As The Romans Do
Helga Von Nutwimple

19. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

"Care for an hors d'oeuvre, milady?"

Buffy looks up in shock; the waiter is dressed in period clothing, as is everyone around her... it's like a scene from Titanic or something, except, y'know, no Leonardo, which is really a shame.

She tries to speak, and realizes her lungs aren't working properly; a moment later, she connects that with the deep pressure around her ribs.

A corset. She's wearing a corset.

Okay, this thing's gotta go. No way can she kick ass in this. Not to mention the, like, seventy-five pounds of clothing she's wearing.

Sheesh. No wonder women back then fainted so much.

"Oh, quickly!" says a voice behind her. "I'm the very spirit of vexation."

Xander?

He's sitting on a little couch, his hair long and in a ponytail, little spectacles perched on the end of his nose, dressed up like Benjamin Franklin. She'd laugh, but somehow, this isn't funny at all... it's more like the part of the movie where the stupid co-ed walks down the hallway alone and the screechy violins start.

"What's another word for 'gleaming'? It's a perfectly perfect word as many words go but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see."

Whoa. Check out Xander channeling Hugh Grant...

As she watches, Xander phases in and out, his hair lightening and darkening again, his face replaced by Spike's, only... Spike's hair isn't blonde at all, it's a sort of reddish-brown, it's...

The color that was growing in down in the basement. His real hair color.

Weird...

Ugh. Stupid Slayer dreams. Who else is here?

Buffy rises, wincing again at the pressure of the corset, doing a slow patrol around the room. She sees familiar faces, but not loved ones; Harmony Kendall, human again, laughing snottily beneath a massive pile of hair. Principal Snyder, Mitch Fargo, Mashad Bolling, Amber Grove, Larry Blaisedale... ugh, ugh, ugh.

So this isn't a Slayer dream at all, then. It's that dream, the one where she's humiliated in front of everyone she hated in high school... only, shouldn't she be naked by now?

And if it's everyone she hated in high school... where's Cordelia?

Oh. There she is.

Coming down a flight of stairs, her hair elaborately done, floating in her little cloud of snootiness... and oh, of course everyone's turning to look at her, she's Queen Cordelia, isn't she?

And over trots Xander, drawn to her like a moth to flame. Typical.

Xander's here, Cordy's here... so where's Willow?

Is she...

The pressure on her ribs, the weight of her clothing gives way, and Buffy is suddenly aware that she's moved in space; she's looking up at Snyder, looming over her, holding a sheet of paper in his hand.

"Don't be shy, Summers," Snyder laughs, that horrible, tittering little laugh of his, his beady eyes dancing with barely suppressed glee.

There's a paper in Snyder's hand, one that is clearly giving him a huge happy. Her latest report card? Paperwork for her expulsion?

Snyder holds up the paper to read aloud, condescension dripping from every syllable, hamming it up for the crowd. "My heart expands/'tis grown a bulge in it/inspired by your beauty, effulgent."

The words are unknown, the plummeting, nauseous motion of her stomach all too familar.

And they're all laughing, laughing at her... she's surrounded by their contorted faces, their too-wide eyes, their mouths full of too many teeth. Harmony's snorting, one pink-tipped hand over her mouth, and Buffy feels the familiar pain, everyone thinking she was a freak, no one understanding who she really was, what she'd gone through... assuming things, judging her...

Oh, yes, she's had this dream before. Minus the frillies, more with the naked.

"Effulgent," Snyder repeats, like it's the punchline to a hilarious joke, and everyone laughs that much harder.

Kick their asses. She's going to kick absolutely every inch of their asses. Buffy's hands curl into fists, preparing to throw the first punch...

And she realizes something's wrong; her Slayer strength is gone.

There's no way she can fight them, no way she can win. There's nothing she can do. She's utterly helpless.

Frustration wells up within her, the urge to strike out blindly...

She settles for reaching up and ripping the sheet of paper out of Snyder's hands.

"And that's actually one of his better compositions," Larry laughs.

"Have you heard?" Harmony titters. "They call him 'William the Bloody' because of his bloody awful poetry!"

Snyder smiles broadly. "It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!"

Wait a minute. William the Bloody? Railroad spike?

Where the hell is she?

And suddenly, she's a spectator again, a little wave of nausea pulling at her stomach as she shifts, the pressure and weight back on her, watching Xander as he follows Cordelia over to a small sofa.

"Cordelia?" Xander says hesitantly, and Buffy wants to run over to him, push him away from her, tell him not to bother, she's not worth it, Xander's so much better than he suspects, so good, so brave...

Cordelia lets out one of her patented long-suffering sighs. "Oh. Leave me alone."

Things are phasing in and out again; for an instant, Buffy is on the couch, and Cordelia has been replaced with... Parker? Xander flashes with Spike, Cordelia flashes with someone vaguely familiar...

"Your... poetry," Cordelia says, in the same tones she'd discuss stretchy stirrup pants, "It's... they're... not written about me, are they?"

And, oh God, the pain on Xander's face, the dumb-puppy supplication, and how Buffy wants to grab him by the lapels, haul him out of here, tell him he doesn't deserve this...

"They're about how I feel," Xander says earnestly.

It's too pathetic, it's horrible, she can't watch, it hurts, poor Xander...

"Yes," the familiar brunette says, and Buffy knows she's seen her before, can't place her... "But are they about me?"

"Every syllable," Spike replies.

"Oh, God!"

Buffy turns, and it's not Cordelia, it's not the brunette, it's not Parker... the cruel woman in white is her now, her lip curled in disgust.

"Oh, I know... it's sudden and..." Spike looks near tears, and Buffy's heart wrenches. "Please, if they're no good, they're only words but... the feeling behind them... I love you, Buffy."

The other her scoffs. "You don't have a soul. There's nothing good or clean in you. You're dead inside. You can't feel anything real, Spike. I could never be your girl."

Spike's face contorts in pain, but he hasn't given up yet. "I know I'm a bad poet. But... I'm a good man... a-and all I ask is that... that you try to see me..."

"I do see you," the other Buffy says in disgust. "That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me."

And she sees the words cut him, sees his horrified face, as he flashes from Spike to Xander to Willow and back to Spike, each face in excruciating pain, and finally her, the blue of Spike's eyes fading to the green of her own, the tears remaining.

"You had fun? Was that all it was?" the other her whispers, chin trembling.

"What else was it supposed to be?" Parker says casually.

"What?"

And it is Angelus who looks back at her. "You got a lot to learn about men, kiddo. Although I guess you proved that last night."

And he walks off, fading back into the brunette.

Spike sits, his horrible poem in his hands, watching her go...

And it's dark. Utterly, completely dark. She reaches out and touches wood, a few inches from her face. The air is stale, heavy and thick with decay.

She bites back a scream. She knows this nightmare. She's lived it.

She's back in her coffin.

But something's changed; the padding, the lining, she once had to rip through are gone. She touches only wood, even closer to her face than usual, even more claustrophobic than the one in her normal nightmares, and oh God, she's so hungry...

And... her Slayer strength is back.

Buffy punches through the coffin lid, kicking out with her feet, the wood splintering, dirt falling on her face, collapsing in all around her, surrounding her, weighing her down, and oh God she has to get out she has to get out...

She knows this, has done it, has done it a million times more in the nightmares that still haunt her. She claws through the dirt, one hand sticking out into the night air...

Which someone grabs. Someone cold.

This doesn't happen.

She is being yanked through the earth as if she weighed nothing, like being born...

She opens her dirt-crusted eyes, and sees Drusilla... who claps her hands in delight.

Buffy looks down at her torn, bleeding hands, shutting her eyes against the familiar sight.

When she opens them again, she sees Angel.

"Get up, boy," he says, his Irish accent thick, his hair long and wild around his face. "We're havin' an little excursion."

She is frozen in place. Oh, God. Those eyes. Angelus...

He backhands her across the face. "I said, get up. I can't fix what Dru's buggered, but I can teach y'the way of it. We'll make somethin' of you yet, Willy."

"But Angelus, you said he could be mine," Drusilla whines from somewhere beyond her vision.

She hears a slap, the crunch of bone. Drusilla laughs, high and deranged.

"He's not ready for you yet, Dru. Wants a bit of tenderizing, he does. Don't want to be unwrappin' your gifts before Christmas, now do ye?"

"Oh, I like Christmas," she giggles...

Black.

There is a resounding crack, and a white-hot line of pain flares across her back. She is manacled to a support beam. Everything hurts. The smell of blood is everywhere, and it's driving her insane. She's so weak. So hungry.

"Why'm I doin' this, Willy?"

"I don't know," Buffy stutters.

"You knew a lick ago. Forgettin' so soon? Why'm I doin' this, Willy?"

The lash hits her back again. She arches and screams.

"Why'm I doin' this, Willy?"

"I don't know!"

"What did you try to do, Willy?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, take a look, then! And see how useless your disobedience was."

Angel grabs her by the throat, twisting sharply, and... oh, god, she feels her neck break, feels the vertebrae shatter. No longer able to hold her head up, Angel points it in the direction he wants it.

The blood-drenched corpses of Xander, Willow, Giles, and Dawn are heaped on the floor, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Drusilla crawls over them, propping them up, arranging them.

"Pretty dollies," Drusilla muses, grabbing Dawn's body by the throat and examining it. Dawn's sightless eyes are open, empty, yet seem to stare directly at Buffy. "This one looks like you, Willy."

"They all look like him, Dru," Angelus laughs. "Wouldn't they?"

Drusilla grabs Dawn's lower jaw in her other hand, moving it up and down like a ventriloquist's dummy in time to her words. "Hullo, Willy. Would you like to have tea with me?"

"Don't break her mouth, Dru," Angelus says, and the look he gives Buffy burns with dark insinuations. "I think I'll be usin' that first. And I'm sure Willy here wants to watch, so... why don't you play with him awhile?"

Buffy's broken neck sags abruptly as Angelus lets go of it. It is only in her peripheral vision that she sees Angelus begin to unbutton his trousers.

Dark again.

She is lying on her stomach, naked, so weak she can barely move, can barely blink. When she tries to adjust her position, she hears a noise like ripping.

She is glued to the mattress with her own dried blood.

She hears a creak, the mattress sagging beneath a great weight, a man moving over her.

Angelus.

And Buffy screams for a second before his hand claps roughly over her mouth, his other hand on her hip, pressing her deeper into the mattress.

"Don't worry, Willy," he whispers. "It'll hurt much less once you start to bleed."

Black.

She is curled in a corner, still naked, whimpering, hog-tied. Darla uses a hand mirror to play with the sun's rays through the window, reflecting them onto Buffy's body, twisting and turning the mirror so she never catches fire... just burns all over.

Darla looks bored.

"I don't see why you bother, darling," Darla sighs. "Just stake him. We'll make Dru a new playmate, and we'll do it properly this time."

"She's attached to this one," Angelus groans in disgust. "We'll never hear the end of her whinin'."

"So stake her."

"Aww, Darla," Angelus laughs. "Might ye be a wee bit jealous?"

"Jealous? Of a madwoman who can't even sire a fledgling properly? What is he? Besides repulsive?"

"Don't know, my death." Angelus wraps his arms around Darla's waist from behind, nuzzles his head into her shoulder. "But he'll be one of us, when I'm done w'him."

Flash.

And it is bright; she is staring into a parlor window, lit from within. There are people inside, warm and soft and full of blood, their heartbeats thunder in her ears... and the hunger cramps her gut, nearly twists her in two.

A hand on her shoulder. Angelus.

She turns; the other three are right behind her. Drusilla looks worried, eager, concerned; Darla, irritated; Angelus, unreadably intense.

"Why are we here, Willy?" Angelus asks.

"Vengeance," Buffy hears herself say.

"And what is vengeance then, Willy?"

"It is an art form."

Oh God, the hunger, it's ripping her apart...

"An' you know what they say about great art, Willy," Angelus smiles. "Need the proper tools. Do ye have the proper tools for this job, Willy?"

"I have the proper tools for this job," Buffy replies woodenly, holding up the stake in her hand.

No, no... not a stake...

A railroad spike.

Flash.

And the killing is glorious.

No longer weak, no longer frail, with the nagging, bloody cough she'd picked up from Mother and her never-calloused fingers, some days too tired from the sickness even to hold a pen. She is filled with power, flushed with it, drunk on it, and it is them, the laughing ones, the tormenting ones, who are weak now. They fly across the room at the touch of her fist; they rip like paper.

One by one, they pay for the way they have made her feel, pay for every second of pain they have caused her, pay for their laughter, pay for their looks, pay for their insinuations, pay for the little jokes made just loud enough that she could hear them.

They scream, and it is music. They sob, and it is ambrosia. The pain in their eyes is the only mirror she will ever be able to see herself in.

She drinks their blood, plays in it, writes with it -- perhaps they'll like these writings better? Perhaps these will be more to their taste?

The drawing room becomes an abattoir, a slaughterhouse, a masterpiece. She repeats their hurtful words back to them, rejoicing in their fear.

Fear is respect.

Respect is love.

She has learned this well.

She hears footsteps and whirls; they stand in the doorway. Drusilla is delighted, clapping her black-gloved hands together.

"Oh, Willy, my Willy! What a lovely mess you've made!"

And Angelus smiles, surveying the room slowly. He touches Darla's cheek. "See, darlin'? I think our little problem's all taken care of. And to think you didn't trust me."

Buffy stands, drenched in blood, metal spike still gripped in her hand, gaping at them.

"Why don't you put that down, Pet? Doesn't suit."

She whirls... and it is Spike that addresses her, the real Spike, the now Spike, Spike of peroxide and duster and whiskey and Marlboros. He leans against the doorway, surveying the scene dispassionately, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"Spike..." she breathes.

"Must say, love, I'm impressed." He kicks aside a corpse with the toe of his boot. "Don't think even I was quite this vicious. Issues, Slayer. You've got definite issues."

"I only have half a soul, Spike."

"Found that out, did you? Bit o' demon and half a soul. Quite the fence-straddler."

"I'm so confused. I don't understand any of this."

"Well, that's what you lot get for pokin' around in my brain, innit?" Spike grins up at her, his old familiar grin, the one that says he's teasing. "Bloody disrespectful of a bloke's privacy, if y'ask me."

"You lied to me."

"Well, yeah... I'm evil, remember?"

"When you told me about getting turned..."

"Oh, right, that. You thought I wanted you to know what a great poncy poof I'd been? Bloody hell, woman, you teased me enough as it was without knowin' about William the Bloody Wanker."

The room begins to shake, and Spike turns his face up to the ceiling. "Speakin' of great poncy poofs..."

-------------------------------------

"Buffy," Angel commanded, shaking her shoulders harder. "You're having a nightmare. Wake up."

"M-maybe it's a Slayer dream," Willow suggested. "It's kinda hard to wake her up from those."

"Buffy," Angel repeated, "Buffy, c'mon..."

Buffy's eyes flew open at the same moment her arms flew up between his, pushing outward to knock his hands from her shoulders, her leg rising to sweep him from the bed. Angel landed on the floor with a painful thump as Buffy nimbly rolled off the other side of the bed, rising in fighting stance, fists up, chest heaving.

"Well. Good morning to you, too," Angel groaned, hauling himself to his feet. "I'm starting to understand why you went through alarm clocks so fast."

"Get away from me, Angelus!"

"Oh. That kind of nightmare. Buffy, honey, it's me. Angel. Not Angelus. Human? Heartbeat? Really sore ass, as of about ten seconds ago?"

"Y-you k-killed Dawn..."

Willow took a tentative step towards the freaked-out Slayer. "Dawnie's fine, Buffy. Remember? She's with Spike."

"Spike," Buffy whispered. "Oh, God. I thought if I went to sleep, it would stop..."

Angel turned to Willow. "What is she talking about?"

"I, uh... I kinda went black-eyed yesterday and passed her more memories than she asked me for..."

Angel paled. "Spike's memories?"

"Yeah." Willow bit her lip. "Buffy... do you know where you are? You just had a nightmare, okay? Gave you a little wiggins, but it's okay..."

"Guys... I... I need to be alone." Buffy's voice was small and pleading. "I need to... I need to make sense of all this stuff in my head. I need... I need to think."

"Are you sure you don't..."

"Um, hey, Angel?" Gunn said awkwardly. "Uh, sorry to interrupt."

"What is it, Gunn?"

"You have a phone call." Gunn held Angel's cellphone towards him.

"Tell them I'll call them back," Angel sighed.

"Wow," Willow said in awe. "You actually get a signal down here?"

"No, he doesn't get a signal down here," Gunn replied. "Angel? It's Cordy."