Disclaimer:

I don't own Buffy, I'm just playing with the characters for my own entertainment. I don't have anything worth owning, actually. Don't sue me, as I will use my telepathic powers to take over the universe soon, and you don't want me to be mad at you when that happens.

Author's Note:

This is going to Buffy/Spike at some point and the sooner the better if you ask me, but I'll try to have it make at least minimal sense. The story begins somewhere in the sixth season. It's completely AU, and you can place it anywhen you want to, as long as it's post Buffy-has-been-pulled-from-heaven and pre Spike-is-trying-to-rape-the-Slayer-in-her-bathroom. (Yes, I know, anywhen is not a word, that's not the point. I use real words in the story.) Small spoilers are all over, nothing huge, please enjoy, and send me feedback. I write faster with feedback. If anyone has any requested events, tell me and I'll try to make them happen. Sorry for the ramble. Thus begins the tale.

Chapter One: Gray Matter

When Spike saw the doll in the window of the sleazy (and closed) thrift shop, he nicked it without a second thought. Back in his crypt he wondered why, exactly, he had taken it. He'd never really gone in for toys. Drusilla was the one that talked to inanimate objects. He examined it carefully, trying to discover exactly what about it had caught his eye. It was old, or at least the dress was. Yellowed lace flowed in traditional Victorian fashion, covering everything from the chin down, except the hands. Spike noticed with an odd twitch of disappointment that they were made of grubby vinyl. Only the head was porcelain. Judging by the make of it, it was probably over a century old. The face was completely painted on, from the black hair to the pink cheeks. The general effect would have been wholly flat and uninteresting had it not been for the vibrant blue eyes. Or were they green? Funny how they seemed so alive. The irises swirled hypnotically, drowning the tiny black pupils…spinning…no, that was impossible. Spike tried to put the doll down, tried to blink, but found himself completely immobile.

*My, my, William. Impossible? Such a strong word. Anything is possible on the Hellmouth. *

It was a little girl's voice, strangely mechanical, faintly amused, and it filled his skull completely, invading every cell of his brain. Knocked loose of the paralysis that had held him, he staggered backwards, crashing clumsily into his mini-fridge. He stared in disbelief at the doll, which was sitting innocently on the shelf as though nothing had happened. Shaking himself off, he cautiously approached the object. The mouth seemed to be slightly twisted now. Spike was sure the doll was mocking him. He reached for it, unsure of whether he was simply going to turn it around so it would stop staring at him or smash it into the wall until it was powder, but the instant he touched its skirt, he was frozen again. The voice spoke again, somewhat less overwhelming this time.

*Of course I'm mocking you. You are a fool, William. And don't think of me as "the doll" anymore. It's degrading. My name is Molly. Address me as such, or I will punish you. *

Robotic laughter filled his consciousness, scattered his thoughts. Struggling, he managed to choke out a derogatory snort.

"Can't…punish me…'f I don't…touch you," he gasped, feeling a surge of triumph at the revelation.

*Oh, but I can* Molly giggled. *We'll have such fun! Or, at least, I will. Oh, and William? You don't have to talk. I can hear your thoughts just fine. *

"My name is SPIKE!" he growled, his frustration filling him with strength enough to hurl himself violently at the shelf.

Taped "Passions" reruns rained down on his head, but he could move freely again. He looked around for Molly, and was irritated, if not surprised, to find her undamaged. He didn't try to pick her up again. Instead, he righted the shelf and reorganized his videos on it, warily skirting Molly, who lay face up on the floor. The task took all night, due to the fact that he had every single episode and watched most of them to make sure they were in the right order. As the sun broke over the horizon, he finally clomped downstairs to sleep, resisting the temptation to kick the doll on his way. As he thought this, he was sure he could hear her laughter. Uneasily, he lay down to rest.

* Sweet dreams, William, * came the thought, as he began to drift off.

"No…" he whispered, but couldn't jerk awake.

The vampire was plunged into unnatural sleep. Upstairs, the doll lay on the floor of the crypt. Blue eyes shifted to green, then gold. Like two miniature movie projectors, they began to run sequences of nightmare images. Spike shifted on his bed, caught in the world of Molly's eyes. Children ran barefoot through fields of flame, screeching, as angels wept guilt onto bloodless corpses. The earth was sucked dry, the sun rising and setting in the space of seconds. Oceans of holy water rained down, and the earth was replenished. A group of young women carried a huge crucifix to the top of a hill, and as Spike looked at it, he realized that he was looking at himself nailed there, burning. So hot, it was so hot, burning, burning, BURNING.

Spike sat bolt upright, his hands flying frantically over himself, feeling for the wounds. There were none. Dimly, he realized that he was still asleep, still dreaming.

"Of course you are," said Molly's voice.

Spike spun around. Facing him was a little girl, about eight years old. Rich black curls curved around her white face. Perfectly round blotches of pink colored her cheeks. On most people it would have looked clownish. On Molly it looked sinister. Her eyes swirled, threatening to overpower him yet again, and he dropped his gaze.

"How prudent," she said. "Of course, you're already under my control, so it won't do you much good."

"I am not under your control," he growled through gritted teeth.

"Of course you are. I wouldn't be here if you weren't. Stop deluding yourself and listen to me, William. You are going to do what I tell you, when I tell you. If you do my bidding willingly, you'll save yourself a lot of pain."

"You know, I don't think you can hurt me at all. Load of empty threats if you ask me. Anyway, anything you want, I'm sure I don't. So why don't you just mosey on out of my head?"

Molly walked up and took his hand. He tried to shake loose, but she was too strong.

"Come," she commanded, and he did.

Spike was terrified. This doll was like nothing he had ever encountered, and worse, he had no idea what she wanted. Unwillingly he followed her, his dream-legs moving of their own accord. Looking around, he realized that they were in the park. The playground, actually. It was midday, and normal kids played on the equipment, laughing. Something seemed off to Spike, apart from the fact that he wasn't dust. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then he realized. All the girls were identical to each other. All the boys were identical to each other. And they all looked just like Molly.

TBC in Chapter Two: What Dreams are Made of