A/N: Thanks to ALL! I adore thee! So lovely to read all your thoughts! I truly appreciate it! Hope you'll enjoy the following. All My Love, Annie.



Brittle Walls



Spike watched the figure moving gracefully across the ice. She glided with ease and precision, and she was beautiful, no denying it. He hadn’t known she was that skilled. He had seen a picture of her skating, but this was far beyond any expectations he could have had. She wasn’t older than fourteen. She did a pirouette and then came up to where he was standing by the side of the rink.

“Hi,” she said.

“Looking good out there,” he complimented.

“Thanks. I’m out of practice, though.”

“Swinging the pompoms taking up all your spare time?”

She laughed.

“Something like it. Why don’t you join me?”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “Can’t skate to save my life, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

She smiled brightly.

“I’ll teach you. Come on.”

“Buffy. No.”

“You’re not scared of falling, are you? I promise it only...”

“...hurts for a second,” the sentence was finished by a different voice as the scene switched to a sterile hospital room, where Buffy was in a bed while two orderlies were struggling to hold her down. “Buffy, please, keep still!” a female doctor said and Spike concluded it was she who had spoken before.

She was holding a needle in one hand as she tried to grab Buffy’s arm.

“I’m not tired! I don’t wanna sleep!” Buffy exclaimed, pushing the orderlies off her harshly, flicking a hand out so that the needle flew through the air and landed with a metallic clank on the floor by the foot of the bed.

“Leave her,” the doctor put up a hand as the orderlies were about to give it another go. “I’ll try when her mother comes. She’s always calmer then.”

“They think I’m crazy, you know,” Buffy said as the three began to leave the room, turning her gaze in Spike’s. “Quick, go all gnarly and show them! Tell them they have to let me out of here. I didn’t imagine it.”

He took a step closer, feeling his forehead furrow with concern and wonder, but she only smiled weakly before turning her gaze out of his. She was so pale. She looked ill.

“Where would you go, if you could choose?” he asked silently. “Show it to me.”

Trees painted themselves up all around him, green and lush. He could hear the trickle of water. Grass was beneath his feet and soft sunlight sifted through branches. He recognized this place. Once he took a few steps forward he realized why that was. He was inside a favorite painting of his – Monet’s “Water Garden”. Before him was the surface of the famous pond, which glittered with the help of white and yellow paint. There was the touch of real in it, a branch which felt right, and the grass felt like grass, but it was all brush strokes.

She was sitting on the Japanese bridge and looked up when he approached her. She was wearing a white dress, her hair was let out to spill over her shoulders, and he wanted to stay there forever. She seemed so at peace.

She got to her feet as he stopped before her.

“I always wanted to paint like this,” she said. “I can’t even draw stick figures.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I think you’re right.”

He smiled and she did as well.

“I like it here,” she stated.

“Me too,” he agreed.

“But we can’t stay here forever.”

He met her gaze and she smiled slightly again.

“Remind me to come here more often,” she said. “I fret too much.”

With that she placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him around quickly, the movement bringing him back to the mansion. His eyes met Buffy’s just as she opened hers and her whole face lit up with clear relief and building triumph.

She wasn’t even sure why she should be so happy to see him, but she was.

“It worked!” she exclaimed.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “But you’re here! I wanted you here and now you’re here!”

“Brilliant! Bring out the serpentines and the cake and we’ll have a welcome back party!”

She scowled at his sarcasm, growing irritated in a moment. She stood still for a brief second, seemingly contemplating her options, but then headed for the exit. He raised his eyebrows, mostly to himself, asking himself silently if he couldn’t at least try to not tick her off, though he did it so well. Then he followed her, stopping at her side where she stood at the edge of the steep hill leading down toward Sunnydale, her eyes on the twinkling lights of their city.

“Didn’t know you liked it so rough, Slayer,” he said before he could possibly manage to bite his tongue, and there was a pause before she slowly turned her head to him. “I mean; the whip I can kinda understand... But chains? Kinky.”

“Excuse me?”

“I get it, though. The control and all that. And why not? Find someone willing...”

“I am not...”

“Before you kick me really, really hard, love,” he stopped her as she took a step closer, both of his hands up in a calming manner, “I’m only kidding.”

“Yeah, that seldom works for you, does it?”

“I did walk through a painting, though.”

“And here I thought you were disintegrating in my head.”

“You told me to tell you to go there more often,” he said and she glanced at him.

“I’ve no idea why I’m using you as messenger,” she stated, about to take a step forward when she halted herself as she looked down at nothing but thick mist and couldn’t see where to put her feet anymore.

Sunnydale was out of sight, and then there was a rumble from somewhere deep down below them. Suddenly the ground shook and they reached for each other without thinking, using the other to keep their balance, grabbing hold of the other’s arms as their eyes locked.

Buffy didn’t know what was going on. Jeez, how could she not know when it was going on inside her own head?! Her pulse was racing and it jumped into another rhythm altogether when the mansion – with a shattering, crackling noise – began to split in two. She stared at it, her eyes widening as it, after the third numbing quake, imploded with a loud crash; stone grinding stone. She drew a barely detectible breath when a colossal part of it then saw fit to break loose and, in what seemed like slow motion, began to roll toward the two beings at the foot of its ruined fortress.

“What now?!” Spike yelled.

Buffy looked at the stone, then at the mist, and then back at him.

“We jump!”

He gave a nod and they turned at the same time, taking a step out and beginning to fall through the thickness of clouds upon clouds. The sensation was nothing but ultimate liberation and Buffy didn’t want it to end. But they broke through, the air clearing, and she took a deep breath when all she could see below her was steel gray waves. She hit them shoulder first, sinking below them. Opening her eyes she found the water didn’t sting them. She turned herself around to find Spike. He was there, looking surprised; raising his eyebrows he put his arms out in an And-What-Now?

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, but then she noticed a dark shadow behind him.

All he registered was the stricken expression on her face before she swam up to him, put her hands, and then her feet on his shoulders and kicked him down as she swam up. He was just about to get quite angry with her when he looked up and saw the large shape of a shark shoot past above his head.

Bloody.

Hell.

Buffy caught his gaze, signing for him to swim with her for the surface. He signed to the shark – which was doing a large turn to come back at them – indicating his questioning her sanity. She gave him a look, and he would have thought it should have less of a point under water, but it still carried, and he followed her as she started the ascent. He tried not to think of “Jaws”, but the music began to play in his mind and he felt fear tear through him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t need to breathe, it didn’t matter that he could swim the entire ocean without breaking a sweat, those sharp teeth were everything other than his was and he didn’t want them anywhere near his flesh. Or hers.

Think us to a better place! he tried to encourage her. Any other place than this would be good!

Buffy saw something glint above and knew that if they could have just one more second...

She felt her face break the surface and Spike was right beside her as they both stood up, their feet in ankle deep water. They were standing in a fountain. It was obvious that it was situated in a quaint square somewhere in Italy. Or was it France?

“Make up your mind,” Spike said, looking down and jumping up on the fountain’s ledge when he saw something moving in the water.

Buffy smirked.

“They’re goldfish,” she remarked, bringing one of the white water lilies aside and showing him. “See?”

“So they’re goldfish,” he shrugged, reaching out a hand to her and she took it without thinking, stepping up on the ledge to stand next to him, finding her balance with a smile, her eyes meeting his.

She felt different here, in this place. She felt far away from the Slayer, and looking at him without the veil of suspicion made the shades of his face lighter and what she read in his eyes all the more palpable. Like it was made more real, somehow, out of the context of reality.

“Sorry about the shark,” she now apologized. “Don’t know where that came from.”

He smiled as well. She took her hand out of his, jumping down on the cobblestones and looking around. They were still dripping wet, but neither really cared.

“Italy, huh?” he asked.

“I’ve always wanted to go,” she nodded.

He seemed skeptical as he took in the quiet piazza and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“What?”

“It’s very...”

He trailed off.

“What?”

“Where are all the people? The noise? Not the American definition of noise, but this is just... dead, is what it is.”

Doors began to open and through them came children, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers and everything in between. They grew into a myriad of the happy-go-happy population, milling about with leisurely familiarity. Buffy looked mighty pleased.

“Better?” she asked.

“I suppose, yeah,” he admitted, gripping the tight T he was wearing between two fingers, pulling at the cloth meaningfully as he asked: “Now, what the hell am I wearing?”

The T was decorated with red and white stripes and he was in marine blue pants, having a red scarf tied around his neck.

“Oh, that,” Buffy said, keeping down a smirk with an enormous amount of effort. “Don’t worry. Stripes suit you.”

She realized they were both dry, looking down at herself she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. She was in a red and white dress, very Mary Poppinsesque – all she was really missing was the umbrella to go with it.

“Please, don’t make us break into song,” Spike murmured and her smile broadened slightly.

“Someplace like this is where I’d go, if I could,” she said, beginning to walk forward and he followed.

“There are no places like these left. Trust me. If there ever were any,” he stated.

“Don’t say that.”

“I take it back.”

She looked at him, growing serious at the earnestness with which he retracted his sentiments. She didn’t know how to view him now. Everything was obscured, out of focus.

She didn’t say anything else as they continued out of the piazza and down an alley which brought them into a desert. It lay stretched out before them in the redness of dawn. Buffy stepped into the sand, her bare feet digging into the silkiness of the tiny grains. Spike followed, his duster falling from his shoulders once more, the dream of Italy fading like a mirage behind them.

She turned to him, the sun, red and glorious, beginning to show beyond the horizon. Soon he heard the soft sizzle as its heat made sand into glass. He rested his gaze in hers. The expression on her face was severe.

“Look at them,” she said.

He clenched his jaws together.

Why was she doing this?

“No,” he replied.

She hesitated, then took a small step closer, having to tilt her head ever so slightly to look into his eyes.

“Spike, look at them.”

He didn’t say anything, but kept his gaze stubbornly in hers, feeling as though his heart was tearing itself apart at the way she was so closely observing him. And yet he couldn’t oblige her.

And she could see it on him; taking a step back she looked disappointed.

“How could I ever trust you?” she asked silently. “You’ve no conscience. There’s no remorse. No need for it.”

She took another step away, and then turned around, beginning to walk away from him. The wind caught the thin fabric of the blue dress she was now wearing, pulling it and tugging it, making it hug her petite form and he felt an explosion of yearning within him to be able to shelter her.

But he couldn’t bring himself to look down for anything. Not even for her.

She didn’t know what to make of it, make of him. His love for her was like a pulsating, pounding entity twirling around in places within her she didn’t want to acknowledge; but it was there now. And so was a tentative need she had sensed in him, a soft promise he had given, that he would try to change. That the transformation had already begun. And yet she didn’t believe that it wasn’t going to switch direction any minute. She couldn’t. She stayed unconvinced.

The sun had breached the ridge, but it grew black, its fire cooling itself into non-existence. The sunrise died and the colors disappeared, leaving way for just as black a moon on the opposite side of the sky, while stars began to twinkle into sight. The glass beneath her feet turned back into sand and she stopped walking, her arms wrapped around her. The wind stilled.

She could feel him. He was right behind her. But he said nothing, and she didn’t know what to say any more than he did.

He almost placed a hand on her shoulder, wanting her to look at him, to try to understand him, but he stopped half way, letting his arm fall back along his side.

A room was shoved forth to surround them, a couch appearing and sliding to make them bend their knees and sit side by side in it. A TV popped up in front of them and its screen began to move with the milling of people. Buffy leaned back, remote in hand.

“Look at them,” she muttered. Spike cocked an eyebrow. “Walking around thinking they’re safe. Everything’s fine. Wake up, get dressed, go live a life that isn’t their own to save. And do they know who saves it? No. Safe. Bah humbug.”

Spike smiled a little.

“See that?” a different Buffy asked at his other side and he turned his head to her. “See how free they are? To make mistakes, and waste all their money, and travel and go anywhere they want.”

“You chose Sunnydale,” a third Buffy remarked, seated in an armchair. “You could’ve moved. Could’ve gone anywhere but here, and still you wanted to stay close. So don’t start up with the feeling sorry for yourself.”

“And sometimes they don’t even seem to see me work my ass off to save them,” the first Buffy scoffed. “The tears get in the way, or whatever. Running away all scared to death, without so much as a thank you.”

“Oh, come on. That’s happened, what, three times in three years?” the third Buffy retorted and the first glared at her, then turned her eyes back on the TV.

“Selfish is what they are. And sometimes I pity them, other times I just...”

She glanced at the remote, then lifted it and shut the TV off. It went black, the whole contraption shrinking out of sight.

“What did you do now?” the second Buffy commented, leaning forward as Spike obstructed her view of the first. “You can’t do that, you know that.”

“What if I could? What if I could just decide that I didn’t want to watch that particular channel anymore? What if I want to watch Animal Planet or Discovery or HBO or maybe I’d even want to see a movie without violence in it once in a while. Would that be so bad?”

“So you switch the channel. You don’t just turn it off,” the third Buffy remarked.

“Fine, I’m clearly outnumbered, so here,” the first Buffy muttered, throwing the remote to the third. “Choose.”

The TV appeared again and the third Buffy aimed the remote, the screen blinking to life with more people.

“Why did I give it to you?” the first Buffy grumbled, crossing her arms sullenly over her chest.

“I like them,” the second Buffy stated with a smile. “There’s never the same face.”

But then the TV was gone, and in its stead stood a large sofa, containing Joyce, Dawn, Giles, Willow, Xander, Anya and Tara.

“Except those,” the first Buffy said.

“They’re all here,” the second Buffy nodded happily.

Then all three Buffy’s heads turned to Spike.

The silence was absolute.

He realized he had vamped out without noticing it. The stares of the Slayers grew prodding. He felt completely put on the spot and wasn’t sure how he could rectify the situation.

“You can’t,” the first Buffy stated and he looked at her. “That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Teaching me what I already know. That you can’t salvage what has been damaged, the way you’ve damaged me.”

“Don’t say that,” he mumbled.

“I have no place in your head,” she went on. “You have no place in my heart.”

“Buffy...”

“So what are you doing letting me in?” she asked. “What am I doing?”

He was seated on a bed, the walls of her room appearing with loud snaps around him. She was in front of a full-figure mirror, observing her reflection. Her hands slid over her stomach, pulling the fabric of the top she was wearing into an even snugger fashion. She shifted her head slowly from side to side, eyeing her jaw line, her neckline, bringing her hair into a pony tail and then shaking it out to spill over her shoulders. She made a face, then suddenly smiled, shaking her head at herself.

“He’ll have to like you as you are,” she said with a shrug. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

She glanced at herself in the mirror again, a look of slight insecurity coming over her features.

“Just don’t babble about uninteresting things,” she told herself. “And don’t say whatever comes into your head. And don’t run off to save someone without giving him your phone number, or at least telling him to excuse you. Actually, don’t run off at all. No. No running off.”

She smiled a little again; then turned to face Spike.

“Here,” she said, tossing him the brush she had been holding.

It turned into an egg on the way to his hands, and he caught it as the room drew itself into a kitchen.
She was wearing an apron, her hair in a ponytail, and she was a flurry of sheer activity. Measuring cocoa she stirred a pot on the stove at the same time. He held up the egg.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

“Crack it into that bowl over there,” she said with a smile, bringing the pot from the stove and stirring in the cocoa as she put it down on the counter, coming to stand next to him.

“Okay,” he murmured, doing what she asked after some short hesitation.

She smirked, handing him a wooden spoon.

“Mix,” she directed and he mirrored her expression before he began stirring the batter.

Looking into the bowl he could discern flour, sugar and now the egg, and she happily added the cocoa and what turned out to be melted butter.

“What are we making?” he wondered.

“Something good,” she replied, moving in closer to him and he looked down at her as she reached out and gently took the spoon from him.

She turned her eyes in his, smiling a little.

“Is the light off?”

“Hmh?”

“The oven. Is it hot?”

“Very,” he said, eyes not leaving hers and his eyebrows rising suggestively; she gave him a push with one elbow.

She put their creation into a pan and brought it over to the oven. Once it was inside she shut the door and turned back to him.

“Thirty minutes and then it’s done,” she declared.

“Thirty minutes? How should we pass the time, you think?”

“I don’t know... what’d you think?”

It was a strange feeling coming out of the state of mind which had grabbed her up until this moment, where it was as though she was in a lucid dream, her thoughts prefaced in her head, her actions deliberate and somehow guided by another force than her own choice. Now it slowly ebbed away and she was left with herself, and emotions she didn’t know how to deal with, aroused by the things his eyes told her. A slow ache, and a longing that didn’t fit inside her, and yet its awakening had begun the first time his lips touched hers, and now she didn’t know of any lullaby to sooth its blinking, inquisitive gaze. Its curiosity was of a new kind, and what followed was this longing...

“I don’t know,” he now said, staring at her, hearing her heart beat, everywhere around him, it seemed. “What’d you think?” he murmured, taking a step forward when there was a loud and resounding ‘ding’ and it worked to bring Buffy out of wherever she had gone.

“It’s done!” she smiled, swirling around and bending down, opening the oven.

“That was no half hour, love,” he remarked as she brought the chocolate cake out.

“Yes, it was,” she disagreed matter-of-factly, placing the pan on the counter and grabbing a knife.

“Shouldn’t it cool?”

“It’s cool,” she replied, placing a hand on top of it for underlining.

Cutting it into squares she licked her lips, almost tasting it already, and then she grabbed a pinch of the moist cake, bringing it up.

“Try it,” she encouraged, her eyes meeting his, and the next second she realized what she was actually doing; only it was too late, and his lips parted, the softness of his tongue against her fingertips acting as a most tantalizing prelude to the scrape of his teeth as he took the bite. She swallowed, feeling her body arch unconsciously towards him. “Good?” she finally asked and he nodded.

Only, then they were nowhere near each other as the scenery changed. Between them lay a deep canyon and though the space separating them wasn’t overwhelming, it still served its purpose, dividing them. He was bathed in moonlight, she in the brightness of the sun. But suddenly it switched and the cold which surrounded her made her shudder, and she brought her arms around herself against it. He, on the other hand, was slowly beginning to glow. His hands began to turn to ash. She stared at him, his eyes begging her for understanding. The process reached his neck and she felt like yelling something, but she was paralyzed with the shock of bearing witness to such an unfamiliar thought of him not being.

She was ridding herself of him with this one final thought, and she couldn’t decide.

Could she ever grant him any sort of understanding?