Chapter Text
May 1977
The guy in her dreams is hot.
Unnatural blonde hair spiked up, his pretty blue eyes lined with kohl, his-- very nice -- arms highlighted in his black tank top. He is the kind of guy that Buffy would never admit to being attracted to in person, but since this is a dream, she could drool all she wants.
They’re on a subway-- don’t ask her how she knows, because Buffy has never been on a subway, but it feels right. The rumbling of the moving cart sends shockwaves through her feet, as she skips around the underground train.
They are dancing around each other– and, yes, there is no other word to describe what was occurring other than a ‘dance’. They way they are moving in synchronization– pushing and pulling– the rhythm is nothing short of beautiful, moving to a beat that nobody else can hear.
She kicks him, and he comes back swinging. Her body moving on its own leaving Buffy’s mind free to focus on the ever important task to take in the blonde in front of her. The way his hips jut forward as he swaggers even after a beat down. There’s an exhilaration to this, that Buffy doesn’t quite understand, nor does she want to.
After one rather vicious kick from her sends him into a pole, he breaks the metal free from its spot in the ground, and spins it around his body like some kung fu master.
Darn, he’s strong . And for her to throw him around so effortlessly, Buffy must be pretty strong too.
This is further proven when he gets her on the ground, attempts to strike her with the pole, and she catches it before it can make contact. She kicks him below the waist, and gets to her feet as he staggers back.
The dance is winding down. Buffy can feel it. When she punches the man in the face again, he falls backwards into another pole and lands on his back.
She has him on the ground, his arms pinned with one hand, the other delighting in punching him in his pretty face.
The lights go out, and she hesitates. It lasts only a few seconds, but when her vision is clear again, she is sprawled on her back as he takes her spot on top.
He’s kneeling above her, looking down at her with those pretty blue eyes, that she just knows are going to be the last thing she'll ever see. He grips both sides of her head then twists--
Buffy bolts upright in bed, gripping her neck.
Her skin hums from the nightmare. So vivid and graphic, she might as well have been living it. More like a memory than a dream.
She can still feel those cold hands breaking her neck.
Buffy roughly shakes her head. “That is the last time I watch a Bruce Li movie right before bed.” She mutters.
Buffy settles back into her pillows, pulling her comforter up to her shoulders, and attempting to fall into a dream that didn’t cause her to think of her own mortality.
She finds herself lying there for several long hours. The image of those pretty, cold, blue eyes imprinted on the back of her eyelids long after she finally succumbs to a dreamless sleep.