Spike looked down at the blood running from his left hand, then back up at the shattered mirror.
For a brief instant, he thought he caught a glimpse of himself, but the image was too fleeting to
pinpoint. Turning on the faucet of the hotel bathroom, he stuck his hand under the cold water and
watched as the blood swirled down the drain.
He was not a happy vampire. The night before, he had gone with Cordelia to the club she
frequented and found that the brunette had been correct about the mindless entertainment. He'd
met up with a woman who was the complete opposite of the Slayer and had planned to screw her
until one of them was unconscious.
However, things never went as he planned anymore.
He had danced with the woman -- although it was closer to vertical sex than dancing - and had
gotten her so aroused, they had to stop in the alley beside the club. A quick, hard, mindless fuck
against the brick wall, there was nothing simpler than that.
Unless you were a vampire haunted by nightdreams of a certain blond Slayer.
The black-haired, pale woman with garish red lipstick he had been fucking turned into Buffy right
before his eyes. It had freaked him out so badly that he jerked out of the woman and forced her
to turn around so he couldn't see her face. Then all he could hear was the Slayer's moans of
pleasure and her voice urging him to go harder and faster.
Spike had to stop, neither he nor his oblivious partner fulfilled. He had fixed his jeans and then
scared the woman away by flashing his true face to her. She had screamed and ran, and he had
returned to the hotel he was staying at alone.
Now he was standing in front of a broken mirror, laughing hollowly at the thought of seven years
His luck couldn't get any worse than it already was.
Shutting off the tap, he returned to the main room and laid down on the bed. Taking the extra
pillow, he put it over his face and screamed loudly, maniacally; a scream of a man teetering on the
edge. Blood from his hand stained the white pillow sheet, painting a macabre picture of pain and
death, both of which would be welcome to Spike at this time if the nightdreams would stop.
He couldn't understand why he was having them so often. Or why now, after the long year he
had already been working with Buffy. Sure, he'd had fantasies about her before, he was male and
she was beautiful. But the intensity and uncontrollable nature of the nightdreams was unnerving,
to say the least.
"Hey, Spike, what's wrong?"
Spike whimpered when he heard Buffy's voice in the room with him. "Go away," he begged.
"Come on, you can tell me, what's wrong?" Buffy asked.
He lifted the pillow from his face and saw her sitting at the end of the bed. Her blond hair was
loose around her face and she was wearing all pink. She looked so very stunning, yet she was so
very unreal. "Please, just go," he said, his voice rough.
"But I thought you enjoyed having sex with me," Buffy said. "Unless you think I'm bad..."
"No," Spike said quickly. "You are bloody unbelievable and I can't believe I'm reassuring a
figment of my bleedin' imagination that she's a good shag." He put the pillow back over his face
and wished he could smoother himself.
"Is it me?" she asked. "Do you wish it wasn't me? Don't you...like me?"
Spike sat up abruptly and stared at her. "Cor, no, I love you. But I can't keep having these
nightdreams all the fucking time. What if we were out on patrol and I had one and you got
attacked? I wouldn't be any bloody good to you, now, would I? And what are you smiling at?"
Buffy was practically beaming, her smile was so large. "Nothing."
"How come I don't believe you?"
"I'll stop with the nightdreams once you tell the real me the truth," she told him.
Spike frowned. "What truth?"
"Think about it, Spike," Buffy said. Then she vanished.
"Great, now my imagination is going bloody cryptic on me," he muttered. He lay back down and
put the pillow over his face again. "She could have at least stuck around for a shag."