“Ouch!  Can we stop this, yet?” I whine, knowing that the wounds on my back need sterilizing but not enjoying the process.  One would think that an easier method of sterilization would have been invented by now.  At least, Reyni’s guest bed is comfortable beneath my bare stomach. 

            “Hold still, slayer; you know we can’t stop until I stitch you up.  We haven’t even gotten to that part, yet.”  I can tell Spike is concentrating by the way his voice is a bit distant. 

            “Can you really continue to call me ‘slayer?’” I tease.  I certainly don’t feel like the slayer with my inhuman strength gone.

            “You still think like one, so you are one,” he insists.  “Now stop squirming.”

            I do my best to stop moving, but my body naturally wants to retreat from the pain of my wounds.  His hands gently grip my ribs to steady me.  “Your hands are so warm.  I’m not used to that.”

            “Is that bad or good?” he asks, caressing the unbroken skin on my back. 

            I shiver beneath his touch.  “Mmmm.  Definitely of the good.” 

            Soft kisses rain down over my shoulder blades and along my spine.  “You’re beautiful.  Have I told you that lately?”

            “Not in the last. . . oh, three years or so.” 

            Brushing aside my hair, he nuzzles my neck and breathes warm puffs of air along the short curling hairs.  “How does this feel?”

            “Wonderful.”  I sigh.  “Hurry and stitch me up.”  I’m feeling irritable, torn between wanting to cuddle with my lover and needing to receive first aid. 

            He returns his attention to the long gashes in my flesh.  He is silent for several seconds and refrains from touching me. 

            Twisting my head around, I notice that he’s staring in awe at my back.  “What’s wrong?  Surely you aren’t that enraptured with the blood.  You’re human again, after all.”

            “Buffy.  It’s not that.  You’re healing faster than is to be expected.  In fact, I don’t think I need to stitch you up.”

            “Really?”  I try to view my injuries but can’t see a thing.  “Weird.  I’m human.”

            When he meets my gaze, Spike is thoughtful.  “Hmm.  Didn’t your invisible friends say that they created our bodies based on our soul’s essence?  Maybe we don’t know exactly what they did.  I mean, we seem human, but what if we retained some of our vampire characteristics?” 

            “Or in my case, slayer characteristics, too.  Maybe.  This could turn out to be quite interesting.”  Noting that my back is less sore, I sit up on the bed, cradling my knees in my arms.  “Who knows what abilities we’ve retained?”

            “Obviously not the strength.”  Spike shifts until he’s behind me.  “Let me put some cream on your back and some bandages.”

            “Okay,” I reply obediently. 

I close my eyes as he heats the anti-bacterial cream in his hands before applying it to my skin.  His fingers brush light as feathers over my wounds.  He blows air over them when I wince from the stinging.  Then, he carefully pastes bandages over the medicine.  When he is finished, he leans on the bed’s headboard and pulls me against his chest, protective arms circling me.  His heartbeat thrums against my injuries, and I relish the feeling of being so alive. 

Spike’s breathing becomes deeper beneath me, and I feel myself teetering on the edge of sleep.  I learned the importance of rest and rejuvenation eons ago.  Therefore, I allow myself to give in and welcome my dreams with open arms.  Reyni and the answers can wait a few hours. 

 * * *

3007, an unknown amount of time later 

            The world is fuzzy and surreal.  Immediately, I know I’m in the middle of a slayer dream; the dreams are always accompanied by a vague sense of panic and dread.  There was a time when I first became the slayer that I had several slayer dreams each month.  If I didn’t frequently block them out or ignore them, they would have overrun my life.  I haven’t had one of these in years, so I pay close attention to the details.

            I’m in the middle of a familiar street in downtown Sunnydale hundreds of years ago.  I glance at my watch and read that the time is four-thirty in the morning.  Contrary to what might be expected in the early morning hour, the street is bustling with vehicles and pedestrians.  “The Expresso Pump” is across the street from where I currently stand, and following my urges, I angle toward the coffee shop. 

            Out of time and place, I spy Rhonda and Aimée at the bar, chatting quietly.  I attempt to push my way to them but am stopped by the throng of people that have suddenly flooded the establishment.  I make my way past several individuals, but the more people I pass, the further I seem to be from my friends.  I ask some of the people blocking my path if they might let me go by, but none of them hear me. 

            “How may I help you, hon?”

            I turn to find the owner of the voice, a petite, dark-haired girl wearing a nametag that read, “Hi!  Welcome to ‘The Expresso Pump!’  My name is Jenn!  How may I help you?”  I deduce that she must be a young college student, attempting to pay her way through college. 

            I offer her a smile.  “Yes, actually.  I’m trying to reach my friends over there.  I have to ask them something important.  Can you help me get to them?” 

            She smiles in return and glances the direction in which I’m pointing.  “Oh, them?  They don’t have the answers you need.  Hang on, sweetie.  I’ll tell you what you need to know.  Just let me get you a drink first.”

            “Oh!  That would be great!  I’d love a mocha please.”

            Jenn cradles the empty tray she’s carrying under her arm and takes my hand with her free one.  She begins tugging me through the crowd toward a vacant location at the bar.  “No mochas.  I have just the drink for you.”

            I swing onto the barstool.  With my chin propped on my hands, I survey Jenn as she hurries from one cappuccino and coffee machine to the next, mixing and pouring and adding substances to a giant, white coffee mug.  After several minutes, she slides the cup to me across the wooden countertop. 

Peering at the liquid, I note that the fluid is dark, heady, and swirling.  Quickly bringing the ceramic to my lips, I drink long and deep.  The mix is thick and coats the back of my throat like a thick blanket, soothing that ache I hadn’t realized was present. 

When the truth hits me, I choke and spew the liquid out of my nose and mouth.  Bright red flows over the countertop, the floor, and the machines in front of me.  I open my eyes to see Reyni in front of me. . . covered in the blood I’ve just emitted everywhere.  Her eyes are angry and accusing, and her skin is alabaster white beneath the blood.

I am dumbfounded and repelled by my enjoyment of life’s liquid. . . just as I am saddened by Reyni’s hatred toward me.  Somehow, I feel like I deserve her wrath.  I open my mouth to speak to the slayer before me, but a gentle hand touches my shoulder.

“Buffy,” Jenn’s voice ripples over my eardrums, “come on.  There’s nothing more to see here.  I need to take you to the means.”

“Okay.”  My throat is sore and hoarse.  Somehow I think that I should recognize Jenn.  “Who are you?  Have I met you before?”

“You’ll see.  I’m not the important person right now.  Just come.”

Restraining myself from glancing back at Reyni, I hop down from the stool, intent on obeying Jenn’s instruction.

My head spins as my surroundings completely transform.  My hand instinctively reaches out and uses the wall to steady myself.  The Summers home. . . the home of my teenage years fills my senses.  The living room is filled with brilliant, warm sunlight from the front windows, and I slowly circle the room, running my fingers over the sofa where my mother died, the top of the television, the cabinets filled with stereo equipment, and the finely-carved wooden chest Xander created for my birthday. 

Jenn leans in the doorway with her arms crossed.  Her eyes sparkle at me.

“Where?” I ask her.

She simply points up the staircase. 

Not the least bit afraid, I climb the stairs deliberately, enjoying the light wafts of my mother’s perfume and the hints of citrus that remind me of Dawn. 

Then, without warning, Dawn is in front of me. . . the 14-year-old Dawn of my teenage years.  Memories of my incredible depression and posttraumatic stress after returning from the grave. . . Dawn’s shop-lifting. . . Xander’s breakdown at the altar. . . Spike’s desperate attempts to better himself. . . Willow’s descent into madness. . . Tara’s sweet strength and terrible death. . . Anya’s sorrow and return to demon-hood. . . fill my consciousness. 

Dawn grins at me and throws herself into my arms.  “Buffy,” she breathes into my ear as we clutch each other with the desperation of two people who have spent too  much time apart.  Words escape me. 

When we part, Dawn whispers, “See.”

Then, she rapidly shrinks before my eyes, and before I can make sense of what is happening, the small form of Aydin stands before me. 

“I’m this many,” Aydin says shyly, holding up five fingers.  “Find him.”

A great sense of sorrow overcomes me, and I fall to my knees before the little girl, weeping.  My hair and hands cover my cheeks, and my whole body rocks as my tears pour forth.

* * *

3007, a few seconds later

            Strong arms encircle me, holding me fast and keeping me from thrashing about.  “Buffy!  Wake up!  You’re having a nightmare and crying!  Love, wake up!”

He waits for me as he knows I need him to do, stroking my back and taking care not to re-open my wounds.  My sobs fade until I am hiccupping against Spike.  When I am calm, I find words to explain my tears.

“A slayer dream.  I-I’m not sure exactly what it means.”  I pull back from Spike, facing him evenly.

“How long has it been since you had one of those?”  Spike brushes the loose strands sticking to my tear-stained cheeks out of my face, tucking them behind my ear. 

“Since I was human.  Maybe I’m having them again because I’m human again.  I’m so confused by what’s happening to me. . . to us. . . I mean, what am I now?”  I shake my head.  That’s a question to ask myself later when things calm down.  “There were so many images in this dream that I can’t make sense of them.  They all seemed significant.”

“How do you know what to pay attention to?”  Spike keeps his hands loose on his thighs as I rise to pace. 

“I usually don’t know until something more happens.  I mean, I can make speculations, but they aren’t always true.” 

A beep fills the air, and Reyni speaks as clearly as though she is present in our room, “I hate to wake you up because I know you’re resting, but I wanted to let you know that there are some people here that you need to meet. . . about what’s happening.”

            “Meet Caro and Eric,” Reyni introduces the two young individuals seated across from Spike and me in her guest entertainment room.

            Caro is tall and slender with reddish blond hair and milky white skin.  She wears a tight pink jumpsuit and pink boots.  Eric is stocky with dark hair and coloring; a pair of old-fashioned glasses perches on his nose.  Both are fidgeting nervously in our presence.  They appear to be so young that they can’t possibly be who Reyni claims them to be. 

            “They are members of the Watcher’s Council.” 

            “But didn’t the Council disband after we were killed?”  I am confused and partially annoyed with Reyni.  Perhaps my mixed feelings are partly due to the disturbing dream I had of her. 

            “Yes, but there were a wide variety of opinions about what the fate of the Council should be,” Reyni explains.

            As if needing reassurance that she is not alone, Caro glances at Eric before opening her mouth, “A small group of us wanted the Council to remain active in case the demons returned.  Most of the Council retired.”

            “How many Watchers are left?” Spike asks, his hand settling lightly over my hand. 

            Eric bites his lip.  “Counting Caro and I?  Two.”

            “Really?”  This is what’s left of the Watcher’s Council?  I recall the throng of Watchers that literally filled the huge auditorium where Spike and I were placed on trial.  I am also disconcertedly reminded of a time when the First Evil destroyed the Watchers Council and the slayers-in-training. 

            “Yes.  We’re it,” Caro confirms as she shifts position again. 

            “I filled them in on what happened to you,” Reyni changes the subject of scrutiny away from the neophyte Watchers.  “Since your death on this plane and your return to Earth.”

            Spike sits back, crossing his arms.  “Do you have any clue about where the vamps are coming from?”

            Eric nods.  “We believe that a source with information on this matter can be found on the moon. . . in a nightclub called ‘The Lunar Tide.’”

            “Hmm.  Sounds like you already have a plan in place,” I note, frowning at not being included in the decision-making process.

            “We do.”  Caro glances apprehensively from Spike to me.  “We thought that since you two have the power of invisibility. . .”

            “Umm,” Spike interrupts, lifting a hand.  “*Buffy* has the power of invisibility, pet. . . not me. . .”

            “And,” I add, “I’m not sure I can control the ability well enough for it to be of any use in what I think you’re going to say the plan is.”

            “You haven’t even heard the plan.”  In typical Watcher fashion, Eric is clearly losing patience.  Touchy, touchy. 

            “Lemme guess, mate.  You want Buffy and I to go into the club, mingle with the crowd, and discover who knows information about how the vamps are getting back into this dimension.  Once we figure out who’s responsible, we put a stop to it anyway we can,” Spike says, a finger popping out from his fist with each point he makes.

            “Yes,” Reyni agrees in an effort to avoid the confrontation that a seething Eric looks ready to initiate.

            “How many vamp sightings have there been?  And how long ago did they start?” I am slipping into commanding slayer mode.  “Have other types of demons been present?

            “There’ve only been vampires, and there have been isolated sightings across Earth for the last. . . oh, six months or so.  Eric, Caro, and I took out a rather large nest about a week ago on the other side of the world.  Seems the vamps are trying to tie themselves to our dimension. . . to Earth again.  So far, though, we have no reports of new vampires though.  And the demon return has been kept from the world government and thus the press.”

            “And the retired Watchers. . . do they know what’s happening?”  Spike leans forward as I speak, putting his hand to his mouth and balancing his knees on his thighs.  He is thinking hard about something. 

            “We contacted all of them but got no response,” Caro mentions.

            I wonder why.  “Too busy enjoying the luxurious life to come out of denial for a few minutes.” 

            “Probably.  Anyway,. . .”

            Aydin’s voice rises above Caro’s as she barrels toward Reyni, “Mommy!  I want a snack!” 

            Reyni catches the little girl in her arms and swings her onto her lap.  “Just a minute, sweetie.  Mommy’s in an important meeting.  We’re almost done, and when we are, I’ll get you a snack.”

            “What’s the meeting about, Mommy?”  Aydin’s wide eyes pass over the four strangers. 

            “Mommy’s work, honey.”

            “Oh.”  Apparently, Aydin’s heard this speech before because she leans back against her mother, poking her thumb in her mouth.

            Reyni tugs her daughter’s thumb out.  “No sucking your thumb, Aydin.  Remember how you’re a big girl now?”

            “Still little!”  Aydin sticks out her lower lip, contemplating an extreme pout.

            “You’re five, sweetie.  You’re a big girl, and big girls don’t suck their thumb,” Reyni reasons, stroking Aydin’s curls.  Aydin is obviously placated.  “Go on, Caro.”

            “You sure she should hear this?” Caro asks uncertainly.  Exactly what I’m thinking.

            “She’s going to hear it eventually.  Why not have her know the truth about my job before she gets into danger?”  Reyni peers around at Aydin’s sweet face.  “Aydin, what do you do if a person with pointy teeth comes after you?”

            “If I’m near people, I scream, so someone can come help me.  I tell them that the bad person was trying to hurt me,” Aydin proudly recites.  She mimes the actions behind her next words.  “If I’m by myself, I hold up my cross so they get scareder than me, and I throw the magic water on them and burn them.  Then, I run away to find some people who don’t have pointy teeth.” 

            “Good girl.”  Reyni kisses her daughter’s plump cheek, and Aydin triumphantly beams at all of us.  “Caro?”

            Caro restarts, “Anyway, the plan.  Um, Reyni, Rhonda, and Aimée are going with you to investigate other potential leads while you handle the moon club.  Right now, Rhonda and Aimée are gathering weapons for all of us.”

            “And you and Eric will be doing what exactly?” Spike asks with sarcasm. 

            “Holding the fort on Earth and resuming attempts to recruit other Watchers to the cause.”

            “Let’s get to it then.”  I rise to my feet with renewed confidence.  “Where are Rhonda and Aimée?  I want to check out what weapons they’ve managed to discover.”

            Reyni grins.  “Rhonda’s going to be so excited to see you both.”       

            “Can I come to the moon, too?” Aydin asks eagerly.

            Reyni shakes her head.  “No, sweetie.  You’re going to stay here with Daddy.”

            “Don’t wanna.”  Aydin punches her mother’s upper arm. 

A smile touches my lips as I am amazed and amused by the little girl’s boldness.

* * *

3007, twenty-two hours later

            Because the moon is closer to the Earth than Mars, travel time is much faster.  Small speeder ships are used for transport to and from the planet to its moon.  The ships burn fuel too quickly to be used for Earth-Mars travel.  Thanks to Aimée, Spike and I easily use our false human identification to cross authority boundaries at numerous checkpoints.  Aydin appeared halfway through the trip to the moon, having snuck onboard to be with her mother.  Reyni didn’t know what to do with her adventurous daughter, so she housed her in a local daycare facility with reputable security.

I’ve only been to the moon a few times.  The moon is fairly small with only one large settlement, complete with its own miniature government, school system, housing, etcetera.  As far as we know, few demons or vampires have ever been sighted here.  The population is too small for dead or even wounded victims to go unnoticed, and the stored blood supply is minimal.  I must admit that I’m a bit surprised that a contact connected to the vamps might be here. 

“The Lunar Tide” turns out to be the sole dance club on the moon.  Rhonda, Aimée, and Reyni have begun their own investigation, so Spike and I approach the club.  The outside of the club is fairly nondescript.  Only a small, slivered neon moon glows above the lone door.  Thrumming music pours forth from the darkness of the club’s inner core, and I feel myself starting to involuntarily respond to the beat.  At the club entrance, an attendant takes our coats, and instantly, I feel completely naked.

Probably because I *am* almost completely naked.  Aimée reassured us that our outfits were the norm, but I don’t feel normal.

I am barely covered in the shortest red mini-skirt that can ever have been created and a scarlet-colored, sleeveless top with a neckline that plunges to my belly button.  Thin straps cover my breasts.  Glitter is spread over every inch of my exposed skin, and affixed with multiple rhinestones, my long hair swings loose and perfumed about my shoulders. 

Before plummeting into the darkened main area, I turn to face Spike and redden.  He’s almost completely naked as well. . . at least the upper half of him is.  He’s wearing tight black pants and nothing else.  Lucky him, he doesn’t have to wear glitter or rhinestones.  As with my outfit, no shoes cover his feet, and no shirt covers his well-muscled torso.  The heat virtually radiates off of him, and I find myself desiring to do more than dance with him. 

            “What’s wrong, love?” Spike teases.  He seems maddeningly unfazed by his condition, but I’ve always been more modest than he.  “Embarrassed to be seen with me?”   

            “This is worse than the time we disguised ourselves as those demons. . . whatever they were called. . .”

            Spike is confounded by my story.  “What demons?” he asks softly, letting me know to lower my volume.

            I follow his lead to speak more quietly but still be heard over the blaring music.  I point in a gesture reminiscent of Xander.  “You know. . . the ones we pretended to be when we went to see Prenwick the first time.” 

            “Ah.  The really ugly ones?  The watchamacallits?”  Spike is on the edge of smirking at me, and I am on the edge of smacking him.

            “Yes!  Hey!  How come we always get stuck with the undercover work?” I whisper close to his ear in a mock huff.

            “Just our lot in life, pet,” Spike assures me, his voice almost deepening into a growl.  “Time to dance.”

He takes a self-assured step toward me and trails his fingers over my forearms.  A shivery thrill courses through me as he walks backward into the club, tugging me with him.  At the moment, I will follow him anywhere. 

The main room is the shape of the full moon.  Twin bars line the left and right walls, and a stage rises prominently above the dance floor across from the entrance.  The lights are dim and the atmosphere swirls with cinnamon-scented smoke and glitter that clings to the haze.  People crowd the dance floor, dancing in an amorphous bunch to the heady beat of the music. 

The fast-paced song ends just as Spike and I make our way to the dancing area.  The sea of dancers parts, leaving us virtually alone.  The transition to the next song is uncertain, but the tempo slows considerably. 

Almost in thrall, I gaze at the singer.  She is mesmerizing with flowing dark hair that curls softly over her shoulders, covering her naked breasts.  A slip of a silver skirt barely covers her swaying hips.  Trails of star-shaped rhinestones track down her arms to long, light-colored fingernails that catch the black lights and virtually glow.  Her face is heavily made up with glitter, heavy eye shadow, and deep red lipstick.  When she starts crooning, she catches my eyes, or at least I think she does, and she smiles, flashing perfect teeth. 

Somehow I recognize her face, but with the makeup and dim lighting, I can’t quite place her.

All of a sudden, I find myself pressed against a warm chest.  “May I have this dance, love?”

“This one, and all the others,” I reply earnestly.

“I’ll make sure to clear my dance card, then.”  He pauses.  “Did you know that in my human days, I never once danced with a lady?”

“Hmm.  Why not?”  I am starting to drown in his presence.

“They all rejected me.”  His voice is low and husky.

The musk Spike is wearing fills my nose as I stare up into his cerulean eyes.  His hands rove over my hips that have unconsciously begun moving on their own.  I press as close to him as physical matter will allow, not removing my eyes from his.  His hips begin emulating my actions, and he bends to bury his head in my hair. 

“Well, there will never be rejection here,” I murmur with my cheek against his bare skin, stroking the firm muscles on his back. 

“Good.”  He pulls back from me, his fingers landing at the small of my back.  “Have you missed this between us?”

“How can you ask me that?” I wonder, pushing closer to him. 

He’s moving us with more urgency now, and the truth dawns as I feel the strength of his need.  We haven’t made love since the restoration of our relationship.  I use all my strength to not take him in public, but the throb of the music is seductive and resonating. 

In one motion, I bring his head down to mine and sweep my lips over his, darting my tongue briefly between his lips so that he audibly groans.  “I love you.  And I’ll always want you. . . and only you.”

Reminding me of his vampire days, he growls deep in the back of his throat.  “I love you, too, pet.  Always.”

“Can we leave now?” I ask suggestively. 

Spike’s merriment shines in his eyes.  “Not now.  We have a mission to accomplish.”

“Damn mission.”

Abruptly, the song ends, and Spike and I reluctantly part and turn from each other to discover that we are virtually the only ones who have been dancing.  Several people are watching us from side tables.  So much for being inconspicuous.  Spike places a hand on my shoulder blade, guiding me to an empty table. 

A male voice comes over the speakers, “Miss Genevieve will now take a short break.  Until she comes back, relax, grab a drink, and rest your dance feet.”

The singer bounces lightly from the stage and slips toward the bar.  Something inside of me says that I should talk with her.  I poke Spike.

“I’m going to go ask her a few questions.”

Spike nods.  “And I’ll take the vagrants across the room.  Want something to drink while I’m up?” 

I give him a look.  “Alcohol?  Human me?  I don’t think so.  And we’re on a mission.  No time to get drunk because we’re not used to our human bodies.”

Spike rolls his eyes playfully.  “It’s so I have a reason to cross over there, pet.  Not for us to actually drink.”

            “Oh.  Got it.  Good luck, sweetie.”  I rise and head to my destination after squeezing Spike’s hand a final time. 

            Miss Genevieve is lounging on the end of the bar closest to the stage, chatting with the bartender and sipping a glass of something.  I approach her cautiously.  She faces me right when I am about to speak her name.

            “Hello.  Aren’t you quite the little dancer?  You and that nice-looking young guy.”  She takes a long drink.

            My mouth drops open in shock.  “Jenn?”  This close to her, I recognize the girl from my dreams beneath her coat of makeup.

            “Yeah, girl.  That’s what my friends call me.  Genevieve is just my stage name.”  She sets the drink aside.  “Do I know you?”

            I bite my lip and plunge in, “Do you have someplace more private where we could talk?”

            She guides me to a place deeper in the shadows.  “This is as good as it gets.  Bothersome club owners don’t even give me my own dressing room.  Now what do you need from me?”

            Relying on the information from my slayer dream, I boldly ask, “What do you know about the recent vampire sightings?”

            Jenn closes her eyes.  Drawing in a deep breath, she reopens them.  Staring back at me is a golden pair of vampire eyes.  “Quite a bit actually.” 

TBC. . . We’re gonna change times now. . . and places.  So, get ready.  You will learn the fate of Buffy and Spike’s adventure at the club, and it’s a doozy, so get ready! ;o)

Next chapter I write will be chapter two of “Three Wishes,” my Spuffy Aladdin fic!

Take care, sweeties!