He wanted a drink.

The stewardess or whatever he was supposed to call them now was going through her spiel in seven different languages. He didn't listen to any of them, even the one he knew. He kicked his heavy coat further under the seat in front of him, wondering why in the hell they had to send him to Moscow in winter two days after he was baking in the sun on the Serengeti.

He rubbed his eyes, reaching under the patch to run his finger over the edges of the hollow beneath it. He normally wore the one Willow had made up for him, but it tended to set the airport alarms off - something about the magic, she told him - so he just packed it in the suitcase and flew rogue, commando.

At least the seat next to him was empty. He could stretch out for the duration, sleeping if he could manage it, drinking when he couldn't. He closed his eye and bent his head, refusing to let himself wonder.

Where was Buffy? Where was Dawn? Where was Faith? Where was Willow? Where was Oz? There were hundreds of other Slayers, but he didn't care about any of them. They were nameless, faceless now. Too many to count, too many to care about. He committed them all to memory - refusing to be like the council - but he never remembered until their deaths tolled across his email or the random letters that reached him on the outskirts of nowhere.

"I'm so sorry."

He heard the voice and groaned, knowing instinctively that whoever it was planned on sitting next to him. So much for relaxing. Instead he'd spend the entire flight sharing an armrest with some businesswoman or overexcited vacationer interested in talking about the Romanovs.

"I think this is my seat."

Something in her voice brought his eye to her. Her hair was short and still brilliant red. Her eyes were green like memory and her smile broke his heart. He didn't recognize his voice when he spoke, the deep level of feeling in it he'd thought he'd left behind long ago. "Wills."

"Giles thought you might want some company." She sat next to him, her bag sliding under the seat in front of her as she turned and faced him, ignoring the warnings about floatation devices and seatbelts and water landings in order to reach out and touch his face, her fingers feathering over his cheek. "I thought you might be lonely."

"Why would you think that?"

She leaned in and kissed him softly, gently, her lips warm and tender. "Because I was."