Play Winifred For Me
Two dead girls are kissing. Both breathing. Both with circulation, digestion, brainwaves, all those pesky human traits.
Both should be six feet under. But their corpses are kissing still.
It happened like this.
Wolfram and Hart won, as Angel knew they would. Buffy came to Los Angeles, as he hoped she might. But she was too late. He was dust. All that remained for Buffy to find was an Old One, blue-cold and whirling destruction in the midst of a growing corpse mountain. The dead might be piled high, but myriads kept coming. This wasn’t a battle that could be won by two, heroes or otherwise.
Buffy hadn’t come unprepared. The Hyperion was a designated safe place, protected by distant covens, chanting devotedly to save the lives of those they’d never seen. She’d assumed there would be wounded to care for, but it was obvious now she’d have to run and hide herself. Slayer powers couldn‘t fight this maelstrom. She even considered leaving Illyria to fight it out, but couldn’t leave a man behind. She’d lost too many already. So the blue stranger joined her in the crumbling hotel.
She’d been warned, though. The coven could keep up the wards, but not rescue them while the battle raged. And once inside the wards, they’d be imprisoned. So they waited. There was nothing to be done.
And as the hours became days, it became clear that the horror outside would continue until all was gone. There was no rescue coming. They were never going to get out. The Hyperion was all they had, and their future was measured by the strength of the wards surrounding it.
On the third day, the wards protecting the hotel shivered and shrank. It was a small sign of approaching doom. Buffy and the God King faced each other, huddled in an upper room from which they could survey the wasteland of destruction surrounding their sanctuary.
Buffy drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying for calm but shaking all too noticeably. “So that’s it then. No more shiny happy future. If the coven’s description was right, we’ve got about eight hours left till they can‘t hold the wards any more. And there’s nowhere for us to go.”
Before Buffy’s eyes, Illyria transformed. Miss Leather Vixen 2004 became a slight, sweet-smiling girl, wary-looking but full of welcome humanity.
“Hi Buffy. I’m Fred. Guess we never had a chance to get acquainted.”
“I heard about you, though. How you died.”
“I could say the same about you, couldn’t I? First time I heard of you, it was that you were gone. But then you came back.”
“Why are you putting on this show? I know it’s not really you any more.”
“I still have the memories, and the physical form. What’s unreal about that? I’m here for comfort, that’s all. I did as much for Wesley, while he died. Humans cleave to humanity as they wither and fade, or so I believed. Was I wrong?” Fred’s face blued as she spoke, Illyria resurfacing.
“Don’t.” Buffy rushed out the word. “You’re right. Please be Fred for me.”
A quick half-smile. “Sure thing. Fred it is.”
They sat chatting for some of the precious remaining hours, groping for normality. They managed the occasional giggle, mainly about menfolk and their vagaries. Food came up a lot. Fred missed tacos most, of course, but Buffy put in a spirited defence of pizza. There was some talk of shoes. Movies. Books. Just occasionally, a wistful reference to futures lost, but they stayed as clear of them as possible. No sense in crying now.
It was after the wards had shivered and shrunk twice more that Fred put her hand over Buffy’s fidgeting fingers.
“Kiss me.”
“What?” Buffy drew back a little, but the hand to hand connection remained.
“We’re going to die, I think. I want some human touch before we’re lost.”
“Gee, that’s flattering. Seeing I’m the only human in range, I guess your choices are limited.”
Fred giggled a little, leaning towards Buffy as she spoke. “Come on, you’re pretty. Shiny slayer hair. Pretty pouty mouth. I like to look at you. Let‘s share a little warmth. Don‘t tell me you wouldn‘t like one…last…kiss.”
Their mouths met on the word, softly at first, moving with caution against unfamiliar soft femininity. After a moment, though, Buffy slid a hand up to grip Fred’s face, pulling her closer and harder in. And then it was Fred being kissed, demandingly so, Buffy pressing forward, tongues working against one another, rhythmic and seductive.
Hands exploring. Buffy gasping as Fred slid chilly fingers under her sweater, unhooking her bra. Weighing, then cupping one aching breast, and pinching, gentle and knowing, at her nipple.
“Me too, please me too.” Fred slipped out of her top, naked and goose-bumped. “I’m kinda flat here, but…”
“Shh.” Death and the Apocalypse couldn’t stop women doing themselves down, apparently. But Buffy’s mouth on those small, perfect breasts had the power to silence Fred apart from small contented, demanding whimpers, reaching upwards for more, riding Buffy’s hip for needed pressure.
It wasn’t movie love. No soft music, soft lenses, perfect smoothness. They kissed desperately enough, but inexperience told. Buffy baulked as Fred pressed her fingers down, commandingly. “I don’t know how.”
“You’ll figure it out. I’m just like you. Need just the same things. Come here and I’ll show you.”
And when later Fred raised her shining wet mouth from Buffy’s convulsing, ecstatic body, Buffy mustered the wherewithal to raise her up and kiss her own juices off Fred’s lips. Fingers exploring the other girl’s slipperiness, she moved from caution to sure, deliberate strokes which brought Fred to gasping climax.
Still and contented, they lay together and listened.
The wards were shattering. The Hyperion was crumbling around them as they lay.
An undertone, the last of soft Texan drawl: “I lied. I don’t think I can die. But thank you for your time.”
But Illyria was wrong. The wards fell, as two dead girls kissed. And died again.