It was a long, uncomfortable ride home with Giles, and a long, uncomfortable supper with her mom, trying to come up with likely-sounding studying scenarios to explain why she'd had to go to the library. After today's rollercoaster ride of adrenaline, pain, and shame, falling into sleep was far easier than Buffy had expected. She crawled into bed before nine, and was out the minute she laid her head on the pillow.

Hours later, on her way to bed, Joyce paused to look in at her daughter. Given over completely to sleep, her hands curled beneath her chin, she looked so much like a little girl that, for a moment, Joyce felt a thrill of longing for those days when she and Hank and Buffy were a family, instead of a collection of strangers who shared the same house. She lingered in the doorway, the familiar ache twisting inside her. Then, sadly, she made her way down the hall to her own bedroom, and closed the door behind her.

***

Tap-tap-tap. She could hear someone at the window. In the tree, outside, she could see a shadow, the dark outline of a man. She ran to the window, opened it wide. "Angel?" she breathed.

"No," Spike said. He crouched in the branches, his hair wild, eyes intent on her. "Let me in."

"No," she whispered.

"Slayer. Let me in."

"No. You can't."

"Too late," said his voice in her ear. He was leaning close, his lips just grazing her skin.

She shivered. "It's just because you're cold," she said. She moved forward then, away from his mouth and his grasping fingers on her arms and his weight pressing on her back. Moved closer to the window, looking down to see a great muddy grave that yawned and fell forever into the dark earth below.

"You don't have to jump," he said.

"There's nowhere else to go," she told him, gesturing behind her to the blank wall where the doorway used to be.

"Look, Slayer." Spike pointed to the mirror, and she saw herself, surrounded by doorways, and each open to a mystery. Beside her, a small man with mousy curls reached out to touch her shoulder, tentatively. And then, he turned and stared out of the mirror into her face, and he had Spike's eyes and he spoke with Spike's voice: "Down the rabbit hole."

Buffy looked at Spike, half in shadow by her side, said "What do you want, Spike?"

He circled her for a moment, coming to rest opposite her, fingertips brushing her throat. "You know what I want."

"To kill me."

He moved closer, bent his head to her ear. "Not anymore," he whispered.

Buffy woke, shivering. Oh, no. Another one. She couldn't get warm, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. It's just because you're cold, she thought. What the hell did it mean? She was so confused, nearly in tears from the waves of – loneliness? relief? – that she brought with her out of her dream. Just a dream. Not real. Doesn't matter how much it seemed like another one of those. It was nothing.

She got up and took two, then three, hesitant steps towards the window, and threw open the curtains. The shape was there – oh, god, her dream! She yelped and stumbled backwards, shouting "No!"

"Buffy?" The figure leaned forward, and she realized with relief that it was Angel. "Buffy, are you ok?"

She opened the window for him to come in. "Sorry! You scared me – I had a nightmare, that's all. I just didn't expect to see you."

Buffy let herself be drawn into his embrace, tilting up her face for a kiss. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to see you, make sure you were all right." He brushed his hands lightly over her back, her hair. That was nice. He always knew how to make her feel loved, safe, secure. She snuggled closer.

"I'm glad you did. Now you can tell me it's just a dream, and tuck me in and kiss me goodnight." She smiled to herself. Did I just say that out loud?

"I mean, it's much better than me prowling around eating ice cream because I'm too scared to go back to sleep." She walked them backwards to the bed, and sat down, pulling Angel with her. Kissed him again, softly, smiling against him.

"Buffy. I have to go." Angel moved Buffy's hands from his shoulders, and stood up.

She stared at him in irritation. "Go? I haven't seen you in days! Can't you stay just a little while? We can just talk..."

"I-I can't. Goodnight, Buffy."

And he was gone, leaving Buffy to stare dumbly after.

Well, this sucked. Freaky dreams about her mortal enemy being turned on by her, and a boyfriend who was apparently turned off by her. She frowned, angry. Well, who cared about him, anyway? She got up and began pulling out clothes. She was going patrolling. She really needed to slay something.

Dressed and ready, she swung her leg over the sill, and paused, remembering the yawning pit from her dream. Involuntarily, her gaze flicked to the mirror. She saw only herself reflected back. Down the rabbit hole, my ass, she thought. Tucking her stake in her waistband, she climbed down and headed out into the dark.

***

Spike hurriedly loaded the car with booze before he took off. He doubted that anyone called the police, but the toadies might be back with friends any minute, and he didn't fancy his chances against an angry mob right this second. He climbed back behind the wheel and roared away, not really paying attention to where he was going. Christ, he reeked - of rotting blood, spunk, and - he sniffed delicately - he was pretty sure the big guy had pissed himself while Spike was on him. There was no way he was going back to the warehouse like this. His expression darkened. Especially like this. It wasn't as if they'd know, but he didn't want the minions yapping about it behind his back. He pushed the thought away from him. He didn't need to think about it. It was nothing. Not real. Meant nothing that he was humping his goddamned food while he dreamed about fucking the Slayer.

He jerked the car to the side of the road, and lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. What the hell was wrong with him? He reached into the backseat for a bottle of Johnny Walker and took a long pull. It was just because Dru was sick, he told himself. Cause she's so weak and you can't shag right now. You shagged Dru last night. So much for that excuse. He took another long drag from his cigarette. No, it was just because she got so hot, because she smelled (so damn good) like a bitch in heat. He thought back to her, sitting in the window, tanned thigh shoved over, skirt so short he could see all the way up.... His mouth tightened, and he threw the butt out the window, slammed the car into gear, and stomped on the accelerator. He'd show her. He didn't want anything from that bitch except her blood.

He drove fast, white-knuckled on the wheel, scanning the roadside. There must be a fleabag motel around here, somewhere.....ah.

The only person stirring was a stoned desk clerk who sat behind bulletproof glass and a locked door. No finesse, no fight - Spike wrenched the door open and snapped his neck. Stupid bastard didn't even look up from his program. Spike stuffed the body under the desk, and closed the door again, walking in the back to look around. He figured he'd get a key and shower in one of the rooms, but behind the office was an efficiency apartment, bed, kitchenette, laundry area. He peeled off his clothes and tossed them in the washer, then stood at the sink, wiping down his coat. Shit. He needed some leather cleaner, and it was a safe bet that the moron out front didn't own any. Spike frowned at the half-ass cleaning job, but it would have to do. For now.

He climbed into the shower, hoping to wash away the sickness he felt along with the blood. This was so wrong, so wrong. But he knew how to put it right.