#[ ah the problems with canon meaning that particular timeline that these two know each other is wiped out of existing lol ]

[dontcallmecarrie]

Blurred Lines

aka the incredibly niche and self-indulgent AU that spawns alternative timelines every time I so much as blink

Fandoms: Doctor Who [I haven’t been caught up since it got removed from Netflix; 10′s era and some fixits for 11′s run, too], Sherlock [playing fast and loose with canon here, and goes wildly AU after the end of Season 2]

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mental health issues at least partially stemming from an incredibly traumatic period, relationship problems, writer’s salt about Martha Jones being underappreciated

With how much the universe had been making and remaking itself, a chaotic and tangled mess, was it really that hard to believe that several wires had gotten crossed? 

In this particular case, the line between fiction and reality got...smudged, and Martha’s journey didn’t end when she left the TARDIS. 

However, this particular universe is even more convoluted than that— after all, this is also a universe where Moriarty and Mycroft exist alongside the Doctor and UNIT, but that’s a story for another day. [Mostly, anyway.]

This particular story, however, begins and ends with Martha Jones. 

Martha Jones, the medical student who had hoped for an adventure and got a war zone during her travels with the Doctor, whose steadfast loyalty had her walking the Earth. Martha Jones, who entered the TARDIS a doctor in training and left it a battle-hardened soldier who’d faced down Weeping Angels and madmen alike. Martha Jones, who, alongside her family, had experienced an incredibly traumatic event—the Year that Never Was—and now, all she could do was carry on with her life, burdened with the knowledge of a could-have-been that wasn’t.

Suffice it is to say, Martha’s not exactly in a good place. 

The aftermath of the Year was ugly, on a number of levels, and it affected her relationship with her family—but that’s not it. Her time with the Doctor’s changed her on a fundamental level, and everyone who ever knew her can see it. Martha has a very hard time wrapping up medical school, because of it, but in the end becomes a doctor.

She joins UNIT mostly as a way to get an excuse for some of said changes, because right now everyone’s just seeing a medical student with shadowed eyes and a habit of checking for exits and—well. Being able to say she’s a reservist neatly explains several questions Martha wouldn’t know how to answer otherwise. That she went on several intense and highly-classified missions just prior to re-entering as a civilian is just par for course, really.

[aka Afghanistan still happens, only things went to hell in a different way]

Martha goes back to life as a mostly-civilian doctor, with the conditional that she’d be on-call for if UNIT needed a discreet presence to look into things, and is just generally trying to carry on with her life despite the severe PTSD she’s got going on.

Incidentally, she’s also looking for a flatshare.

Meeting Mike Stamford was a happy accident; he’s a friend from medical school, and as they’re catching up her living situation gets mentioned, and...huh. Apparently Martha’s not the only one looking for a flatmate. 

Mike ever-so-helpfully volunteers to introduce them, and here’s where things diverge.

See, if it’d been John Watson, he'd take one look at Sherlock—at the man whose wit was sharper than his cheekbones, who’d gotten a read on him in the span of five minutes and was basically a force of nature—and he’d be enthralled.

However, in this universe, Martha Jones is filling his shoes, and she takes one look at Sherlock—at the tall, dark-haired man who burned so, very brightly, who effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone in the room—and all she can think is: ‘oh, no. Not again.’

Here, everything that drew John to Sherlock is everything that’s pushing Martha away; the parallels are so, so blatant it’s ridiculous. 

Every shred of common sense tells Martha to run. And yet.

Martha can’t help but be drawn in. He’s so, so brilliant, and he’s so similar and yet not to the Doctor, and...it’s been a while, since she left the TARDIS, since she last had an adventure like the one this man is promising. 

But Martha’s still on the fence, because of obvious reasons. Her biggest issue is that Sherlock doesn’t seem to be human, [because last time that happened she’d ended up seeing her world burn] and it’s not until she’s pinning a murderous cabbie and talking about the pills that she finally lowers her guard because it turns out that for all that he pretends otherwise, Sherlock isn’t that bad.

And once Martha’s guard is down, the two get along like a house on fire. 

No, really, it’s actually pretty unnerving, especially for the crew at NSY, or just anyone who’s ever known Sherlock. In the days and weeks and months that follow, it quickly becomes evident that one of the mysteries of the universe is, “just where on Earth did Sherlock find this woman?” because...well. 

At first, the confusion had been of the general “who the hell can stand living with this guy?!” variety, and more than a few people, up to and including Mycroft, are actually slightly concerned by the fact that Martha Jones can listen to even the fiercest of Sherlock’s diatribes and not even blink before shoving the grocery list at him as she heads off to work, and whose only reaction to Sherlock’s most gruesome experiments had been to yell at him for using the good saucepan for it. [Really, it’s almost like Martha’s dealt with someone like Sherlock before.]

It’s not until later on that things really start piling up, however, and here’s where things get...interesting. 

It’s not just the way Martha so easily falls into step at Sherlock’s right side, anymore; it’s the way Sherlock’s actually slightly less standoffish at crime scenes, and the first time he actually thanked someone for something Lestrade nearly spilled his coffee down his shirt while everyone else gaped, and that’s also right around the time the rumors start. 

Ah, yes. The rumors. 

Because apparently, a man and a woman moving in together automatically means they’re a couple to some people. Martha and Sherlock quickly develop a routine of saying, “we’re not together”, thanks in no small part to Mycroft’s smirking after bringing up how fast they were moving in their ‘relationship’.

Martha, who’s just been recovering from being the rebound from last time [hi, Rose], and Sherlock, who’s on the asexual spectrum [I’m leaning towards demi, for this particular AU, but really it depends] do not appreciate these rumors. Well, tough, because the more time goes on the more everyone around them ships it, because these two are very clearly good influences on each other: Sherlock has yet to pass out of malnutrition [a new record, by Mycroft's standards], and the shadows in Martha’s eyes recede as time goes on, and she makes friends among the NSY crew. [She makes an effort to befriend Molly Hooper, and helps her get over her crush.]

The more time goes on, the more annoying the rumors get. Martha’s irritated because she’s finally starting to look into dating again [and also because she’s self-aware enough to know that pursuing a relationship with Sherlock, especially at the moment, would be a Bad Idea because of the parallels she’s still occasionally seeing—plus he’s not interested anyway, so]. 

Meanwhile, on Sherlock’s end, he may or may not be starting to quietly panic as he’s starting to experience his first crush in god-knows-how-many years because he did not sign up for this crap, nope, where can he uninstall this weird feeling he gets when Martha smiles at him? 

Also because he thinks she’s not interested in him, and he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship.

Other than that, though, things are going great: Sherlock and Martha make one hell of a team, and Mycroft’s teasing [...and basically everyone else’s, for that matter] just get more ammunition as time goes on as they’re photographed tiredly leaning into each other after particularly long cases, etc. 

Bits and pieces of Martha’s past come up every so often: some rather niche trivia here, a textbook takedown of an armed suspect there, the way her bag seems to hold everything from granola bars to the better part of a pharmacy. However, they’re few and far between, and typically only end up raising more questions than answers. Sherlock’s taken it as a challenge, but even he ends up stumped sometimes because really, where the hell did his flatmate learn to handle a knife like a Black Ops commando? He’d be very annoyed at not having figured Martha out sooner, except it looks like Mycroft’s stumped too.

But for the most part, canon ensues, as the continue with their daily lives. They go on cases, fight crime, and try to ignore the increasingly-annoying rumors.

The appearance of Jim Moriarty marks the beginning of the end.

Martha’s at the of her rope, trying to hold it together when she’s seeing this huge, epic showdown between genii. She’s trying not to lose it, doing her best to carry on when Sherlock’s acting differently, and people are dying, and...well.

Suffice it is to say, Martha’s not a happy camper, even before she gets kidnapped as the last hostage. Incidentally, she also accidentally got Moriarty’s interest because of the way she reacted to said hostage situation; the way she stoically deals with the vest is a marked contrast with the way she’d viciously fought a squad of armed personnel not an hour before, and that? Is just intriguing. 

...and canon marches on. 

They escape, and Sherlock’s not the only one who’s alarmed by the way Martha just. Breaks down laughing, after the fact, after having seen two genii facing off against each other and having faced certain death.

Time goes on, things proceed as per canon. Everyone’s starting to suspect Martha’s an unconfirmed living saint, and the rumors only get worse and there’s now a betting pool as to when they’ll get together—and then Irene shows up.

Which, awkward. Everyone expects Martha to be jealous but really she’s just protective about boundaries, and that she’s unruffled by Irene’s blatant flirting is just raising more and more questions, even after the Woman sauntered out of the picture.

Time passes, and canon ensues. They have more adventures, Martha’s journal [because she’s too private to have a blog, in this one] gets more and more pages filled in, and things are looking up. 

Cue Reichenbach.

Martha’s guard skyrockets after Moriarty’s reappearance, and trying not to panic even as the fiasco feels exactly like a deja vu of the showdown she’d seen between the Doctor and the Master. She’s scrambling for a peaceful resolution, scrambling not to lose it but it’s so, so hard because the parallels are right there and as if that’s not enough, there’s Weeping Angels running around. The entire time she’s at the end of her rope, things are looking bleak and in so many ways it’s just like last time and—and then, Sherlock dies.

Sherlock dies, and she had to watch him fall. 

And with his fall, she backslides like never before, every last scrap of progress she’s made with her PTSD erased in one fell swoop, and [just like last time,] Martha Jones walks away.

Ices over, packs up her things, and only sticks around long enough for the funeral before shipping out for a UNIT mission. Only keeps in touch with a few people, whenever she has the time—a phone call here, a quick visit when she’s on leave there.

Martha throws herself into her work, to forget. And with time and distance, she starts to pick up the pieces. [Again.] 

Her career is going places, and things start to settle down again. There’s been an effort to clear Sherlock’s name, but she doesn’t follow what’s going on because she’s not sure her heart would be able to take it. Besides—she’s got other things on her mind, what with the whole mess with the Sontarans and all. 

cue Doctor Who canon and fixits

Somewhere along the way, Martha meets Tom Milligan [again, outside of a time that would never happen], and they hit it off. Slowly, because Martha’s still quietly grieving for her best friend and they both travel a lot for work, but...they click. 

aka yep Tom’s kinda filling in Mary Morstan’s role

...and then the Earth gets stolen, and a lot of things end up going down very fast.

Using a highly-experimental device that had a good chance of killing her? Okay, came with the territory. Meeting the Doctor again? Sure, why not, this type of mess was right up his alley. Having Sherlock show up as they’re trying to figure out how to fix it, though? 

Let’s just say the reunion’s...interesting, and the only silver lining in all this is the face the Doctor made when he heard her ex-flatmate’s name. 

Cue fixit that doesn’t end up with Donna’s memories erased, manages to take care of the Daleks, and also manages to explain just why Sherlock Holmes is running around in 2013. Things get squared away, and there’s a happy ending for everyone as they all head off to their next adventure.

.

.

.

Here’s my main issue: there’s just so many ways this AU can go, so many potential spinoffs and ships possible that finding one ending is next to impossible. 

The Moriarty AU is a personal favorite, for instance, but even just the original has me torn between Martha/Sherlock, or Martha/Tom Milligan [aka yep he’s kinda filling in Mary Morstan’s role in this, or Sarah], or a mix of both via queerplatonic relationships—and then there’s the fixits, because there’s some things I had an issue with in the original [the way Irene got handled by the writers, for instance] and the list just goes on. 

Just—expect varying levels of crack and self-indulgence, because of Reasons. And the odd ship, too, because why not.

Also: for those curious about what happened to John—his deployment was unusually quiet. It didn’t help that troops got recalled after something went down with the new Prime Minister [hi, Mr. Saxon] which meant his convoy didn’t get ambushed and he didn’t get shot and sent home. Sure, he still has some PTSD, but not as bad as he might have otherwise, and that his hand doesn’t have a tremor means he quickly gets a job as a surgeon once his deployment’s up, and he settles back in as a civilian without having too hard a time of it. Along the way he meets and falls for Mary Morstan, and they have a happy ending living a quiet life because this is supposed to be a fixit AU and if I can minimize the angst and body count, I will. 

[thenewbuzwuzz]

Title: A Hundred Tiny Silver Deer Rating: T Words: ~3.6 K Ship: Spuffy Setting: BtVS season 7, in a manner of speaking Summary: Dimension-hopping Spuffy try to figure out what is wrong with season 7. Instead, they find out how to make everything more trippy and medieval.

Repost time! Linked above, on Dreamwidth, is my chapter of the recent Elysian Fields collaborative surrealism party, Exquisite Consequences. I think it's possible to enjoy each chapter separately -- after all, I hadn't read the previous chapters when I wrote it. The first paragraph is my prompt, written by relurker. The chapter title is from Tennyson's "The Last Tournament". I also borrow heavily from canon BtVS dialogue and a certain classic love story that is named in the chapter. A big thank you to Double Dutchess for the coherence beta! I have made a bunch of minor edits since the Elysian Fields version, BUT, if you read this and fall into a plot hole or anything else in particular bothers you, I'd appreciate a holler. I'm sure there's plenty left to clean up before reposting to AO3. One can also read it here, because why not:

“No, you’re right. Every time realities mix, it’s like playing dice with nitroglycerin. You’ll go back to your world in a minute, and reality will be a little different. I don’t know how much of this you’ll remember, or how much of your reality will be different. Extreme times… you know how it goes.” Dawn’s eyes were very bright, too. “Now, you two. Hold hands, close your eyes, and when I say the word, you’ll be in your own place. Bazinga!”

*** Buffy woke up feeling warm and happy, and a bit pleasantly sore. Her nose was smooshed up against... Spike. There was a light touch on her hair that stopped when she stirred. She opened her eyes to see Spike hovering his hand like he wasn’t sure where to put it. She took it in her hand and beamed at him. “Good morning!” Spike seemed to unfreeze. He put his other arm around her and held her close. “Best morning of my life,” he said after a moment. “You remember, then?” Buffy remembered lots of things. They were all jumbled together. Some of it was definitely a dream, thank goodness. (Spike streaming with light like a disco ball, wearing an ugly necklace.) Some of it, she wasn’t sure. (Could cheetahs really do that? And when had she resolved to visit a vineyard? She didn’t even like wine.) “I remember that you have my back,” she told him. “I remember making love to you.” He gave her a breathtaking, unguarded smile. Had she seen that smile before? It felt like she saw it for the first time. Wait, she’d been saying something. “And I remember saying bye to Dawn. Something about mixing realities. She was sending us home, but she said something might be changed.” Spike nodded. “Doesn’t look much like home, does it?” She looked around. “I can see why. There’s not a skull in sight.” They were in a room illuminated by indirect sunlight. The bedclothes were a rich blue and brown with a pattern like leaves or ferns. There were some candles and books and an armchair. “Yeah, I don't know this house. But I know who we are, so this isn’t a Randy and Joan day.” “Well, no randier than usual.” Buffy groaned. “You had to, didn’t you? But, y’know, there is something wrong with this reality. We’re in bed, with clothes. Who does that? There should be no clothes.” So they fixed the timeline. *** Afterwards, they got dressed and made their way to Revello Drive, which turned out to be only a couple of blocks away. Something was definitely off about this reality. Tucker's brother lived with Buffy, for one. So, apparently, did everyone else. There was a bunch of girls calling Buffy “the General” when they thought she didn't hear. And that First Evil loser, which Buffy had met in the real world back when Angel lived in Sunnydale, was apparently still a thing here. This reality’s Scoobies even had little tricks for distinguishing between one of them and absolute evil. What a fun place. “So, really, what you're saying is that we should keep our hands on each other at all times.” She slid her hand into Spike's back pocket. “Ah, thank you, you’ve hit upon the exact opposite of what I would suggest,” Giles said. Yeesh, these Scoobies had issues with Spike. Good thing that Buffy hadn’t taken the opinions of the local Scoobies seriously for a few realities in a row now. Dawn spoke up, “Buffy, don’t you remember what Spike did to you?” “No? I bet this Spike didn’t. I mean, of course he tried to kill me! He’s Spike. But that was years ago, and I’m over it. He has helped us all so much. What’s your problem, people?” “Oh.” Dawn considered. “So he hasn’t, like, tried to make you do anything you didn’t want?” “Pfft. Like he could.” “I wouldn’t hurt Buffy,” Spike said, “not unless she asked me to.” “Eww, Spike, I don’t need to know that,” Dawn said, but she was already grinning. She hugged Spike. “I missed you.” Not trusting Spike, imagine that. Wasn’t it so last season? Or month? Or at least last week? She wasn’t clear on the timeline. “Oh, wait! I haven’t told you guys! See, in our reality, Spike has a special chip that would trigger a headache if he tried to hurt people. He’s safe!” “Thanks ever so,” Spike said and rolled his eyes. Buffy checked under his shirt to see if he was corporeal there, too. He was. Spike pinched her. “Just checking you're not the source of all evil.” “So what’s the verdict? Is my butt evil?” “No.” He leaned closer to her. “It’s all things good and warm and delicious, like all the rest of you.” “Uh huh.” She suppressed a shiver. “You sure you’re not just peckish?” Giles had said some more words while they were doing their part for the war on evil, and Buffy debated asking what those words were. But just then, Faith walked in with even more girls, carrying weapons. They’d been out patrolling, Faith said, but couldn’t remember why they’d gone in broad daylight. It had ended well, though. While regrouping, they’d heard a distant underground explosion and found a whole arsenal of goodies, only protected by a few Bringers. “Hey, you’re just in time, guys,” someone piped up at the kitchen door. It was that twitchy guy who quoted movies all the time. The one who had teared up when Spike asked him who he was. Tucker’s brother. “I made an early lunch,” he said and gestured with oven mitts. The aroma of deep-fried onions followed in his wake. “You were right, Spike, ice water really helped.” After a lot of delicious, calorie-laden food, Buffy decided to follow the nagging feeling that she should be at a vineyard. It paid off. They beat up some Bringers easily, just like the last time she remembered, and Buffy got to King Arthur a battleaxe out of a rock. After some research, Giles and Willow told her the axe was originally supposed to be a scythe. Another reality change, then. As long as they were all going to be this harmless... *** Things got murkier when Angel arrived out of the blue and gave Buffy an amulet that looked oddly familiar. At least he didn’t want to stay and chat once he saw that Sunnydale wasn’t as apocalyptic as he’d thought. “It has a purifying power and a cleansing power, and, bonus, it bestows strength,” Buffy recited to the group after Angel was gone. “What is that about? I don’t think anyone here needs to be purified.” “Prefer me dirty, Slayer? Mutual,” Spike said and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Something clicked. “Spike,” she said. That’s where she had seen the necklace before. “You wore this in my dream. There was... a lot of fire. You were talking about cleanup, and everything was collapsing. I think you were on fire, too.” A dark-haired girl who’d introduced herself as Shannon spoke up. “It kind of sounds like what that creepy preacher guy said when he drove me here. A cleansing fire? He said it would cure the world of weakness.” Everyone went silent. “It’s okay, unfamiliar girl,” Anya finally said. “It’s not your fault the deranged clergyman died in a car crash, even if he was distracted because you were talking to him. And you never know, maybe he deserved it.” She gave Shannon an encouraging smile. Giles winced. “Anya’s right about one thing. We cannot avert every tragedy, only do our best.” “I’ve heard this before, though,” Willow said, hunched small. “About cleansing fires and letting them burn away souls and bring death.” Giles made a thinky noise. Sometimes Buffy was just so happy she had a Giles on her side. “I agree, we can’t rule out a connection to the Proserpexa temple on Kingman’s Bluff.” “So this amulet thing sounds pretty dodgy?” Buffy summed up. It was more of a hunch than anything, but more of her dreams were coming back, and she didn’t like them one bit. “It’s not impossible that Angel thought he was helping,” Giles said generously. “He has been misled before about what help, uh, entails. Of course, we may be able to discover more about the artifact with some research. There may be a use for it yet.” “Right. Thanks,” Buffy said. She handed the necklace over to Giles and caught Spike’s eye. “They put the spark in me, and all it does is burn,” she said quietly. “That’s what you said in my dream. And you were smoking, Spike. As in, there was smoke rising from you. Don’t do that.” Xander said, “You know what they say. You’re a fool if you think smoking is cool.” There was a hint of real concern in his voice. “And there’s more.” They had felt like Slayer dreams, now that Buffy thought of it. “I remember a phrase. Someone was telling you, ‘Touch her, you’re gonna wake up on fire.’ I think they meant me.” “Well, I’d say I’ve touched you all right,” Spike said. “We should find out what’s up with this,” Buffy said. “Could it be realities mixing together? Dawn told us – not you, the Dawn in the other reality – that what we did was like playing dice with explosives. I want to know for sure if my dice are going to explode, you know? Or anyone else for that matter.” She grasped Spike’s hand more tightly. *** “Okay, there’s the shadow of Jonathan’s old charisma spell,” Willow said half under her breath, sitting cross-legged with her eyes shut, “and this is the monks’ spell for Dawn. I think this might be traces of Sweet, gee, there’s a lot of wishes being made lately… actually, all of this stuff might not be wishes. It’s like patchwork around here. I’m sorry, Buffy, I’m not sure I could see a reality mixing into ours even if it was right in front of me. Wait, well, there is this thing… I’m not sure what it is.” She paused. “It doesn’t look like an alternate reality exactly, but it’s not anything else I know.” “Well, what does it look like?” Buffy was pacing. “Kind of similar to Sweet’s singing spell. Neater and less detailed than the other ones. It’s probably not a full world, but more like a pattern, like maybe something based on a story.” “That’s the penalty when life is but a song,” Dawn said like she was just remembering something. “Quite right, those were Sweet’s words,” Giles said. “We did all see that exposure to artistic reality changes can lead to combustion.” Willow repurposed the shadow caster to work as a portal to the reality she’d seen, so they could step in and investigate. She said it was a Prose Portal. Apparently, she’d read about those in England in some grimoire called “The Eyre Affair”. Willow said it would be easiest for Spike to enter the portal, because the story world was already linked to him. Buffy could follow. They said bye to everyone for the time being. Even Xander clapped Spike on the shoulder. “Hey, if you see any fluffy dragons in there, remember to grab one on your way out. We could use a luck dragon.” *** Spike floated in and out of scenes as if in a dream. Someone was reading a story to him. Maybe it was his mother, or maybe just the voice that he usually heard in his own head when reading – in any case, it was a voice he trusted and gladly followed. Some of the time, he saw himself from a distance, acting the story out. He loved a queen who wasn’t his to wed. His lady belonged to no king, true. It was to the graveyard that she returned faithfully every night, her sacred calling the only vow she had taken. But her golden hair shone brighter than that of any king’s bride. The wine was drugged. It let thorny love take root in his blood, and with it, sweet-smelling, sunlit death. Or was it that the blood was drugged? It was too late, at any rate. He’d already drunk it, felt it burn in his throat and all the way down to his gut (god, no, please, no). “Well, then, come, death,” they both said and gave themselves over to love. And all around them, the walls, the floor, the ceiling cracked and broke. He was in a bathtub, and she was threatening him with a sword. He’d killed her kin, it was true, but (he tried to explain) it was always a fair fight. By right of combat, he’d hold his own against anyone who dared say he was in the wrong. They were holding trial by combat right now, not against her, someone else, in a room decked with crosses (God their witness). He won, because he was right. Her castle was fenced with sharp stakes, but he leapt over them every night to send her messages. When enough water had flowed by in the stream, she would come out to meet him, he knew it. Alone in the wilderness, they slept on a bed of leaves and ferns, side by side yet chastely distant, a naked blade between them. In the morning, they found a new weapon in its place, red blade proudly curved, fit for a king. Many deeds he had done for her, and his madness was from her alone. He walked back home to her, barefoot, a fool, and she told him she knew him not. The other, more pleasant Iseult (Wait, who? He meant Buffy.) tried to soothe him and heal him with her soft, white hands. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked. He told her, “Just be Buffy.” A dragon returned every year to Buffy’s town, collecting tribute. It was a matter of time before it claimed her. The right thing was to volunteer as a sacrifice, so she wouldn’t have to fight. After all, his life was rightfully hers, because she had returned it. They’d drunk love mixed with death long ago. He knew how to make the story end right. It had been worth it. *** Buffy was good at dreams when she put her mind to it. She kept a dream diary, so she could remember her Slayer dreams in more detail. After the First Slayer attacked them all, Buffy had started practising ways of telling whether she was dreaming or not. She hadn’t wanted to be caught off guard again. So when she floated into the dreamlike story world and saw the air shimmer golden, something registered as slightly suspicious at the back of her mind. She was in a crumbling house. She’d had magic weed, and it was taking root in her blood. If she wasn’t careful, all her fingers would sprout purple, sweet-smelling sage flowers through the ruins, and everyone would know that she was in love with her death. The scene changed. Spike was in a bathtub, and she was threatening him with a sword. She remembered this, but it wasn’t quite right. He was supposed to be in chains, and she should be threatening him with blood. Wait, that didn’t make sense either. Was she dreaming? She jumped and watched herself float down slowly. She was dreaming. Or something like it. Now she remembered going into the alternate reality with Spike. She looked up, meaning to tell Spike what was going on, but he had disappeared. She flew around the dreamlike world and looked for Spike. Lots of forests, fortresses, and small towns. Not enough Spike. She found a cliff instead. There was a cave, and near the mouth of the cave, Spike was trying to put some chains on himself. They kept slipping off. She walked up and grabbed the chains to free him. He yanked them back. “Respect the narrative flow, would you! I want to see how it ends.” “Oh, no, you don’t. I say it’s not ending this way.” “I’m not afraid, Buffy,” he said and smiled. “I would, you know, for the right person? For you.” “I don’t want you to die for me!” Buffy yelled. Silence rang. What the hell. It was only a dream. “I want to live with you,” she added. Spike blinked. He pinched himself. “Am I dreaming?” he asked. “Yes!” she said. “Or close enough. I mean, I meant it, but also, you’re dreaming. And you really, really need to snap out of it.” The chains disappeared. “I’m not asking you for anything, you know,” he said, his eyes warm. She was on a throne now, and he was kneeling. “When I say I love you, it’s not because I want you…” “Well, why the fuck not? What’s wrong with wanting me?” “You’re missing the point, Slayer.” He sounded more like himself. “No, you’re missing the point! We’re going home! Together. Got it?” Spike finally seemed to come to his senses. He got up and looked around. “So this is where all the fire bollocks came from, is it?” Buffy nodded. She was so relieved to talk to Spike without thrones or misused chains. “Why fire, though? There isn’t anything really fiery here, so why was it that way back home?” “Well, what else does death look like for a vampire?” “Point,” Buffy said. “I guess it’s harder to have prophetic dreams about wood.” Spike started to waggle his eyebrows, but then there was a roar and a rumble. Something was coming out of the cave. A muzzle and a pair of round ears appeared, along with eyes that seemed to fairly glow with evil intent. It was a bear. “What is it with the bears?” Spike exclaimed. “I could live for decades at a time without running into one, until I met you. I hold you accountable, Slayer.” “Undo it, undo it,” Buffy said smiling and hefted her red axe. “I’d like to see you keep your calm when you’re trussed up like some sacrificial virgin and one of these things comes at you. Did you know they can decapitate a moose in one go?” The bear was half out of the cave now. It turned to stare at them with bright red eyes and huffed. Fire shot out of its nostrils. It was the greenest, most scaly bear Buffy had ever seen. “Wait,” Spike said, suddenly grinning. “You’re not a bear at all, are you, beastie?” He bounced on his heels and unsheathed his sword. “Spike. How is it good news that it can breathe fire?” “Aw, don’t tell me you never wanted to slay a dragon.” The creature’s skin glittered in the sunlight, covered in black, yellowish green, and transparent crystals. A long tail dragged behind it. “Dragon slaying it is, then. I mean, someone’s got to save the world from this fashion disaster. Glittery snakeskin overalls? So seventies.” And then it was on. The red blade sang through the air, Buffy’s muscles sang with the weight of the axe, and, though she might not have phrased it that way in another world, her heart sang to feel Spike fighting beside her. They weren’t getting anywhere, though. Spike had managed to leap aside from the flames every time so far, but the dragon’s skin was too tough. “Wait a mo,” Spike said when they retreated to rest for the third time. The dragon rumbled its way towards them like the world’s slowest rock avalanche. “I know this dragon. The head of a bear and red eyes like coals of fire… say, do its ears look tufted to you?” “Definite tufting vibe,” Buffy said. “Thought so. This fellow is from the Romance of Tristan and Iseult. ...Explains a lot, actually. Well, we’re not going to have any luck cutting its skin, and the saliva is poisonous.” “Any other good news?” Spike muttered something rhythmic under his breath, keeping the beat with one hand. “It will die if we shove a sword down its throat.” “Neat. What doesn’t.” “But we’ve got to be careful and not touch its tongue.” They made short work of the dragon, so that all the more time was left for wacky dream sex that defied everything: physics, description, and the status quo. “Okay, how do we get out of here?” Buffy said eventually, as they snuggled on the cave floor that could only be so comfortable in a dream or story. A map appeared in her hands. It was blank apart from a label that said, “BUSH”. “It's retrograde,” a white rat said from the deep end of the cave, “but that's… that's okay!” Buffy rotated the map, and it began to change like a kaleidoscope, along with the walls of the cave. Every stretch of wall bloomed with colorful tapestries of… her and Spike, in the best rendition of some textile artist. Buffy in a black beanie, standing side by side with Spike while the unconscious body of a six-headed lion draped over what was probably meant to be a car. Buffy hugging Spike, a wide grin on her face and a ring glittering on her finger. The two of them lying naked on the floor behind strategically placed pieces of rubble, in the ruins of a building that looked oddly fortress-like. Sitting on the porch while a porcupine creature squatted in the grass… had that been there? More and more tapestries appeared, and Buffy knew each one was a door, the way you know things in dreams for no reason. With a quite different certainty, she knew they’d be fine wherever they went together. Buffy and Spike smiled at each other and stepped through time hand in hand.