Un habit qui supporte l'éternité d'un baiser victorieux
She laid her head back on his shoulder and he cradled her there. This was one of those times that neither of them talked.
"I dreamed that I died,'" Spike said after a while, his voice barely more than a whisper. Buffy rose back up so she could see him. "'That I felt the cold close to me; and all that was left of my life was contained in your presence.'" He traced a finger across her bottom lip. "'Your mouth was the daylight and dark of my world, your skin, the republic I shaped for myself with my kisses.' Straightway, the books of the world were all ended, all friendships, all treasures restlessly cramming the vaults, the diaphanous house that we built for a lifetime together-all ceased to exist, till nothing remained but your eyes.'" His eyes locked on hers, and she shivered. He smiled, a little sadly, and went on: "'So long as we live, or as long as a lifetime's vexation, love is a breaker thrown high on the breaker's successions; but when death in its time chooses to pummel the doors-'" He stroked his finger down her cheek, then cupped her face. "'Ay, there is only your face to fill up the vacancy, only your clarity pressing back on the whole of non-being, only your love, where the dark of the world closes in." Cousinjean. The Butterfly Effect.
- - - - - -
Retrieving the bodies, not an option. She wouldn’t want to end her days in a graveyard anyway. Ostentatious marble cenotaphs were more his style, but she almost always got the last word, so in the end, it’s a plaque. (Bronze. A joke no one gets anymore.) It’s not where they died, or even where they lived. The house at 1630 Revello Drive is long gone. Where it is doesn’t really matter. Those who pass by - human, demon, or in between - remember. And read:
Buffy Anne Summers-Pratt 1980-2050 & William Henry “Spike” Summers-Pratt 1852-2050
They changed the world.
A lot.
Rahirah. Monument.
"I dreamed that I died,'" Spike said after a while, his voice barely more than a whisper. Buffy rose back up so she could see him. "'That I felt the cold close to me; and all that was left of my life was contained in your presence.'" He traced a finger across her bottom lip. "'Your mouth was the daylight and dark of my world, your skin, the republic I shaped for myself with my kisses.' Straightway, the books of the world were all ended, all friendships, all treasures restlessly cramming the vaults, the diaphanous house that we built for a lifetime together-all ceased to exist, till nothing remained but your eyes.'" His eyes locked on hers, and she shivered. He smiled, a little sadly, and went on: "'So long as we live, or as long as a lifetime's vexation, love is a breaker thrown high on the breaker's successions; but when death in its time chooses to pummel the doors-'" He stroked his finger down her cheek, then cupped her face. "'Ay, there is only your face to fill up the vacancy, only your clarity pressing back on the whole of non-being, only your love, where the dark of the world closes in." Cousinjean. The Butterfly Effect.
- - - - - -
Retrieving the bodies, not an option. She wouldn’t want to end her days in a graveyard anyway. Ostentatious marble cenotaphs were more his style, but she almost always got the last word, so in the end, it’s a plaque. (Bronze. A joke no one gets anymore.) It’s not where they died, or even where they lived. The house at 1630 Revello Drive is long gone. Where it is doesn’t really matter. Those who pass by - human, demon, or in between - remember. And read:
Buffy Anne Summers-Pratt 1980-2050 & William Henry “Spike” Summers-Pratt 1852-2050
They changed the world.
A lot.
Rahirah. Monument.