2. Pixies Whispered it to Me

Granules of white sand crunched beneath him as Spike wandered through the twilight. In the distance, a lone tree rose from the rolling dunes, its gnarled branches clutching at the night. He could see a small fire nestled beneath it, the flames dancing gaily against the darkening sky. Of their own volition, his legs carried him over the desolate land seeking the fire's maker. And as he walked, the landscape changed around him, the only constants being the tree and fire before him. For a few paces, the ground he trod was lush and green, almost marshy. And the next few found him gritting his teeth in pain as jagged bits of granite tenderized the soft arches of his bare feet and stinging, icy sleet bit into the exposed skin of his arms. Finally, Spike stood before the blaze, startled as he pushed through a barrier and found himself again on soft desert sand. Seeing no one, he sank to the ground, leaning back against the trunk of the tree to wait. His eyelids drooped as the warmth permeated his skin, giving his cheeks a rosy glow, his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he relaxed. A familiar scent danced on the breeze, and his eyes shot open again as he heard the rustle of fabric. A faint smile played across the face of the figure before him. Her simple, high-collared robe was cinched at the waist with gilded rope, strange symbols dangling from the ends, and her hair fell in dark, thick waves across her shoulders.

"Drusilla?"

When she spoke, the voice was Dru's, but her demeanor... it was as he had always imagined she was before she was turned, almost saintly. The woman standing in front of him had not lived an endless childhood of madness.

"Yes and no," she said, her hands clasped before her. She moved towards him, grace and dignity etched in every motion. "This image was borrowed from your past and reinvented to suit our purposes. We find these things go much better when you recognize the person explaining them."

"What... things, exactly? And who is this 'we' you're going on about?" Spike summoned an incredulous look for her, his eyes widening slightly when her laughter sang through the air in response.

"You never have been the patient one, have you? Always pushing. 'Now' instead of 'later'. It has been your saving grace and your Achilles Heel. It is why you are here." She spread her arms wide, indicating their surroundings, which dissolved at her gesture, revealing their true nature - a place without form, without time. He was instantly on the defensive, crouched and ready for attack. "That reaction has always served you well before, but let me assure you, your fists will not help you here." Tightly coiled muscles tensed along his lean form instead of producing the relaxation she had intended.

"Get on with it." His jaw worked over the words, chewing on them before spitting them out. "What the bloody hell do you want?"

The woman merely shook her head. "You will see soon enough. One last question, though, before I go... are you always human in your dreams?" Spike cocked his head, a puzzled expression seizing his features, a retort already forming. Her skin was cool as she laid a finger to his lips, quieting him.

"Rhetorical, no need to respond really, especially considering I already know the answer. Well then, I suppose we should 'get on with it' as you've requested." She moved her hand from his mouth to his eyes, covering them with her palm. "Now - see, feel, and remember." Spike felt her fingers dig into his flesh roughly as the Latin rolled off her tongue, "Redono!" (Restore!)

Lightning ran through his veins, searing him, the images coming in quick succession. All of them seen through a crimson veil... his vision tainted by the blood of innocents. Monks chanting, armored knights battling, a dark priestess adorned with an ungainly headdress, hundreds, no thousands, dead or dying, battlefields strewn with the bodies of the wounded. Keening, wailing apparitions pressed on his mind until he thought he would collapse from the sheer magnitude of thoughts. And then, silence.

Rubbing his head to alleviate the ache, he stared at the structure in front of him. A temple. The same symbol that had swung from the woman's belt was carved above the archway, and the stones in the courtyard were a mosaic in its image. Spike secreted it away in his memory, hoping that it would lend some relevance to the events. It showed a man standing inside a large triangle, rays of ethereal light pulsing outward from his cupped hands, images of the sun and moon traveling in perfect synchrony around him.

Dancing through the empty air, a haunting voice rippled around him, "Thus, it begins."

*****

A harsh metallic thud echoed in his ears, followed closely by the sound of rushing water, and footsteps coming towards him. Spike's head snapped forward as he bolted upright with a gasp, grabbing at the hand on his shoulder. Every muscle in his body drew taut, ready to deal a bloody death to whatever had its claws in him. Opening his eyes he turned to face his opponent.

"Well, good morning to you too." Something in the way he stared at her made Buffy uneasy. Hell, he always made her a little uneasy.

"What the...?" Words failed him. Spike tried to focus, crinkling his brow with concentration. Buffy? What? Where? But there she was, her hair done up in a ponytail, wearing a light blue tank top, worn blue jeans, and sneakers - looking at him as if he'd lost his marbles.

She smirked, wondering if he always looked this confused when he woke up. Then she took a stab at answering his unasked question. "You're in my basement, remember? Bye, bye Glory? Great amounts of shrieking? Greater amounts of alcohol? Dawn whining at me until I let you sleep down here instead of sending your drunken ass out to meet the sunrise?"

For a moment he was utterly perplexed, his brows drawing even closer together as he struggled. Then tidbits of memory began floating back. "Yeah.right." He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "Scotch, was it? And I think I recall something about demon-girl scampering about shoving her hand at everyone with a crazed look on her face."

Buffy chuckled. "Close enough. Bet you don't remember slapping Xander's back and wishing him luck."

Spike's face twisted into a scowl, then his mouth fell open as he realized he had done exactly that. "Don't bloody well remember a thing," he snarled. "As if I'd wish Xander anything but dead." The warning look in her eyes made him realize he'd probably worn out his welcome long ago. Buffy arched an eyebrow as if to remind him that threatening her friends, no matter how empty the threat, was not acceptable. Just how long had he been passed out in her basement?

"Trust me, Spike. He wasn't the picture of happiness when it happened, either. His eyes got all buggy, like some demented cartoon character." She smiled and faithfully reproduced Xander's bewildered expression, sticking her tongue out for good measure. His protests still rang in her ears.

"Uh, pet? Not that I don't enjoy reliving last night's humiliating display of bad judgment on my part, but what time is it?"

"Got about an hour 'til sunset." Buffy sighed, crossing to the dryer, scooping the clean clothes into a laundry basket, and starting to fold. "I never imagined you'd sleep all day. Figured you'd wake up at noon and go on another blanket-cloaked crusade through the streets of Sunnydale." She threw a look over her shoulder at him. "I thought you might like to get cleaned up before you head out."

Spike tried to conceal his shock, and he managed to cover it up, badly. Buffy was actually being nice to him? Without having ulterior motives? Must have hit my head pretty hard when I passed out last night, he thought. He wasn't used to this, and struggled for a moment to find something to say that wouldn't piss her off. Finally, he settled for a simple, "Thanks," after deciding it was pretty hard to mess that up.

Buffy felt her cheeks flush suddenly, when she remembered who it was sitting on the camp cot behind her. "This doesn't mean..." she stammered, trailing off and hoping he could fill in the blanks for himself. All she needed to hear was his exasperated sigh to know Spike had, in fact, been able to connect the dots.

"I know." Tension crept into his throat, nearly choking him. It always ended up this way between them. As he rose from the cot, languidly stretching, it squeaked in protest. He watched the tight muscles rippling across her shoulders and back as she worked, her ponytail flipping about each time she picked up another article of clothing. Spike shook himself, knew that was a dangerous path to even step foot on right now. The silence stretched between them, tight as a bowstring, until he couldn't bear it anymore.

"Towels?"

"In the closet, across from the bathroom." Buffy relaxed when she realized he wasn't going to push the point. Nodding, he turned to start up the stairs. "Oh, and Spike..." He glanced back over his shoulder, catching her smirk out of the corner of his eye. "Don't leave a ring in the tub. I'd hate to have to stake you over soap scum."

His chuckle filled the basement even after he'd closed the door.