#indirect sunlight. i think that's fun to know) but when driving away they see the Realtor Who's Supposed To Be Dead But This Time For Real

[unproduciblesmackdown]

ten drawings and like twelve seconds of the song into this whodunit? project, determinedly progressing....and for fun, i was like, okay put Anything else into zeke’s locker / give it Any flair, like, always striking for a balance b/w not making things too difficult but not like cutting all corners & fully avoiding what i think would be fun &/or just good to include

mainly had the spontaneous idea for like, put a poster/pic in there somewhat horror related, i was gonna do something kind of Scary Generic like a haunted house & then had the insight like oh hey make it hopefully evocative of the cover illustration for the first goosebumps book “welcome to dead house”

and then added a kermit the frog keychain, fun anyways, and a bit of a shoutout to an element of the book in zeke’s like immediate introduction lol

kind of the best of both worlds when it occurs to me to have something be kind of an easter egg / reference to Something touched on in any of this material, like also made sure to get zeke’s locker number right (or rather make the locker to the left One Number Below the number given in the musical synopsis (no locker number’s given in the book) to imply his correct locker number, but probably i’ll show the closed locker door also) which is itself an easter egg reference to how many years ago the events of The Legend occurred (in the musical), because coming up with such details wholecloth is a trial i might just otherwise avoid completely, and then idk i think it’s fun. like, i’ve read welcome to dead house, classic. i’ve also now read phantom of the auditorium lol and it’s always a great time, r.l. stine always talking about how he thinks that wtdh as the first book is a bit too scary and/or not yet tempered enough with humor, and pota makes me laugh aloud like every page. a delight

[pi-cat000]

Trollhunters Timetravel idea p2

Part 1 here

Part 2: Decided to continue this idea to write more Jim and Barbara interactions. Also Troll-Jim is fun to write. 

“Now, when you encounter the younger version of myself you need to say these words exactly,” Blinky cleared his throat, raising a single hand, “Nassel, Razzel, Bezzel bub.”

“Ah,” Jim coughed, glancing across from where he was memorising the, overly complex, time travel ritual, “Why?”

“Why?” Blinky puffed, “It is a pass code of course,”

At his continued confusion Blinky elaborated, “Consider this, if you were to come across an alternate you, how would you go about identifying them. The answer is a pass code, known only to yourself, which would allow you immediately ascertain their character.”

“Is coming across alternate versions of yourself that common?” He couldn’t help but ask, slightly bemused. Typical that Blinky had a ‘time travel’ fail safe.

“Oh, you would be surprised. I have had several nasty encounters with shape shifters. Foul, horrid, creatures. Pray you never meet one.”

As Blinky launched into a recount of his most recent shape shifter confrontation Jim relaxed backward, folding his arms behind his head.  It had been ages since he had seen Blinky this animated.

“This is the basement but then you already know that don’t you,” his mum trailed off, giving him a sideward glance. Despite her commitment to ‘give him a chance’   she was obviously still having trouble wrapping her head around the whole ‘time travel/future son’ thing.

“I’ll have to bring down some blankets. Clear a space. This place is messy. So much junk,” she continued to mutter, frowning at piles of stuff. The basement was cold, covered in cobwebs and mostly covered in boxes of miscellaneous stuff. More junk than he remembered. They must have cleaned it out at some point between now and the future.

She cleared her throat, addressing him again, “When you say Trolls can’t stand the daylight is that direct sunlight or sunlight in general.”

“Sunlight isn’t great for Trolls,” one of the reasons they lived underground, “but only direct Sunlight will turn you to stone,”  he confirmed, looking over the stacks of boxes.

“Then I could put some thick blankets over the window in my room and you could stay up there,”

“Huh? Oh. No, no this is fine,” he rushed to reassure. His last year had been spent sleeping on mostly rocks and dirt so anything could be seen as a step up in his opinion.

“All we need to do is pile this stuff up over there,” he picked up a stack of old books and newspaper, placing to one side, “see, plenty of room.”

The pile toppled over and his mum gave both the pile and him a dubious look.

“Are you sure? I can sleep on the couch. In fact, I insist.”

There was no way he was going to let his mum sleep on the couch. Not when she was always so exhausted working those late shifts. And she had small Jim to take care of as well. Nope. That was not happening.

“Trust me. This is all the comfort I need. Like I said, even indirect sunlight isn’t great in the long term, so being down here is actually better,” he tried for a reassuring smile.

More disbelief. She was raising an eyebrow in that ‘I know what you’re doing’ way.

“Trolls live underground right? Well, this is underground. It’s more comfortable for me to sleep down here and not up there…in your room.”

She sighed, glancing around again,  “I suppose it will do for now, but if you’re staying here for any length of time then we are definitely cleaning this place up and I’ll see what I can do about dragging a bed down here.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” he accepted before she changed her mind, deliberately not thinking about the ‘length of time’ potion of the statement. Staying here? He would love to. But he just wasn’t sure. He needed to be out there working to defeat Bular and stop the completion of the Killahead bridge. Not that he knew where to start.

Luckily, he was saved from addressing the issue by sounds coming from up in the main house. The light steps of small Jim shuffling around, getting ready for school, dew both there attentions.

“Drat. What time is it?” his mum was looked down at her watch, “Jim needs to get to school. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’ll be back in a bit,” she quickly moved up the stairs.

“Jim do you have all your books,” she yelled into the house.

“It’s a sports carnival mum,” came the muffled the response.

“Right. I’ll be up soon. Wait by the door,”

“Is the Troll man still here?”

Younger Jim had taken the sudden appearance of Troll-Jim slightly better than his mum being more stunned than anything else. They had held off explaining the whole situation, stopping short at the bear minimum of facts. Yes, Trolls existed and he was a good Troll and wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“Wait by the door,” his mums voice grew stifled as she moved through the house.

Then of course the sun had started to raise and Jim had had the fun task of explaining the nuances of turning to stone in the sunlight to which his mum had been properly horrified. Seamed he couldn’t go two sentences without freaking her out.

The sound of approaching steps. His mum leant back down, looking back at him, “We’ll work everything out. Just wait here.” He nodded, attempting to be as reassuring as possible, giving a thumbs up. She nodded and disappeared again. Not like he could go anywhere anyway. Nothing to do but wait until the sunset.

Once he heard the door click he climbed the stairway, peering out the window to watch the car pull away. Small Jim was still at the age where his mum had been driving to school. As he watched the door to the house adjacent to theirs was flung open and a small Toby detached himself from his Grandmother, running down towards the car. He tracked the movements almost desperately. Both children greeted each other excitedly. He had no doubt that, as soon as they were out of earshot, the kids would be discussing and theorising about his sudden appearance. Who knew what sort of wacky theories they would come up with. Was it weird to be jealous of your younger self?

Sundown saw him sneaking out of the basement window, darting across his yard and heading in the direction of the town centre. After much discussion and explanation, his mum had left for her shift at the hospital. Queue increased levels of guilt upon realising that he had kept her up all day.  Her shifts around this time started at five and finished at one in the morning, meaning she had gotten no sleep at all. Stupid. How could he have forgotten that?

He paused momentarily to glance through Toby’s kitchen window, watching small Jim enjoy dinner with Toby and his Grandmother. His frustration momentarily subsided to be replaced will longing. The last time he had seen Toby had been at the start of the ill-fated search for the Heartstone. Almost two years ago. It felt like an age.

Jim pushed on, pushing Toby to the back of his mind. That kid in the window wasn’t his best friend. None of this was his, as much as he wanted it to be. He dashed over the darkening street. Occasionally, the loose shirt he was wearing in place of armour caught on bushes and brick alike. He was beginning to gain a better understanding as to why Trolls wore minimal clothing. The baggy spare clothes- which he suspected to have belonged to his dad- were more of a hindrance than anything, limiting his quick movement. He would have to find something more form-fitting later. Just add that to the list of things he needed to do.

The first place he checked was the museum. It smelt musty and damp. No signs of Trolls or any other creature besides humans.  Of course, there was no Killahead bridge. That would be too easy.  After some time sniffing around and exploring various rooms he concluded it to be empty. Sometimes it was hard to tell with changelings and he would probably have to return a few times to double check. However, at that moment, there was nothing. Even the exhibits looked strange.

He growled and the noise grumbled in his chest, echoing through the deserted halls, reminding him of rock grinding together. He hated all these unknowns. Him and Blinky had spent ages hashing out plans and back up plans and backups for those backups.  Now they were all useless. Just his presence was probably messing things up, making all his future knowledge worthless.

He had been prepared for the displacement but he had also been relying on, at least, being able to return to Trollmarket. Without the pre-existing history as a human Trollhunter, or his friends, or younger self, he didn’t dare go near Trollmarket. As much as he loved his friends and wished to see them well, Trolls weren’t the most accepting bunch. It had taken them months to warm up to him when he had been a human let alone a strange Troll-human hybrid.  Even if he managed to win Blinky over it wouldn’t be the same. He wasn’t ready for it. Not until he had a better understanding of his circumstances.

At a loss, he started in the direction of the school. Maybe he would find something familiar there.

[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.