DISCLAIMER: JOSS owns all rights regarding all Buffy characters. Sara McLachlan owns all rights regarding Possession and its lyrics. I own nothing but an overactive imagination and an undeniable need to share my crazy thoughts with others.

At long last, someone has arrived at a certain hotel.....and no folks, it isn't the brooder... ;o) Only one chapter left, almost there. :o) Please R&R....it's the best encouragement possible.

Oh into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride, Nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied

He reached the end of the hall and hesitated at the brass handled door. It had been a long slow climb through shadowy stairwells and suffocating air ducts. Even before that, it had taken the entire previous night to get some normal clothes and to figure out for sure that the poof took the top floor for his residence. But now, it all seemed like it had happened too quickly. He had been back for a week, but he felt awkward and weak in his body again, as if he had just woken up beneath that brutal sheet of rain.

The light on the door was green, unlocked. Spike clenched his hands twice, bobbing a little on his heels they way he sometimes did before a fight. His hand reached for the handle of the door, the pads of his fingers just resting on the cool smooth surface of the brass.

Spike could feel her already. He could smell her through the door and it made his fingers rattle against the handle. God, he was a stupid git. He took a breath that he didn't need and removed his hand to run it through his hair. What if he was here? Impossible. He would have felt Angel as surely as he could feel her.

Now he was just stalling. He replaced his hand, scowling at it with a menacing dare to stay put. Irritated with his hesitation, he pushed it open with little aplomb and stepped inside. It was dark in the room, save the city lights twinkling beyond the windows.

"Angel?" came her voice, and though she spoke his name, Spike thought his knees would give way just then. Her voice, her breath, her movements rustling against those pale, pale sheets. Her scent was so sweet and strong it threatened to knock him down.

"No," he breathed, shamed by the weakness in his voice. He moved closer to the bed on stumbling feet, where Buffy wrestled from the piles of white, sitting up with wide eyes and sleep mussed hair.

His throat caught at the sight of her, all warm and soft beneath those covers. Something very much alive rushed beneath his cold skin as she exhaled. With self-restraint he did not believe he was capable of, he waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. But, before they could, she was looking eagerly into the shadows that hid him.

"Say my name," she said, crawling to the foot of the bed. He was only ten feet from her, but though he could see her perfectly, he knew her eyes were not so strong in the darkness. She couldn't recognize him from this distance. Yet her gaze shifted as if she suspected something.

Suddenly he was afraid. Afraid to say her name, for then she would know. And perhaps toss him from the room, or say something smug. Or worse, she'd be afraid of him. And then he really would die. Her wrath, her disinterest, even her hatred he could suffer, but he could never bear her fear again.

He didn't want her to make him leave either. Not now. Not when his whole body finally felt whole again just from the sight of her. Not when he felt like heaven had fallen down around him in this room, in the smell of her hair.

There was a pleading softness in her eyes that he could not reject. As always, he was bleedin' powerless beneath that hazel stare.

He closed his eyes and sighed, "Buffy."

"Oh my God," she croaked. For one instant, she hesitated, her lungs sucking in a greedy gasp of air. Then she scrambled off the bed in a flurry of limbs and fabric.

Before her heart had beat twice, she was before him. He kept his eyes on her feet, her beautiful golden toes, until he felt her breath on his cheek. His whole body tensed for an attack, but his eyes stayed rooted to those perfect feet of hers.

"Easy, luv, I couldn't bear it," he thought as she stood so still in front of him. He finally raised his head, aggravated to feel tears slip over his cheeks. But she was crying, too. Crying and looking at him through heavy- lidded eyes.

"Dream," she said numbly, her hands twisting nervously in front of her, her eyes tightly shutting then opening to him again. She almost shouted, "Wake up!"

"I'm awake," he said coolly, confused by her agitation, hurt by the strange greeting.

Her eyes closed again and edged back just an inch or two, "No, I can't do this anymore," she pleaded and he felt a knife of pain like none he'd ever known jerk through his middle, "no more dreams."

Her little body was shaking in the giant shirt that she wore. His body was screaming to touch her, but she didn't want him. She couldn't do this anymore, she said. Then it hit him. Her blurry eyes and cryptic words. She thought she was dreaming. His hand reached for her slowly and a shockwave shuddered through his spine when his fingertips grazed the top of her arm.

"You're awake too, luv."

He was there. She knew that. She could smell him. She could see the beautiful angles of his cheekbones. She could taste the cigarette smoke that clung to him. But when he spoke to her, in that rolling accent that made her bones go soft, she knew this wasn't a dream. Spike was alive.