"I'm taking him out of that cage and bringing him back upstairs."

"Buffy—" Giles was getting his frown on; she cut him off.

"Why not? I just got done explaining to you guys—as far as I can tell, he thinks it's five years ago. He thinks we're punishing him because he tipped me off about Riley getting suck-jobs." It made her reel, recalling that. She hadn't thought of Riley, hadn't said his name, in forever. Startling to realize it was only five years, it felt like a whole other lifetime ago. It was. When she was a different person, not yet dead the second time.

Willow was now flipping through different books. "This is actually a good development! I mean, not as good as if it had gone 100% right. But it proves that his memories are in there. We've salvaged one, we'll unveil the rest."

"Look, he told me that when stuff did come back to him, it came in little slivers. Like peering in through a cracked door. Will, I think Spike's stuck in one of those slivers. He didn't remember Drusilla. I'm pretty sure he also didn't remember that his name is William Pratt."

"I'm actually a lot more optimistic now," Willow said. "This suggests other fruitful approaches—"

"Buffy," Giles repeated. "I would prefer that you leave him where he is until we've sorted this out."

"He said his head aches. I don't want to leave him in that dungeon, by himself, feeling sick. That's not exactly how I'd like to be treated myself."

"You don't know that he was telling you the truth about what he does and does not remember. He'd say anything, to get a chance to overpower you. We don't know what he's capable—"

"Oh come on Giles, I know everything Spike is capable of. At the time we're talking about—the time he thinks this is—he was a pain in the ass, but harmless. The chip reined him in."

"The chip is gone now."

"He doesn't know that. And there's absolutely no reason to think his soul isn't influencing him even if he doesn't realize he has a soul. Look, what's the point of making him feel punished? The more angry and suspicious and oppressed he feels, the more he's going to resist, and that's gotta make it harder for Willow to spell him again. Will? Am I right?"

"Well ... yes, it could kind of gum up the works."

She was eager to get back to him; this dickering made her antsy. She'd never have been crowned Miss Outstanding Empathy Of Whatever Year, but right now all she could think of was what he must be experiencing, finding himself locked up, disoriented, afraid.

She almost shrugged Giles' hand off when he laid it gently on her arm. "Buffy, are you sure you're not so determined to bring Spike out of that cell because you need to feel better for his presence?"

"Huh?"

Willow had glanced up, was goggling from the other side of the room.

"The relationship you have with him doesn't exist in his mind."

"And that's a reason to mistreat him?"

"When this is over, he'll understand why it was necessary for him to spend a little time in the cell."

"No Giles, when this is over he'll understand that we really have changed, that we're not still reacting in this knee-jerk way to the mere fact that he used to be our enemy! Will—how much time do you need to prepare another spell?"

"Well ... at least a day. More, if I dot all the i's."

Buffy wheeled around again. "I'm not leaving him down there. And I need—what do we have that'll kill a migraine in a vampire?"




This is NOT about me feeling better. She stomped down the stairs two at a time—the castle, especially whenever she was trying to get from one end of it to the other in a hurry, could feel like one of those Escher prints that were nothing but stairs, infinitely folded into each other, going neither quite up or down, without egress. I mean, of course it makes me feel better to treat him right, but the important thing is to treat him right in the first place.

Memories long unvisited bloomed out in her own mind as she hastened down. Riley. She hadn't known how very averse she'd been to thinking about him—her occasional little nostalgic forays into the past, musings about her college career, about the first year Dawn came among them, about her mother's final illness ... none of these somehow included Riley, though he'd been there throughout. He'd played a crucial part in making her decide to drop her liaison with Spike—his reappearance in Sunnydale in the middle of that, walking in on them ... that was the Triple Crown of Shame, no wonder she'd let herself conveniently forget it.

Now she wondered just why Spike had made such a point of taking her to the scene of Riley's great shame. She hadn't considered Spike at the time—he was an annoyance, and dragging her there was just another one of his annoying, attention-seeking ploys.

But she understood it now. He'd wanted to detach her from her boyfriend, because he was already in love with her.

She'd never asked Spike when he'd first fallen for her. Before his death, it had simply never occurred to her to care. And since, he wouldn't have been able to tell her.

But it must've been around that time. He'd told her about when Drusilla came back to town, but it had to have been brewing earlier. Surely, he wouldn't have done what he did if not for that.

And No, Giles, that doesn't make me feel better either, she narrated, hauling open the heavy metal door into the dungeon, nodding at the slayer standing guard. "I'll be bringing Spike out in a little while," she said. "And then you can go."




The thermos was untouched. Spike lay on the shelf-bed, an arm flung across his eyes, but when she came close he leapt up, assembling his face into a sneer.

"Does it still hurt?"

"What d'you care?"

"Does it? I brought you a painkiller."

"Painkiller, yeah? Pointy, pine?"

"No Spike. It's Vicodin, actually, and I had to buy them off one of the girls for—never mind. Do you want them?"

"Bugger off."

"Well, they're here if you want them, just ask. I'm letting you out now."

"Ah, yes? Would like my final cigarette, then. An' a blindfold."

"Spike, no one's going to slay you. I'm taking you upstairs."

"Upstairs?" He waggled his brows. "Ooo er, missus."

And there she was, blushing. To cover, she made a point of jangling the keys, pulling the door open with a flourish. "Come on out."

He hung back, giving her suspicious glances. "What's this? Where are you taking me?"

"Up to our—up to my rooms. We're in a castle in the Scottish countryside, it's where I live now. I'll explain it to you."

Spike burst out laughing. "I get it! I'm asleep. I'm havin' one of those dreams where you're dreamin' about havin' a crazy dream!"

"Not quite. C'mon."

As he passed in front of her to leave the cell, Spike leaned close, took a deep whiff of her neck and shoulder. "Don't smell of soldier-boy, but someone's been givin' you a good rogerin' lately."

She blushed again, but this time she made no effort to cover for it. Instead she laid a hand on his forearm. "What more can you tell?"

He shot her a look of amazement.

"It's okay Spike. What do you smell?"

"What's got into you? Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"Doesn't add up."

"I'll answer all your questions. But what else can you figure out about me?"

He backed off a few paces, his eyes filling with dismay. "How d'you do it? How d'you make all this up, to hoax me? Why go to all the trouble?"

"This isn't two thousand. We're in two thousand five, and a lot has changed. You just don't remember it right now, because your memory has been tampered with. C'mon."



"So it's the pirate's life for you, eh, Harris?"

Xander bristled. "What's he talking about?"

Willow pointed at the eye-patch. A fixture they all, most especially Xander himself, had long since ceased to notice.

Buffy had hoped to get Spike up to her apartment alone, but they'd been way-laid—or, met, as Giles and Willow would've categorized it—by a contingent, including Andrew and Bakhita, in the corridor, and shunted into one of the big drafty tapestried reception rooms.

Giles apparently wanting to make a very public and above-board accounting to Spike, with lots of witnesses.

"What's all this in aid of?" Spike bridled when Bakhita took a step closer to him. "Whoa—who's this little girl?" He had to crane his neck to look up into her face. Buffy could see that he knew her for a slayer; her proximity obviously discomfitted him. When Bakhita, smiling, spoke to him in Arabic, he actually gave a little jump, and had to recover himself by jostling Buffy, saying "Where's that fag you promised me? Thought I had a packet but you've rifled my pockets."

"You really want one? You, uh ... you gave it up."

"I wouldn't bloody give it up, I don't care what bloody year it is."

Bakhita spoke again, and this time Spike fixed on her with a greedy attention, and a nod, before she galloped off.

"Please tell me that child doesn't smoke," Giles said.

They all stood around in awkward silence until the girl returned, to pour five packets of short, heady Turkish cigarettes into Spike's hands.

"You can't light that up in here," Giles said, but they were already tearing into them, Bakhita producing a Zippo from her pocket. Spike hesitated for one moment at the sight of a slayer with a flame in her hand, then leaned in to accept the spark.

"That's the stuff. Filthy." He blew a long stream of smoke. Giles waved at the air. "Oh buck up, Rupert. Have one yourself, you know you want to."

"No thank you, Spike."

"So. Who's gonna tell me what's going on here?"




He didn't believe them. After Giles had spoken, making judicious and measured explanations, after Willow told him about the spell she'd attempted, and Xander chimed in, and Andrew's flights were stifled, the group dispersed, leaving Buffy free to go where she liked with the incredulous Spike.

"Maybe you'd like some air? We could take a walk in the grounds?"

"A turn through the shrubbery? Oh, lead on, my lady."

His mocking stance had strengthened with every piece of the story he'd heard. He'd chuckled, in a go on, pull the other one manner. The more detail they'd filled in for him, the more detached, derisive, scornful he'd become.

No one had mentioned his relationship with Buffy. Whether because they felt it was for her to tell him, or because they wished she'd keep him in the dark on that score, Buffy didn't know. It certainly wasn't something she wanted to bring up in front of the others, as long as Spike was in this mood.

He sniffed suspiciously at the air when she led him out through the portcullis. "What's to keep me from just takin' off?"

"Nothing, really. Well, there's a demon-sensor on the boundary wall. Anything goes over it in either direction, will summon the girls."

"The girls."

"The other slayers. There's over a hundred of them here."

"Guess that explains my headache."

"Maybe. I doubt it, though."

"Think I'll take my chances." In a blink, he was gone. Buffy took off after him; he ran faster than her eye could track, but she was faster still, and tackled him a mile off, just short of the wall. They sprawled on the turf.

"Gerroff!" He pushed her.

Seeing him give a pre-emptive wince, against the explosion of pain in his head that didn't come, she covered: "C'mon, you'd have to hit me harder than that. But I don't recommend it."

"Too right."

And there they were, stretched out on the summer grass, side-by-side. And if she'd wondered earlier whether he was in love with her yet, she had her answer now, in the way he looked at her, furtive, shy, his eyes full of repressed longing. Probably thinking it was dark enough that she wouldn't quite notice.

Then he closed his eyes, and breathed in. He had a way of inhaling, that was like the touch of a blind man on her face, taking in her details, learning, observing. She stayed still, allowing him to perform this subtle inquiry, waiting to see what conclusion he'd draw.

"Makes no sense. Slayer, why ... why d'you smell of me?"