Two months later . . .

A wicked smile played on his full lips, as he turned onto his back and pulled the thin blankets over his nude, willowy form, his thoughts drifting in and out of conciousness. A cool stream of air brushed over his stomach and his eyes flew open, and he sat up, groaning. He had not wanted to be woken, he had not had a chance to finish the dream he had been having. The same dream he had been having for the past four weeks, the one he could not finish, no matter how hard he tried, or how strong he willed it. All he knew was that it was important, somehow, he felt that in the back of his mind. Spike almost never had reaccuring dreams, the last time he could remember having one was the night before he had been turned. He had been dreaming about a dark-haired woman, thin, frail, and dangerous; Drusilla. She was chasing him down a road, he remembered, but he found he could not walk, could not tear his eyes from her gaze. She laughed intoxicatingly, drawing him to her, making him weak, pale, like her, and he could see the blood flowing. When he had awoken from the nightmare, he couldn't sleep the rest of the night. The familiar saying of 'I'll rest when I'm dead' filled his mind, and he chuckled wryly.

The dream he was having now, while similarly prophetic, seemed very different, at least the beginning was. As far as he could tell, he was in no immediate danger . . . and every time he awoke from that dream, a warm, soothing feeling washed over him. Spike racked his brain, attempting to make out the details of that night's encounter, to fill in more peices of the puzzle.

He was with a woman.

She was thin yet muscular, like his Drusilla had been, but she had a more . . . child-like quality about her. They were in the dark, and they were fighting, hand-to-hand combat. She moved with grace and skill, was light on her feet . . . but he got the upperhand. He would knock her to the ground, moving in for the death blow, and then . . . stop. She would smile, he knew, although he couldn't see her face.

"Are you ready for this, William?" She would ask in a cryptic manner, and thunder could be heard overhead. He remembered that part vividly, because for the first few nights, it had startled him so badly that he had awoken, ending the dream.

"I'm always ready," he replied, getting to his feet and helping her up. He lead her into an unmarked building, and all of the sudden they were back in Victorian England. Spike was dressed as he was the night he died, and she was dressed in old, high-fashion garb. He was in gameface, for some reason, taking her hand and bringing down a familiar street . . .

When he had first dreamed it, he wasn't sure where it was. Then the memories came flooding back . . . he had brought her to where he had died, where Drusilla had taken his life. The smell of damp hay would pervade his senses, and she would lay on the ground, not minding getting mud on her fancy dress. She would pull him down with her, kissing him hard, and he would worry, in a rather human way, hoping that no one would see them.

"Don't you want this?" The faceless woman with the candy lips would ask, and Spike would nod numbly.

"Yes. God, yes." He would reply in a similar fashion as he had to Drusilla the night he died, hoping only to please the mystery girl.

He would open his eyes once more and he was back at the party, the last party he had ever attended before his passing. He was then speaking to Cecily, who was studying his face in an intimate manner that made him blush. "You are missing the party," she would state, worry written all over her face.

Spike would push his glasses up in a William-esque manner, twitching nervously. "We are already at the party," he would reply, but she would shush him with a slim finger placed over his lips.

"Not this party, dear boy, the real party. You're missing the fun."

"I thought you were going to help." His eyes would open and he was Spike again, once more sparring with the faceless woman.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he would wonder, but she would silence him with another kiss. The skies let out a fierce rumble and he would look up, never leaving her embrace . . . and would watch as the clouds began to part.

That was when he would wake up.

It was frustrating, to say the least, and he was desperate to finish the story, to figure out what it meant if, indeed, it meant anything. With a weary gaze he noted the sunlight streaming in from outside, a bright beam worming it's way underneath the crypt's door. He sighed, burying himself deeper into the covers. Maybe, if he worked really hard, he could finish the damn thing, once and for all.

= = = = = = = = = = = =

Buffy groaned, tossing and turning in her bed. The alarm next to her went off, beeping in her ear shrilly. Her fingers fumbled for the snooze button, but when she couldn't find it, she simply picked the thing up and threw it against the wall.

"How'd you sleep?" Willow asked from the bed next to her, awoken by the loud crash of the plastic timer hitting the dorm wall.

Buffy sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her bloodshot eyes. "Not very good," she replied, "I'm starting to worry, Will."

"Why?" Her friend asked, nervously.

"I had that dream again."

= = = = = = = = = = = =

TBC . . .