Ariane - To Dream Again

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
(Caliban, The Tempest)

PART ONE - The Wish

Buffy sat at the bar in the Bronze, late one August night, fuming over the latest injustice inflicted upon her. Tired, hot and terribly put out after an exhausting patrol, she’d come home to find Spike, asleep and drunk, in her bed. Her mother’s unfailing lack of character judgment never ceased to amaze her. Her mother had left for an extended buying trip for her gallery that afternoon and had delivered her most recent bomb to her daughter in the form of a somewhat off-hand note.

Sorry l missed you, honey. Groceries are in the fridge. Remember your curfew. Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean that I haven’t left word with a few friends to keep a lookout for you. Don’t let the house get into a big mess. You know how to contact me if you need me. Do your homework! And please, be safe.

P.S. That nice young man, Spike, you know, the one who helped you out last year, stopped by. He was in terrible shape, something about a bad breakup with his girlfriend. Poor thing. Hope you don’t mind, but I invited him in for cocoa and then told him he could sleep it off in your room. He’s such a polite boy, even when he’s drunk. I didn’t want him roaming the streets and getting roughed up by some gang.

She’d run upstairs to find Spike sprawled across her bed, snoring up a storm, Mr. Gordo clasped helplessly beneath his chin. She’d rescued the poor pig from Spike’s embrace. Spike had let out a loud groan and pulled her new, pink satin comforter over his head. Thus began a futile tug of war over her comforter, with Spike winning when Buffy realized, with disgust, that he was naked beneath the covers. He was dead drunk. She wished that he was just plain dead.

“I can’t believe my mother let you into this house. Pig!” She’d looked apologetically down at Mr. Gordo. “Not you. Com’ere my little, pink ball of fluff.” She’d picked the pig up off the floor and hidden him in her closet. “You’ll be safe here. Don’t know about me, though…”

Twirling a stake in her hand, she’d stared down at the lump beneath her covers, thinking that she really wasn’t up to cleaning that much dust out of her bed. And so, she’d left the bedroom and headed for the Bronze, just to let off some steam, and with the vague hope that Willow would be there and might be able to help her get rid of Spike.

Unfortunately, Willow was nowhere in sight. Buffy ordered a tequila sunrise and was refused by the bartender.

Infuriated, she stared at the glass of water, stuck her finger in it and flicked a drop at the back of the bartender’s head when he turned his back to her. An older woman, sitting next to her, let out a low laugh and gave Buffy a sympathetic smile.

“Insufferable,” the woman repeated. Leaning closer, she spoke to Buffy in a soft voice, “Men. Don’t you just wish something really awful would happen to them? Pain, torture, loss of hair?”

“I wish Spike wasn’t a vampire. I could call the cops and get him arrested for breaking and entering. Maybe he’d get 20 years to life.” Buffy smiled at the woman. “Wow! I’d be grown up or dead before he’s out. I’d never have to see him again!”

“Excellent wish.” The woman rose from her barstool, tossing a tip down on the bar. “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you. Glad I could make you smile. Bye.” She slipped through the crowd and disappeared.

“That was weird. But nice,” Buffy sighed, happily fantasizing about Spike behind bars; Spike in chains; Spike, forced out of his sleazy black attire, wearing stripes or maybe even one of those ugly, orange jumpsuits; and best of all, Spike making license plates with a three hundred pound prison guard standing behind him with a stun gun.

He woke in the dark, buried beneath what felt like a satin shroud and feeling as if his head had been trampled by a team of wild horses. Peeking out through the soft material, he noticed that it was almost dawn, and that he was surprisingly not in his own bed. And most definitely, not in his own house.

“Oh, dear Lord,” he moaned, running his hand through his matted hair, across his chest and down his stomach. His hands froze beneath his navel. “I’m naked!” And then he realized, to his dismay, someone was sleeping on the bed beside him.

“What have I done?” he groaned, struggling to disentangle his limbs from the layers of sheets and blankets. Beside him lay a young girl, slightly grubby and dressed as a man.

He stumbled out of bed and searched in vain for his clothes. All he could find was an odd-looking pair of black trousers made from an unusual fabric. It took him awhile to figure out how to fasten them; he was completely disoriented by the strange room and the sleeping girl.

“What unspeakable mischief is this? Into whose foul hands have I fallen?” He tried to remember, but the only thing that came to mind was Cecily’s party: his terrible humiliation and then his flight into the darkness. “Must have been set upon by some ruffians. A gang of ruthless kidnappers.” He glanced down at the sleeping girl. She didn’t look like a vicious killer, but then one never knew about these things. He wished he’d paid more attention to what Freddy had been saying last night about the mysterious murders that had recently plagued London.

He attempted to stand up again, but the pain in his head was so excruciating that he tumbled back onto the bed. The young girl murmured restlessly in her sleep.

He stood up again, this time with more success. “I must make my escape.” Grabbing a dirty, black undershirt from the floor, he struggled into it. “This will have to suffice. Mother will be quite shocked. And disappointed.” He glanced down at the girl. “Such a dark, ugly business,” he muttered. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure out how to open the latch to the bedroom door.

Without warning, a small, strong hand clasped his throat, and a sharp, wooden object was pressed painfully against his chest.

The girl released her grip on his throat and slid her fingers up his neck to touch his hair.

“What’s with the bad rug, Spike? A little disguise?” She clutched a handful of his hair and gave a sharp tug.

“Ow! Ow! Unhand me, you little guttersnipe!” He slapped her hand away. She seized his wrist, nearly crushing it in her firm grasp.

“I assure you, miss. This is no game!” he cried. “A terrible nightmare. A hallucination, perhaps?” he asked, with a suddenly hopeful look. “Did you drug me without my knowledge?”

She pushed him roughly against the door. “Listen, Spike. Mr. Pointy, here, is feeling a little peckish. And I kinda feel like vacuuming today.”

“Who is Spike?” he asked, glancing around in confusion. “How long have you held me hostage?” He took a deep breath and tried to regain his dignity. “Might I inquire what day this is?”

“Inquire away. It’s my lucky day, Spike. A day I’ll always enjoy remembering. August 25th, 1999.”

“Nineteen? Nineteen…?” He shuddered with shock and fear. Suddenly, the bizarre nature of the whole experience overwhelmed him. Knees buckling, he slowly slumped to the floor.

When he surfaced to consciousness, he found himself back in the bed again; the young woman dashing cold water upon his face.

“Just who in the hell do you think you are!” she shouted, giving him a murderous look.

“William! My name is William! I must return to Mother. You shan’t keep me from her. She’ll be frightfully worried.”

Buffy held the receiver away from her ear. “Calm down. I know it’s 5 o’clock in the morning. Mmm.Yeah. What do you mean, it’s my problem? This is Spike we’re talking about. Evil Vampire. Scrub brush of Europe. Yeah. Yeah. Scourge, what’s the difference? Well, you’re my Watcher, aren’t you supposed to watch things?”

She held the receiver away from her ear again; Giles’ shouts echoed through the receiver and into the kitchen.

“Look, Giles. I’d like to have sex, too, you know. High school. Young love. Hormones and stuff. But a bunch of crazy stuffed shirts from England make me run around cemeteries at night…hmm, maybe I can report them to child welfare…”

Stunned by her conversation, William sat quietly at the kitchen table, a look of mortification plastered across his face.

“Third, fourth, fifth. Whatever works. Now…” She gave him a little smile. “William. Can I call you Willie?”

She shrugged her shoulders and reached into the cupboard for a box of Trix cereal. “Ya hungry?”

“Well, yes. Please. A cup of tea and toast. Perhaps a poached egg. Sausages? Kippers?”

She plopped a large, plastic Scooby Doo bowl down on the table before him and filled it up with cereal and non-fat milk.

William stared bleakly down at the brightly-colored balls of cereal, bobbing in the thin, water-like milk, which was slowly turning frighteningly pink.

Their major problem, Buffy complained to Willow, besides the fact that the insatiably curious William had almost electrocuted himself several times, experimenting with the light sockets and her dad’s old Swiss army knife, and had nearly set the house on fire when he crammed several slices of bread into the toaster, was that he’d become particularly attached to her new, pink comforter. And because, he’d announced, as his current situation was all her fault, she should at least let him have that bit of solace. Complaining that her mother's bed was too soft, he insisted on sleeping in her bed.

“He’s a royal pain. And get this,” Buffy whispered into the phone. “He misses his Mom. Isn’t that a riot? I am so going to love telling Spike that William ‘fessed up to all his wussy secrets. The big baby.”

“Maybe you could kid-proof the house with those plastic-thingies you can stick into outlets. You know, Buffy, he sounds kinda sweet. Is it really that bad?”

“Hmm. Yeah. Well, he’s awfully polite about being rude. And there’s the cuteness factor.”

“He’s so vulnerable and kinda lost. And I guess it is my fault…” Buffy’s voice trailed off when she noticed William coming downstairs. “He has nice hair.”

“Buffy, I think I should come over. Hasn’t Giles figured out who the woman in the bar was yet?”

William came into the kitchen, his long hair nicely mussed up from his nap. He was wearing her pink bathrobe. He ignored her, merely stood before the kitchen sink trying to figure out how to get water to flow from the tap.

Slightly embarrassed, he spoke without looking at her. “Ah, Buffy. When might my clothes be ready? I’m thinking I should have a heart to heart with this Giles friend of yours. Perhaps he can solve my dilemma. I don’t fancy staying here forever, you know. I have responsibilities. How do you work these infernal things?” he growled, trying to pump the water faucet.

Buffy didn’t respond to either Willow’s or William’s questions. She was busy staring at William’s legs, trying to push away the sudden desire to know what else he was hiding beneath her soft, silky robe.

Mesmerized, she barely heard Willow shouting through the phone. “Buffy! Buffy! Are you there? Is everything okay? Buffy?”

In somewhat of a trance, Buffy carried the phone over to the counter, her eyes still glued to William. “Uh…Will…yep. Gotta go now, bye,” she replied and hung up the phone.

Realizing that she hadn’t responded to his question, he glanced down at her; she had an odd look in her eyes. Reaching over the sink, one hand resting against his chest for support, she turned on the water and then gazed up at him. She didn’t remove her hand.

William shifted uncomfortably. “Frightfully sorry about the attire. I was desperate for something to drink. Didn’t know you were down here. This heat is beastly.” He hugged the robe tighter about his body. His gesture only served to emphasize a certain part which was beginning to stir to life beneath the intensity of her gaze.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wondered, with not a little fear, exactly who was this freakish being?

The girl seemed to be dressed in her undergarments: a pair of tight, red drawers, cut off several inches above her knees, displayed the long, curve of her legs. A pale blue chemise barely covered her breasts, and he swore that he could see, peeking through the flimsy material, two pert, rosy nipples. Acutely embarrassed, William blushed and started to leave the kitchen.

“Yummy? Another obscure American adjective of which I have no understanding.”

She licked her lips. And he thought for a moment that she might. Eat him up, that is. He felt a sudden aching in his groin and winced. He hadn’t felt this much unbridled desire for a woman since, well since that night at Cecily’s, but this was much different. Buffy was much different. The girl was half-naked! And besides, he thought, he was stuck in a whole other world for some unfathomable reason and would never see his mother again. At that last thought, the pain in his groin disappeared along with his erection. He felt a wave of relief. He really must find a way to get home and out of this strange woman’s clutches.

“Um…Buffy? Not to be rude, but about this Giles chap of whom you speak so highly, I would appreciate it if you were to arrange an introduction.” He gave her a somewhat frustrated look. “Today?”

“Giles? Yeah, sure. He’s dying to meet you. He’ll be over later,” Buffy smiled. When she exited the kitchen, she gave William a little pat on the butt.

“Insufferable impertinence,” he muttered, yet he was unable to take his eyes off her as she walked away.

“It is unspeakable. As her guardian, you must see that it is your responsibility to find me other accommodations. It is the gentlemanly thing to do.” William, now dressed in Spike’s freshly laundered jeans and black tee-shirt, sat primly on the couch, speaking to Giles with an urgent voice.

Giles tried desperately to suppress his amusement, but the sight of Spike, with his somewhat unruly, curly hair pinned back from his face with one of Buffy’s Snoopy barrettes, pleading with him to do the ‘gentlemanly thing’ was more than he could take. He burst into a gale of laughter.

“Far be it for me to criticize you, but I must say, it is a grievous sin you have perpetrated against me. I shall never forget it.”

“Look, Sp…William. It’s not me who’s committed this ‘sin’ as you call it. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but…” He nodded at Buffy. “She’s the one that set this off. She made a wish to a vengeance demon, for goodness sake.”

Giles and Buffy exchanged a long look. “Well, er…let’s just say a bad woman, William. Yes, a very bad woman with evil intent and unusual powers.”

As William took in the seriousness of his situation, perhaps finally coming out of his shock and denial, Giles watched the slow transformation, from irritation to horror, which showed upon the intelligent and sensitive face before him.

Giles sat down on the couch next to William. “We’re trying our best, believe me, to convince said woman to reverse the spell. But there’s this small problem…”

“Um…ah…yes. Well, the unfortunate thing is… she seems to have disappeared.”

“I see.” And then, in what he hoped was a firm voice, William added, “I shall reside with you until you’ve located this ‘person’.”

“But why? Don’t you see? I cannot, I will not stay under the same roof as that ….” He gave Giles a pleading look. “She tried to assault me,” he whispered.

This set Giles off into another fit of laughter and when he’d finally gotten control of himself, he gave William a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Buck up, old boy. Your virtue is safe in her hands. Besides, you’re not really her type.”

“I know, I know…but, oh, dear God. I must get back to Olivia. Look at the time!”

Without saying goodbye, Giles rushed out, and as the front door slammed shut behind him, William heard him burst into laughter again.

William was depressed. He refused to get out of Buffy’s bed for two days. Finally, she dragged him out and forced him to take a bath.

“Room service is over, got that?” she said, pushing him into the bathroom. “You do know how to take a bath, don’t you?”

Buffy struggled to pull William’s tee-shirt over his head, but unfortunately, it got all tangled up in his hair, and she nearly suffocated him. When he finally emerged, he shoved her away but stumbled on the floor mat, ending up flat on his back on the floor.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and held his head in his hands. He didn’t want her to see his tears. But it was too late. She knelt beside him and pulled his hands away from his face.

“No, you’re not. You don’t care about me. You don’t care what happens to me. For some reason, you are making me suffer for what that character, Spike, did to you. But I’m not him!” he said, his voice wavering. “I’m not him…I’m William, don’t you understand?”

He brushed the back of his hand across his face and struggled to his feet. He stared down at her with such a sad, soulful look, that she felt a rush of shame for her behavior. And a strange tenderness rose in her heart for the lost man standing before her.

“I’ve been a bitch. And obnoxious. And selfish. And mean. And nasty, bad…and really, really…” She raised her eyebrows at him. “You can tell me to stop any time.”

She pointed to the shower and tub controls. “Okay. Time for your bath. Do you know how to work these yet?”

“Uh…add insensitive to that list…I’m leaving now. See me leave. Umm…sure you don’t need help?”

“Good-bye.” He shoved her gently out of the room and closed the door behind her.

In her mother’s closet, she found one of her father’s old dress shirts. The cotton was soft and slightly frayed at the cuffs. Her mom liked to wear it; usually, when she was in a bad mood. She called it her power shirt. Some weird ritual to do with the divorce, Buffy had finally decided. It would be a little too big for William, but she thought he’d feel better wearing something tailored, instead of Spike’s old tee-shirt. Puzzled, she placed the shirt on her bed and briefly wondered why she wanted William to feel better. Who is he?

She’d been treating him like Spike, assuming all along that Spike had been truthful to her about his past. Apparently not. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that some part of William had survived in Spike’s psyche. Wild curiosity and a slight tendency to melodrama were the only things she could think of.

Spike had never cried or cared about anyone else besides himself. No, not true. He’d been ridiculous over Drusilla. A mad passion, that’s what Angel had called it. Could a soulless vampire be heartbroken? She couldn’t help but compare him with Angelus.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she hurried downstairs and set about making dinner for William.

An hour later, he came into the kitchen, dressed in the white shirt, the sleeves rolled back just below his elbows. He offered to help, so she set him to chopping vegetables. He made a mess of it.

“Have you ever done this before?” she asked impatiently, taking the knife away from him.

“Of course. There is Michel, the chef, and Dora his assistant. Oh, yes, and Elizabeth, the scullery maid, comes the evenings. She’s a pretty little thing.” He let out a long sigh.

For some unaccountable reason, Buffy felt a sudden flash of jealousy for the ‘pretty little thing’. “She probably has bad teeth,” she muttered under her breath.

William smiled. “No, her teeth are like pearls, framed by plump, crimson berries. Her hair, a perfect waterfall of sunlight.”

The dinner was a complete failure. The chicken was tough and dry, the broccoli had turned into soft, green mush, and she’d left the potatoes boiling; they’d burnt and tasted of ashes.

“I do appreciate that you attempted to cook me something other than those soggy pink bits of cereal. Really, I do.”

He offered to help her with the dishes, and afterwards, they sat out on the back porch.

“My favorite part of the day,” he replied. He tilted his head and gazed down at her. “You are quite beautiful in the twilight, you know.”

“S’okay. It looks nice on you,” she said, and then added quickly, “Better on you than Mom.”

“You seem to be unable to accept simple words of gratitude or an honest compliment.”

He shrugged. “Of course, you’re right. You knew Spike. And probably, from what I’ve gathered these past few days, you would never willingly accept anything from him. But I’m not Spike.”

“So what will happen next?” he asked. “When do I wake up from this dream?”

“I was twenty-seven, before I ended up here.” He sighed, gazing around with a somewhat disgusted look on his face.

Buffy changed the subject. “So, this Elizabeth girl, is she your girlfriend?”

“Her? Dear God, no. Not my class. Besides, she has a truly nasty temper beneath all that beauty. Somewhat like you. In fact, you bear a strange resemblance to her.”

He wasn’t sure if she was asking about Elizabeth or herself, so he took the safe way out.

“It’s more complicated than that. You possess all these distractions. Toys and gadgets. You really have no need of others to survive or live a tolerable life, day to day. I should like to see you scrub a flagstone floor, wash your clothes by hand, or muck out a stable, for that matter. You don’t really need other people. You just press a button. Perhaps it gives everyone more dignity, but it must be a little lonely. You are detached. So transient. You have no need of anyone or anything. Well, except, perhaps, for that dreary abomination you escorted me through yesterday.”

“What a horror. Everything all under one roof; everything one could desire; but such cheap, shoddy goods. Never touched by human hands. Never lovingly worried over and created with a desire for beauty. Unlike this shirt. Look at this stitching.”

She scooted closer to him and leaned forward, feeling, with a sudden tingle of desire, the warmth of his breath against her forehead.

And it might have been the beginning of a beautiful moment, if Xander hadn’t appeared in the backyard, letting out a loud whoop when he saw what he believed to be Spike, assaulting Buffy.

A huge fight ensued between William and Xander, with Buffy finally intervening and knocking William to the ground.

Furious with William, she shoved him into the house and stood out on the porch, trying to calm down Xander.

Well, it’s not. And ‘it’ will be back to normal as soon as possible. I can’t stand this any longer. He really…uh… creeps me out,” she lied.

“This godforsaken century. Why would you do such a thing? You hit me! And you gaze upon me like I am some kind of monster. But I’m a man. Don’t you understand? And I heard what you said to that ruffian. You are despicably cruel. I thought…I thought,” he stammered, turning away from her. “I don’t wish to speak to you anymore. Do you understand? You are cold and sharp. There is no humanity in you. Any of you. I just want to go home.”

He was taken aback for a moment by the glint of tears in her eyes. Rising from the chair, he paced about the living room, avoiding her gaze.

“I don’t know if I can bear what’s to come,” he said in a low voice. “I’m adrift, don’t you understand? I’ve nothing. Nothing to cling to. I’m going to my room now.”

He ignored her and continued, “I am going to sleep, and hopefully, when I wake, the lot of you will have reversed this horrible crime you’ve perpetrated upon me. There is nothing to love in this world of yours: no beauty, no grace, not a spot of poetry. Let me go home. Oh, please let me go home.”

Stung by his accusations, she momentarily forgot Giles’ stern warning not to tell William about his future fate, especially his turning by Drusilla and the true nature of the being which he’d become. “Like your world is so great. I probably saved your pathetic, little life by wishing you here. You’d be all lumpy and fangy, and how’s that for beauty? You don’t know anything.”

He strode over to her, seized her by the arms and shook her. “Tell me, then. Tell me what you know! What are you keeping from me?”

“I can’t. I can’t!” she gasped, struggling out of his grasp. “Giles’ll kill me!”

“Sod Giles!” he shouted. “Tell me, woman!!” he shouted, pushing her onto the couch. He fell to his knees before her and fixed her with a naked stare.

With a shudder, she saw his soul, pleading, begging from within the dark blue eyes. He clasped her hand in his and raised it to his cheek. She felt the sudden warmth of his lips on her fingers, and she couldn’t breathe.

He was so beautiful and innocent, tears streaming down his face. A man. A kind, gentle man. A desperate man. So not deserving of his fate, she thought.

Later, she couldn’t say what made her tell him – his eyes, her guilt. Love. For she felt a sudden rush of love for the man kneeling before her, desperately trying to cling to sanity. So she told him everything: the whole sad, dark story of his fate, as much as she knew.

William remained immobile, gazing intently into her eyes as he listened to her speak slowly, hesitantly about his destiny. His eyes reflected deep shock, anger, sorrow and finally resignation at her terrible revelation. When she finished speaking, he bowed his eyes.

“I…suppose…I should be grateful to you, shouldn’t I?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible and choked with despair.

She took him by the hand and led him up the stairs to her bedroom, quietly locking the door behind them.

Trembling, unspeaking, he stood before her, submissively waiting her will. With sure fingers, she slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The touch of her hands as she slid the soft material from his shoulders made him flush, tensing for something he couldn’t name.

Taking his hand in hers, she led him to the side of the bed and pushed him gently down upon it. She knelt before him to slowly unlace and remove his boots. Her hair floated across his knees as she bent to her task, and it drew him like a flame-- dark gold, tousled and tangled, cascading across his knees. Catching a few strands in his fingers, he bent over and pressed them to his lips.

“There’s something terribly fierce about you, Buffy. A man could break against you. Don’t break me,” he said in a low voice, brushing his fingertips gently across her cheek.

The satin comforter slipped over his naked body like an ice cold wave. She dove inside next to him, and he shifted hungrily toward her warmth. There, wrapped in the soft cocoon of her arms, he felt safe enough to shatter, as the events of the past week and her bitter revelation completely penetrated his consciousness. This nightmare was real. Death was looking like a pleasant alternative; he’d prefer death. Instead, lulled by her tender, comforting words and the sound of her voice, he slept.

They dreamed together. Perhaps it was the wish that made it happen, or just the loneliness and fear that haunted both of them.

Shimmering candlelight fell upon a dark parquet floor, tiled in endless geometric patterns. The walls were covered with thick tapestries of dragons and gargoyles and plump cherubs, brave knights and desperate maidens.

They stood alone in the middle of the room, formally dressed: William in a dark coat with tails, an impossibly white shirt and high collar, and a flowing, black silk tie; Buffy in soft, yellow silks, a delicate gossamer gown, scattered with crystals and seed pearls glistening in the light.

He swept her into his arms; they began to move across the floor in silence, for there was no music, only the beating of their hearts, which surged as they wove their bodies together in an ever more furious rhythm.

Eyes locked in the soft light, locked into a profound embrace: two beings stripped and shorn of their masks. He saw the demon inside her. She saw the soul inside him. Something sharp surged between them, painful and raw. Loss and betrayal. Insanity and death. Passion. Desire. Love. He brushed his lips against her forehead, and she tilted her head up, reaching for him, with eyes dark and begging.

“Were you there?” he whispered, confused. “Were you there with me? Was it a dream?”

“Yes.” She shivered. “But this,” she said, gently touching his face, “this is not a dream.”

And it was as if they were still dancing: heart beating wildly against heart, swirling helplessly along some dark shore. “Don’t break me,” he moaned, and then he kissed her.

It was a gentle, cool kiss, in stark contrast to the heat that resonated between their bodies. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the longing which she saw in his. She tried to pretend to herself that it was just that, a kiss, nothing more: they hadn’t looked into each other’s soul; they hadn’t shared a dream. It was wrong. It shouldn’t be happening. It shouldn’t feel this good, this right. The timing was all wrong, impossible. And then she just gave up and surrendered to her feelings.

They shifted against one another, languidly mimicking their dream dance. When the kiss ended, she let out a long, deep sigh and nestled her face into the curve between his shoulder and chest, listening to him breathe. With a firm, gentle hand, he caressed the small of her back, molding her body against his. Rolling over onto his back, he pulled her on top of him, letting out a soft groan as he stiffened against the wet warmth between her thighs.

She knew that he wasn’t speaking of physical pain; rather he was pleading that she be careful of what was in his heart-- of that indescribably fragile soul, which she held in her hands, which she held and nurtured now in the warmth and softness of her body.

For this was a man who might, through grief, one day destroy all the gentle beauty now revealed to her in this joining. With his words, his voice, his eyes, he poured his soul into her.

In that moment, an idea, a mad, absurd idea came to her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not me. Not anyone.”

And then he uttered a soft cry as she shifted down his body and rode him gently into a sweet oblivion.

Later, she’d look back with longing upon that week, that respite against the dark days and nights of her grim life as the Slayer. When they awoke that morning, warm and tangled up in one another’s arms, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of intimacy, as if he’d crawled inside her, beneath her skin; and it soothed her rather than frightened her.

She’d been repelled by too much closeness. Scared, she knew the inevitable consequences of this much vulnerability: that he’d leave her, that she’d kill him, and that they’d both attempt to furiously destroy the frail thread of tenderness which wove them together. That’s the way love worked in her experience.

But there was a certain warm strength that he’d exuded that morning, a confidence that had risen in him. She’d seen it in his eyes and in the way he touched her. Protective and proprietary, he held her as if she were the fragile one; as if she, not he, were the one who could be easily broken, who might burn in this newly born fire.

There was no discussion of what they’d done the previous night; no anxious probing or questioning if it had been right or enough or if he’d pleased her or she, him. They just knew that everything about their surrender, their opening up, their gentleness and passion was exactly perfect and inevitable.

Time moved slowly, as if they’d been cast abruptly into their own secret dimension, minutes flowing like honey throughout their moments together. Sweet. As embarrassing as it seemed to her, it was the only word which described what had risen between them.

She unburdened her heart to him; and he, cursed and unwillingly cast into her world, listened to every word with solemn, thoughtful, kind eyes. Had she ever known such kindness? Sharp, caustic witticisms, jokes and little digs-- the verbal barriers that littered her usual conversations and communications with others, fell away before the utter guilelessness of his kindness. He made her reach for other words: deeper, simple, heart-wrenching words which made her cry. Lost, alone, angry, sad. Had she ever said those words to anyone before and really felt their meaning?

With his actions, he showed her that he felt each word; he held her when she needed to be touched and kept his distance when touch was too painful. And when they’d come together at night, there were no words, only the delicate kisses dissolving into fire and the complete knowing of each other.

It couldn’t last. Time never really stands still. One evening as he sprawled upon the couch, holding her curled up in his arms, the phone rang. She didn’t move. The phone rang into silence and then began again: an insistent intruder. He gave her a little nudge.

Finally, with great reluctance, she left his arms, her warm, strong sanctuary, and answered it.

“Incredible luck!” he exclaimed. “We’ve found her! Ah, Willow found her, that is. Though I must say I did contribute. You must come over immediately, and we’ll set things to rights.”

“Rights?” she asked, her mind racing, trying to understand how losing William would be right. “Uh…I’m kinda sleepy. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

“At once, or else I’m coming over, myself.” Giles was insistent, and Buffy reluctantly handed the receiver to William. She studied his face as he listened intently to Giles’ monologue. He kept his emotions in check, but she discerned a certain elation in his eyes that made her heart fall. He walked back to the kitchen, speaking softly into the phone. Placing the receiver down, he turned to face her.

“You want to leave,” she said, not looking at him. She sat down on the couch and curled her legs beneath her; then she wrapped her arms tightly about her chest as if she were trying to hold on to something or someone, or to keep herself from falling apart.

“Giles says it’s the right thing to do,” he said softly, kneeling down beside the couch. He ran his palm over her bare knee; she was trembling. “He says it’s best. For you, that is.”

“He’s never known what’s best for me. I know what’s best. Why did you make me answer the phone?” Suddenly she was angry, pushing his hand away from her skin. “Just leave then!” she shouted, scrambling off the couch and shoving him hard in the chest. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her down against him. They struggled, but he was no match for her Slayer strength. She ripped herself away from his grasp and fled up the stairs. He could hear her crying as she slammed the door to her bedroom.

Impossible, he thought, feeling the impact of her anger. He sat immobile on the living room floor as darkness fell and her sobbing faded. Let her cry it out, he told himself. Let her hate me; it’ll be easier for her later. Later. And he was overcome with his own anguish as he imagined a life without her.

He fell asleep on the floor and dreamed of demons and dingy alleyways and a dark beauty calling to him, luring him to his inevitable fate. Drusilla’s sharp teeth sank into his flesh, and he felt the overwhelming rush of ecstasy as the demon seared through his body, vanquishing all his regret and fear and kindness. And his love. His love.

He struggled to wake up from the dream, from the nightmare, crying out in his sleep. Crying for her. His love.

Buffy came to him and led him up the stairs. Still half asleep, muttering in his dark dream, he couldn’t comprehend who she was. Was she his savior or his destroyer? But he clung to her, following her warmth as she pulled him down onto the bed and into her arms. She held onto him with such terrible strength that he believed that he would die there in her embrace. He couldn’t breathe. He struggled for a moment and then gave one last sighing breath and passed out.

If I only hold on tight enough, she thought, they can’t take him away from me.

But fate intervened. Eventually, she fell asleep; and when she woke, her arms were empty. He was gone.

PART TWO - The Beast

He woke in darkness, amidst the strange sounds of carriage wheels rattling over cobblestones and the harsh voices of street vendors.

He still remembered her. Impossible memories. Unbearable memories. He lived the next few days in a hideous purgatory of displaced fears and longing. His mother’s face and the faces of his friends and acquaintances were indistinct and surreal. Where was the face he longed to see? The face he so desperately needed to see amidst the images of strangers swirling around him as he searched for her. He sought her incessantly, wandering the streets, seeking the face, the voice, that he knew must exist somewhere. God could not be this cruel.

They thought he’d gone mad. And he had, of course, gone a little mad. Who wouldn’t under the circumstances? He began to see demons, vampires and monsters everywhere. He sought them out-- pinned many an unfortunate drunk or pickpocket up against the wall, demanding to know how he could find her again. He was mad.

A few days later, they decided to lock him up. His mother was completely distraught, but her brother convinced her that it was for the best. “It’s the right thing to do, Anne,” he pled with his sister. William overheard the conversation and fled out into the night.

He thinks he must be in Hell. London’s hospital for the insane is no better than a prison. A young man, in the barred room across the narrow corridor from William’s own dank accommodation, seems to be dying; the young man’s face morphs into a hideous demonic mask as he begs for blood. He extends his hands in supplication toward William.

They speak together in whispers throughout the long night. William offers what comfort he can, finally admitting to himself that the young man is a vampire. The man’s name is Francis; he’s fearful of the approaching dawn and the large, barred but un-shuttered, east-facing window in his cell.

Francis relates the tale of his turning at the hands of a beautiful vampire named Darla, consort of the great Angelus, Scourge of Europe. He goes into excruciating detail about the turning process, and William takes it all in almost hungrily. For with every word that Francis speaks, William feels as if he’s touching the reality of Buffy’s world at last. Everything she’d told him was true; his experience wasn’t a nightmare, a hallucination of a fevered brain. He wasn’t insane. The man’s dark story fills him with warmth, with hope. A perverted hope, but hope nonetheless. A terrible plan begins to unfold in his mind.

When the sun rises, he watches in grim silence as Francis ignites and turns to dust beneath the sun’s rays. Responding to the young man’s final screams, the attendants rush into the corridor. All they find is William, calm and lucid, reclining on his rough, wooden bed.

“He did it to himself. Self-immolation,” William lies to the attendants, a brief look of grief crossing his face. “Tragic,” he sighs.

That evening, he is released into the care of his mother, and after reassuring her that he’s regained his sanity, he begins a surreptitious search for Angelus and Darla and his way back to the woman he loves.

Buffy never quite forgave Giles. The morning the vengeance demon lifted the curse from Spike and sent William back to his own life, Giles made it clear that the whole situation was Buffy’s fault, and he didn’t want to speak of it ever again. It was her mess, he complained, and he didn’t know why she was so upset. She merely spluttered out something about him being clueless and how he wouldn’t understand; and he replied that never in this world would he even dream of wanting to understand.

A few hours later, when she angrily accused him of making decisions for her that weren’t his to make, he gave her a puzzled look and asked her what in the world she was chattering on about? And was she ill?

She realized, with shock, that Giles now had no memory of William. And later, when she cautiously questioned Willow and Xander, it was the same—the curious looks and questions of concern about her mental stability.

No one remembered, except her and perhaps, William, wherever he was now. When she returned home that evening, all traces of William’s existence in her time had vanished.

Eventually, she accepted that it was her fault, and her memory of William was her burden to bear alone. She was to blame for the whole mess and now must suffer her loss in silence. So she mourned William in secret.

Three weeks later, her mind and heart became occupied with other urgent matters due to the sudden reappearance of Angel. Long months of torment and indecision followed, until he left her, too. Wanting, he claimed, for her to have a normal life and sensing that something had changed in her feelings towards him.

She wondered why everyone was so eager for her to have a normal life when they knew she was the Slayer. It seemed ridiculous –just plain wishful thinking when in reality, she’d probably only live a few more years before some vampire or demon got lucky. And how fair would it be to a ‘normal’ man if she started a relationship? How could she ever explain her life, what she was, without him fleeing in horror?

Sometimes she missed William so much that she couldn’t breathe, her world swirling in darkness and despair. The only normal life she’d ever had was that one blissful week she’d spent with him. That one sweet week when she loved and was loved without restraint. When she was seen and known and forgiven without reserve.

She wondered if William had remembered her, and if, by her wish, he’d escaped his fate. She hoped he had, realizing with a pang of sorrow, that if her wish and her revelations to him had affected the reality of his past, then William was long dead and buried.

All she had left was her duty, and so that’s what she did. Slaying. Fighting. Not caring anymore what her future would be.

Then Riley Finn arrived in town, and her world began to change. Something in his calm strength reminded her of William, but that was where the resemblance ended. For Riley had no imagination and definitely did not have a poetic heart that could see behind her carefully constructed mask. So she pretended to be a normal girl for awhile. A normal girl with a normal boyfriend.

She pushed her memory of William away, until one dreadful day, Spike appeared at Giles’ door, desperate and hungry, with a chip implanted deep in his brain. Everything came back to her with hideous clarity, as she stared into the face of the demon with William’s eyes.

She fled from Giles and Spike and sought comfort in Riley’s arms, swearing to herself that she’d forget William once and for all. She couldn’t face what he’d become. She couldn’t face Spike.

But Spike pursued her. He was always underfoot, claiming he was trying to help her now. She didn’t believe him, and she was proven right several times over the next few months. Spike’s physical presence made her ill. Just the thought of him filled her with rage. At times, she desperately wanted to stake him for what he’d done, for what he’d become, but she found that she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. At night, she cried in her sleep, tormented by her dreams of William.

One night, as she patrolled the cemetery alone, she discovered Spike sitting outside his crypt, reading by candlelight. He was strangely quiet as she approached. No smirking, no suggestive glances, no snide comments. He just gazed up at her from his book and gave her an enigmatic smile. On impulse, she knelt down on the grass beside him.

He dipped his head with an almost imperceptible nod and placed his left hand over his heart. She thought she saw a glint of tears in his eyes. It embarrassed her and terrified her at the same time.

Spike glanced down at the book in his hand and with an abrupt gesture, shoved it toward her. She took it from him, her fingers accidentally touching his. She gasped at the sudden current of feeling which surged between them. Stumbling to her feet, she took a quick step back and nervously began to examine the book.

The cover of the book was speckled and stained; the pages were frail, yellowed and dark-flecked with mildew. She flipped through the pages; some were unreadable- the ink having been splashed with rain or blood, she thought grimly. She turned to the first page and read the inscription:

She slammed the book shut, her heart racing, her face flushed as she searched Spike’s face for an explanation.

He turned away from her gaze, his eyes focusing on the horizon, to some far off place or time that he knew she couldn’t imagine or follow. Nothing was worse than this. Seeing in her eyes how much she hated him now, knowing that she’d never be able to see beneath his demonic form; and knowing, he thought with despair, that she was right to hate the demon in him. It was useless. Useless.

“No, luv. I didn’t. Just read it. It’s all there. The whole bleeding story, the whole sad, pathetic tale.” He stood up and began to walk away, but she tackled him to the ground with a sudden lunge, pinning him beneath her.

“Why?!” she cried. “I warned you. Uh…him. I warned him! It didn’t have to happen! I told him everything!”

“Read the damn book, Slayer,” Spike grunted harshly beneath her, trying to struggle out of her grasp. “Read the last page,” he hissed.

And then she did the unthinkable. She kissed Spike. For a brief moment he lay perfectly still, shocked at her action, and then he kissed her back. She kissed him again. It was a kiss unlike anything he’d experienced in the long years of his undead life. It was soft, warm and sweet. A sudden pain rose in his chest, as if something inside him was breaking.

She pulled away from him, staring down at him with dark, serious eyes, her lips, rosy and damp from their kiss. He closed his eyes at the sight. He wanted those lips again. Wanted the soft, forgiving warmth of them.

She climbed off him and helped him awkwardly to his feet, dropping his hand and taking several steps away from him when he finally stood up.

“Right,” he repeated. “But…” He took a swift step forward and was suddenly right next to her, softly caressing her cheek with his palm. Closing her eyes, she leaned into his hand.

His cool breath fluttered against her skin as he spoke in a desolate voice, “I… he… loves you.”

I have convinced them all that I am quite sane and thus have gained my freedom. The streets I walk at night are full of lost, mutilated souls. If I was sane before, my sanity will surely disintegrate in this unholy search. I am consumed with desire. This world I defended so fervently to her is a travesty, a sham civilization. So much human detritus – all hope, love, beauty, and spark of goodness – all scattered to the wind. The wretched smells. The rotten corpse beneath the glittering gown. Everything is darkness. Futile. Empty. Nothing of beauty exists here, only the long, endless struggle toward nothingness. All the poor, roaming homeless, forced into unspeakable acts for a small crust of bread. Death beckons so sweetly. Such a temptation.

William blotted the page with a rag and stared out the ice-crusted window of his small bedroom. So cold out tonight, he thought, how many will die?

The young scullery maid slowly opened the door and stood in the doorway, nervously twisting a strand of pale, golden hair between two dirty fingers.

“Someone you fancy, then?” he probed. “I promise your secret will be safe with me.”

“Then you do!” he exclaimed. He wondered, idly to himself, why he was tormenting the poor girl, but he could not restrain himself. “Come on, girl. Tell me!”

“An Irish angel?” William asked, his voice faltering. “What is his name?”

“I told you! Angelus, my angel,” she sighed. “I only met him last night.”

“In the square,” she mumbled, turning away from William’s intense gaze. “I met him in the square when I was walking home.”

Angelus, he thought to himself, shivering with suppressed excitement. He jumped to his feet and searched about the room for his coat.

“You?” She raised her eyebrows watching him with a look of disgust. “You protect me against the wolves out there?” She snorted.

“Ah, so you admit this Angelus fellow is a wolf. Now run along and get your things; I shall meet you on the front stairs.”

Elizabeth scurried out of the room. William sat back down at his desk, and opening his diary, he began to write.

The gods have been kind and have sent me a messenger in the form of a scullery maid. Tonight I shall meet Angelus and Drusilla. Tonight I shall claim my destiny and commence my journey through time. Back to her. She said I would lose my soul and be demon possessed. But what need have I of a soul in a world such as this? I know my heart and my love for her is stronger than anything hell can conceive. I shall fight it. I shall retain some fragment of myself, of my heart and come back to her. Will she be angry? Alas, I think she will, at first. She wanted to save me. But what is my life without her? Ashes. Ashes. She will forgive me. I know it. She will forgive me. She will love me no matter what form I take. I shall come back to her, and her joy will be unbounded. I shall do it for her. For her. To be hers. I would sacrifice everything.

Returning home from the cemetery and her encounter with Spike, Buffy did as he’d requested and read the last entry of William’s diary. Staring sorrowfully at the faded, elegant writing, she felt each word was a condemnation of her actions towards Spike these past several months since he’d returned to Sunnydale. She couldn’t bear to read the rest of the diary..

If only I’d tried to talk to him, she thought morosely, maybe things could’ve been different. Maybe I could’ve helped him find some way out of the whole mess.

She’d seen William in Spike’s eyes tonight. Felt his heart in their kiss, beneath the surface, lingering, mournful- the man inside the beast. Falling back onto her bed with a groan, she clutched William’s journal against her chest.

She’d kissed Spike! She shuddered with the memory of the kiss she’d given him. And the pain she’d felt as he’d pulled away from her. What was wrong with her? He wasn’t William. William was… dead.

But who was Spike, really? He was still the beast and the evil, demon-driven vampire, but there was some qualitative difference. He remembered their love, their lost, ill-fated love. There was still a fragment of the being inside of him who’d loved her and given her grace. Would she have done something so drastic, so unthinkable to come back to him? She wasn’t sure.

Would he have taken her in his arms and welcomed her no matter who or what she’d become?

A person can bear only so much guilt. She hid William’s journal in the back of her closet.

Spike tried not to think of her now. She had the proof in her hands of what he’d done for love. What he’d become for love. It gave him a bit of grim satisfaction that she knew the truth now. Of course, he’d been dead wrong. In the glorious pain of his turning, in the pure rush of power that surged through him as the demon entered him, he lost everything: his soul, his love for her.

For some twisted reason, he’d kept the diary all those years. As a reminder, perhaps, of the simpering fool he’d been. As a way to keep the struggling memories of William at bay. For he’d not lost William completely in his turning. The tender, mad psyche of William was buried down deep inside some dark corner of his mind, occasionally surfacing to plague his heart during his long, brutal existence as the evil undead. And he hadn’t counted on the impact of actually seeing her again. The pain was unspeakable: the demon, briefly losing control, as William surged to life inside him, with anguished hope that she’d recognize and love him.

Bloody fool. He missed her. He relived their kiss, over and over. He kept his distance.

She avoided Spike for several months. It wasn’t too difficult as it appeared he was attempting to do the same. And then, once again, her world was thrown into turmoil with the sudden appearance of her little sister, Dawn, and the Hellgod, Glory. Spike slowly re-entered Buffy’s life, offering help. They dealt with one another as strangers: cold and brisk, soldiers on a battlefield. A demon chained and offering assistance purely for his own survival. A Slayer doing her duty.

Her mother died. And if that tremendous loss was not traumatic enough to break her, she discovered that Dawn was not her sister. She was the mystical Key, embodied in human form, that Glory was determined to use and destroy. Then Riley left.

Buffy was ready to give up. Her world felt more like a nightmare than a real life. Every turn…disaster. Every turn… loss and abandonment. No love anywhere. Nothing her hands, her strong Slayer hands, could hold onto. Not a fragment of happiness.

The First Slayer’s words haunted her. Death certainly appeared to be the only gift she had for those who loved her.

“Know what you’re feeling, pet,” he remarked, casually slouching down on the step beside her as if they were the best of friends. The fact that they hadn’t exchanged more than a few bitter words since that night she’d kissed him didn’t appear to faze him. He gave her a gentle smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, inching away from him. “So what do you want?”

“Nothing,” he said, scooting closer. He turned to her and slid his palm beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“That’s a lie,” he said softly. “I’d like…I want your pain to end. Unbearable, it is. Watching you suffer so.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tensed with the effort to control them. “I’ve ruined everything!” she whispered. “Everyone. Look at you…and Mom, Dawn, Riley. I’ve screwed up so many lives.”

“Right.” He uttered the word with disgust. “How I hate that word. Who’s to say what’s right or wrong? Listen. We’re shoved unwilling into our lives and stumble in the dark to find our way. So who’s to blame? We are what we are. We do what we must do in the moment. Sometimes we have no choice. So give yourself a break.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing. Didn’t choose to love you then, did I? But I did…I do,” he said. “Ripping me apart inside. But I’ve got no choice. I’m a fool. And you, looking at me as if I were the scum of the earth. Beneath you, isn’t that right?”

He shifted away from her. “Untouchable. That’s what I am, now, to you. But…I’d like to know why? Why did you kiss me, Buffy?”

She slumped back on her elbows, stretching out her legs and leaning her head back to gaze up at the night sky. “Can’t see any stars through the fog.”

He laughed at her blatant evasion. “Fog has its place. Good for hiding. And sometimes starlight is just too painful to consider.”

“Well, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? But it’s brutal cold up there, I suspect. All ice and tiny bits of fire.” He sighed deeply. “I won’t bother you anymore. Okay, Slayer? Too bloody painful. Gonna bond with my demon side for a while. It’s just too…”

“It hurts, Buffy. It hurts.” He started to rise, but she grabbed onto the edge of his duster and pulled him back down onto the porch.

“Well, luv. Hate to give you the bad news, but you’re not gonna get William. What you see is what you get. Me. Spike.” His voice was cold. “Been fun. Let’s not do it again.” With that, he disappeared into the dark.

He wanted her to hate him. But she found herself not caring what Spike wanted anymore. Or what Giles wanted anymore or what her friends wanted. All she wanted was for her sister to live, but the fact that Dawn had developed a strange friendship with Spike complicated things. All day, every day, all she heard from her sister was ‘Spike this’ and ‘Spike that’. Her sister’s blind naiveté was driving her crazy.

“He’s a vampire,” she’d shouted one night in frustration. “He’d bite you in heartbeat if it weren’t for his chip.”

“He can’t love,” she stammered, trying to gain the upper hand. “He’s evil. A monster…” She suddenly recalled William’s words from long ago “…you gaze upon me like I am some kind of monster. But I’m a man. Don’t you understand?”

“Thought what?!” Buffy called at Dawn’s retreating back. “He’s…” Her voice trailed off into silence when she heard the back door slam as her sister left the house.

“It was just a dream, only a dream…” She ran her hand slowly through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck. Her hand froze on the spot that William had loved to kiss.

“This beautiful, soft curve,” he’d murmured against her skin, “a man could die of happiness with his lips pressed against this sacred place.”

It was when he looked into Glory’s empty, cold eyes that he recalled the look on Buffy’s face. Strange, the things that come to your mind when you’re about to die. The pain that Glory was inflicting upon him was nothing compared to the pain he’d seen in Buffy’s eyes when he’d told her that she’d never have William. Pain was relative. His wounds would heal if he ever got out of there alive. But he had his doubts if Buffy would ever heal from his words.

Was it a sin to crush a dream? He’d wanted her to hate him because he couldn’t stand the uncertainty in her eyes anymore. William was dead and Spike was evil. He’d done his best to convince her of it. But now, bound in chains and hanging from the ceiling as Glory tortured him, he wondered why didn’t he just tell this stupid bint, who was beating his face to a bloody pulp, the truth about the Key? Why the hell did he still care?

Later, when Buffy came to him and thanked him, he couldn’t bear her kindness when all he wanted was her love. And the kiss she’d given him-- it shamed him, and later, haunted him. He couldn’t sleep, his feelings shifting between tumultuous joy and a dreadful sense of impending doom.

The following night, when the only woman he’d ever truly loved plunged to her death, he knew that he would walk through the world but would never feel anything again. He wished that Glory had killed him.

PART THREE - The Man

William locked his diary in the desk and gazed about his room. He’d never see this place again, God willing; but then, God would probably have no interest in what he was about to do.

The house was dark and silent as he crept down the servants’ stairway and let himself out the back entryway. When he arrived at the bottom of the sweeping stone entrance to his house, Elizabeth was not there. He waited impatiently for ten minutes, but she didn’t come. Swearing to himself, he realized that she’d slipped off without him. The girl was incorrigible. He raced off toward the square where she’d told him she was to meet Angelus. It was past midnight when he arrived, breathless and flushed from the unaccustomed exertion of running. The square was empty and dark except for a single lamp marking the entrance to a large red-bricked house at the end of the square.

Despondent, he walked slowly toward the flickering light. A fool’s dream, that is all it had been. A stupid fool’s dream to think that he could ever be with Buffy again. In his heart he couldn’t deny that he felt a sense of relief. Perhaps his wild chase through the night had done him some good, he thought, as he walked toward the light. Knocked some sense back into his head. Become a vampire? Let some wicked woman bite his neck, suck his blood and pour a demon soul into his romantic heart? He’d been a fool. He let out a long sigh and then let out a little yelp of surprise. Crouched beneath the light, huddled next to a newly-mortared brick wall, a lump of rags whimpered and moved. Was it the girl? Was it Elizabeth? He called out her name.

She rose and staggered toward him. He rushed to her side, gathering her in his arms as she slumped against him.

She murmured in protest, but was too weak to speak. Her face was covered with blood. He carried her back over to the light and gently laid her down upon the rough pavement.

“Now hold still,” he commanded as she tried to struggle away from him. “I need to see how badly you are injured.” He pulled a large silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and began to swab the blood from her face. She opened her eyes and stared up at him.

“You’re not Elizabeth,” he gasped, turning her head roughly into the light. “You’re…oh, dear, God!”

At that moment, the front door to the house swung open, and an elderly manservant began to drag a large trunk down the stairs. William scooped the girl up in his arms and darted into the shadows behind the wall. She whimpered briefly and then passed out. He watched breathlessly as the servant carried the trunk down the walkway and out the gate, dropping the trunk on the street. A short, plump woman ran down the walkway behind him.

“Mr. Giles!” she cried. “You’re not expecting me to stay alone in this godforsaken place, are you?”

“Mrs. Pruitt, compose yourself, woman. It’s your duty. The master will be traveling for several weeks. I’m to meet him in Manchester with his trunk. He’ll expect you to take care of things while we’re gone.”

“But all alone? At night with that heathen temple he’s built inside? The Devil, himself, is bound to show up and sweep me away to Hell.” She clutched frantically at the manservant’s sleeve.

“Are you not being well compensated?” Mr. Giles demanded, impatiently shaking the woman off. “You’re lucky to be employed at all.” He gave her a stern glance. “Now, where’s that damned Pierson with the carriage?”

At that moment, a small carriage pulled up to the curb, and the damned Pierson jumped down and swung the trunk onto the roof, binding it tightly with a length of rope. Mr. Giles climbed into the carriage and slammed the door in Mrs. Pruitt’s pleading face. “It’s your duty, woman!” he called out to her as the carriage pulled away.

Mrs. Pruitt stood, for a few moments, watching the carriage disappear into the night. With a long sigh, she walked reluctantly back toward the house. She paused at the front door. William watched as she untied a large bunch of keys from about her waist. She glanced around and without going inside, she pulled the door firmly shut. William heard the clink of a key sliding into a lock. Mrs. Pruitt strolled back down the stairs and as she passed beneath the light, William saw her smile and heard her mutter, “Blasphemous pagans, the lot of ‘em.” She scurried off into the night.

When she opened her eyes, all she could see was a tiny, pale blue-ish light falling in an odd pattern across the bed upon which she lay. Tensing, she became conscious of the sound of bubbling and splashing water, gently lapping against some hard surface in the distance. She whimpered softly, surprised that she could still feel pain. And cold. She shivered in the darkness.

She was trapped in a prison, deep in some hellish demonic dimension, just as she suspected might happen to her when she dove off the tower in her sacrifice to save her sister.

Not a total sacrifice, she thought guiltily, for as she’d fallen through the ether, she’d felt a sudden rush of inexplicable joy. William. William’s soul would be there on the other side. Heaven, Hell, demon dimension, whatever. She knew that William would be there to catch her as she fell.

But obviously not, she thought, as she gazed despondently around the weirdly lit room. All alone. Again. You try to do something good for the world, and you end up in Hell. Alone.

She relaxed back into the soft bedding. At least they have decent beds in Hell, and what’s this? She stroked the surface of the feathery bed, soft and plush, yielding to her touch. Velvet? She thought with a shock. Do they have velvet in Hell, too?

A strange scent permeated the room: sweet, a bit cloying with a touch of spice. She took a deep breath. Weird. I’m dead and breathing. She sniffed again, trying to identify the smells. Jasmine? Cloves? Licorice? Some other unidentified scent hovered beneath: metallic and coppery. She put her hand to her lips and tasted blood. And then she remembered: hard cobblestones pressed against her face, Angelus bending over a young girl, screaming, shouting. Got to stop him. Where’s the sword?

A searing pain in her head pushed all thought from her mind, and she let out a loud groan which echoed hauntingly though the empty corners of her prison.

How could she describe what she felt at the sound of that voice? That low, tender and trembling voice. Shock? Disbelief? Utter joy? Pure terror?

“I thought this was Hell. Am I in Heaven?” she asked, stretching out her hand to touch him.

He gave a soft laugh and knelt beside her. “No, not quite. It’s London. London, September 21st, 1880, to be exact.” He clasped her hand and kissed her palm. “Best day of my life.”

“No, I’m not Spike. I’m William. Just thought you should know. In case you had any ideas about staking me.”

“But I died!” she cried. “I’m dead. And you’re dead. You’re a vampire now. Or later. Oh God, I’m so confused.”

“Hush, hush, love. You’ve been hurt. You need to rest and be still.” He tried to rise, but she clung to his hand.

“It’s William, love,” he whispered, crawling onto the narrow divan beside her and pulling her into his arms. She slept lightly, restlessly calling out for Spike, again and again, in her sleep.

William woke her a few hours later. In the dim light, she saw a grim look on his face.

“Spike…nothing…he tried to save her, my sister. He tried to save us. But he fell and then…I died. But I’m not dead, am I?”

In a halting voice, Buffy told him what she remembered: about Spike returning, about her sister Dawn and Glory. How she’d jumped from the tower and woken up, stunned and disoriented, in the Square where a screaming girl was struggling with a demon. Angelus. She’d recognized him, of course, but thought it was a nightmare; however, when he’d morphed into his demon face and called her Elizabeth, she knew it wasn’t a dream. She’d fought him off. Not expecting such vicious and strong resistance from her and hearing the approaching footsteps and voices of several men, Angelus had fled into the night to find other, weaker prey.

“And what were you doing there?” she asked. “Why were you there last night?”

William gave her a shameful glance and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck in an anxious gesture she’d remembered from their first days together.

“My diary? Now I am confused. But if Spike returned to Sunnydale, then I must have fulfilled my endeavor.” Frowning, he shook his head and paused. “Yet, you are here now. With me,” he continued softly, his voice filled with wonder. “That is all that matters now.”

“Must be my destiny to save your sorry hide. I can’t believe you tried to get turned by Drusilla. Of all the stupid…”

“Yes, yes…I know, love. I realized that last night. My own little epiphany. And I must say that the idea of a strange woman biting me is more than a trifle off-putting. Rather frightening, actually.” Closing his eyes, he sighed. “I am a bit of a coward.”

“I have no idea. I take you home to Mother?” He looked askance at her ragged, bloody attire.

“Oh, please. She was practically throwing herself at Angelus. If I hadn’t fallen…”

“Yeesh! Okay, well, the ‘sweet’ girl split when the going got tough; you know, when Angelus got all lumpy. She left me alone with him.”

“Still bleeding here. Kinda sticky and hungry. And feeling a little lost. Could you forget about the misguided idiot and think of me?”

“Oh, Buffy. Sorry, love. Let me see if I might find some things so you may freshen up.”

He scrambled off the divan and stumbled backward into the darkness. Buffy heard a thump, a curse and then a loud splash.

William crawled to the edge of the shallow pool. “Bloody Hell and bother! I’m soaked!”

Buffy burst into laughter. “You know, I haven’t laughed in about…forever,” she choked.

“I see that you are accepting this entire wrong place, wrong time situation, much more readily than I did,” he spluttered.

In the early light of dawn, Buffy examined her surroundings. Sunlight filtered through the intricate latticework shutters which hung across the two large windows on either side of the room. The room was square with deep recesses set beneath the windows and at the far end of the room.

She rose from her bed and walked slowly about the room. The walls were lined with gleaming tiles of peacock blue, and the floor was inlaid with a complex, geometric mosaic of marble tiles simulating an oriental rug. In the center of the room was the shallow, rectangular pool into which William had fallen. A small fountain of water bubbled quietly in its center.

The room was a miniature palace with a domed ceiling chased with gold leaf and embedded with glittering stained glass. A large, circular chandelier hung from the ceiling above the pool. Glistening white marble columns with caps of carved, translucent alabaster framed the angled recesses. The back wall was covered with an intricate mosaic frieze of birds and mythological creatures. On each side of the room, in the recesses beneath the windows, were two narrow divans upholstered in deep, plush velvet in the same, vivid peacock blue to match the tiled walls.

Sumptuous, opulent and strangely serene, the place was an exotic, Moorish fantasy world some dreamer had created in the middle of London. It was a place out of time. Like her. It comforted her in an odd way. She looked down at her ragged, dirty clothes and then up at the tracing of silver and red ochre letters, symbols and images which were woven throughout the room where peacock blue met gold. She stripped out of her dirty clothes and stepped into the small pool.

The cold water was a shock at first, but soon her body grew accustomed to the temperature. She sat in the shallow water and splashed with pure enjoyment as she washed away the blood and dirt and felt the stiffness slowly leave her body.

The sight of her, sitting naked in the dark pool, her skin illuminated with a thousand jewels of light reflecting down through the stained-glass windows arching above her, takes his breath away.

He staggers into the room and quietly sets down the large wooden box he is carrying. As he slowly moves up behind her, he recites beneath his breath:

In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,

Breathing heavily, his hair tangled in wild disarray, he stares down at her with a wistful, yearning look upon his face.

She smiles up at him. “Hey there, beautiful. Love the robe.” She slides a damp hand beneath the silky material and casually strokes his calf.

The dark blue silk robe is belted loosely about his waist. Face flushed and eyes liquid and wanting, he holds her gaze as she slips her fingers up between his thighs.

“This,” she smiles, caressing the hard length of his arousal with her forefinger. “I think you missed me.”

She squirms up onto the edge of the pool and opens his robe with her other hand, still maintaining the slow, stroking motion of her finger.

He gives a strangled cry and raises himself up onto his knees until the tip of his cock presses against her lips. “Please,” he moans.

“Please what?” she teases. She gives his cock a little pouting kiss and flicks her warm, wet tongue over the rosy head.

“That!” he cries and thrusts forward, sliding his erection between her soft lips. She takes in his full length and sucks him gently, all the while staring up at him with dark, loving eyes. Tilting her head, she begins a slow, rocking motion.

He watches in fascination as his cock slides into her mouth and then slips out again as she pleasures him. “God, Buffy!” he groans, feeling his approaching climax. He grabs her shoulders to still her movements. “Not like this. I need you. Want to be within your…”

She releases him and sits back upon her heels, staring up at him with penetrating, serious eyes. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“God help me,” he moans. “Yes! We’re alive.” His eyes flash, wild with lust. There’s a fire in them that makes her shudder.

He pulls her from the pool, sweeps her up into his arms and carries her over to the divan. He throws her down, roughly spreading her legs with his knees. With an agonized cry, he sheaths himself inside her with one fierce thrust.

Once he’s mounted her, he pauses, panting upon her breast. “Forgive me,” he whispers hoarsely. “It’s just that…ah, love…” he cries as she arches against him.

“S’alright,” she says, gently caressing his back. “Shouldn’t tempt a hungry lion.”

She smiles teasingly. “You,” she says, gently stroking his face with her fingers, running her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, savoring the feel of his skin and the strong muscles beneath.

They kiss. And all the longing and loneliness which has haunted them is revealed, soothed, and forgotten as lips and tongues merge in passionate union. Captured and loved. Blessed.

He fucks her with slow, smooth strokes as their kiss deepens. A light sweat glistens upon his face, covering his body as he quickens the tempo of his thrusts.

In response, she threads her fingers through his, weaving him against her in a tighter embrace. She’s sated and stretched by the breadth and length of him. Filled with him. She is completely possessed by him, rapturous as the weight of his body presses her deeply into soft cushions. He is everywhere: his beautiful, strong body, sliding over her skin as he moves inside her. With his lips, hands, cock, his heart and soul, he loves her. Loves her.

When they wake, it’s late afternoon, and the room is filled with golden light. She’s lying on top of him; his hand rubs the small of her back, and she sighs contentedly.

“I knew you’d be waiting for me,” she says quietly. “We’ll be together forever now, won’t we?” There’s a hitch in her voice as she speaks the words. “I love you. Do you love me?”

She sighs. “In our pleasure dome. Isn’t that what you said? I decree a pleasure dome in the States? But this is England, not the States and…”

“No, no, love,” he laughs. “It’s a poem that was written by another Englishman madly in love, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” In a soft voice, he begins to recite:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

“You have a beautiful voice,” she interrupts. “I could listen to your voice forever. But who’s Ralph, and why did they name a river after him?”

He ignores her comment and continues to recite the poem to her, but hesitates when he comes to the lines:

“You were calling out to him in your sleep last night…like…like a ’woman wailing for her demon-lover'."

“Let me put it this way: Did you love me when I came back to you? When I sacrificed my soul to be with you?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions. You did a stupid thing. Got vamped. Came back to me. Right. Very nice. Thanks. Evil vampire who wanted to kill me. You don’t understand.”

“Stop it! You don’t see! This is a stupid conversation. ‘Cause it didn’t happen, right? It’s not gonna happen!” she sobs. “You’re here. I’m here. Forever and ever. Remember?” She starts crying in earnest. “Forever and ever…”

On opposite sides of the small pool, they sit in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes. Buffy makes a big show of ignoring him. Splashing the cool water over her face, she carefully scrubs off any trace of his scent. Staring up at the domed ceiling, his face set in a deep frown, he scoops up a handful of water and pours it over his face and chest.

He stretches up his arm and rubs the back of his neck. She stares a bit hungrily at the display of pale skin and the elegant curve of his muscles.

He sighs, rising up from beside the pool. Water, cascading down his skin, catches the late afternoon sun and turns him into a golden god. He stands at the edge of the pool, hands on hips. His face, a mask of sadness.

“We shouldn’t fight.” He picks up a cream colored Turkish towel from the floor and walks around the edge of the pool to her side. He holds out his hand; she takes it submissively and lets him pull her from the water.

Motionless, eyes closed, she stands as he kneels before her and makes a tender ritual of drying her body. With long, lingering strokes of the soft towel, he wipes the moisture from her skin. It is as if he were wiping away tears her body had shed.

She brushes the proud edge of his cheekbone with her fingertip. “Lovers,” she says hesitantly, her voice thick with emotion.

And after he finishes drying her, he begins a slow, caressing dance across her skin with his tongue and hands. She trembles beneath his touch. Weeping silently, she threads her fingers through his hair as he kneels before her, delicately licking the damp, warmth between her thighs.

He presses his face against the soft mound of curls at the base of her stomach, sucking and teasing the plump lips and folds of her sex which are now glistening, ripe and swollen. Spreading them with one long, firm stroke of his tongue, he seeks and finds the hard flesh of her clit.

She whimpers. Helpless, she arches against him, his hot, ragged breaths burning her skin.

He slides his tongue inside her and from deep within his chest, he utters a low, animalistic moan, losing himself completely in the taste of her, the feel of her. Growling hungrily against her slick flesh, he clasps his cock, stroking it in a rhythm with the movements of his tongue.

Eyes blazing with a curious, dark heat he stares up at her as she thrashes in frantic rhythm against his tongue. Her breasts sway above him: her nipples taut, deep red and begging to be sucked. Everything about her, every part of her, he must touch and consume.

He braces her body as she tenses and rises up on her toes, spreading her thighs to allow his tongue a deeper penetration.

A sharp, ecstatic pain sears through her as he plunges his fingers inside her, fucking her with long, sure strokes as his mouth continues to devour her. She comes hard, collapsing against him with a deep, shuddering sob, releasing a sweet, thick flood which he drinks greedily, licking her clean with small moans of pleasure.

“Now,” he says. “Come to me.” Forcefully, he pulls her down onto his lap.

They’d made love several times before she fell exhausted upon the hard marble floor beside him. He carried her sleeping form back to the bed and gently covered her with a warm quilt he found in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Passion and jealousy spent, he sat beside her and held her hand while she slept. The room grew cold as evening approached. The room’s brilliant colors faded—pale echoes of their previous dazzling intensity when sunlight filled the room. It became something sad and somber: a forgotten place, an ancient place, haunted by ghosts of the past.

He thought of the man who’d built this small room plucked out of time. Certainly obsession must have played some role in its creation. What had he been trying to recapture? Some past love, some moment in time? A shrine to beauty frozen in color, form and sound? William listened to the fountain splash into the pool. Endless. Change without change. Had the creator of this place been trying to capture immortality? Stop the flow of time?

He looked down at her and wondered if the house still existed in her time. Perhaps it had been torn down and been replaced by some hideous structure like that market she’d dragged him through in Sunnydale. It made him sad to think so. All that beauty lost. He gazed down at her face. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense. It was what he’d seen inside her, what she’d revealed to him that had made him fall in love with her. Her strength and stubbornness. Her naiveté and innocent passion. Her dark secretiveness and the grim task to which she’d been bound. She bore it all. So young. He thought about her friends and wondered if they mourned and missed her as he had done when he’d been catapulted back to his own time.

A wave of uneasiness came over him. Her friends had found the power through the demon woman to send him back in time. Did they have other powers at their disposal? Might they use them to pull Buffy back to her own century? He thought about what she’d told him when he first brought her here. I’m dead. I’m dead, she’d kept repeating, until he made her believe that she was still alive. Still warm, and breathing and alive. Here now, with him. This was her place. He shuddered to think what would happen if someone tried to bring her back to her own century. It mustn’t happen, he thought. Not while I have breath in my body.

He pushed his morbid thoughts away. There were enough problems before him. His mother being one of them.

“Mother. And Buffy. Mother and Buffy in the same house,” he groaned to himself. He needed a stiff drink.

He dressed and then woke her up to say goodbye. It was dusk. He stood beside the bed, his clothes sadly rumpled and creased from their immersion in the pool.

“No, love. Not yet. You’ll be safe here for another day or so. I must make plans.”

“Plans? Can’t you just take me home with you? I’m sure your mom will understand.”

Reminded of his mother, his face paled. What am I to tell Mother? Buffy and Mother? A shiver of anxiety washed over his body.

He took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure Mother will be most understanding. But I must…ah…prepare her for your arrival. So you must be patient.”

“Don’t worry, love,” he said, stooping to give her a quick kiss. “I’ll return later this evening. Oh, and look in the box over there. I think the food I scavenged will be adequate to your taste, and I found something for you to wear.”

“But it’s getting dark, and you’re leaving me here all alone. Why can’t I come with you?”

He turned around and hurried toward the door, knowing if he looked back at her, he’d never leave.

He slipped back into his house and changed his clothes, then went down to face his mother.

It didn’t go well. After a long fit of hysterics, he finally calmed her down. He lied to her; he told her that he had gone on a little bender, drank too much wine and slept it off at a friend’s house.

“I think you need to associate with a better class of people, dear,” she said at last. “I think your friends take advantage of your good nature. Drunk, indeed. Oh, it’s just too much for a mother to bear. To see her son falling into vice and madness.”

He assured her that he hadn’t started up his mad ways again, and that there was no need to call his uncle to cart him off to the insane asylum again.

“I’m not mad, Mother,” he said. He looked at her hopefully. “I’m in love,” he said, naively thinking it might cheer her up.

This set off another firestorm of tears, and he finally had to summon one of the maidservants to assist his Mother up to her room.

He called to her as she left. “I’m sorry to have caused you so much pain, Mother. I never meant to hurt or shame you.”

In a state of extreme frustration, he found himself curiously wondering just how Spike might have handled the whole situation. He’d never be a fool for love. He’d murder the lot of them and flee to Italy. Maybe Venice. He daydreamed for a bit about making love to beautiful dark women while boating aimlessly through narrow canals surrounded by sumptuous palaces and fragrant water gardens.

It was a plan Spike would have thoroughly approved of, William thought with grim satisfaction, his head nodding sleepily. He was exhausted. He fell asleep and dreamed of Xanadu.

“It’s Elizabeth, sir. She’s run off. She hasn’t come round for three days. I sent word to her mum, but I couldn’t get a sober word out of her. You know…”

“Ah yes, I do know. Unfortunate situation. Poor girl. Well, let’s wait a bit, shall we? No sense involving the police in these matters. I’m sure the girl will turn up soon. Probably run off with some young man.”

“That will be all, Gladys,” he said impatiently. “I am sure you have much to attend to. I know that you and Michel are short of help now with Elizabeth gone.”

“I’m terrible afraid for the girl. Got no sense. Always been full of herself. A pretty face is a terrible curse, me dad always said. And what with your mother planning that big party come Saturday. What’ll I do?”

William didn’t respond. He was staring off into the distance, a thoughtful look upon his face.

“Oh, Gladys. We will speak of it later. And please do not bother my mother with these sordid details. She is upset at the moment. Would you prepare a light dinner for me? Mother has retired early this evening. I suspect she won’t be joining me.”

Seeing that she was being dismissed, Gladys slunk out of the room, muttering to herself.

He brought back a bundle of candles and placed them about the room. He’d also brought a nondescript, brown dress and apron in her size. She stared at it like it was a dead rat.

“It’s a perfectly perfect plan!” he exclaimed, his eyes hungrily taking in her naked form which was barely concealed in the filmy gauze wrap she’d draped about her shoulders.

“It stinks!” she pouted, standing before him, her eyes flashing. “And there’s no way I’m gonna wear that.”

“I’m not gonna wash dishes. Period. And me and scrub brushes are unmixy things.”

“What am I going to do with you? Ah…come here.” He reached out his hand to touch her, and she ducked away.

“Be serious, love! Lord Leighton’s servants will return soon. You mustn’t be found here. They’ll arrest you…believe me you don’t want to go to prison in this century.”

“How about some pizza? Listen, William. I know I’m in trouble. But can’t you cast me as someone more glamorous? A princess or something?”

He sighed. “Ah, Buffy. You are my princess, my sweet wild, bad princess.” He sat down on the bed and wrapped his arms around her waist as she stood before him. He pushed open her robe and rubbed his face against the soft skin of her stomach. He felt her relax against him. She uttered a soft moan as he traced the firm contour of her breast with his lips and then tongued her nipple softly.

“Love you. Love…” he whispered. “You’ll sleep in my arms in a soft, warm feather bed fit for a princess. And I’ll make sweet love to you all night long. Every night.”

She whimpered as he slid his hand between her legs. “Not fair,” she protested. “That’s cheating.”

Buffy, as ‘scullery maid’, was a tremendous success. The kitchen staff was happy. William’s mother was happy. His only problem was that he didn’t quite know how to take the next step. Bring Buffy to his bed as his rightful wife. Certain his mother would die of shame at his choice, he hated to break the peaceful atmosphere that had settled over the house.

Buffy was a bit of a problem though, pressuring him to make his intentions known to his mother. But at night, when he held her in his arms, kissing her, distracting her with his passionate lovemaking, he was able to postpone the impending apocalypse. For that is exactly what it would be, he thought grimly.

His mother was oblivious to the whole situation, being ecstatically happy that he’d begun to spend so much time at home, rarely going out in the evenings and taking such an interest in household matters.

During one of Anne’s infrequent visits down into the kitchen area, she’d boasted to Gladys, “He’s such a good boy. So attentive to me these days.” She cast a critical eye at the flagstone floor.

“The new girl’s been a marvelous help, m’am. The girl has the strength of an ox.”

“Well, William assured me she comes cheap. My son is such a saint and so frugal. Always thinking of my welfare. Buffy, you say? My, what an unfortunate name.”

That night, no matter how much he pleaded with her, she refused to come to his bed.

As a downstairs servant, she heard all the gossip about the family from Gladys. How William was a good master and kind to his mother, that is, when he wasn’t raving about like a madman or writing poetry. This last piece of information made her smile.

“Oh, love and other nonsense. If you ask me, what the boy needs is a good toss in the hay. That’ll set him to rights.”

Gladys gave her a thoughtful look. “He hasn’t been interfering with you, has he?”

“You stay out of his way, dear. He’s been a bachelor far too long. Men get tempted. Rumor is he’s sweet on Miss Cecily Adams. Now that would be a pretty match!”

“Who’s Cecily Adams?” Buffy demanded, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.

“Now, aren’t you just all a tizzy about Mr. William’s personal business! Miss Cecily Adams is just one of the most eligible young women of the season. Got money. Men buzzing about her like bees to honey. My sister is her lady’s maid. Gets a handsome salary, she does.”

“I hate daisies.” Buffy gave the top of the kitchen table a vicious scrub with a wire brush.

“Well, you’ll see her tomorrow night. She’s coming to the party the Mistress is holding for William’s birthday.”

“No reason why you should. It’s upstairs business. But mark my words, there’ll be a huge pile of dishes waiting for you when it’s all over. Best get some sleep. And, dear. A bit of advice from an old woman.”

“Don’t go getting ideas above your station. He’s a pretty man, is Mr. William. But he’d never look below his class. Understand?”

Buffy uttered a harsh laugh. “Yeah. Beneath him. Got it. Loud and clear. Not my type, anyway.”

Instead of going up to her small, austere bedroom or to William’s luxurious suite, Buffy slipped out the back door and walked into the night.

Walking soothed her anger. She really couldn’t blame William. He was a product of his time. A gentleman, tamed and harnessed by his class. She’d fallen into his world and tried to make him into someone that he wasn’t. A man who would stand by her, no matter who or what she was. Like Spike, she thought sadly. He wouldn’t care. He’d tell them all to sod off. She thought back to their last conversation on her back porch. “I want your pain to end,” he’d told her. He’d loved her in his own twisted, demonic way.

William and Spike. Her life sucked. She wished that she’d died. Maybe this was a demonic dimension after all. Maybe she really was in Hell. And how fair was that? Save the world and end up in some shadow dimension with the man you love. Only you’re too far beneath him for him to be with you. She had a sudden realization that as much as William said he loved her, he was ashamed of her.

She found herself standing in front of the house where she’d spent her first nights with William. It blazed with light, the sound of laughing voices from within echoed out into the cold night where she stood hidden in the dark. It made her unbearably sad. She’d been fooled by a dream. A beautiful dream. It wasn’t going to work out between her and William. She was a fool. There wasn’t going to be a forever for them. Maybe not even a tomorrow, she thought bitterly.

It was early morning when she finally returned. The door to her bedroom was open, and William was fast asleep on her bed. She tiptoed into the room, trying not to wake him, but as she closed the door behind her, he opened his eyes. He sat up and held his arms out to her. She went to him, let him hold her, let him tell her how she’d worried him, and that if anything happened to her, he’d lose his mind. He told her how much he loved her, showering her with frantic kisses which she reluctantly returned.

“It’s no use, William. I don’t belong here anymore than you belonged in Sunnydale. I’m tired and lonely,” she said. “And I’d like to go out with my friends, eat pizza, and dance all night at the Bronze. I figured it out. I really did die. And I’m in Hell. This,” she said, waving her hand about the shabby room, “this is Hell.”

“You’re wrong! Don’t say such things. Look!” He gestured toward the small wooden chair in the corner of her room. Draped over the chair was a tumbled mass of yellow fabric. She went over and picked it up. It was a delicate gossamer gown of butter yellow silk scattered with crystals and seed pearls. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. But then, she’d seen it before.

He rubbed his eyes and came to stand beside her. She held the dress up to her chest and swirled around.

“You’re right. How odd. I ordered it four weeks ago. I gave the dressmaker explicit instructions as to exactly what I wanted for you.”

“So what’s it for? Waiting tables at your big birthday bash?” she asked sarcastically.

“No, love. It’s your wedding dress. I posted the banns three weeks ago. We’re to be married this Sunday morning.”

He responded, somewhat nervously. “To be sure, Mother will have the conniptions at first…” Then his face flushed with anger. “But, sod it all! You’re my woman!” In a wild fury, he pulled her into his arms. “Mine to have in front of God and the whole bleeding world. Mine!”

With that said, he showed Buffy just exactly how much she truly belonged to him, and there was nothing tame nor gentlemanly about it.

Later, as he slept peacefully beside her in the narrow, lumpy bed, she remembered that he still hadn’t asked her to marry him. And that her wedding dress was yellow, not white.

In the middle of the night, he woke, some restless dream unsettling his soul. Reassured by the warmth of her body and the gentle rise and fall of her chest, he curled his arm about her protectively. She’d been so patient with him as he struggled to find a place for her in his world. He counted the days of his bliss: one hundred and forty six days of love. Just the beginning of a lifetime together. With a pang of shame, he traced the tip of his finger over the rough surface of her palm, rough and raw from her daily labors. He’d make things right for her. He would give her the world, and she would never suffer again.

“No? What are you saying? Are you completely deranged? Of course, you’ll marry me.”

“Ah, love. I know it’s been difficult, but you must see that it is our only course. We must! We must marry, otherwise…”

Looking resolute and somewhat forlorn, she huddled on the hard, wooden chair, clasping the yellow silk dress to her chest. “Look, Spike…er…William…”

“Don’t!” he interrupted. “Do not say that name in my presence. Ever!” He paced about the room, his anger and frustration growing with every step.

“That’s the problem,” she said. “See, I thought you were someone else. When we were first together, you were so gentle and sweet. But there’s this other part of you. You’re more like Spike than you know.”

“You don’t see it, but I do. There’s a wild man inside you. Look at you. You’re ready to destroy your mother and your whole life for me. I don’t belong here. I’m the Slayer. I’ve got more blood on my hands than you could ever imagine.”

“Stop! Don’t say such things! Oh, God. Please listen to reason. Please…” He tried to embrace her, but she froze beneath his touch.

“Don’t…” she cried. “I’m killing everything that’s good and kind in you.”

Her face crumpled, “I want you…but I don’t want you to lose your soul for me. I just couldn’t bear it, Spike. I couldn’t stand it…”

“Spike!” He spit out the word, shoving her away. “I see where your loyalty lies now. I refuse to be second choice. Know this, Buffy Summers. I do love you. But you’re right. This love is killing me. Go find your demon-lover. Get out of my sight!”

With fury, he picked up her wedding gown, ripped it in half and threw it in her face.

“So much for bleeding love.” He kicked the door open and then slammed it behind him.

Numb, she walked to the door and placed her hand upon the rough wood. And then she began to weep.

“Who am I that I could do such a thing to the woman I love? A beast. A cruel, hard-hearted monster,” he whispered.

As a man in a dream, he clasped the doorknob and slowly turned it. “If she wants Spike, then that’s who I shall give her. But if, perchance, it’s William she wants…”

There was no birthday party, no wedding, no true love nor bright future for William. Seven days after he stepped into that empty room, he went mad. On the way to the asylum, clutching a small notebook and rambling incoherently about ‘Xanadu’ and demon-lovers, he escaped from his uncle’s carriage and disappeared.

These authors spend lots of time to write these stories. If you took the time to read this PLEASE take the time to give them some feedback. Happy writers write more ;-)

Ariane - ariane_five@yahoo.com

To Dream Again

PART ONE - The Wish

PART TWO - The Beast

PART THREE - The Man

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