Phone in clammy hand, Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, unable to assemble the least bit of purpose.


She'd brought this on herself. Why did she invite him into her bed? That she was exhausted, traumatized, half-asleep and just not thinking was of course absolutely no excuse. Half her life was spent in such a state. That there was something about him that was inexorably comforting, tantalizing, delicious to her ... wasn't his fault, and also was no excuse.


He was right, this wasn't working. She disturbed him, he disturbed her, and they had no business trying to coexist through this crisis while all this inappropriate indefinable feeling existed between them.


With gelid fingers, she touched the screen on the phone. It purred, and then was answered.


"Will." Not Will. Too many Wills. "Willow. It's Buffy."


"I know. Hey, how are you? Giles told me you were with Spike."


"I need some help." She explained about the alley, her voice echoing back to her, robotic. Why was it hard to breathe? Since when did she have so little rein over herself? "So I think you're the one who can find out what the hex is there. There's got to be something."


"Sure," Willow said. "I'm definitely intrigued. I've got some stuff I'm working on here but I could come to L.A. in a few days—is that soon enough?"


"The sooner the better. I'm hoping that if you can unmask whatever it is, Spike's memory will come back. The longer he's just sort of ... wiped ..."—She didn't like that word, but he'd put it in her head—"the harder it is for him."


"I get that," Willow said. She paused, then in a different tone, said, "How is it for you? I guess it's kind of bizarre, seeing him again, after ...."


"I thought he was dead. But this isn't the first time I've had people come back from the apparently dead. I'm dealing. It's not like." Not like when Angel came back? Not like I expect anything to come of this reunion I never remotely wanted? Not like I might be developing feelings for this Spike who doesn't know why he shouldn't have feelings for me?


"Not like what?" Willow said. "Buffy?"


"I just ... sort of feel for him, y'know? He's all alone. He doesn't know anybody, he doesn't know himself."


"That doesn't describe you," Willow said gently.


"No, I know. I just. It's. He was a champion. He was supposed to be at peace."


"Giles thinks he went rogue. Maybe whatever brought him back after Sunnydale was controlling him."


"Do you believe that?"


Willow paused. "Much as I respect Giles' opinion ... and I've been reading up on this Wolfram & Hart operation, and it's serious ... y'know, I just can't believe that of Angel and his people. I met them, I worked with them. They wouldn't have gone to the other side. Neither would the Spike I knew there at the end. If he was with them, it was for the mission."


Had Willow been there, Buffy would've thrown her arms around her. "I think so too."


"I'll get to L.A. as soon as I can."


"We're not there right now," Buffy said. "Spike needs rest and quiet, it wasn't doing him any good to be in the city. I might ask some other people to come spell me here with him, but we can keep in touch by phone."


Willow chuckled. "You don't want me and my magic fingers anywhere near him. Got it."


"Willow—"


"No, really, I got it. It's okay, Buffy. You stay well. We'll talk."


The call over, Buffy caressed the phone's smooth edges, wanting and not wanting to make another call. She should get someone else here. He'd demanded she do so. She could call Faith, and ask for Vi. Vi had found Spike after the battle, Vi knew him, and Vi had none of the baggage. She was a nice person, she'd take an interest, and she had the strength to cope if Spike got fangy or crazy or both.


So why wasn't she punching up Faith's number?


It wasn't like she'd have to know why she needed help.


Shit no. Because Faith would know. Faith was the one who'd insisted they tell her about Spike in the first place.


Faith had always read more into things between her and Spike than were really there.


She'd call. A little later. Meanwhile, the house's lowest level had a slayer gym where she could pound out her aggravation against the fast and heavy bags, expend her rage at herself on various pommels and agility testers. That was what she needed now. That would clear her out, make her able to talk to Faith, to Vi, with the right tone of self-command. The big work-out montage always set her right when nothing else could.


She was halfway to her suitcase for her sweats when the knock at the door froze her.


"Buffy." His voice strangely muffled from the other side.


"What do you need?" She meant to go to the door, to open it smartly and confront him like the number one slayer she was. Instead she fell back into her seat at the edge of the bed, willing him to stay out.


He entered sideways. "Was well out of order just now. No call to say what I did."


"It doesn't matter," she said dully. "You were right." Now would be a good time to develop a sudden power for instant teleportation.


He sidled closer, then abruptly knelt on the floor by her knee. Didn't touch, but looked up into her face, his own palely uncertain. "Wasn't least bit right. Presumed too much. Forgive me."


Her voice was thick and resistant. "I don't understand ... I don't understand why you want me anyway. I'm not nice to you. I'm not ... friendly."


"Dropped all to see after me, saved me from the Devil knows what. Call that nice enough. An' you're drawn to me too, just as strong, 'neath all your histrionics. A bloke likes that in a girl."


This kindness might as well have been a scimitar in her guts. "Don't."


"Started gettin' to me the minute we met. You jumble me up, Buffy Summers, you call to me. Who's to explain such things? Wouldn't press it, if I didn't know was mutual. Indiscreet of me, yeah, but you give it off so strong, you know, feels absurd to play like I don't notice it. All unmoored as I am, can you blame me for wantin'—""


She couldn't let him go on. "Spi—" Clench. Flush.


"Will."


"All right, Will. It's just too hard."


"Think it's any easier for me, man doesn't know his own bloody surname or date of birth? But feel I know you. Feel it dead strong. Know my own mind, even if not my own history."


"Say I let these feelings develop. Say I let myself get involved with you." Just floating the idea so specifically filled her so full of longing she was panicky and faint. Where had this come from? A few days ago she'd been cool and dry and desireless as ... as a husk. A demon-ass-kicking husk. It was working for her. "Didn't it occur to you ..." She tried to swallow it down, tried to deliver herself calmly. "... didn't you think of how it'll be for me, when your memories come back, and ... and you're angry at me for taking advantage of you? Spike can't consent to this."


"Why should I feel different than I do right now? Nobody's put up in amber. All that's happened to me last few days, it'll still have happened whether I get my memories back or no."


"You've figured out that there's a past to this."


"Not stupid, so, yeah. Got my strong suspicions." He smiled, a smile sweet and coaxing as a breeze across overheated skin. "Can't imagine what could be so awful that I couldn't change my mind about you. Is it really so bad as that?"


She nodded, and shook her head, and nodded again, more firmly. "I can't risk it. I can't. I get torn up, every time I try, it hurts too much."


"Try what, pet?"


Don't ask that. Don't make me say.


"Ah, sussed it right then, I did. You are fallin' for me too." His gotcha tone was as clement as his smile, as his fingers gathering her hands into his. "Brings me out of the wilderness, that does, pet."


"You're killing me." It emerged as a plea, but she was already capitulating, tugging him up onto the bed with her.


"Ah, yeah, that's it," he said, as she pulled him close. "Let me drive a bit, like you did last night. Lemme take care of you. You need a bit of seeing to."


It took all her reserves of strength to keep from bursting into loud raucous sobs. All she could think of was disaster, shame, the awful inevitable pain that would follow this surrender. Because he would remember, it could happen at any moment, and Spike would dash her away and leave her, and then everything that made her able to go on with her lopsided half-lonely life would be nothing against that final crush. She'd never be able to raise her head after that.


Love was her great vulnerability. Love was what finished her. Her life, her self, just wasn't made for it.


Staring at the ceiling, trying to deny her hunger for his caresses, the urge to stare forever into his eyes, Buffy held herself together, at least until he'd lightly drawn up the hem of her shirt, fingertips cool and tantalizing on her belly. She held her breath, as if that would keep back the deluge. But when she felt the first cool velvety impress of his lips on her bare breasts, the dam broke, and she flooded into sobs.