Title: In Your Dreams
By Ash
E-mail: ash_j88@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: Not mine. I wish. Well, sometimes.

Distribution: Anyone who asks and all who have any of my fic.

Feedback: Ohhhh yeah. My insecurity has been out of control lately, so, if you've been wondering where my other fics were...

Spoilers: Up to Wild at Heart

Rating: Probably will be R, eventually.

Dedication: To my very dear friend CJ, without whom I probably would never have started writing again. Get better!

Part One

Most people think that dreams are meaningless, bits of fluff cast up by our unconscious to keep us sane until daylight brings us back to the world. Is it any different for those who wake to moonlight?

What do vampires dream?

What delicate visions could survive in a demon's mind, what faintly remembered faces swim into view through blood-mists?

Vampires are still when they sleep, still as the dead. Nothing there to whisper to a watcher of flickering prey running down cobbled streets, of kisses stolen from smiling lips long since rotted to bone. Just perfect stillness and, perhaps, a sense of waiting.

Spike lay like a carved funeral sculpture of some ancient king, his hands crossed over his chest in a way that suggested that a sword should lie under them. The hotel room that entombed him had unpleasant stains on the ceiling and a bad landscape over the bed, but the red sunset light filtered through the sheets covering the windows and made the white plaster walls glow like slabs of amber.

The sun lost its hold on the sky and fell behind the horizon, sending out one last burst of ruby defiance to dim the victorious moon.

Spike opened his eyes on a world the color of blood, and his lips twisted into a brief smile- brief, because in the next second his dreams came flooding back to him. A second later, the bedside table smashed against the wall with enough force to split the polished top into two pieces.

"Christ, not again!" If the sound of furniture being spontaneously disassembled hadn't been enough to wake the neighbors, his shouted curse would have done the job. He looked around the hotel room for anything else worth throwing, but found only his own possessions and a rather tatty rug. It didn't look like the manager was going to come by to complain, which was a pity. The manager was a tall heavyset man, and it would have been supremely satisfying to pitch him out of the window.

Sitting down on the bed, Spike leaned forward and closed his eyes, struggling to call back that night's dream from its mist-shrouded realm. The details were a little fuzzy, but the main features were the same as they had been for every night that week.

He put his palms over his eyes and pushed until twisted red lines spiraled in the darkness. *- There. -* There was a part of it. A strange girl's face, smiling at _him_. Endless hallways thronged with humans, and- one of them had pushed him! Spike remembered that, remembered bending down to gather up something that he'd dropped and murmuring a soft apology instead of taking the idiot by the collar and hitting him until the blood was a crimson mask that covered his face and stained Spike's sleeves.

Another piece snapped into place with a silent click. Spike let out a pained groan as he remembered the Slayer running towards him down a sunlit corridor, and the feel of her arm around his shoulders as she pulled him into a room filled with people. He'd walked to one of the seats, and sat there beside the Slayer for what seemed like hours, occasionally leaning close to whisper something... what, he couldn't quite remember.

The whole dream had been like that, one missed opportunity after another. An entire day's sleep wasted on meaningless chatter and friendly exchanges. He was there, but not in control, dragged along behind the main mind like an orbiting satellite.

His eyes snapped open. Almost flinging himself off the bed, he opened the door and stalked out, leaving the door to flap limply behind him. His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he disappeared in the direction of downtown. He had a lot of niceness to make up for.

The alarm went off at eight o'clock, AM. Its shrill peals cut through the sleepy silence and penetrated the heap of tangled blankets piled around the figure on the bed. A white hand tunneled out of the snowy mass and felt around on the night table, dislodging numerous items that had been happily perched there.

Finally locating the alarm, it started to press buttons at random. The first two had no perceptible effect, but the third time it pushed, loud music thundered out of the speakers. A second hand erupted out of the bed-nest, grabbing the alarm in a strong grip. It flew across the room, landing with a muffled thump.

"Ow!"

The pile shifted, and wide green eyes peered out through a gap. "Buffy?"

Buffy sat up in the other bed, one hand rubbing her side. The alarm lay beside her, and her tone was wry when she said: "Traditionally, alarms wake up people with noise, _not_ by attacking them."

Willow pushed aside more of the blankets and struggled upright, hair falling around her shoulders in crimson tangles. "This... this must be one of the new models!"

Mentally crossing her fingers, Willow shook her head in mock sorrow and looked down at the floor. "That's progress for you." She waited for a beat and then looked up. Buffy wasn't buying it. Willow's shoulders slumped, and she pulled the blankets more firmly around her. "Sorry. I guess I just wasn't thinking."

"It's okay." The Slayer turned the radio over in her hands, frowning thoughtfully. "We may have to get a new alarm clock, though."

If possible, Willow looked even guiltier. "I threw it that hard? Are you okay?"

Buffy patted her side gingerly. "I'll have a bit of a bruise, but you know me... Super fast healing factor, just like Wolverine. Without the claws. Or the facial hair."

Willow pushed the image of a clawed and bewhiskered Buffy away before it made her laugh, since that would pretty much destroy the contrite image she was going for. "I really am sorry."

Buffy rolled her eyes, getting out of her bed in a fluid movement that did more than her words to reassure Willow that the projectile appliance hadn't caused any serious harm. The blonde paused by the door. "I'm going to go get washed up, and when I get back I don't want to hear one more word about this... it's no big deal, Will."

Willow winced when she heard her friend's super-patient tone, knowing that this was one more thing being chalked up to the 'Poor Willow, still pining after Oz. Let's indulge her.' syndrome. She'd been hearing that well-meaning patience in a lot of voices lately.

The door closed behind Buffy, and Willow let her face fall to her hands, remembering the feel of other hands on her 'other' face. She remembered more, too. Remembered the salty slickness of blood against her skin and something flying across an alley. Something that had been a person to begin with but landed as a broken doll, shattered glass eyes staring blindly.

Her body shook with sobs that weren't sobs at all but dry gasps of pain. She could feel the scream building in her throat, and unshed tears were acid pooling behind her eyes and burning into her brain. There were so few minutes before Buffy would be back, before she would have to be nice and happy and pretend that things were only slightly wrong. Pretend that she wasn't seeing horrors every night.

One acid tear escaped her eye and burned a trail down her cheek. Wrapping her arms around herself, Willow rocked back and forth, her eyes fixed on a place far away where slender fingers had peeled skin away from bone. Her words came out in a harsh whisper of breath that hurt her throat. "Oz... Why are you doing these things?"