TITLE: To Sleep, To Dream
AUTHOR: zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving. This story will be available
along with all my others at http://www.zeroimpact.com/
SPOILERS: Mild "Restless" spoilers.
SUMMARY: The First Slayer visits all of Buffy's friends, including former
enemies. This is the dream we didn't see: Spike's.
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Buffy
DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of its characters are the
property of 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy productions, and other lucky
people. Only the story is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Chelle and Rebe for their betas. Chelle, don't
squeal. ;)
TO SLEEP, TO DREAM
by zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
In sleep, Spike's body reveals the true nature of his existence. His limbs
relax, but they're absent of the warmth caused by the friction of muscles,
and they become cold and rigid, a parody of rigor mortis. His chest is
still, not expanding with breath, and he lies beneath a dirty, threadbare
shroud, still as death.
He sleeps lightly, and his mind accepts rest only warily, suspicious that
his body is only playing a trick on it to make it drop its guard. So when
the slow, slithering sound of an intruder breaks the absolute silence, its
sounds of motion louder than those of the crickets in the cemetary
outside, his mind is instantly alert, quickly on guard. His body, slave to
the brain's commands, rolls off of the sepulchre he calls a bed, and his
bare feet land lightly on the cold floor.
The weather is warm, and the tank top and jeans he wears to bed should be
adequate protection against the cold, but he immediately shivers when his
blanket falls away. No light seeps around the edges of the heavy coverings
he placed over the windows when he moved in, and he scowls as he realizes
that he's slept through the sunset.
At the other end of the crypt, something moves again. There's a scraping
of cloth against stone, and whatever's invaded his home moves closer.
Spike growls, and the sound tumbles around the crypt before fading away.
He shivers again, disturbed by the continued small noises of the invader,
and he suddenly bolts, his feet a mysterious whisper on the floor,
chanting out secrets as he dashes toward the closed door. He pauses only
long enough to wrench the door open, and caution is as useful to him as
sunblock; he doesn't bother with it as he rushes through the door.
Even with the midday sun bearing down on it, the water in the bay is
murky, its surface impenetrable and blinding with the light it throws back
defiantly at the sky. Fish litter the sandy beach, some of them flopping
in anxious search of water, most lying still, contributing to the rancid
odor of rotting fish that saturates the air.
"Look at me, Uncle!" calls a little-boy voice, and Spike turns to watch
the skinny youth climbing the gnarled gray cliff face. The boy's arms
carry him upward, toward a ledge above the water, and his pale back
shimmers with wetness from the leaps he's already made into the bay.
"Look over here, Uncle!" the boy calls again. He's reached the ledge and
is poised to jump. The water laps at the rocks and waits to catch him.
"I'm watching," Spike calls back. His voice is oddly flat, and does not
resonate off the cliff side. He shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning
back against a rock formation. The sand is red around his feet.
The boy jumps, arms and legs wildly flailing, prepared to create a splash.
The ocean responds to his movement; it shifts, uncoils, and forms a watery
snake of itself; it rises to meet the pale, falling body, and opens its
mouth wide.
The boy is caught up in a massive serpentine maw, and though the water is
murky, Spike can still see the lad through the creature's sides; his
skinny body slithers down into a giant watery belly, and his mouth is
fixed wide open in a scream smothered by liquid.
The snake turns its head, looks at Spike, and says, "Surely you
understand." Its eyes blink slowly, and the motion causes ripples that
spread down its neck.
Spike nods, shrugs one shoulder, and answers, "Everybody's gotta eat."
The snake sighs in satisfaction and sinks back to the rocky ground,
becoming a tranquil bay again, sparkling under the sun.
Near the waterline, something shifts, scuttling between the rocks, coming
toward him. Spike frowns, squints at the distant movement, and shivers
again. Suddenly a wind kicks up, whipping at the water, and thunder growls
out its version of a public service announcement, warning that those who
don't find shelter will find themselves very wet.
Spike turns, sparing one more glance at the now heavily overcast sky
before turning and ducking into a seaside cave, stepping carefully over
the little wooden soldier figurine left in the sand by the boy.
"For God's sake, Spike, make yourself useful," is the first thing that
Giles says to him. Spike enters the Watcher's living room from the
hallway, his bare feet sinking into the thick carpet as if it were
seashore sand.
"Piss off," he automatically replies, but when Giles shoves a book into
his hands, he sinks into the couch beside Willow, opening up the volume
even though he doesn't know what he's looking for.
The chapter he opens the book to is topped by a large, bold title:
"PSYCHOLOGY OF DOMESTICATED DEMONS." He slams the book shut again, loudly,
and pitches it across the room. It hits the wall and disappears through
the surface without a ripple. Willow doesn't seem to notice, and her nose
is still buried in a book of her own. In Giles' armchair, Xander sits with
his own book, but there's a hole in his chest where his heart should be.
The smell of blood makes Spike hungry, and something twists in his
stomach.
"What are you playing at?" he snarls, spinning on his heel to glare at
Giles, who is busy in the kitchen, trying to force a turnip through the
narrow spout on his teakettle.
"Well," the other man answers, finally giving up on the turnip and
emptying a bottle of mustard into the kettle. "I was thinking perhaps
strip poker."
Spike takes a step back, his jaw falling open, and looks down at himself,
noting that only two articles of clothing stand between him and nakedness.
"There's no time for that now, Giles," Xander snaps, tossing his own book
onto the coffee table. "We have to find my heart. I know it's around here
somewhere." The boy stumbles out of his seat and begins lifting the couch
cushions, peering underneath them in search of his missing organ. "Hey,
look!" he exclaims, after only a few seconds on the trail. "A quarter! Now
I can buy that Corvette I've always wanted!"
Shaking his head, disgusted with himself for once again ending up in the
last place he wants to be, Spike ignores the two teenagers in the living
room and the Englishman in the kitchen as he heads for the door. It swings
open under Spike's hand, revealing a star-encrusted sky and rain-soaked
landscape. He breaths in a single lungful of damp air as he steps outside,
and out of the corner of his eye he can see something slinking toward him
through Giles' apartment.
The lamps in the drawing room are all turned off, but the roaring fire in
the hearth casts the walls in flickering yellow and red. There's a plush
chair directly in front of the fireplace, presenting its back to Spike,
and a hand hangs over the chair's arm, lazily clutching the rim of a wine
glass half-filled with dark red liquid.
"Angelus," Spike says, crossing toward the chair. The carpet is coarse,
and abrades the bottoms of his feet. "Glad you're here, mate. There's this
thing following me; think you could distract it a bit, buy me a little
time?"
He rounds the chair to see a short, bald man in his sire's chair, sipping
at the wine glass. He's dressed just as Angelus was the last time Spike
saw him in this London drawing room, wearing a heavy velvet jacket with a
lacy shirt underneath. When he raises the glass to his lips, the frilly
cuffs of his shirt brush his nose, which is flushed red with the wine he
drinks. In his lap, there's a plate with a ring of thin, square cheese
slices on it.
"I'm sorry," the man says, "but even the cheese cannot save you now."
Spike frowns, wondering if he has time to rip the man's throat out before
continuing his flight from the thing that's after him. The decision is
made for him, though, when something starts throwing itself at the heavy
drawing room door. The walls rattle with the force of the impact, and
Spike leaves the stranger to his cheese, jogging toward the wall and
yanking open the smaller, inconspicuous door leading to the London
mansion's master bedroom.
The dorm room is dark; all of the lights are off, and the only
illumination is the blue glow of the moon streaming through the open
window. It cascades through the breeze-tossed drapes and falls over the
bed on Spike's right, caressing the naked skin of the bed's occupant.
She stirs under his heavy gaze, shifting sinuously like a cat, stretching
her arms up above her head before propping herself up on her elbows to
regard him from the shadowed depths of her eyes.
"Are you just going to stand there?" she asks. Her elbows slide to the
sides again, and she splays herself flat on her back, arms flung out...
ready to welcome him. "Or are you going to come and take me?"
Her whispered voice tugs like a leash around his neck, and he finds
himself at the foot of the bed, eyes roaming the gleaming, pale expanse of
her body. He reaches for the hem of his tank top, and that's when he
notices that they're not alone in the room. Somewhere in the darkness,
something stirs.
His hands drop slowly, and he surveys the room. Willow's bed is empty, and
neatly made; she hasn't even slept in it tonight. The hallway door is
shut. Near the window, there's a scraping sound, and a flash of something
moving in the moonlight.
"Something's following me," he tells Buffy. "I think it's in here."
She sits up again, her pale arms wrapping around her legs, her chin
resting on one knee. "I'll protect you," she says, her voice a throaty,
sensual purr.
"You don't understand," he growls. He shifts from one foot to the other,
indecisive, then climbs onto the bed with her, sure that the thing has
gone under the bed. "I can't fight. I can't scare it off, I can't kill it.
There's nothing I can do."
"You're helpless," Buffy says, with a sudden bark of laughter. "That's one
less bad guy to think about."
Spike frowns, kneeling on the thick folded-back comforter, leaning back on
his heels. "I'm still dangerous," he argues. "You can't just ignore me!"
But Buffy is already falling back into bed, turned away from him, hands
tucked under her cheek, legs crossed in repose, body relaxed. She's asleep
in seconds, and doesn't wake when he shakes her shoulder.
In the corner, something creeps toward him, low to the ground, a menacing
shape in the shadows. He barks Buffy's name, but she doesn't move, her
earlier promise of protection, though jesting, already forgotten. When the
thing leaps for him, Spike has no choice but to fight it himself.
The creature knocks him to the floor, and he lands heavily in the space
between the two beds, his head cracking against the nightstand. He draws
back a fist, but his attacker catches the punch before it makes contact,
then catches his other hand, crushing them both. The sound of breaking
bones is loud in the quiet room, but still Buffy doesn't move to help him.
When the thing releases his hands, its claws dig into the back of his
head, pulling open the skin and digging inside. Just before he blacks out
from the pain, he dimly thinks that maybe now, Buffy will recognize him as
a powerful fighter, and maybe she'll realize that no weak human will ever
be enough for her...
Spike wakes with a start, his head jerking up and his eyes automatically
surveying the crypt. All is quiet, still, and dusty. Outside, the sun has
already sunk from the sky.
He sucks in a deep, musty breath, and lets it out, stretching his fingers
to work the stiffness out. He pushes himself upright, legs dangling over
the edge of the stone coffin, and runs his hands through his hair. At the
back of his head, they slide to a stop in a tangle of wet, blood-matted
hair.
Spike frowns, probing the area with one hand and immediately hissing in
pain. The back of his head has been slit open, and though it's already
healing, the wound is deep.
His first thought is to find Buffy, and he follows the impulse without
wondering why it came to him at all. He snatches up his coat -- bloodied
by pillow duty -- and there's an old confidence back in his step as he
heads for the door.
THE END
--
Feedback me, dammit.
zero@zeroimpact.com
AUTHOR: zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving. This story will be available
along with all my others at http://www.zeroimpact.com/
SPOILERS: Mild "Restless" spoilers.
SUMMARY: The First Slayer visits all of Buffy's friends, including former
enemies. This is the dream we didn't see: Spike's.
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Buffy
DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of its characters are the
property of 20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy productions, and other lucky
people. Only the story is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Chelle and Rebe for their betas. Chelle, don't
squeal. ;)
TO SLEEP, TO DREAM
by zero (zero@zeroimpact.com)
In sleep, Spike's body reveals the true nature of his existence. His limbs
relax, but they're absent of the warmth caused by the friction of muscles,
and they become cold and rigid, a parody of rigor mortis. His chest is
still, not expanding with breath, and he lies beneath a dirty, threadbare
shroud, still as death.
He sleeps lightly, and his mind accepts rest only warily, suspicious that
his body is only playing a trick on it to make it drop its guard. So when
the slow, slithering sound of an intruder breaks the absolute silence, its
sounds of motion louder than those of the crickets in the cemetary
outside, his mind is instantly alert, quickly on guard. His body, slave to
the brain's commands, rolls off of the sepulchre he calls a bed, and his
bare feet land lightly on the cold floor.
The weather is warm, and the tank top and jeans he wears to bed should be
adequate protection against the cold, but he immediately shivers when his
blanket falls away. No light seeps around the edges of the heavy coverings
he placed over the windows when he moved in, and he scowls as he realizes
that he's slept through the sunset.
At the other end of the crypt, something moves again. There's a scraping
of cloth against stone, and whatever's invaded his home moves closer.
Spike growls, and the sound tumbles around the crypt before fading away.
He shivers again, disturbed by the continued small noises of the invader,
and he suddenly bolts, his feet a mysterious whisper on the floor,
chanting out secrets as he dashes toward the closed door. He pauses only
long enough to wrench the door open, and caution is as useful to him as
sunblock; he doesn't bother with it as he rushes through the door.
Even with the midday sun bearing down on it, the water in the bay is
murky, its surface impenetrable and blinding with the light it throws back
defiantly at the sky. Fish litter the sandy beach, some of them flopping
in anxious search of water, most lying still, contributing to the rancid
odor of rotting fish that saturates the air.
"Look at me, Uncle!" calls a little-boy voice, and Spike turns to watch
the skinny youth climbing the gnarled gray cliff face. The boy's arms
carry him upward, toward a ledge above the water, and his pale back
shimmers with wetness from the leaps he's already made into the bay.
"Look over here, Uncle!" the boy calls again. He's reached the ledge and
is poised to jump. The water laps at the rocks and waits to catch him.
"I'm watching," Spike calls back. His voice is oddly flat, and does not
resonate off the cliff side. He shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning
back against a rock formation. The sand is red around his feet.
The boy jumps, arms and legs wildly flailing, prepared to create a splash.
The ocean responds to his movement; it shifts, uncoils, and forms a watery
snake of itself; it rises to meet the pale, falling body, and opens its
mouth wide.
The boy is caught up in a massive serpentine maw, and though the water is
murky, Spike can still see the lad through the creature's sides; his
skinny body slithers down into a giant watery belly, and his mouth is
fixed wide open in a scream smothered by liquid.
The snake turns its head, looks at Spike, and says, "Surely you
understand." Its eyes blink slowly, and the motion causes ripples that
spread down its neck.
Spike nods, shrugs one shoulder, and answers, "Everybody's gotta eat."
The snake sighs in satisfaction and sinks back to the rocky ground,
becoming a tranquil bay again, sparkling under the sun.
Near the waterline, something shifts, scuttling between the rocks, coming
toward him. Spike frowns, squints at the distant movement, and shivers
again. Suddenly a wind kicks up, whipping at the water, and thunder growls
out its version of a public service announcement, warning that those who
don't find shelter will find themselves very wet.
Spike turns, sparing one more glance at the now heavily overcast sky
before turning and ducking into a seaside cave, stepping carefully over
the little wooden soldier figurine left in the sand by the boy.
"For God's sake, Spike, make yourself useful," is the first thing that
Giles says to him. Spike enters the Watcher's living room from the
hallway, his bare feet sinking into the thick carpet as if it were
seashore sand.
"Piss off," he automatically replies, but when Giles shoves a book into
his hands, he sinks into the couch beside Willow, opening up the volume
even though he doesn't know what he's looking for.
The chapter he opens the book to is topped by a large, bold title:
"PSYCHOLOGY OF DOMESTICATED DEMONS." He slams the book shut again, loudly,
and pitches it across the room. It hits the wall and disappears through
the surface without a ripple. Willow doesn't seem to notice, and her nose
is still buried in a book of her own. In Giles' armchair, Xander sits with
his own book, but there's a hole in his chest where his heart should be.
The smell of blood makes Spike hungry, and something twists in his
stomach.
"What are you playing at?" he snarls, spinning on his heel to glare at
Giles, who is busy in the kitchen, trying to force a turnip through the
narrow spout on his teakettle.
"Well," the other man answers, finally giving up on the turnip and
emptying a bottle of mustard into the kettle. "I was thinking perhaps
strip poker."
Spike takes a step back, his jaw falling open, and looks down at himself,
noting that only two articles of clothing stand between him and nakedness.
"There's no time for that now, Giles," Xander snaps, tossing his own book
onto the coffee table. "We have to find my heart. I know it's around here
somewhere." The boy stumbles out of his seat and begins lifting the couch
cushions, peering underneath them in search of his missing organ. "Hey,
look!" he exclaims, after only a few seconds on the trail. "A quarter! Now
I can buy that Corvette I've always wanted!"
Shaking his head, disgusted with himself for once again ending up in the
last place he wants to be, Spike ignores the two teenagers in the living
room and the Englishman in the kitchen as he heads for the door. It swings
open under Spike's hand, revealing a star-encrusted sky and rain-soaked
landscape. He breaths in a single lungful of damp air as he steps outside,
and out of the corner of his eye he can see something slinking toward him
through Giles' apartment.
The lamps in the drawing room are all turned off, but the roaring fire in
the hearth casts the walls in flickering yellow and red. There's a plush
chair directly in front of the fireplace, presenting its back to Spike,
and a hand hangs over the chair's arm, lazily clutching the rim of a wine
glass half-filled with dark red liquid.
"Angelus," Spike says, crossing toward the chair. The carpet is coarse,
and abrades the bottoms of his feet. "Glad you're here, mate. There's this
thing following me; think you could distract it a bit, buy me a little
time?"
He rounds the chair to see a short, bald man in his sire's chair, sipping
at the wine glass. He's dressed just as Angelus was the last time Spike
saw him in this London drawing room, wearing a heavy velvet jacket with a
lacy shirt underneath. When he raises the glass to his lips, the frilly
cuffs of his shirt brush his nose, which is flushed red with the wine he
drinks. In his lap, there's a plate with a ring of thin, square cheese
slices on it.
"I'm sorry," the man says, "but even the cheese cannot save you now."
Spike frowns, wondering if he has time to rip the man's throat out before
continuing his flight from the thing that's after him. The decision is
made for him, though, when something starts throwing itself at the heavy
drawing room door. The walls rattle with the force of the impact, and
Spike leaves the stranger to his cheese, jogging toward the wall and
yanking open the smaller, inconspicuous door leading to the London
mansion's master bedroom.
The dorm room is dark; all of the lights are off, and the only
illumination is the blue glow of the moon streaming through the open
window. It cascades through the breeze-tossed drapes and falls over the
bed on Spike's right, caressing the naked skin of the bed's occupant.
She stirs under his heavy gaze, shifting sinuously like a cat, stretching
her arms up above her head before propping herself up on her elbows to
regard him from the shadowed depths of her eyes.
"Are you just going to stand there?" she asks. Her elbows slide to the
sides again, and she splays herself flat on her back, arms flung out...
ready to welcome him. "Or are you going to come and take me?"
Her whispered voice tugs like a leash around his neck, and he finds
himself at the foot of the bed, eyes roaming the gleaming, pale expanse of
her body. He reaches for the hem of his tank top, and that's when he
notices that they're not alone in the room. Somewhere in the darkness,
something stirs.
His hands drop slowly, and he surveys the room. Willow's bed is empty, and
neatly made; she hasn't even slept in it tonight. The hallway door is
shut. Near the window, there's a scraping sound, and a flash of something
moving in the moonlight.
"Something's following me," he tells Buffy. "I think it's in here."
She sits up again, her pale arms wrapping around her legs, her chin
resting on one knee. "I'll protect you," she says, her voice a throaty,
sensual purr.
"You don't understand," he growls. He shifts from one foot to the other,
indecisive, then climbs onto the bed with her, sure that the thing has
gone under the bed. "I can't fight. I can't scare it off, I can't kill it.
There's nothing I can do."
"You're helpless," Buffy says, with a sudden bark of laughter. "That's one
less bad guy to think about."
Spike frowns, kneeling on the thick folded-back comforter, leaning back on
his heels. "I'm still dangerous," he argues. "You can't just ignore me!"
But Buffy is already falling back into bed, turned away from him, hands
tucked under her cheek, legs crossed in repose, body relaxed. She's asleep
in seconds, and doesn't wake when he shakes her shoulder.
In the corner, something creeps toward him, low to the ground, a menacing
shape in the shadows. He barks Buffy's name, but she doesn't move, her
earlier promise of protection, though jesting, already forgotten. When the
thing leaps for him, Spike has no choice but to fight it himself.
The creature knocks him to the floor, and he lands heavily in the space
between the two beds, his head cracking against the nightstand. He draws
back a fist, but his attacker catches the punch before it makes contact,
then catches his other hand, crushing them both. The sound of breaking
bones is loud in the quiet room, but still Buffy doesn't move to help him.
When the thing releases his hands, its claws dig into the back of his
head, pulling open the skin and digging inside. Just before he blacks out
from the pain, he dimly thinks that maybe now, Buffy will recognize him as
a powerful fighter, and maybe she'll realize that no weak human will ever
be enough for her...
Spike wakes with a start, his head jerking up and his eyes automatically
surveying the crypt. All is quiet, still, and dusty. Outside, the sun has
already sunk from the sky.
He sucks in a deep, musty breath, and lets it out, stretching his fingers
to work the stiffness out. He pushes himself upright, legs dangling over
the edge of the stone coffin, and runs his hands through his hair. At the
back of his head, they slide to a stop in a tangle of wet, blood-matted
hair.
Spike frowns, probing the area with one hand and immediately hissing in
pain. The back of his head has been slit open, and though it's already
healing, the wound is deep.
His first thought is to find Buffy, and he follows the impulse without
wondering why it came to him at all. He snatches up his coat -- bloodied
by pillow duty -- and there's an old confidence back in his step as he
heads for the door.
THE END
--
Feedback me, dammit.
zero@zeroimpact.com