Willow helped her clean up the wreck that was her kitchen. They debated whether it would be a good idea to magically repair the ancient table, both understanding that this, uh, spirited discussion, was in lieu of the real argument over doing the locator spell on Spike. Willow being all for letting him off on his own recognizance. Buffy afraid, but not wanting to say so, that he was never coming back.

Or that he'd kill somebody out there. That too.

"I should probably ... fill him in a little," Buffy said. "I pretty much have to now."

"Yeah." Willow was sitting on the counter, making the broom and dustpan dance with little flicks of her fingers. "My advice? Lots of 'I' statements."

"That's always your advice."

"It's good advice! What I mean—tell him about yourself. Don't tell him, you were this or you were that, anymore than you can help."

"Oh. So I don't get to say 'You came back after your death and hid it from me because you obviously didn't love me anymore'?"

"Buffy ... he loves you. Any idiot could see it."

"He doesn't exactly have a choice right now, does he? I'm the only person he knows, and he's stony broke."

"You're being too hard on yourself."

"You would say that. That's what the best friend says."

"Y'know ... I get what you were saying, about how he was Mr All-Desire-Purged, before we went into the hellmouth. But c'mon. He's not some Zen Perfect Master. He's Spike."

"He never even called me. For a year. He made Andrew promise to keep quiet. He was over me. For all I know, there was someone else. And when he comes back to himself, it'll be her he'll want."

"Or him."

"Him—who?"

Willow shrugged. "I dunno. I just kind of like the idea of Spike macking on some cute guy."

"Will!"

"Hey, lesbian, but not impervious."



More warm lager, a chorus of tops popping. The other fellows blotto, shouting and banging about. The tiny house, nasty low-ceilinged rooms, was furnished in empty cans, porn mags, greasy crisp wrappers torn inside out. Under all that junk, some half-broken settees, cushions nearly as greasy as the wrappers. Whole place stinking of rotting food and sewage. Might as well have been a squat. He smelled three young men in regular residence, a rotation of other male visitors, and no woman or girl having set foot in the place in years. The TV came on, some poor girl with huge implants who couldn't possibly have been paid enough to submit to what was going on in her pussy and mouth simultaneously. The others collapsed around the room, suddenly intent on the screen. Spike sank into a corner, knees drawn up, sipping.

What now? None of these punters was remotely shaggable, even if they weren't bleary with drink, farting and belching. A couple hours remained before sun-up, he reckoned. He could just go back. Envisioned himself crossing the moat—they'd know he was out there of course, they've got demon-detectors out the wazoo—knocking on the huge doors. Foot thick they were. Please ma'am, may I come in?

She hits him. Fist to his face, thoughtless as swatting a fly. She'd promised never to hit him again after he bit her in the safe-house, but it's clear to him now that it's such a well-worn usage with her, she can't really help it. You're the love of my life. What does that even mean?

On the sofa, two of the fellows started poking at each other. In another minute, they'd progressed to blows. When the TV exploded, Spike jumped up. No good here, no good. One of the idiots was unconscious, and bleeding, and he was peckish. Time to go.

No need to say goodbye.

Outside, he looked up and down the quiet dark terrace, considering.

Round the corner, a motorcycle was parked. A little trickery with it, and it was his.



He rattled the foot of the bed a little, and she opened her eyes. In his bad Alexandrian Arabic, he whispered, "Hush, darling. It's too early for visits, but we don't mind that, do we?"

Bakhita beamed. "No, we don't mind. I can't sleep anyway. This hurts."

Spike drew the chair close to her. "That's on account of it's mending so fast."

"How do you know?"

"Don't, rightly, but stands to reason, yeah?"

She squinted at him. "You smell strong of beer."

"Sorry 'bout that. Been on a bit of a spree. I'll have a wash."

She giggled. "You sound so silly when you talk!"

"Anything to amuse." In the bathroom he did his best to make himself neat. He'd stopped off in the hospital basement after ditching the motorcycle, helping himself to some fresh blood, moving lightning-fast so no one would see him, shutting himself in a men's room stall to suck it down. Then popped up to the surgical ward, stealth coming easy.

Needing ease.

He'd only tried to kill Bakhita. That made her the most uncomplicated relationship he had going right now.

When he returned, slipped back into his chair, she regarded him with a long cool look. "How did you find your soul?"

"I don't know, love. Got no memories. Not sure I believe in souls, anyway."

"Souls are true."

"If you like to think so."

How can you not believe in souls? You're a vampire. You know magic is so."

"Maybe because of that."

She smiled. Her teeth were white like peppermint against her deep brown lips. Made him want to lick them. "Maybe if I stop believing in slayers, I could go home."

"Not having a good time, are you?"

She pouted for a moment, then pulled out of it. Didn't want to go there, and he could respect that. "I need to learn English."

"That's easy enough. I mean—it's probably bloody hard. But you can do it. I'll help you."

"Yes?" Her laugh was like music. "How do I know you speak it any better than you speak Arabic?"

Now he laughed. "I don't, pet. But I'll make you a colorful speaker."

"Colorful?"

"Let's start with you gettin' the swear words down. Once you've got those, you can ease your mind, an' the rest will come."