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Leto threw his lanky frame into a chair as a frustrated sigh forced itself through his lips. His gold-flecked jade eyes followed the bouncy slayer as she made her way through the room. There was enough energy and fire packed into her lithe frame to fuel six people...which meant watching her was more than a spectator sport.

“You are annoyingly optimistic sometimes, Alanna,” he griped. She gave him one of her blinding smiles, the kind that was as much in her eyes as it was in her face, and he felt the room spin away. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, her most striking feature being the burnt auburn hair cascading in a mess of curls she had long ago given up trying to tame; but she had a vivaciousness that made you look at her, remember her. She had a way of touching people, something intrinsic that encouraged and fostered an instinctive trust and good will. He’d seen her befriend the most jaded and abused street children, watched her step effortlessly into the good graces of the most suspicious criminal. She was genuine, completely honest--though she could deliver the most brutal news in a way that cushioned the blow if it suited her--and extremely intelligent. The twinkle in her deep brown eyes promised anyone she met an unforgettable time; he’d never met anyone who could forget Alanna. And she was scarily dangerous.

“He will wake up, Leto. You can’t put a time table on these things.” He’d also never met anyone as exceedingly optimistic as Alanna when she wanted something to happen.

“He’s been healed for weeks now. You know that the probability of someone waking up after the first week of a coma is--”

“Is a rule applicable to humans only. And he’s a vampire, remember? Nice light show on the hell mouth? City go boom boom?” Leto’s eyes narrowed at her flippancy.

“I remember. I remember you shoving your bleeding arm into that vampire’s mouth!”

“Oh, leave off!” She brushed him off like an annoying older brother. “I’m fine, not even a set of fang marks as souvenirs! Anyways, he may be physically healed, but mentally? Emotionally? That takes time.”

“Time? It’s been ages already! Even with your rather large...contribution.” He could feel a headache creeping up, the tension in his shoulders building. Spike needed to go ahead and wake up, and Alanna didn’t need to do stupidly reckless shit like shove a freshly cut arm into an unconscious vampire’s fangs.

“You do remember those...things...he was saying when we pulled him out, right? There’s no telling what he did, where he went, to survive. Though it obviously wasn’t someplace nice.” She laid a strong hand on his shoulder and began kneading away the tension she found there.

“You watched him too,” she murmured, her voice pitched soothing and low. “You know something of him. He’s hiding from reality, and I think he’s entitled to a little mental holiday. Goddess only knows what sort of tortures he came up with while buried under an entire city, drained to the point of dust. And all the shit he went through taking on the First?” She leaned over and wrapped comforting arms around him. “He’ll pull through. He has to.”

“I know. But he...I hate waiting. And six months is a long vacation Lenna.” For the first time he felt tension from the slayer.

“I know.”

*** *** ****** *** ****** *** ***

Spike sat at the edge of a serene pond watching the sun climb lazily in the sky. Well, more like it was just hanging in the sky as it never really went anywhere; it just stayed in the same spot merrily blazing away. The pond was set in the middle of a beautiful clearing completely surrounded by trees and dense underbrush. There wasn’t a way out, the undergrowth forming a fairly solid wall around the clearing, but he didn’t really care. It was nice here. The sun glittered off the clam surface of the water, a cool breeze causing the occasional wave. He was in no hurry to leave.

Spike sighed in pleasure and stretched out, letting the sun warm him. It was a perfect day, the kind Impressionist painters waited their whole lives for the chance to capture.

“I really am a hopeless ponce,” Spike groaned to himself. No self-respecting vampire thought about paintings and beautiful days. They were all about the night, the kill...the blood. They didn’t lounge at the side of a picturesque sun soaked ponds after they saved the soddin’ world. Seriously, what kind of vampire spent his eternity reading Yeats and Chaucer and dreaming about Monet?

“You do,” a cheery voice informed him.

Yep. A beautiful day, minus the incredibly annoying chit who insisted on ruining it. She kept popping up when he was most relaxed, most content. And she wouldn't leave. He growled menacingly when she started poking him incessantly in the arm.

“What the bleedin’ hell do you WANT?” he roared. He’d tried to ignore her the first few times and had been treated to several of the most horrible renditions of ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ ever inflicted on man kind.

“This isn’t about what I want. I have no wants. I am purely a creation of your imagination, so what I want is actually what you want, but you’re repressing what you want in favor of satiated complacency--“

“Now I know I had to have invented you,” Spike muttered sullenly.

“Satiated complacency,” she resumed with a glare, “AND if you were being honest with yourself in the first place, I wouldn’t even need to be here. Furthermore--“

“Would you bloody well shut up?!” There was no way in hell he had conjured up this ridiculously perky, overly-caffeinated version of Buffy. It reminded him of the Bot. He sent a sideways leer to the evil manifestation. “’sides, if I really made you up, you wouldn’t be talking. I can think of some much better uses for that mouth of yours!” Unlike the real Buffy, who would have gotten adorably defensive as her green eyes sparked with anger, this one just looked at him with a bemused smile. Which was highly irritating. “Furthermore, if I’m your creator and puppet master, why the HELL would I make you so bloody annoying?”

“I’m told bleach does odd things to the brain,” she said with a falsely innocent smile. Spike thought that if he clenched his teeth any harder he’d break a fang.

“Don’t you have something else to do? Other blokes to annoy? Psyches to return to? Oh! Here’s an idea! Go torment Peaches, make sure he doesn’t find that pesky moment of happiness!” Spike jumped to his feet and started to pace. Perky Buffy just gave him a patiently blank smile. If her plan was to annoy him out of this place, she was doing a damned good job. He was ready to start hacking at the thorns and vines that surrounded this little slice of paradise. He preferred the physical pain to the internal torment seeing this fake version of Buffy produced.

“Now Spike, is that any way to speak of your venerable grand-sire?” He glowered at her. Venerable his lilly white arse! That was it, he was done.

“I just want to get the fuck outta here and away from YOU!”

“No you don’t.” For the first time, mind numbing Buffy had taken on a serious tone, which commanded Spike’s undivided attention.

“What d’you mean ‘No I don’t.’ If I said I do, then I bloody well do.” He threw himself flat on the ground, grumbling about irksome know-it all dream people who didn’t actually exist. Buffy fluidly lowered herself next to Spike.

“You don’t. You know why? Because you’ve been able to leave since you got here. You know the way out. There’s only one path out,” she said, gesturing to the right. Spike clenched his teeth at the stupid, insistent bint. She was just as stubborn as the real Buffy and she was every bit as wrong; this place was surrounded by dense woods. There wasn’t a path! But despite his absolutely certainty, there, right before his eyes, was a rough deer trail leading away from his idyllic haven. He shook his head in denial, which earned a put-upon sigh from the blonde.

“You need to. No, you have to. You can’t stay here forever. You’re alive Spike! Well, alive in the undead sense of alive, but alive none the less. You have to go back. You were saved for a reason.” Her voice held a note of urgency that Spike fought hard to ignore. She reached out and touched his face, forcing him to look at her. His breath caught in his throat as he realized the mirage had been replaced. He knew with a certainty found only in dreams that he was looking at the real Buffy.

Her eyes were that confused hazel, not exactly certain of their color but closer to green than anything else, and they were filled with tears. She looked worn, there were bags under her eyes, and she had lost weight she had no business losing. The beautiful cascade of decadent gold he so fondly remembered was thin and matted. She looked unbelievably exhausted and world-weary; he just wanted to take her in his arms and let her sleep, protecting her from whatever was haunting her. His heart broke, and he achingly reached out for her. “I need you,” came the whispered plea. And she was gone.

He rolled onto his back with a how of frustration. Bugger. Love’s bitch, thy name is Spike.

It was time to leave.

*** *** ****** *** ****** *** ***

Buffy woke up with a start, her breath coming in rapid bursts. She’d been having another nightmare about Sunnydale, those last moments with Spike. Every night was different, because every night she saved him...only to have him ripped from her arms again by some unseen force. She would wake up shivering and cold, sweat pasting the sheets to her body, and cry until she couldn’t any more, heaving sobs wracking her undernourished frame. But this time, it had been different.

She’d stayed with Spike, in the cavern, the fire from their hands traveling through them both until they were covered in it. She’d felt herself expand, merging with Spike, her physical body only a brief and insignificant memory. She’d felt whole and complete, but most important, she’d felt SPIKE. He was there, with her, part of her. And suddenly she’d been beside him, in a beautiful clearing with a dazzling pond. And it had been him, she was sure of it. No spell could ever duplicate the wealth of emotions she saw in those expressive blue eyes when he looked at her. She knew he could see her pain, see her misery; because life wasn’t the same without him. She wanted to grab him and hold on tight, to yell and cry and remind him that he promised he would never leave her...but all she managed was a strangled plea, a hopeful request that he would return. And his eyes, they looked so forlorn and tortured, but underneath it all was the overwhelming love he’d always felt for her. She’d held her breath when he’d reached for her, but the scene faded into darkness, and she woke up.

Buffy felt the last tenuous threads of her hope slip away that night, but couldn’t find any tears. This loss, this utter emptiness, was beyond simple human means of expression.

*** *** ****** *** ****** *** ***

He was in Hell. Everything hurt, his feet felt like they were going to fall off any second, and he was out of breath. He hadn’t been out of breath in over a hundred and twenty years. A few miles back, the rules had changed on him. His progress became sluggish and difficult, and he felt as if he wasn’t making any process. Spike stopped climbing and looked up at the road winding up the side of an impossibly high mountain.

“Stupid bloody fucking mental metaphors!” he ground out. He petulantly sat on a rock and crossed his arms. He was done. No more walking. He was seriously regretting leaving that pond right now. Except the vision of Buffy, so thin and pale, kept hounding him.

“How ya doin’ stranger?” That voice made him sink further into his sulk. Bloody fabulous. “Awe, you’re absolutely adorable when you’re pouting!”

“Oi! I do not pout,” he ground out. “’M evil. Evil does not pout and bloody well isn’t adorable!” He got up started walking purposefully away from the irritatingly perky voice. If he'd needed motivation, he'd found it. No luck, she was dodging his footsteps and moving easier than he was.

“Oh come on! Pouting is totally cute! Brooding is squicky. That’s Angel’s gig. You’re all “Oh, grrr, Slayer, I’m going to tell you blunt truths in my devilishly sexy British accent and then try to kill you!” Well, not so much with the killing parts anymore--I mean, you never tried THAT hard and you kinda saved the world--though pretending could be fun and--“

“Bloody hell you daft bint! Will you please shut the FUCK up? I’m trying to walk here!” The footsteps behind him stopped. Spike glanced over to see imaginary Buffy in full out pout, her eyes filling with giant crocodile tears. Stupid bloody buggering Nancy boy that he was, he couldn’t even be mean to the fake Buffy in his own head.

“Pet, I’m sorry, I am a bad, rude man, and--“

“You so are, especially since I was gonna offer you a lift! But nnnnnnooooooo, you had to go and be all mean and snarky about it.”

“A lift? What do you mean a lift?”

“Well. Not so much a lift as a hint.” She smiled proudly at Spike, who merely looked at her expectantly. “What?”

“You planning on hinting at anything any time soon, luv?” Spike said with a disarming smile. Subconscious creation or not, letting this daft version of his beloved in on his increasing impatience wouldn’t get him out of this mess.

“Oh. Well. You seem to have this fixation on reaching the top of this mountain you put yourself on.” He looked at her blankly. “Geeze, what is it with guys? Not everything is a giant phallic-like obstacle that you need to overcome, Spike. You’re in your own head, the rules hardly apply here. Not that you actually follow the rules or anything. But come on! Think about it. Why has your progress reached a plateau?”

Spike thought his teeth might break. He really hated cryptic bullshit.

“This is not cryptic bullshit,” Buffy informed him haughtily, “this is the Socratic method.” His jaw was ticking. He spun around and began striding purposefully away from his tormentor.

“Did it ever occur to you that you’re already there? That you can stop walking and just...wake up? Stupid vampire...”

*** *** ****** *** ****** *** ***

Matilde liked to hum while she worked. It kept the overwhelming sadness she felt when she looked at the gaunt vampire lying lifelessly on the bed at bay. He was beautiful, despite the unavoidable thinness of his coma. She’d been assigned to tend him the day he’d been brought in, his body devastated beyond anything she’d ever witnessed. But he had healed, and over the months his body slowly emerged from the spelled healing casts that had surrounded him.

He was incredibly handsome, with his high aristocratic cheekbones and full lips. His curly hair, long and mostly light brown now, gave him a boyish air. She had to admit, he wore the bleached look well and had felt a pang of sadness when she’d given him his first haircut. But his body still lacked the fullness that only healthy muscle could instill. Even in a coma, he had a vibrancy about him that brought a smile to her old lips. Matilde just knew that when he was awake and animated he’d be bursting with life and energy. Of all the patients she’d cared for, this one got under her skin in a way none of the others had.

Humming something uplifting and cheerful, she pulled the sheet down to his waist and began gently sponging the pale slender form. He was much too skinny, she frowned, even with the copious amounts of blood they had been pumping into him intravenously. His ribs were poking through, and his stomach was almost concave.

She moved lightly over his torso, graduating to his extremities and down to his hands. She brushed the sponge over each of his long fingers. Piano player’s fingers, she thought absently as she brushed her sponge over his palm. Except her sponge wouldn’t move. She looked down in confusion, to see long slender fingers fisted tightly around her yellow sponge.

With a startled gasp, she glanced up at her comatose patient and was pinned by intensely blue eyes.

“Oh,” she breathed, completely and utterly entranced.





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