Sweet Dreams
Chapter Two: Pain

Willow slipped the book underneath the bed as Tara came in.

"Hey, sweetie," Tara greeted, smiling warmly, kissing her briefly on the lips. "What you doing?"

"Just going over that spell again," Willow told her. "I want to make sure that we've got everything."

"Anya said she can get the urn," Tara said, hanging up her jacket. "Were there any preparation rituals to be done before the actual spell, Willow?"

Willow glanced up, startled. There had been. She hadn't told Tara because the book did not state why this spell was needed and Tara would not have allowed her to do it if they didn't know what it was for. Willow told herself it was to prepare Buffy's life force and to prepare herself.

But something told her that it wasn't anything like that.

"No," she lied. "No there were no preparation rituals."

"Then the spell must be quite straightforward," Tara frowned in thought. A spell to resurrect someone shouldn't be straightforward. But Willow knew what she was doing. Tara trusted her.

"Yeah," Willow agreed quickly. "It's simple, but intense."

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Tara asked gently, sitting down and putting an arm around Willow, kissing her hair gently. "I know you miss her. I miss her too, we all do. But are you sure you want to do this?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," Willow said decisively, pulling away from Tara so she could see her patented resolve face. "What matters is Buffy."

Vicky was tired. She rubbed her hand over her face and stared at her notebook. She hadn't been sleeping lately. No, she corrected herself, I am sleeping, I'm just not feeling the benefits.

It was the dreams. She blamed the dreams. But they weren't like dreams, they were like memories. Not even memories, she was living it, it was real. She twirled her pen and skimmed over the notes of her dreams. She wanted to be a writer; maybe this was it, the big one. The ultimate story of heroism and love.

But it was the one story she didn't want to write because, somehow, it wasn't hers.

"Vicky," her roommate moaned. "What are you doing?"

"Writing," Vicky answered shortly.

"You always are."

"Alicia," Vicky sighed. "Why don't you go out?"

"Good idea," the tall girl stood up and grabbed her jacket. "Don't wait up!"

"I won't," Vicky muttered after the slamming of the door.

She closed the notebook, sliding it under her mattress. She hesitated for a second, then slumped onto the bed and closed her eyes, falling into yet another dream.

Rupert Giles cast his eyes over the bedraggled group. It had been a hard night. Very hard. Anya was fussing quietly over the cut above Xander's eye. Willow and Tara were nursing bruises. Dawn was silently bandaging Spike's exposed arm, while he stared unseeingly into the distance. Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. God, he was tired. Just so… tired.

He didn't know how he was supposed to keep them together.

How could he help the devastated friends, the crushed and alone little sister and even broken hearted vampire when she had been his Slayer too?

How could he make them feel better when he couldn't make himself feel better?

Spike stood up slowly, took Dawn's shoulders and pushed her gently in the direction of the door.

"I'll be taking the Bit home," he said quietly. "You can stay here," he told Willow and Tara. "I'll stay with her 'til you get back."

They nodded and he guided her out of the shop. Once Dawn had gone, the pretence dropped and everyone slumped into themselves.

"When does it get easier?" Anya asked, laying her head on Xander's chest.

"I wish I knew," Giles answered quietly. "I wish I knew."

Willow bit her tongue to prevent herself telling him it would be all right soon, because Buffy was coming home.

The dream started immediately. They always did. It was like falling from one reality into another one, a more real reality. One that was darker than the one she resided in, but truer.

She was in a crypt, watching a scene play out. She knew it was before the dream where the girl leapt into the portal, because there she was, chained to a wall. The blonde male stood before her, his body tensed.

"I love you."

The girl closed her eyes and let out a soft groan.

"Oh my God."

"No, look at me!" he reached out and took her chin in her hand, forcing her to look at him. "I ... love you," the girl jerked her head free. "You're all I bloody think about. Dream about. You're in my gut ... my throat ... I'm drowning in you, Summers, I'm drowning in you."

And it was true. He was drowning in her, desperately trying to clear his head of her. For someone who didn't need to breathe, he was suffocating. He lived for the moments he would see her, be around her. He hated himself for wanting her like he did. Hated himself, hated her, loved her. It was tearing him apart.

And she couldn't see it, didn't believe that he could love without a soul. She didn't care that he would sacrifice Drusilla for her. But she had to, there had to be something there.

"Just ... give me something ... a crumb ... a barest smidgen ... tell me ... maybe, someday, there's a chance."

When she uttered his name, his unbeating heart leapt. This was it; she would say the words. He didn't expect "I love you," he didn't, honestly. He expected her to say maybe, and he would have been happy with that, because maybe could grow into definitely

"The only chance you had with me was when I was unconscious."

For a moment, it didn't penetrate. He didn't understand. Then the curl of her lip and the venom of her words sank in and he understood. This wasn't maybe, this wasn't someday, this was never.

"Gaaah!" he screamed. "What the bleeding hell is wrong with you bloody women? What the hell does it take? Why ... do you bitches torture me? The girl looked on. She almost rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

"Which question do you want me to answer first?" she asked sweetly.

"Look, I, I'm at the end of my bleeding tether. You know? I don't even know why I even bother, you know," he pointed to the dark haired women tied to a pillar. "This is your fault. You're the one to blame for all this."

"Am I?" she asked absent-mindedly.

"Bloody right you are!" he shouted, "If you hadn't left me for that chaos demon, I never would have come back here! Never would have had this sodding chip in my skull! And you - " he turned his attention to the chained Slayer. "You wouldn't be able to touch me, because this, with you, is wrong. I know it. I'm not a complete idiot. You think I like having you in here? Destroying everything that was me, until all that's left is you, in a dead shell. You say you hate it, but you won't leave. You know, what I should just do is get rid of both of you. Burn you. Cut you into little pieces so there won't be any more bints to cock up things for Spi-"

He lurched forward as another blonde woman shot an arrow into his back.

The room faded to be replaced by the blonde man, following the Slayer to her door.

"…Like it or not, I'm in your life, you can't just shut me out -" he stopped, unable to go any further past the doorway. Slowly, it dawned on him that he was no longer welcome. He had cocked up. Again

She stared at him, the impassiveness on her face hurting more than the sound of the door slamming in his face.

Vicky sat up and leaned her forehead against her knees. She gasped for breath and when she sank back against her pillows her heart was thundering in her chest.