This was just an angsy little story that I wrote a while ago. I found it in my hard drive the other day and thought it deserved to be dusted off (pun intended). Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't own 'em. Nuff said.

It was always the aftermath that was the worst. During the battle itself...well, that's when Buffy knew she was still alive, blood and adrenaline singing in her veins, dark and hot and dangerous. Winged death soaring through the night, theirs or hers, it never really mattered. All that mattered was the fight, the moves...and the dance.

Spike had been right. It was a dance. All of it. Two steps back, one step forward. Slayer and slain, they danced together. And in those moments, when Death was close at her throat, its hot breath caressing her skin, when every second became something bright and sparkling and perfect -- then she became the dance. She became Death. And in those moments she never felt more alive.

It was only afterwards, when her heart and lungs began to slow, when the fire burning in her soul was flickering and waning, and various hurts were beginning to echo through her body...it was only then that she remembered that she was mortal, that she could hurt...that she could lose.

Loss. Life was all about loss. Things and people taken away, one by one, until there was nothing left but the dance. Buffy wasn't there, not yet. But she would be. One day in the future it would all be gone. Friends, family, belief in herself, the will to survive, to need to keep fighting...they would all vanish. And on that day, even the dance wouldn't be enough. That would be the day she would surrender to what was already inside her. Her own destruction.

Every Slayer has a death wish, Spike had said. He had been right about that too. She could recognize it now, taste it on her tongue, stale and coppery, like old blood. It had been there all along. She had just never known it. But tonight -- tonight it was closer to the surface than it had ever been. Close enough to touch. She could feel it uncoiling inside her, spreading through her being like a dark river, its strength growing even as hers faded.

But she was still stronger. The dance would go on. For today. For now.

Buffy stilled, her chest heaving, her grip tight on the stakes in each hand. And silence returned to the night as the sounds of battle died away.

She was alone. The Slayer looked around her, blinking through the sweat that had trickled into her eyes. Hard to believe that just moments ago she had been fighting for her life, every aspect of her being caught up in the dance.

'Slayer.'

Spike. She didn't look up, didn't need to. She could sense his presence nearby. Despite that though, she had never felt more alone. Spike, why?

'Because, baby. 'Cause you're the Slayer and the world needs you. 'Cause every dance has to end, sooner or later. And because I love you.'

Don't leave me, Spike.

'Sorry, pet. No choice. Look after yourself.'

Then he was gone, as if he had never existed. And there was something cold and wet on Buffy's face. She put a hand up, staring dully at the moisture on her fingertip, glittering in the moonlight. A tear. One single tear, reflecting all the colours of the night while around her, dust stirred, swirling like ashes across her vision.

//Spike, leaping in front of the downed Slayer, taking the blow that was meant for her. Blue eyes, meeting hers one last time. And then only dust. Dust on the wind//

Buffy didn't look back as she began the long journey home. If she had, she might have seen the dust stir fitfully once more as she moved away, as if in protest of being left there, alone in the night. But then the wind died away, and stillness fell again.

And the Slayer didn't look back.