Title: Neverending

Author: RFC

Category: Willow/Spike

Rating: PG-13 (or it will be)

Feedback: My first Willow/Spike fic so pretty please. Tell me what you think. Should I continue with this or what? Please R and R

Disclaimer: Buffy and co. are the property of numerous people who aren't me. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit – I promise to give them back once I'm done (with minimal damage). No money is being made from this story.

Author's note: Dream sequences are enclosed in *'s and thoughts are in italics.

Spoilers: Set beginning of season two.

Prologue

*The flames danced as her soul screamed. She was dying. She was leaving him. The scorching heat was something distant, something entirely unconnected to her pain. Through the billowing clouds of smoke she could see him and only him. He stared at her motionless and detached. Those vivid blue eyes that had always seemed to reflect his very soul remained blank as she fought to remain conscious. The chanting continued around them; burn the witch. She strained at her bonds once more. The fumes were choking her. Smoke swirled around her head and her vision blurred with tears. She was too young to die. He looked at her dispassionately. He hated it when she cried. He made as if to go to her. His eyes softened, she thought she saw love there but he turned away. She struggled once more in one last-ditch effort to escape, to survive. She screamed for real. He winced. Her earlier detachment evaporated. Her skirt was catching and the drone of voices continued. Burn the witch, burn the witch, burn the…*

The petite redhead in the bed sat up with a gasp. Her sweat soaked sheets tangled around her limbs as she looked wildly at her surroundings – she was safe and at home and not tied to stake in the middle of forest somewhere. She was Willow Rosenberg, she attended Sunnydale High school and she wasn't a witch. She didn't think. Not really a witch anyway. A candles and incense (and trying to turn Cordelia Chase into a frog when she was ten) didn't qualify witch-hood, right?

She wasn't a witch. She wasn't going to die a slow and terrible death. She hoped. Of course, being a non-witch person hadn't stopped anybody from being burnt at the stake in the past. For once Willow cursed her studious streak – if only she hadn't paid quite so much attention in class when they were looking at the Salem Witch Trials. That was the past though. Nobody did that kind of thing anymore. There were electric chairs and lethal injections and… bad thoughts, bad Willow. Besides it was just a dream so it didn't matter anyway. Just a dream, that left her shaking and terrified, gee.

All she was actually doing of course was freaking her-self out so Willow untangled her sheets from her body, grabbed her dressing gown and headed downstairs. She walked unsteadily, clinging to the banister as she went. It was almost as if it were her limbs that had been bound and starved of blood. She could all but taste the smoke in her mouth and feel the desperation that she, or the girl in the dream, who had been her, had felt. It wasn't real. It wasn't real – it was after all just a dream. The kitchen lights were on. She always left them on when her parents were away. They usually made her feel that little bit more secure. Tonight, however, she just was freaked, period.

The cool bottled water from the fridge didn't really soothe the painful stinging at the back of her throat because that wasn't really there. It provided a welcome relief. Willow sank down into the nearest kitchen chair and rested her forehead against her palms. A giggle escaped her. She figured she'd have to get used to laughing at herself or she would if she was going to start believing her dreams.

Dreams were a creation of the subconscious. They were a product of an overactive imagination and the events of the day before or at least they were if you weren't Buffy, Willow's best friend. Her dreams had a disturbing habit of becoming reality and as her dreams tended to be nightmares, this was generally not of the good. As Willow wasn't Buffy (what with being Willow) she didn't think that this would be a problem. Still the whole thing was kind of Hellmouth-y and who was that guy anyway? Willow, or rather Dream-Willow, had loved him. But it was a dream so she hadn't really – she just thought that she had. For an ordinary dream it was pretty weird. Willow was fairly sure that they didn't usually come equipped with a full set of memories as well.

******

Across town a man tumbled out of bed with a thud. He sat there naked, his sheets having abandoned him sometime during the fall. He shivered. Whether this was a reflexive reaction to the situation in which he found himself or a reaction to the dream that he had just woken up from was anybody's guess. It was a weird dream partly because it felt more like a memory than a dream and partly (and probably more importantly) because he hadn't had a dream in over a hundred and twenty six years. He hadn't really had them before that either – reality had always seemed so much more interesting.

For somebody who was as old as he was he looked remarkably good, even sprawled on his back in such an awkward position as he was. With fine chiselled features and piercing blues. He was gorgeous and like so many other good-looking men, he knew it. He also looked pretty kick ass. He knew that too – he was after all William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers and master vampire of the clan of Aurelius, thank you very much. This was not somebody who you laughed at for falling out of bed, not unless you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic at any rate. As if on cue, his companion giggled. He growled up at her as she followed his example and rolled off the bed into his arms. Nobody had ever accused his Dru of being entirely sane. She turned so she was facing him and bent down to nip at his neck before claiming his mouth with a passionate kiss.

"Baby, you're weak," he drawled. She giggled again. After this token protest, he lay back more than willing to participate in this particular sport. He frowned as a face that didn't belong to his princess flashed before his eyes. It was familiar, from his dream that he didn't have because vampires don't dream. This is just what I bloody need. One nutty vamp in this family is quite e-bloody-nough thank you.

The vampire shoved the image from his mind before Miss Edith told his Dark Goddess that he was thinking of someone other than her. She pulled him back on to the bed with a comment about getting her pretty nightdress dirty and continued where she left off. He surrendered willingly to her ministrations without another thought to the red hair and soot streaked face of the apparition that had invaded his sleep.