleaned, so that they wouldn’t reek of smoke. He’d even paid for it with his own cash, a phenomenon that had never before occurred, and probably wasn’t likely to again.

Dawn cleared her throat from the side of the room. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, the phone clutched in her hand. He looked up at her with red eyes, and nearly lost himself again. Seeing Dawn reminded him of just how badly he’d failed. But it also filled him with a sense of determination he couldn’t exactly describe. One young woman still lived. And he’d promised her sister he’d take care of her. Spike found himself intensely grateful that she was the only other person in the house. He didn’t think he could face the others. They had hated him, shunned him, and he couldn’t say he blamed them in the slightest. But at least she understood what he felt. It was only a matter of time, however, before they would all descend on them, tearing apart their mutual grieving by including their own.

“I just talked to Giles…” she started, her voice roughened from too much crying. “He wanted to come over, make sure I was okay, but I told him you were here and that I was…I was fine.” Spike quirked his eyebrow at her.

“I’m sure tha’ went over real well, Niblet,” he responded dryly, his voice almost as raspy as hers.

From somewhere inside, Dawn found the power to smile, if only a little. “No, it didn’t. He’s pretty sure that you’re going to get drunk and kill us all. Doesn’t have a lotta faith,” she said as she sank onto the couch beside him. She was trying so hard to be light. Spike gave one half hearted laugh.

“I may,” he said, only half joking, grinding out his cigarette in the already full ashtray.

“Giles told me something…I thought you’d want to know,” Dawn said after a moment. “He told me we’re…we’re going to bury her tomorrow night. We’re gonna do it ourselves cause, everything being so demony and everything…Giles doesn’t think we should let everyone know that she’s,” she paused, sighing a bit, “that the Slayer’s gone.”

“They don’ want me there,” Spike said, almost to himself. It wasn’t a question.

“Giles didn’t seem happy about it,” Dawn responded with the air of one not in the mood to pull any punches. “But I told him you were coming.”

Spike felt a small swell of affection at Dawn’s bold statement. He looked up at her and saw that, despite her cool tone, she was on the verge of a breakdown even greater than his. And maybe she deserved it more. The next second, his arms were filled with sobbing fourteen year old. She clung to him like she were drowning, finding in him an anchor that he knew she’d find nowhere else. The others…Giles, Willow, Xander…they were all Buffy’s world. He was the only part of that world that had ever truly spilled into her own existence. He’d never comforted someone before. Not like this. Most of the crying young women in his life had wanted anything but to hold onto him. He’d seen…he’d caused so many tears. This was the first time he’d not enjoyed it, and that knowledge both repulsed and comforted him in its own small way. He held onto Dawn a bit awkwardly at first, letting her cry it out, and smelling her hair. It smelled like vanilla. She’d been using Buffy’s shampoo. Spike nearly wept himself.