Summary: The Cheese Guy tells his story. (This'll show Joss for saying he
was pointless. lol.)
Spoilers: Through Restless.
Disclaimer: Joss invented the Cheese Guy. Then he said he was pointless.
Big meanie. Anyway, he's the mean genius and I just borrow the characters to
write with.
Rating: PG13
For Tracy and Laura, who introduced me to the adventures in cheese. <g>

I am the man who haunts your dreams. I am as old as vampires and Slayers,
old as the beginning of time, older than man or woman. I am as old as the
First. I enter into places inside of you that even you do not know exist.

I am a glimpse; forgotten as quickly as I register, rarely ever dwelled on.
Perhaps you will have a strange flash of déjà vu when you see a man on the
street who resembles me, but you will shake off my unknown presence before
the memory of me can take hold in your subconscious.

Sometimes I am an oddity to the person I visit. Sometimes I make them laugh
or confuse them. Sometimes I help their minds connect to that which is
annoyingly just out of reach. Sometimes I frighten them or make them weep,
although I will forever refuse to take responsibility for stepping into a
persons' dream or nightmare at the exact wrong moment-- How am I to know?

You know me. Maybe you don't realize that you know me... But you do.

I am the Cheese Guy.

Or maybe that's putting it too simply. But that's how you think of me, in
that moment before you're truly awake, where everything is still soft and
hazy around the edges. That moment where time doesn't really exist. "The
Cheese Guy," I hear your memories whisper before they fade away with the
break of dawn.

Sometimes one of you remembers me for hours or days after my visit, but don't
worry-- soon the enigma of who I am will stop tormenting your thoughts. Soon
you will stop trying to figure me out.

I wasn't always the Cheese Guy, of course. I used to love toting handfuls of
dirt into dreams. For a while, my weapons of choice were... Well, weapons.
But I like leaving a good almost-remembered memory, and weapons brought about
more tears than I've seen before or since. And when cheese was invented, it
was too good a product to resist.

I suppose I have something of a cheesy sense of humor.

No, huh? Sad to admit that that particular joke hasn't received one laugh
since I began peddling it. Ah, well. It won't stop me from trying.

I've had an interesting life. Perhaps not interesting enough to warrant my
memoirs, but haven't you ever wanted to know what someone dreams about? What
their wishes are? What secrets they keep locked inside of them, secrets they
keep even from themselves? I know these things.

And I could tell you, if you liked.

Suppose I told you about the Slayer. How would you respond if I said that
she hardly ever dreams anymore? No, the visions in her mind when she sleeps
are filled with an almost nightmarish reality. I like to go to her, when I
can. I like to make the tense moments lighter. I like to ease her pain.

She dreams about her lovers. The dark vampire, the strong soldier. She has
dreams about the future, dreams that even I don't like to step into because
of their frightening, intricate detail. She dreams about her friends.

She worries about you, you know.

She loves you dearly. There is a part of her that holds such intense guilt
already for that which has not happened yet, that which may never happen.
She thinks of your death and she weeps inside. I wish I could comfort her
when she sees your broken body lying in front of her, wish I could take that
grief away.

But I can't. The most I can do is offer a sad reminder that some things
don't make any sort of sense.

And if I told you that she shares her dreams sometimes, with the vampire that
she refuses to let her conscious mind think about, what would you say then?
I believe you would be compassionate, want to run to her side and hold her.
You would say nothing to me, of course. But to her you would. And maybe to
him, who dreams about her beauty as though it's his salvation. Which it is,
in a way.

I could tell you how badly he aches when he looks upon her smiling face, her
gentle female curves, her silky hair. I could tell you of the pain that
won't ever quite go away-- the pain that he can't allow to go away-- whenever
he remembers the sweet smell of her skin, when he dreams about some lost day
that even I can never fully understand the meaning of.

Or, the Watcher. He has startling memories of finding his loved one dead,
spread across his blankets, her blank eyes staring up at him. He still cries
sometimes for her, although he would never let anyone know. He has dreams of
his new lover, who is one of his old friends, who has comforted him and
laughed with him for over twenty years now. He cares for her, but it isn't a
binding love yet. It might never be, but it's good that he has someone in
his life that he can touch, someone that he can be close to again.

When you're in his dreams, you confuse me. At times, he looks at you
protectively, in almost a familial sense. Other times, your breasts are
slick with sweat and your face glows a warm pink with desire as you move
underneath or on top of him. Nothing will ever come of it, of course, even
though you've dreamed of him in the same manner before. You will have a mild
attraction to one another for the remainder of your lives and will become
closer to each other because of everything that will never be said.

The werewolf rarely dreams of anything besides music. Notes dance through
his mind, untitled and senseless melodies that are touching and are always
sadly forgotten as soon as he opens his eyes. Occasionally, he dreams of his
darker self, the wolf, and there is fear in his eyes when he looks inside a
mirror and sees himself covered with the soft fur that the full moon brings.

But where there's no music or fear, there you are. You are beauty
personified to him. You move his soul in ways that cannot be described by a
mere bystander, ways that even he, himself can never tell you of for lack of
the right poetry. Your laughter, your hands, the way you blush at
compliments. He loves all of you.

One day he will return to your life and you will see each other from across
the room. There will be none of the anticipated awkwardness and you will fly
into each other's arms. I don't think the romantic spark will be the same as
it was... Granted, I am not a prophet, but I see the two of you falling into
the place that is comfortable and questionless. A simple, deep friendship
that contains love and trust and everything good and right in the world.

And I've been in... I've been his dreams.

He's the one you really want to know about, isn't he? The dark haired, loyal
soldier who keeps his own tears silent as he tries to make you smile. The
friend you've had forever, the person that you are connected to through time
and life and everything complicated. Your other half.

All right, I'll just tell you.

Yes. You're in his dreams.

You've been in his dreams since he fell asleep after the day you met.
Fifteen years and I don't think a night has gone by-- at least not a night
that I've visited him-- where your face hasn't appeared. Sometimes you
comfort him, hold him when he weeps about the things that he's kept secret
all of his life. Sometimes your image is used to fulfill his baser
instincts, and you stare at him hotly as his fingers trail along your bared
skin.

But mostly, he dreams about loving you.

I doubt he remembers these dreams as well as I do. I'm certain that he
didn't for a long time, that he pulled a shutter over his gaze when he awoke
so as to not disturb the friendship that you two have worked so long to
build. But now, he sees you in a different light. Remembering his dreams or
not, you've become everything to him and for over a year he has realized it.

He wants to be in your life... No, I put that wrongly. He wants to be your
life, the way that you are his. He wants to be everything to you, wants to
touch you intimately, wants to kiss your swollen lips, wants to let you know
how he aches for your presence when you aren't around. He wants to tell you
that he loves you with every opportunity that he has, and it hurts him inside
when he can't.

He's afraid, you see. He's afraid because he possesses the purest kind of
love for you, the kind that forgoes his own happiness-- and he would suffer
in silence-- to make sure that you got all that you deserved out of life. To
make sure that you are satisfied and happy.

He is warmed by you.

You make him want to be the man of your dreams.

Oh, this feels good. You can't imagine how infuriating it's been to have
this knowledge for over a year and be unable to tell you about it. The
group of you, the tightly knit group of friends that support the Slayer, you
all have the most fascinating dreams I've ever been in.

I admit it, I'm an eavesdropper. In my defense, though, there's really
nothing left for me to do once I've done my job and brought you tears or joy
or simple confusion. So I spend my time creatively.

I'm telling you all of this now because I'd like to step into a dream soon
where you're contented. A dream where you're dreaming of the position you're
in, wrapped in his arms, breathing in time with him. I'd like to see a small
smile curve your lips when he rolls over and manages to keep you in his
embrace.

I want to see that.

So I'm telling you these things now, hoping that your connection with magick
will be strong enough that you will be able to remember them. Hoping that
you will go to him and tell him of everything that you've always wanted to
say but could never quite find the right words or time for.

And if you can, it'd be nice if you pulled me into your sleep again.
* * * * * * *

Willow's eyes fluttered blearily open. 'The Cheese Guy,' she thought
sleepily and then shook herself awake. Visions of her dreams were clouding
her memory and she stretched to wake up more fully, a smile warming her
features.

That had been a great dream, whatever had happened.

A small, nagging, undefinable thought persisted in the back of her mind,
forcing her out of the comfort of her bed. Without thinking, she got
dressed. Brushed her teeth and hair. Grinned at her reflection.

And then she was out the door and running, though she wasn't really sure to
where.
* * * * * *

For a moment when she arrived, she paused and let a silly grin curve her
mouth. She hadn't known where? That had been a strange kind of lie to tell
herself, she conceded silently.

She'd known that this was her destination since before she knew how fast she
could run to get here. She'd known that this was the place she belonged
since before she felt like she didn't belong anywhere. She'd known that this
was the place that would hold her safely between its walls since before she'd
had anything to be frightened by.

Xander's house.

Of course.

Giggling a little at the early hour-- the sun had barely risen-- she let
herself in with the spare key that was always hidden under the dark gray
stone at the base of his door and quietly made her way through the hall until
she reached the basement entrance. Less quietly now, more quickly, she
walked down the steps, uncaring of the creaks and squeaks that they made as
she moved as long as they took her to him.

He was still asleep.

Willow watched him for a moment and then let her hand trail down his jaw, a
feather-light touch of intimacy. Her fingernail gently traced his lower lip,
and she shivered with the tip of her finger touched his skin. He was
beautiful when he slept.

Finally he stirred and stared at her blearily for a moment, a sleepy smile
betraying his emotions. "Willow? I was just dre..." He started then, with
surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I missed you," she said simply, her smile hopeful, her eyes glittering and
gorgeous.

Xander grinned, not knowing what to say, and then nodded. "Likewise."

They didn't say anything else-- the words that needed to be said would come
later-- but he pulled her closer, loving the feel of her soft curves under
his palms, and kissed her firmly. After a moment Willow pulled away, her
eyes alight.

"Feel like getting something to eat?"

"Do I ever not?" he countered, smirking.

She laughed, hugging him tightly for a second. "What do you feel like?"

"Like a lot of you," he whispered huskily, then chuckled again. "Food-wise,
I'm not sure. You?"

"I don't know. I was thinking maybe cheese omelets?"

Xander nodded definitively. "Sounds perfect."


The End


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