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Author's Chapter Notes:
With a big thanks to The Enemy of Reality for beta'ing.
The last thing William Pratt remembered, he’d been on a rail car, falling asleep with his wife in his arms. The carriage had rocked them gently over the long plain east of Denver.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but white expanse. He knew immediately that he had to be dreaming. Rushing towards him was an utterly unfamiliar young man. He wore most unusual clothes – an unnaturally colored jumper and strange, puffy shoes. The fellow waved his arms about excitedly and bore down on William, a steam train on full throttle. William braced himself for impact.

“Spike? Oh my god, Spike?” The man slowed only slightly, crashing into William and crushing him in a bear hug. William endured, but did not return the embrace. The fellow continued to grip him tightly, speaking more-or-less to William’s throat. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

When the man relaxed his grip at last, William took advantage of the respite and took a step back.

“Don’t you recognize me? It’s Andrew. You know? Andrew Wells? Tucker’s little brother. You have to know me. I recognize you and you don’t look much the same at all.”

William knew he needed to say something, so he extended his hand. “William Pratt, at your service. It’s a…uh, pleasure to meet you Mr. Wells.”

“Mr. Wells. Please. You make me sound like Orson, or H.G. It’s Andrew. Don’t you remember me, Spike? Don’t you remember any of it?”

William glanced at the man, unsure of how to proceed. Though it was clear to William that he was dreaming, this Wells fellow didn’t appear to have the same conviction.

The boy’s face fell. “You don’t, do you? They said you wouldn’t remember, but I couldn’t believe them.”

“They?”

“The Powers That Be,” Wells said, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to say.

“I rather think—” William felt foolish, explaining his situation to a character in a dream, then decided to continue. “I believe you have mistaken me for someone else. Or, rather, you’ve mistaken me for—well, myself but in another incarnation.” Perhaps if he continued speaking there was a diminished chance that Wells would sweep him into another hug – an activity that the young man seemed most anxious to engage in. “I’m William Pratt of London and the year is 1880.”

Unfortunately, Mr. Wells didn’t seem particularly thrown by that bit of information. “I thought as much. It would go a long way to explaining the clothes and the hair.” The man then reached out and touched a lock of William’s hair, causing William to take a step backwards. “It’s so brown and well— curly!”

“I say…” William began before Mr. Wells cut him off.

“But those cheekbones and those piercing blue eyes – I’d know you anywhere.”

“I’d rather like to wake up now.” William raised his voice and looked at the ceiling.

“It’s not a dream, silly man.” Mr. Wells giggled and shook his head. “Not exactly a dream. It’s something else. It’s a mission we’ve been tasked with. A very serious life or death time traveling kind of mission. I know to your Victorian mind this will seem like a most improbable event, but it’s like my ancestor H.G. Wells once wrote of – did I tell you I was related to H.G. Wells? – it is…” he waved his fingers in front of William’s eyes dramatically … “time travel!”

“I know about time travel, Mr. Wells.”

“As much as I like it when you call me that, I’m going to have to insist that you call me Andrew.”

“I am well versed in time travel, Andrew.”

Andrew brightened. “Well, that’s going to trim out a lot of extra footage then. Let’s just get right down to our mission then, shall we?”

“Our mission?”

“Yes, the reason you and I are here. We have been tasked with a duty which I have given a solemn oath to carry out.”

William simply looked at him. Taking the conversational lead hadn’t proved very effective. Perhaps if he stopped responding, the man would fade away and he could return to a more pleasant dream. One of he and Elizabeth, perhaps – picnicking, idling on the beach or engaging in more intimate pleasures.

“Well, strictly speaking,” Andrew continued, “I suppose you’re the one with the duty, as I would hardly fit the part. But I have an important role. I am the Samwise to your Frodo. Or since it’s a time traveling mission, your Rose Tyler.”

Andrew didn’t seem to notice that William was no longer paying attention. As the man continued to talk, William concentrated harder on Elizabeth – willing her into the dream.

“… which makes my role crucial. Because without my coaching, Buffy and all her friends will die.”

William coughed. “What?”

“Well, not to say that your part isn’t important too. It’s just that without me there, well, it would be like setting young Luke Skywalker loose in the cantina in Mos Eisley. No Obi Wan, no Han Solo – just Luke. How long do you think he’d—”

“I would much rather hear the part about ‘Buffy and all her friends will die?’”

“Oh.” Andrew gave him a tight lipped smile. “I thought that might get your attention. Same old Spike.”

William took a step toward the lad. “And what about that part?”

“Yeah, it’s like I said. We need to go back in time to fix something that’s gone wrong. Way back in time, for me. Though I suppose for you, it’s way forward.”

William ground his jaw, willing himself to be patient. “When will I be going back then? And what’s the bit about Buffy and death?”

“You’re going to 1997. To when you met Buffy for the very first time.”

“And why?”

“Because you messed up. Well Spike did. Or will. Or might.” Andrew gave a frustrated sigh. “I really don’t know how The Doctor keeps it straight in his head.”

“How about you tell me what I’m supposed to do now?” William asked. It might be a dream. He might be completely out of his head. But his experience with his otherworldly wife had made him cautious in these matters. He couldn’t afford to take this lightly.

“Look, I’ll give you the quick version.”

Thank Christ for that, William nearly groaned aloud.

“What was supposed to happen was this. Spike, you, were supposed to roar into town last night. Tonight you were supposed to threaten Buffy, get her all worked up about the Night of Saint Vigeous.”

“I’m understanding very little of what you’re saying. I caught “Buffy” and a few of the pronouns.”

Andrew gave William a look commonly reserved for particularly annoying relatives and new puppies. “Spike was supposed to come to town and warn Buffy about something - a vampire attack on the night of Saint Vigeous. Without Spike’s warning, she would have been unprepared for the attack and the outcome would have been— different. Bad.”

William nodded.

“Since Spike isn’t able to be here to warn her, you’re going to have to stand in for him.”

“Where is he? Why can’t he be where he’s supposed to be?”

“He got drunk and crashed his Desoto in Provo, Utah. He and Dru are holed up in a Body Shop while he threatens the workers into fixing his car.” Andrew shook his head. “From Provo to the Hellmouth. You sure know how to pick vacation spots, Spike.”

“I’m William, not Spike.”

“Don’t I know it, fella.” Andrew put his hands on his hips and surveyed William, toes to ears. “I certainly have my work cut out for me.”

“Your ‘work’ is—?”

“Changing you. Transforming you into someone who looks enough like Spike to put the scare into her. Warn her about St. Vigeous. No warning means an unprepared Slayer.” Andrew placed his hands on William’s shoulders and shook him. “You need to save her life. Once again, Sp—William, you must play the hero.”

“Well, that’s all— quite dramatic, isn’t it?”

Andrew nodded with enthusiasm.

William knew the whole thing was too incredible to be real. But in the back of his mind, a small doubt remained. If he were to do nothing while Buffy/Elizabeth was in danger, would be able to live with himself? Besides, he’d always been so curious about his life as Spike – what could it hurt to catch a glimpse of his other life? To see Elizabeth in her own time?

“I suppose we should proceed then.” William tugged on his hair. “Even though this is most likely a dream, I might as well go along with it. Attempting to resist you seems rather pointless.”

“Talk about ultimate makeover! You are going to be fabulous my friend.” Andrew clapped his hands together and grinned. “Chop chop. We need to get to it. I’ve got less than five hours to turn you from beta-Giles into a sexy, slinking vampire. I’ve got to get the jump on you— on it— I mean.”

~*~

Breaking into the hair salon had been disappointingly easy. Andrew only had to smash the small window by the back and reach through to unlock the door. For a business on the seedy side of Sunnydale, he’d have thought they’d have better security.

Though Andrew had never been inside the ‘Curl Up and Dye’ while he lived in Sunny-D, he felt a strange sense of nostalgia now that he was there. He surveyed the back room for supplies he would need. A few ‘People’ magazines lay scattered on the side table. ‘Hollywood’s Happy Couples!’ shouted the issue on top. It featured a beaming Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.

“Oh Nicole. How naive you were, we all were.” Andrew shook his head.

There was a cassette-radio combination unit on the counter. He switched it on. When he turned the dial to 97.8 (The Sound of Sunnydale!) a wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he caught his breath.

“If you want my future, forget my past. If you wanna get with me, better make it fast.”

Andrew sang along as he scanned the shelf for peroxide. His hips swung to the music.

“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want…” He sang, casting a glance over to He Who Was Not Yet Spike. The Englishman looked at him like he was on display in a particularly disturbing medical exhibit.

“I really really really wanna zig-a-zig-ah.” Andrew found a large bottle of peroxide and right behind it, a spray bottle. Perfect.

“Ginger was really so misunderstood.” Andrew pointed at the chair next to the sink. “Take a seat.”

William sat cautiously and watched Andrew with suspicious eyes. “Would you mind very much adjusting the sound?”

“The music?” Andrew was mystified. “Not a Spice Girls fan?”

“Girls? That sound emulates from girls?”

“It’s only the number seven song from 1997.” Andrew sighed and switched off the radio. As much as this man might appear to be Spike on the outside, William didn’t have an ounce of party attitude.

“We really should condition first, but time being short, we’ll have to make do.” Andrew unscrewed the cap of the bottle and held the spray bottle over the sink while he filled it. The scent of peroxide saturated the room and William looked at him with alarm.

“Oh, I totally know what I’m doing,” Andrew assured. “I used to give myself highlights all the time.”

“And it’s critical that I put this chemical into my hair? Its scent is rather … disturbing.”

“It’s key to your look, but I have an idea. Back in a sec, big fella.” Still holding the bottle of peroxide, Andrew slipped to the shop’s small kitchen. A tidy container of sweeteners sat next to the coffee pot. He thumbed through them until settling on the ‘Sweet N Low.’ It wouldn’t take all the sting out of the process, but it would help. He tore open a packet and poured it into the peroxide bottle. Then, for good measure, he tore open the remaining packs and added those as well.

When he reentered the room, William was waiting, head perched over the sink. Andrew gathered a few clips from the shelf and began pinning back large sections of William’s hair.

“We’re set now. Give me a few minutes and you’ll be transformed. You’re in good hands. No worries!”

William eyed him warily, as trusting as a father on Prom Night.

~*~

Andrew dabbed at William’s head with a towel. He’d rinsed off the chemicals, but William’s scalp still stung terribly. “And it’s supposed to burn like this, is it?”

“Um hmm,” Andrew hummed. “You know, with a little styling gel, I could work a miracle here.”

William took the towel from Andrew’s hand. “I believe my hair has been handled quite enough.”

“Fine then,” Andrew said. “It’ll have to do.” He handed William a stack of neatly folded clothes – all black. A large pair of clunky work boots sat atop the pile. “Time for the pièce de résistance.”

“And this is?” William asked.

“Your clothes, silly. Think of it as your superhero costume.”

“Good lord.”

“Yes. You look absolutely yummy in it.”

William could think of no response to that. Andrew watched him, wearing a faintly disturbing smile.

“So,” William hemmed, “I should just change, then?”

“Yes. Get to it, my dear man.”

“And you’re going to watch, are you?”

“Well, no. Not if you don’t want me to. Sheesh.” Andrew stepped through the door into the main part of the shop. “I was just trying to be helpful, but if you’re going to be all modest about it…never mind.”

The door closed behind him and William began to unbutton his shirt.

“You know, Spike didn’t have a shy bone in his body,” Andrew’s voice sounded from behind the door. “It was an honest mistake.”

Deciding that the less said the better, William quickly shed his shirt, undershirt and pants. After placing them on the bed, he sorted through the curious pile that Andrew left behind. The black shirt was made of a stretchy material and required no buttons. He slipped it over his head. The trousers were somewhat more troubling. They clung to his legs like a second skin and it took a bit of work to slide into them. Once they were on, they fastened together with a metal contraption that looked a great deal more like teeth than he felt comfortable with. Especially so close to his personal region. He worked out the device quickly enough and although the trousers were uncomfortably tight, at least he had managed to dress himself without assistance.

He wove a black leather belt under the loops on his trousers, fastening it with very little trouble. The workmen’s boots were of a simple design and laced up easily. The final item was a large coat, made of leather. He shrugged into it.

He had to admit it – the coat felt amazing. Like it was part of him, but something more. Like armor. When he moved, it fluttered about his calves like a cape.

“Are you ready?” Andrew called through the door. “We don’t really have all night and we have to go over some things before we get to The Bronze, you know.”

On his way to the door, William snuck a quick glance in the mirror behind the sink. He stopped dead in his tracks. With the glowing white hair, the black, swirling coat – he looked entirely different. He looked— well, rather like a big, bad man. He grinned at the strange reflection and the man in black smiled back.

Wasn’t this just — something else?

William paused a moment at the door. It was latchless, as seemed to be the fashion in this time. After a moment’s thought, he gave the large metal knob a twist and the door swung open.

“Oh look at you,” Andrew squealed. “You look fabu—I mean dangerous. You look fabulous and dangerous. Faburous.”

William reached a nervous hand up to tug on his hair and found a lock of foreign, brittle hair. It felt strangely sticky and he slowly lowered his hand, stuffing it in the pocket of his excessively voluminous coat.

“So, my appearance is correct? You think that Buffy would believe me to be Spike?”

Andrew flashed him a weak smile. “As long as you don’t say anything.” As William stepped back to allow him entrance to the room, Andrew added. “Or move. You’ve got the look but you need to walk the walk. Talk the talk.”

Andrew clasped his hands in front of him. “You need — the attitude. The swagger. Here, turn around.” He spun his index finger in the air. “Walk across the room for me.”

William bit the inside of his cheek at the lad’s command. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. He took a deep breath and walked toward the door.

“Yeah.” Andrew’s voice dripped with disappointment.

“So, what’s to be done?”

“You need to sort of…” Andrew raised his eyes to the ceiling, recalling a memory. “A kind of slink and stride at the same time. Like this…” Andrew thrust his pelvis forward and began to move across the room. His hips swayed boldly and his feet clomped down in heavy thuds. Once he reached the door, he spun around and looked at William expectantly. “Your turn.”

“I feel rather silly.”

Andrew winced. “Best to leave the word ‘silly’ out of your vocab for now. The word ‘rather’ too, while you’re at it.”

William clenched his jaw. “Right.” Mimicking the strange young man, he began to walk across the room, taking care to swing his hips and tromp his boots heavily.

“Less with the stomping and more with the slinking. And your hips, William. A slight sway, not full on hula-hoop action.”

When William reached the door, Andrew quirked a disappointed smile. “It’s not so much about the walk as it is the attitude behind the walk. You’ve got to lead with your groin.”

Andrew placed his hands on either side of William’s hips and pulled them forward. The way the fellow kept laying his hands on William’s person was most alarming and William shot him his best dirty look.

“You’ve got to walk into the room knowing that every single person in the room would kill to be with you.”

“Kill? To be with me? Every person?”

Andrew nodded with absolute conviction.

“You’ve got to sell it, William. You’ve got to walk into that room like you know you are sex on legs.”

William coughed. He tried to say ‘good lord’ or even an ‘oh my god’ but all he could manage was, “uhh.”

“Maybe we should concentrate more on the standing and lurking and less on the moving. How hard can that be?”

William knew it was rhetorical, but he wanted to answer that he had every confidence that Andrew could likely make it very difficult indeed.

“When you stand,” Andrew said, “you have to project confidence. To quote her eminence, Madonna, you have to ‘strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.”

What scriptures was he quoting from? Surely the Mother of Christ had never said anything of the kind. William was beginning to think that the man was unhinged. Or possibly William was, to have dreamt him up in the first place.

“Like this.” Andrew leaned back against the wall. His legs were spread wide apart and his hands had gripped onto his waistband in an awkward fashion. He tilted his chin to the side and nodded at William in an extremely haughty manner. “Now you do that. Copy me.”

William sighed. “Very well.” He leaned back against the wall. Once he’d positioned himself, he remembered to spread his legs far apart and nearly fell over in the process. He tilted his head toward the odd young man and gave him his best pugilist glare – the one he reserved for facing particularly formidable opponents at his club.

Andrew gave a happy yelp and William couldn’t help but grin.

“You’ve almost got it!” the boy shouted. “But you’re forgetting one thing. Come on Will – what is it?”

“My hands!” William remembered in an instant. “I’m to place them in my waistband, for some unfathomable reason.” He placed his hands on his hips, feeling awkward.

Andrew shook his head and tssked – a teacher being patient with a thick pupil. “Not like that. Like this.” He demonstrated again, and William attempted to copy him, moving his hands towards the front of his trousers.

Andrew shook his head and stepped in front of William. “No, no, no. It’s not about putting your hands on your pants, it’s about framing your junk.”

“Framing my — I beg your pardon?”

“Your junk,” Andrew repeated without shame. He cast a long look directly at William’s crotch. “Thumbs at the belt buckle and fingers pointed downwards – calling attention to your…”

“My personal region?” William asked in horror.

“Is that what you call yours? I always called mine ‘Larry’.” Andrew smiled at him. “If it’s too difficult, I could always place your hands there myself.

“No!” William gasped. “No, thank you. I can quite manage on my own.” He copied Andrew’s hands precisely.

Andrew rewarded him with a smile and a nod. “You’ve got it! Now we’ll just work on smirking and leering for a few minutes and we can work on your voice.”

“My voice too?”

“Yup. And we’ve got to be at The Bronze soon. We’d better get cracking.”

William snuck a glance to the ceiling and murmured just under his breath. “I’d still really like to wake up now, if it’s all the same to you.”

~*~



*Thus endeth Act One*





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