The headache, that had been become less in the open air, got worse now, as if something inside him didn't want to know the answer to his own question. He hastened to cut Buffy off before she could speak. "How do I know any of this bollocks is true? How do I know it's two-thousan'-an-five?"

She pulled her phone from her pocket, flipped it open so he could see the screen. August 2, 2005.

"You could fake that."

"Which is more plausible, that I'd be faking my mobile, and this entire set-up, or that you might have amnesia?"

"You lot hate me. Why'd you drag me along to this game of Ivanhoe? Why d'you care if I've got amnesia or not?"

"Things change. And I never hated you."

"Call it despise, then. I'm not important enough to be hated. You mean to tell me it's years gone an' I've still got this bloody chip in my head an' I'm still doggin' you around because I've nothin' else to do? Wouldn't do that. Would top myself first."

She was so cool. She could just lie there, stretched out on her belly, tugging at the grass with her little taper fingers, like his nightmare was nothing. "Spike, are you sure you don't remember anything else? Anything from the past? Drusilla? Black hair, kinda googly eyes, dressed like an overpriced doll? You adored her. You spent a century with her. She betrayed you. That's got to be indelible. She's got to be in there somewhere. And why don't you remember coming to Sunnydale? You weren't there always. You've been plenty of other places. Where did you go when you left Sunnydale, before you came back and got that chip?"

"Don't know. Don't know!" This interrogation made him feel punk. Whatever the hell he was sure of—that this somehow had to do with that idiot Riley Finn, his rival, getting revenge for being ratted out—when he tried to feel backwards, like throwing out an arm on the lip of the abyss in search of some steadying rail, there was nothing there. He ought to be able to think of certain things, not the stupid things slayer was asking about, because fuck her ... but other things. Because yeah, wasn't right that he'd been there all along. Had to come from somewhere else. But there was nowhere else. He thought of trains and ships and cars, but nothing his mind threw up was specific—no specific ship, no specific trip. He might as well have been standing on an ice floe in the dark forever until a year or so ago.

Everything behind him just blank.

Buffy was looking at him. "Willow will try again, to restore your memories. She needs a little time to prepare."

"Why? Why're you doin' this? You lettin' her experiment on me, that it? I'm a fangy guinea pig?"

"No. Weren't you listening to what Giles told you? Spike, listen."

She laid her fingers over his. Their warmth shot through him like a gulp of heroin-laced blood. He stared; what was this? Buffy never touched him except with punches. She never spoke to him in this tone of voice.

He was through the fucking Looking Glass.

"Listen. I told you, lots has changed. I know you're in love with me, Spike." She smiled then, a smug little moue that made him want to slap her. "That love changed you. It changed both of us. You went on to fight at my side, you became a hero. Most recently you were involved in an apocalyptic battle in L.A., where you were found afterwards, with amnesia. That was a little over a month ago—we've been trying to help you ever since."

This made no sense. No sense. No sense. Insulting, that she'd spout such tosh, right to his face like she thought he was some kind of credulous baby. He couldn't look at her now. How'd she find out about his feelings? He was never going to let her know about that. At least ... not any time soon. Not until he was certain Finn was well out of the way and she might be getting worn down a bit by not having her ashes hauled regular anymore.

"Spike, I know it sounds strange. I know you're scared. But really, truly, you're among friends here. I'm your friend."

"My friend. That's a laugh, Slayer. That's the best laugh out."

She leaned in a little closer. He could see the green-gold facets of her eyes, the two little points of reflected light in their clear whites. She blinked. "Spike, haven't you guessed it yet? I'm your girl."

He dug his fingers into the loam, pulling it up in clots. He leapt to his feet. Hurled a heavy tuft of earth and grass in her face.

"An' you say I'm evil. You, Buffy Summers, are a devious bitch."




This time when he ran, she didn't follow right away. Wiping the loose moist crumbs of earth off her cheeks and forehead, she could hear him, sense him, retreating. If he was going to attempt to scale the wall, he'd meet the girls. They'd all been alerted that he was strictly no-slay. She didn't think he'd hurt anyone, not with the awareness full on him of that choke-chain in his head.

So she could afford to give him a little distance.

It was a pleasant night. Mild, a breeze carrying the scent of gorse down from the hills. The air here always smelled so good. She took deep breaths of it now. Steadying herself. This now was bad, but it wasn't necessarily a disaster. Willow called it cause for optimism. His memories were still there, even if he couldn't get at more than a slice at a time.

She got up and strolled, following along with the tall ancient stone wall at her left, in the direction Spike had taken She liked this wall, it had personality, there was something weirdly maternal about it, you could tell your secrets to its cracks and facets, where they'd be safe.

She whispered, Please let Spike find himself again. Whether he wants me in the end or not. Just let him be okay. That's all I care about.

When she came near him again, he was sitting in the Arcadian stone summer house next to the pond that some late Georgian owner of the castle had installed as a piece of fashionable ornamental folly. Buffy paused, downwind, listening. Spike was muttering to himself, but she couldn't make any of it out. Just the agitation.

What an ordeal this was for him.

She thought of that time she'd been stung by the demon that made her hallucinate, made her believe her whole life, all her friends, were a hallucination, and that she was mad, shut up in a hospital. Another thing she'd barely returned to since, too painful for reminiscence. That whole episode had taken just a couple of days, whereas here it was weeks and weeks unfolding for Spike of uncertainty, fear, lack of control.

Someone less strong than he was—less packed with ego—would've succumbed by now.

Suddenly his head appeared, thrust out through the columns of the summer house, peering at her where she stood half behind a tree. "Know you're there, you lyin' twat. Fuck off."

She came slowly towards him. The dew was rising, the grass slicking around her bare feet in sandals. "Aren't you curious about what I told you?"

"You're just trying to do my head in. Why don't you stick a stake in me an' be done!"

"I'm telling you the truth. You and I—"

He sneered. "You're my girl. Oi, let's see you prove it." He fanged out into that rude feral grin he wore at his hungriest, his grossest. "Give us a kiss, then."

She came up the three little marble steps, into the folly. Spike retreated before her, but she closed the distance, laying a hand softly on his arm. He growled. She went up on tiptoe, the edges of her sandal soles touching the toes of his boots. Breathed softly against his fangs, then laid her lips against his cheek, drawing them slowly over the harsh demon flesh to the corner of the distended mouth. Maybe, as in a fairytale, one true-love's kiss could undo all the bad magic, make everything whole again.

The growl renewed; she felt fear in it, distress; he trembled, holding still for one long moment as she pressed her mouth to his, her fingers caressing his arm, putting all the tenderness she could summon into these muted gestures.

Then came the blow to her face that knocked her down.