Nowadays, it has different meanings. It’s the color of sunsets, when the horizon seems to catch fire, and as he grows bolder he sees more of them from the edge of the shadows. It’s the tint of battle, whether they fight against a random demon or to prevent an apocalypse; Buffy’s wounds heal fast, but they leave trails in their wake that he follows with fingers and lips. It’s the shade of pride, joy or anger in her warming cheeks, each blush accompanied with a scowl or grin. The many colors of lipsticks she shares with him through kisses. In one word, it’s life.

And Spike cannot imagine the meaning of that simple color ever reverting back to what it once was.

He has thought of it, of course. He cannot not think of it.

She’ll die, one day. Maybe she’ll slip, let fangs that aren’t his pierce her flesh. Or maybe it’ll be claws. Teeth. Hands. A weapon. Something, anything, and although he tries to keep her safe, he is not infallible. And even if he were… there are still so many ways for her to die. Diseases. Car accidents. Old age…

One day, she’ll die. He knows it. She knows it. And she made it clear that, if the opportunity arose, she doesn’t want him to turn her.

He has accepted the idea. He enjoys every hour in her arms and in her life as much as he can, and carefully stores up small memories of smiles and moons and laughs and strawberry ice cream.

But the question remains the same, and he can’t answer it. Will red ever mean death again?