Chapter 4 notes: And so now we come to it at last: big reveals, love, loss, an exciting cliffhanger. And the fun is just beginning! Special thanks to my betas Mezz and Bridget (you may know her as soundingsea) for turning this one around so quickly, and thanks, too, the wonderful people feeding me on this story, especially at the Sandlot – you all keep me inspired and wanting to write. My take on the soundtrack for this chapter: "My Immortal" by Evanescence – I pulled several psycho-repeat listening sessions to it while writing this chapter, which probably explains its tone.

Chapter 4 – Invedo

Buffy opened her mouth to speak and abruptly closed it. Then she opened and shut it again, thinking that she must look like a fish out of water, desperate for air. It seemed like a fairly accurate comparison.

She had that unmistakable sense of waking into a cold, gray morning where it seemed as if the world would never be safe and secure again, where the happiness of dreams receded to so distant a memory that it all seemed a cruel illusion in the harsh light of day. It was a feeling Buffy recognized all too well. Every morning since the last day with him felt like that.

She heard the other girl’s voice behind her, sensed her coming closer. Time hadn’t stopped after all. "She was not smacking me around, by the way. I was regrouping."

"Uh-huh. We’ll talk about how not to telegraph your punches in a minute, Vern," Spike said over Buffy’s shoulder. Then he turned to Buffy again, took in the fever-bright eyes, the high color in her cheeks. "I don’t think you’re well." He squinted, scanning the street beyond. "Maybe we should go indoors and talk."

Buffy remained frozen, watching Spike’s breath plume out into the frigid air, and struggled to stay vertical. She felt chopped off at the knees, without foundation, and she thought dimly that she would have fallen had his hands not still been tightly wrapped around her upper arms.

From the very beginning, from the moment she asked him what happened on Saturday and he replied confidently that on Saturday he would kill her, every emotion that had passed between the two of them was intensely personal. She hadn’t seen it then, of course, but he had never been just another vampire, and she had never been just another Slayer. The hatred that had coiled and snapped between them like a living entity in those first few months had been intimate in its own way. Even when Spike had loved Dru with everything he was, his feelings for Buffy had always, in retrospect, seemed paradoxically passionate, and when he’d tripped over that thin line between love and hate, he channeled a different kind of intimacy to her, whether she wanted it or not. And, of course, Spike had always gotten to her in ways no one else could, whether he had been an enemy, a reluctant ally, a despised lover, a friend, or at the very last, her everything.

But now he just stared at her the way he would a stranger who’d mistaken him for someone else across a crowded room, with curiosity, embarrassment, and just the slightest hint of pity. It wasn’t that his eyes were empty, she noted; they were just empty of her.

"You really don’t know me," Buffy said slowly, forming each syllable with careful concentration. If she could focus, she could quiet the one thought that beat frenetically on the edge of her consciousness and struggled to be free, like a captive bird fluttering uselessly against the bars of its cage: he should have known he loved her. Even if he had somehow forgotten everything else, he surely should have remembered that.

"No, I don’t. Should I?" Spike asked, his eyes suddenly narrowing. When he repeated the question, the slightest note of urgency had edged into his voice, and his eyes searched her face carefully, as if seeking an answer to other questions left unspoken. "Should I?"

It took her a minute to process what he was saying. "What do you mean, ‘should you’?" Buffy probed, confused. "You either do, or you don’t."

Spike ignored her, and his grip on her arms grew stronger. "What do you know about me?"

Where could she even begin?

"Spike." The other girl’s voice broke in. Spike looked away from Buffy momentarily and finally released his hold on her. "Just because she’s The Slayer,"—the girl spoke the term with the vocal equivalent of air quotes—"doesn’t mean she knows you. From before."

"Not The Slayer," Buffy corrected numbly. "A slayer, just like you." She was actually saying this? Her world was imploding, and the only thing she could manage to verbalize was a discussion of semantics about their calling? Was this what happened when people went to pieces?

Now it was the other’s turn to look confused. "I’m not a slayer. I’m just in training. Did I hit you too hard?" The girl’s voice took on a condescending note. "There can only be one slayer living at a time, remember? And you seem to be the picture of health." She pursed her lips. "Sort of."

Buffy was speaking before she even realized it. "Extremely long story short: there was going to be an apocalypse, and the only way to stop it was to activate all of the potential slayers." Buffy studied Spike’s face for a flicker of memory. Maybe if she could just keep talking, keep up the steady flow of inane conversation, he would realize who she was. Irrationally, she was still waiting for some grand moment of recognition, when he would suddenly just see her and know. Where were the tears of joy, the breathless declarations of undying love, the glorious pressure of his lips against hers, the feel of his arms wrapped tightly around her? Or didn’t real life work like that?

There was no sign her words stirred anything other than his growing interest, and the pain at the absence of memory struck Buffy like a physical blow.

The girl came closer, a mixture of belligerence and suspicion on her face. "Now I know you’re full of crap. There’s no way to activate all of the potentials. Listen, I don’t know who sent you or why you’re here—"

"Veronica." There was something in the way Spike said the girl’s name that spoke to long practice in securing her full attention. Veronica stopped abruptly but still stared at Buffy sullenly. "Lay off for a minute. Let the Slayer talk."

"Buffy," she said automatically. "My name is Buffy." She could hardly bear to hear him refer to her as Slayer – it conjured up the image of too many desperate nights when she demanded that he refrain from speaking her name as she lost herself in him. Making him call her Slayer was a deliberate power play, reminding him that he should never forget what she was, who she was. He had grudgingly obliged because she would accept nothing less. Now she could almost hear the faint, echoed chorus of him gasping "Slayer" into her hair, her throat, her lips. She felt unsteady again.

"Buffy," Spike repeated, as if the name tasted strange on his tongue. The absence of familiarity was even more marked in contrast with the way he spoke Veronica’s name, as if it were as integral to his existence as his own name. For a long, surreal moment, he looked completely foreign to Buffy, as if she were the one who had never known him. But then he tilted his head to the side to study her and the sensation passed; he was Spike again. "You do know me, don’t you?"

Instead of answering, Buffy sidestepped his question. Best to know exactly what she was dealing with. Wasn’t it? "What don’t you know about you?" she asked guardedly.

Spike paused before answering, as if evaluating his choice of words for less than full disclosure. "I’ve got lost time, years I can’t account for, and knowing what I do about who I was,"—a shadow passed over his face as he corrected himself—"what I was, I can only imagine that we crossed paths at some point." He pointedly avoided her eyes as he lit a cigarette but then forced himself to look at her as he continued. "Listen, if I hurt you or people you care about, I can’t make that right, but I can say that I’m sorry and that I’m not the same man that I was."

And there was that hauntingly familiar look of beseeching vulnerability that she associated so readily with him. It would have been more difficult, perhaps, but less painful if he could have no memory of her and be someone else, someone she couldn’t recognize either. But no, she saw the man behind those eyes and knew him. How typically Spike. All the world could change around him, the world itself could swallow him whole, and still he could remain exactly the same in so many ways. In all the ways that counted.

Another realization bloomed: Spike somehow knew he had been a vampire. For a moment Buffy was relieved. Whatever she told him about his past was bound to seem incredible to the point of bordering on fantastic even without having to convince him he had once been a vampire; on a selfish note, she really didn’t want to be the one responsible for telling him about that part of his past. But then she saw the hurt flaring in his eyes, and she suddenly wished he didn’t know. She could see that the pain wasn’t new or raw, but it didn’t make the burden any less. Not really. There were some wounds that time couldn’t heal. "What do you remember?" she asked quietly.

Spike tensed, almost imperceptibly, but when Veronica moved closer to him, he seemed to draw strength from her nearness. The way they moved together hadn’t escaped Buffy’s notice. Whenever Spike would change positions, Veronica would shift as well, as if the two of them were performing some carefully choreographed dance in protection of each other. Like they were two parts of the same whole. God, why did that hurt so much, too?

And then he was speaking again. "One minute I was in Prague, figuring out how to get Dru and me away from a pissed-off mob; the next, I’m here in St. Louis, alone, something in the neighborhood of six years has gone by, and I’m human again. How I got from one point to another is a complete mystery to me."

Gone. All of it, gone. If he didn’t remember anything past Prague, then it was like he’d never come to Sunnydale. Never met her. It was almost as if their history had been carefully excised from his memory. She tried to push the thought away because to think about it, to truly contemplate the ramifications…. No, now was not the time for it. If she could just be surviving-in-crisis-mode Buffy for a bit longer, there would be plenty of time for broken Buffy later. "You’ve tried to figure it out, what happened? How it happened?"

"Nah, I’m a roll-with-the-punches sort. Who am I to look a gift humanity in the mouth?" Spike’s voice dripped with acidic sarcasm, but then he closed his eyes briefly and his face softened. He shook his head ruefully. "Sorry. Sore subject. Yes, I’ve tried to suss it out. It’s been my all-consuming hobby.

"Best I could figure," he continued, "it was some kind of curse or spell. Hell, I didn’t rule out the possibility of some kind of bizarre cosmic joke. Read every text on vampire mythology and history I could get my hands on – nothing. Talked to some witches, a few more magically inclined demons, see if they could help – they couldn’t. And I don’t exactly have my old connections to the darker forces. I had kind of resigned myself to not knowing." But he spoke the last with a cross between hopefulness and desperation as his eyes met hers. "Looks like maybe I’ll get some answers after all."

Buffy was silent as she processed the information. If witches hadn’t been able to help, the resurrection and subsequent memory loss hadn’t been magickal. Unless, of course, the witches he talked to weren’t powerful enough to recognize the spell. Willow would know, Buffy thought. She had to. Buffy refocused her gaze on Spike when she could feel the ponderous weight of his stare. "What? What is it?"

Spike took a breath and steeled himself. "When did we meet, and what did I do to you? That is why you’re here, isn’t it? We were enemies, I take it." His eyes flickered to the faint scars on her neck, and he stepped forward. "Did I—" His voice trailed off hesitantly as he raised his hand and gestured in the direction of the marks.

Buffy’s hand flew up to cover the telltale imprints of old lovers and old enemies written on her flesh, felt her blood pulsing in the side of her throat. "No," she answered softly.

Spike’s relief was almost visible, but her response hadn’t eased any of his confusion. "But we were enemies, yeah?"

"Yes. We were enemies. In the beginning. And then we weren’t."

He looked at her with disbelieving eyes. "We weren’t? What, you expect me to buy that the Slayer and a Slayer of Slayers were best mates? I think you’re having one over on me."

No, you loved my mother, and you loved my sister, and you loved me, a voice in her head cried. Buffy could feel her control slipping. It was as if there were suddenly two of her, one version who could still apparently talk and probably even walk, could function like a normal human being, and the other who struggled even to continue existing in a world where he didn’t know her. Buffy suspected that the first was barely hanging on.

She exhaled shakily. "Look, it’s a really complicated story, and any attempt I make to tell it now will just come out confused to the point of being incoherent. What’s most important for you to know is that you and I were allies at the end and that you did a lot of good."

"At the end?" Spike echoed, intrigued. "What does that mean, ‘at the end’?"

Here was another part of the story that Buffy really didn’t want to have to tell, and finding the words was more difficult than she could imagine, brought the images and feelings rushing back to the surface of her consciousness. Not that they were ever really far away. "The end of everything. Or, at least, it would have been if you hadn’t sacrificed yourself to save the world." She paused as he waited expectantly for her to finish. "You died."

"I what?" Spike exchanged a confused look with Veronica. "Pet, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m the least dead I’ve been in a century and a quarter."

"I know. I can see that. But you did die. I was there when it happened, when you closed the Hellmouth."

He looked impatient. "No, that’s not possible. Leaving aside the whole unlikely resurrection bit, I was a vampire. Everything I did as a vampire was all about me." His voice was grim, full of blistering self-recrimination. "I wouldn’t have done anything for the greater good then, least of all died for the good of humankind."

"No, I won’t have you think that," Buffy said sharply. His comments sounded uncomfortably close to the chapters she’d written on him in the old gospel according to Buffy Summers. Before. "You weren’t just a vampire. You went out and won your soul, and then you saved us all."

"My soul? A vampire with a soul?" Spike scoffed. "No, I couldn’t have done that."

"You did do it," Buffy stated quietly, carefully, willing him to believe. "You found a way."

Suddenly Veronica moved closer to him. For a moment Buffy had almost forgotten the girl was still standing there, so quietly had she been absorbing the conversation. "I knew it. I told you." Veronica glanced at Buffy, her dark eyes bright with triumph. "I told him that he must have done good before, that it was the only explanation for why he was given this second chance, somehow being human again. He wouldn’t believe it, but I always knew."

Buffy could see the possibility washing over him, watched the mixture of emotions swirling in his eyes until only one remained, and that was cautious pride. He touched Veronica’s shoulder gently, and they stared at one another smiling.

Buffy’s throat constricted as she choked on the pain – she wanted so badly for this to be their moment, his and hers, but he was distant, removed. And with someone else. Buffy started to shiver.

Spike looked at her, read the exhaustion in her face. "I want to know everything, but obviously this isn’t the time or place for it. You need to rest. Can you talk tomorrow?" He was already pulling a card out of his pocket and pressing it into her hand before she even nodded. "How about we get together around 9:30?" She nodded again. "We could give you a ride home, or wherever you’re staying—"

"No, thanks," Buffy answered automatically. "I’m gonna call a cab."

"Okay. Well, then, I guess we’ll just wait with you until it gets here."

Spike looked as awkward as Buffy felt. "I’m actually going to walk back where I was dropped off. It’s just a couple blocks over." When he looked concerned, Buffy smiled wanly. "Don’t worry – I can take of myself."

"I’ve no doubt," Spike said quietly as Buffy turned and walked away into the night.

"So, you think she’s the one?" Veronica asked as they watched Buffy’s retreating back.

Spike closed his eyes and thought of the way she looked at him, the way his skin tingled when he held her, the way he wished he could do something to erase that lost look in her eyes, the shadows on her face. "Yeah, I think she’s the one."

*

Buffy had no recollection of calling the cab, but she spied it approaching with relief. She wanted so badly to escape, to put some distance between herself and the place where her dreams didn’t come true. She had to get away before it suffocated her.

She slid into the backseat. It wasn’t until the car had pulled safely away that the tears started. It was as if her anguish had suddenly thawed in the warmth of the cab, and every emotion she’d been trying so hard to suppress came flooding to the surface. Had it just been just an hour ago she had sat in this same seat, believing in miracles?

She looked up to see the cabbie eyeing her in the rearview mirror sympathetically.

"Look," he said finally. "I know it’s none of my concern, and believe me, I try to keep my nose out of my fares’ business, but if you need me to call the police for you, I can do it."

"What?" she asked, startled.

"You’re sitting in the back of my cab, crying, with a broken shoe and an ugly shiner after an hour in one of the city’s less savory neighborhoods. Doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what happened."

Buffy fingered the soft, puffy skin around her left eye. She’d actually forgotten that Veronica had gotten in her share of punches early in their fight. "No," Buffy said numbly. "It’s not what you think."

"Uh-huh," the driver said, shaking his head. His voice was uncertain, but he let the matter drop.

Buffy found Vivienne still awake, an open book in her lap. The book promptly fell to the floor when Vivienne rose. "God, you looked wrecked. Come, sit. What the hell happened to you? Did you find him?"

Buffy let herself be led to Vivienne’s bed. "I found him," she said wearily. "He is alive and beautiful and seems healthy and happy. I should be ecstatic. And part of me is. Really. It’s what I dreamed about, all that time that I tried to convince myself that he was gone but couldn’t ever make myself believe it." Vivienne nodded, encouraging her to continue as Buffy twisted the edge of the comforter between her fingers. "But he doesn’t know me, Vivienne, doesn’t remember anything of us at all. It’s like somehow we are just gone. Erased."

Vivienne wanted to press for more information, but she could see everything she needed to know in Buffy’s face. "I’m so sorry," she murmured.

"I am so sad that it’s like I can’t even breathe." Buffy let out a long, shaky breath that ended in a sob. "He is alive, and that should mean everything to me, but somehow I’m totally miserable." She looked up with imploring eyes. "Does that make me the same self-centered brat I’ve always been?"

"What? Of course not," Vivienne said firmly. "How could you not be disappointed? It’s absolutely natural."

"I thought I was past it, Vivienne." Buffy rose and crossed to the window, her back to the room. "I managed to make my entire relationship with Spike about me, and it was the biggest mistake I ever made. There are so many things I would change, but the most important was always acting as if I was the only one whose feelings mattered. And yet, here I am, making everything about me all over again. ‘I’m sad, I’m disappointed.’" Buffy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders in resolve. "I won’t do it again."

"So what are you going to do?" Vivienne questioned quietly.

Buffy turned. "I’m going to see him tomorrow and try to have a civil conversation with him about what happened, tell him whatever he wants to know. See if he wants to find out what happened after the end." She paused. "Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s okay with not knowing. And maybe I’m going to have to be okay with that because it’s the right thing to do, because it’s the thing he needs most from me now." She closed her eyes. "I can at least give him that."

*

It was a brighter morning than she would have expected for the day after Christmas, but then again, maybe any morning would have been painfully bright after all those months in London where blazing sunlight was, mercifully, a rarity. Buffy peered at the address on the card again and at the numbers stenciled neatly on the glass door, glancing around the dim interior. Why did he want to meet her outside of a bookstore? She turned to survey the street and checked her watch nervously. Her stomach twisted as she wondered if he’d decided not to come after all.

Then a bell tinkled brightly behind her, and when she turned, Spike stepped outside, carrying a pot of water in his hand. "I thought that was you," he said, shielding his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun. "Come on in."

She stared at him for a long moment. He really was breathtaking. It occurred to her that she’d only seen him in sunlight on one occasion, and she had been a little too preoccupied with saving her own ass and kicking his to get a good look at him. Now she took him in as if she’d never really seen him before. When she caught the quizzical look on his face, she apologized. "Sorry. The reality of you is a little overwhelming still."

Spike shook the questioning look off his face, glad that she had been too busy looking at him to notice the way he was studying her. Her face was still pale and drawn, but the hollow look around her eyes that had worried him the night before was gone. He found himself fascinated by the colored strands of hair that escaped from her wool cap. In last night’s darkness he had been able to make out that most of her hair was a vibrant, almost platinum shade, but now he could see dull streaks of midnight blue, fire engine red, and black. He noted that she was wearing much of the same outfit she’d had on the night before—same pants, hastily repaired boots—the only addition being a sweater that didn’t particularly flatter her skin tone. Borrowed, he surmised. He figured the look spoke less to her scarcity of wardrobe and more to the hurried nature of her trip from wherever she had been before. It made him even more curious.

As they stared at one another, Spike couldn’t decide between the million things he wanted to say, so he said nothing at all, ushering her into the shop with a slight wave of his hand.

"Where’s Veronica?" Buffy asked cautiously, looking around for the other girl.

"After Christmas sales. One day of the year she voluntarily shops for anything. Crowds on the day after Thanksgiving not particularly her style." He grinned nervously. He felt jittery, so close to getting the answers he needed. "Besides, I told her that maybe it was best if you and I talked alone." He came to an awkward pause. "I was just about to put the kettle on. Get you anything?" He gestured to a nearby tray cluttered with boxes of tea, a canister of instant coffee, powdered creamer, and instant cocoa as he returned the full pot of water to its electric base.

"Anything in the black tea family?" she asked hopefully as she pulled off her hat and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. "Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Prince of Wales, Irish Breakfast?"

He nodded sympathetically, rummaging through the boxes. "You do have the slightly groggy look of a habitual tea drinker who was cruelly denied her morning cuppa."

"I was never a big tea drinker before living in London – now I’m a slave to the caffeine. Damn the Brits and their tea indoctrinating ways." Buffy turned slowly, taking in her surroundings for the first time. "What is this place?"

Spike glanced at her curiously, amused. "We call it a bookstore."

"Very funny. I can see that." Buffy walked to the nearest shelf and traced a book spine lightly with her finger. As she surveyed the shop, she was struck by how similar it was in design and layout to the Magic Box. She even saw a doorway at the back, wondered if it led a training room. Had he done that? Re-created it out of some subconscious impulse? Wishful thinking on her part, no doubt. "Is it your place? How did you…?"

"It’s both of ours, mine and Vern’s. New books, used books. Biggest occult book collection in the city," he said, and he could hear the note of pride creeping into his voice at her smile. "Vern inherited it from her old Watcher when he was killed a couple of years back, and now we run it together."

"Her old Watcher was killed a few years ago?" Buffy asked, as she sat at the small, round table near the counter. "What happened?" She suspected she already knew – the timing was just a little too perfect to be coincidental.

"Vern still won’t talk much about it – she found him." He poured water carefully into a pair of mugs, added two tea bags, and placed one steaming cup in front of Buffy. He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. "Some bastards stabbed him. She never tracked down who, said it looked cult-like. Wicked little knives, ritualistic."

"Harbingers of the First Evil, I’d guess," Buffy supplied, bobbing the string of her tea bag impatiently, watching the dark, infused water swirling around the mug. "A couple of years back, they took out a lot of potentials and their Watchers and eventually blew up Council Headquarters in London – all part of the First’s bid to win the ‘who can end the world’ sweepstakes."

Spike whistled. "Jesus. She always wondered why no one else ever came, why there was never a replacement. I guess that would explain it."

"And she just stayed here, waiting? After?"

"Vern’s just a tad stubborn." Spike smiled affectionately. "She was convinced that she’d get another Watcher, so she stayed put, laid low. She was already an emancipated minor—her mum and dad had signed the papers when they let her go with Partington—so she got it in her head that she could run the shop while she waited."

"And then you showed up?" Buffy prompted.

"Yeah, and then I showed up."

"And you and she…. How long have you been together?" Buffy hated herself for asking, feared she’d hate the answer more than the question.

Spike was puzzled, and then his eyes widened. "Oh, no. Me and Vern?" He laughed dismissively. "We’re not involved, not like that. She needed someone to help her train, teach her what she needed to know about demons. As a former vampire, she thought I fit the bill just fine." He paused. "And I needed someone to help me make sense of the madness, someone to believe in me when I wasn’t even sure of myself. We’re good for each other," he finished simply.

"Oh," Buffy replied softly. Why did her heart feel a little less heavy to learn that he and Veronica weren’t lovers? It didn’t change anything. She looked up to find him studying her intently.

"So that whole thing with the harbingers, that was the apocalypse I helped stop?"

"One of them."

Spike’s eyebrows quirked upward. "One of, as in multiple? How many apocalypses have you been through?"

Buffy sighed. "I don’t know – nine, ten? It kinda depends on how you define apocalypse."

He stared at her with open admiration. "God, you must be amazing." Buffy could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. "Uh, as a warrior, I mean," Spike amended hastily, embarrassed. "Well, this is awkward, isn’t it? Strange to know how to behave around someone who knows more about part of my life than I do."

Buffy took a deep breath. I can do this, she told herself. "So, um, what do you want to know?"

"Anything you can tell me," he said steadily, but he could hear the eagerness in his voice, and she could see it in his eyes. "But let’s start at the beginning. Where did I go after Prague?"

"Sunnydale, California. With Drusilla. That’s where you and I first met."

He raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose I hated you with a passion, plotted to kill you, et cetera, et cetera."

"You tried, but you couldn’t ever take me." Buffy allowed herself a faint smile. "And then you came to me for help. Thought you were losing Drusilla to someone else and figured if we teamed up that we could eliminate him." She wondered momentarily if it was wrong to leave Angel out of the story but decided that things were complicated enough without getting into specifics. At least not right away.

Spike frowned. Something in this story just wasn’t adding up. "And you just helped, what, out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I wanted him dead as much as you did." Her voice was quiet.

"Ah." Spike didn’t press for any further explanation. He was content to let her have her secrets; he had his, after all. "And then?"

"We stopped an apocalypse, and you and Drusilla took off. You mentioned something about South America, but I’m really not sure where you ended up. You stayed away for a couple of months and came back to Sunnydale when Drusilla left you. Chaos demon, I think it was. Or was it a Fungus demon?" Buffy furrowed her brow in search of the memory. "No, Chaos demon the first time. The Fungus demon was later."

"Well, this isn’t exactly sounding like an inspirational tale as yet." Spike grimaced, lifting his mug. "Then what?"

"You came back to Sunnydale again, ran into some secret government monster hunters, and got chipped."

Spike set down his cup, bumping it awkwardly against the table and sloshing tea over the side. "Sorry? What’s that? I got what?"

"A behavior modification chip," Buffy explained. "Part of some scientific experiment on HSTs, Hostile Sub-Terrestrials—government-speak for demons and vamps. Kept you from hurting any living thing, made it so you couldn’t bite or feed off humans anymore."

"Bloody hell." Spike was stunned. "So the government shoves some chip in me and I wind up neutered right and proper?" When she nodded, he blew out a breath and shook his head. "Is this where the soul comes in?"

"No, the soul was much later."

"So, you’re telling me that I was my charming old self, just kept from my wicked ways by this chip?"

"Sort of. You were still full of Big Bad attitude and stupid evil plans, although you did help out when I paid you, or when there was something in it for you." Buffy afforded herself a quick moment of recollection, remembering him in those early days, when he was trying to adjust to the chip. "God, you were such a pain in the ass then."

Spike laughed quietly. "I’ll bet." He drummed his fingers on the table in a burst of restless energy. "What a bloody soap opera. You realize that if there was a dash of raunchy sex thrown in, this would sound just like one of those ridiculous vampire thrillers that I’m ashamed to say we sell."

No, Buffy thought, the raunchy sex was later, too. She tried to swallow the guilt. "Umm, let’s see, then you discovered the chip didn’t keep you from hurting demons, and since they were the only things you could fight, you started hanging around me and my friends more and more, helping out."

Spike frowned. "Friends, eh? Didn’t think the Slayer handbook was big on that."

"I never paid much attention to the handbook, as my Watcher would be happy to tell you," Buffy clarified, to his amusement. "You certainly weren’t too fond of my friends back then, and they didn’t much trust you." She continued meditatively, sifting through the memories. "But my mom always liked you, and my little sister was pretty crazy about you, too."

"Your mum? Your mum liked a vampire?" Spike was more surprised at that revelation than anything else she had told him. "Is the woman daft?"

"No," Buffy retorted indignantly, and then her voice softened. "She just liked to see the potential in people, I guess. And I think you were genuinely fond of her, too." She looked down at her hands. "She died almost four years ago."

"I’m sorry," Spike said quietly, reaching across the table and brushing his fingers against hers in a gesture of comfort. She fought the urge to grab his hand and hold it fast, but his fingers were gone all too soon. "And little sis?" he asked. "How did I feel about her?"

"You were willing to die for her, and you almost did."

"While I was still a vampire?" He found this surprising, too. It didn’t make any sense; he’d still been a demon. "This have something to do with the chip? Did it make me care about her? Feel things?"

"No. I mean, I don’t think so. I never thought about it. You tried to do good things for people you cared about. You were just…different."

"But not different enough, right?" he guessed, the line of his jaw hardening. He could almost imagine what it would have been like, fighting against his own kind on the side of a slayer and her friends, how much he would have yearned to be a part of their world, to belong. "That’s when I decided to get myself a soul, wasn’t it?"

It was as good an opening as she could hope for. "Yes," Buffy answered, praying that he wouldn’t ask for too much elaboration. "You left Sunnydale for a few months, went to Africa. I don’t know a lot about how you won your soul," she confessed. "You didn’t talk about it much. You talked about trials, torment, but nothing really specific."

"And then I came back?"

You always came back, Buffy thought. "It took a long time for you to be okay with things, to deal with the soul, but you got stronger. And you managed to get past the pain so that you could help me again."

Spike nodded slowly. "When I wound up here, I hurt so much, felt so badly about what I’d done, but the hurt felt old somehow. Like I’d already figured out how to bear it. Of course, then I felt guilty for not feeling guilty enough, so I guess it all evened out." He laughed humorlessly.

She ached for him. "You had learned how to bear it, right when I needed you most. The First tried to pull your strings, make you its puppet, but you fought back, and when it came time for the final battle, you were right by my side." Buffy discovered with dismay that her vision was suddenly clouded by tears. "Sorry," she said in a small voice. "This is a little harder than I thought. It was a tough time." What a ridiculous understatement.

Spike sat quietly, thinking. "Did I know I was going to die?" he asked suddenly. "Did I die believing that I was doing the right thing?"

"Yes." Buffy wanted to tell him how proud she’d been of him, but the words wouldn’t come out. Did she even have the right to tell him?

His voice broke into the silence. "Well, what took you?"

"What?" Buffy asked, uncomprehending.

"What took you so long to come track me down?"

"Well," she said slowly, "you were dead. At least I thought you were. Until the night before last."

Spike continued to tap his fingers on the tabletop. "So you dropped everything to come here, to find me?" When Buffy nodded in the affirmative, he continued. "Then isn’t there something else you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean? I mean, yeah, there are a lot of details I skipped over—"

He cut her off. "I’m not talking about details. I’m talking about the fact that you’ve told me how I felt about your mum, your sis, your friends. The one person I don’t know how I felt about is you, Buffy."

She looked into his eyes and for one insane moment, she wanted to blurt out the rest of the story. But she knew it wouldn’t have been fair to him. He had no memory of her, and telling him wasn’t going to change that.

"By the end, we were best friends," Buffy finally said. "Things with us were always—complicated. I’m not sure I would even know where to start."

"Maybe I can save you the trouble," he said softly. "I was in love with you, right?"

The words sent her mind reeling. "What makes you say that?" Buffy asked, her heart in her throat.

"Come on, Buffy. You may hold the key to the missing six years, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know who I am, how I work, deep down. It’s always about a woman with me. And after a little more than an hour with you, I just know." Spike’s smile was wistful. "Her clues aren’t usually this direct, but this one was a little too easy to miss."

Buffy pounced on his words. "Whose clues? You’ve seen someone else from your past?" As soon as she paused for a breath, Buffy knew. "Dru—Drusilla was here?"

Spike nodded. "Couple months ago. Spouting off what I thought was some nonsense about how I got a spark for my golden queen, that I didn’t belong to her anymore. At the time, I figured it to be one of her less lucid moments, but this was what she was talking about, wasn’t it?" His eyes sought out the truth in her face. "I got the soul for you."

Buffy brushed aside the last, her mind too preoccupied with the idea that Drusilla had come to him. "Why was she here? What did she want? Did she hurt you?" The questions poured out in a terse staccato.

"I’m really not sure exactly what she wanted, but I can tell she wasn’t too happy with me. Ended up having to fight her off, and she got away before…." His voice trailed off. He had wanted to hate Dru, but instead he’d pitied her. Part of him still wondered if she hadn’t so much escaped him as he had let her go. He knew he should have killed her, that it would have saved lives, but he didn’t know if he had the strength to do it. And then it was just another thing to feel guilty about.

Buffy’s eyes were full of questions. "You fought her off?" Spike shifted uncomfortably, and Buffy wondered if he was bristling slightly at the implication that he shouldn’t have been able to take Drusilla. She hurriedly continued. "No, I just meant that I know how tough she is in a fight. I was just surprised that she wasn’t able to hurt you. Surprised, but glad."

Spike crossed his arms on the table in front of him. "I’m human, Buffy, but there’s something different about me," he said slowly. "I’m stronger than I should be. Faster. Better reflexes. Any thoughts as to how that might have happened?"

Buffy sat back in surprise. "Stronger? How much stronger?"

"Much stronger." He searched her eyes. "Hell, I’m stronger than Veronica, and I thought she was just an exceptionally strong potential. Now you tell me she’s not a potential but the real deal. How is it possible?"

"I have no idea," Buffy answered.

He felt restive, disturbed. "Wait, if what you tell about that chip is true, I shouldn’t even be able to hit anything."

"No, the chip is gone," Buffy corrected. "It malfunctioned after you came back from Africa, and I made them remove it before it killed you."

"You trusted me that much?" Spike mused.

"Yes," Buffy said simply.

He looked away, his expression unreadable.

Buffy took a deep breath. She had faced monsters that haunted people’s dreams; she had even looked into the very face of evil. But none of that had taken the same kind of courage she called on now. She wondered if it was the bravest moment of her life. "Don’t you want to know whether I loved you, too?"

That was the thing, Spike thought to himself. He did want to know, wanted so desperately to ask, but Dru had been pretty clear on that point as well. He thought of the way Dru laughed when she told him gleefully that no matter what he’d done, his golden queen had never loved him. He met Buffy’s gaze levelly. "You’re here, aren’t you? I figure maybe that’s all I need to know for now."

Spike leaned closer to her. "I don’t remember a single thing about you, don’t even know your face," he confessed truthfully. "But I can almost feel what it was like to love you. Isn’t that funny?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded anything but amused. He reached his fingers out tentatively until they were just a breath away from her cheek, and Buffy felt her heart pounding. "Can you feel that? The thing that kind of hums in the air between us?"

She didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded.

He berated himself for indulging in the moment. Buffy cared for him, that much was obvious. But he remembered the way it felt when Dru said that the woman he loved had never loved him back. Dru had told him to look into his heart, and suddenly the confirmation came to him, struck him like a bolt of lightning. He hadn’t recovered any of his memories, but in that moment, as he’d stared into Dru’s triumphant face, he knew he had believed her, somehow knew that what she was saying was true.

Spike pulled his hand away from Buffy’s face without touching her.

"I know that it doesn’t make any difference now—" Buffy began hesitantly.

"I reckon we’re different people now," he interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion. "Right?"

Buffy started to speak but then closed her mouth and nodded. Because it was the right thing to do. Because he seemed to need it.

They sat in silence, and he watched the color drain out of her cheeks again. The moment passed.

Spike leaned back in his chair, trying to take it all in. "God, I need a smoke," he stated suddenly, grasping at the comfortable familiarity of habit as a lifeline. He patted his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind if I…." he trailed off, shaking the pack until the filter end of a Marlboro emerged.

Buffy blinked, came back to herself, her reverie disturbed. "Yeah, actually, I do. Human lungs here. And just as important, human lungs there," she said, pointing at his chest.

"Been smoking for, like, a hundred and twenty years," he remarked, placing the cigarette against his lips with one hand while the other searched for his lighter.

"Yeah, there’s this new thing that’s all the rage these days – it’s called quitting."

"I can already tell you that there isn’t a nicotine patch in the world big enough for that kind of craving," he commented absently, flicking up the top of his Zippo. "And don’t even get me started on the gum."

"I’m just saying that whether or not you suck tar matters a little bit more now, doesn’t it?" Buffy returned stubbornly.

Spike’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her over the flame. "Bossy little chit, aren’t you? Listen, you, I fed your caffeine addiction, so I think I’m entitled to a smoke."

"Yeah, well, as I just discovered that you’re breathing again, I’d kinda like to see you keep doing it for a long time to come. Damn it, Spike, do you always have to—" She broke off suddenly and covered her mouth, her shoulders twitching.

"Okay, okay, I won’t smoke," Spike said quickly, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. Then he studied her in confusion. "Are you laughing?"

Buffy removed her hand from her face, nodding, equal parts shock and amusement written on her face. God, she had missed him. Right up until that moment, it had been all about the man she had loved and lost, the Big Love side of how she felt about him. But as soon as they started to trade barbs, it suddenly became about the man who was her partner, too, the one who matched her, cutting insult for cutting insult, the one who tried her patience like no other, the one who made her feel alive.

He watched her, bemused. "We do that a lot? Fight?"

"All the time. You have no idea." Buffy sobered quickly. "Listen, I don’t know if I can help you get your memory back or if we can figure out what happened to you after you closed the Hellmouth, but I really want to try."

"Any specific theories on why I’m back, all new and improved?" he asked.

"No, nothing specific. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s probably because someone or something powerful wants you to be here."

"And you want to know who or what it is?" His voice was neutral. "That’s why you’re doing this?"

"I think you deserve to know." Buffy paused before continuing. "And I really want to know you again."

He nodded, satisfied, and listened carefully as she proposed her plan to go to Wolfram and Hart for help.

"I know I’m asking you to take a lot on faith, here," Buffy finished, "asking you to just pick up and take off for L.A. in search of answers that may not exist, but—"

"I’ll do it," he interrupted. "I have to know, Buffy." He searched for the words. "It’s as if there’s something huge and unfinished sitting right in the middle of my life, and I have to know."

I can relate, she thought. "I’ve already talked to Angel, and he’s expecting us, so as soon as you can get away…."

"Angel?" He suddenly sounded distant. "Odd name for a bloke."

Buffy frowned uncomfortably. She could tell him now, she rationalized, or wait until they got to L.A. and watch Armageddon unfold there. But the expression on her face was apparently enough to confirm his suspicions.

"Bloody Angelus?" Spike exploded, pushing away from the table. "Are you out of your bleeding mind, girl? Your great plan for helping me fill in the blanks is to seek help from Angelus? I thought you said this Wolfram and Hart was a law firm – you clearly neglected to mention that it is an evil law firm." He started pacing, gesturing angrily as he walked. "Anything you know about me from before, take that and magnify it by about ten to get a sense of the monster factor of my dear old grandsire."

Buffy shook her head. "No, you don’t understand. Angel is good now, too. He’s still a vampire, but he has a soul."

Spike stopped suddenly, exasperated. "Christ, if I hadn’t already seen Dru, I would expect that the next thing you’d try to tell me is that the whole Order of Aurelius had gone in for some bloody group ensouling. Ensoulment. Whatever. Are you trying to tell me that Angelus went out and won a soul for himself, too?"

"No, he was cursed with it, over a century ago."

Light dawned in Spike’s eyes. "It was the Romany, wasn’t it? He never was the same after that business with the Gypsies. Always knew there was something more to that last fight with Darla. I’ll be damned – a Gypsy curse." He pondered the news. "And now he’s some chief white hat, running a multi-dimensional law firm, fighting the good fight and all that?" Buffy nodded, and Spike leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "God, and I thought my life sounded bizarre."

*

Buffy knocked on the heavy wooden door, feeling strangely uneasy. Spike had suggested that she and Vivienne go ahead to L.A. without him while he and Veronica made arrangements for someone to watch after the shop, and Buffy had reluctantly agreed. She knew he would come—she wasn’t worried about that—but it felt odd to be away from him again so soon. Made everything seem a little less real.

It felt real, though, as she waited for Angel to open his door, with Vivienne on one side of her and Willow on the other. Willow gave her a reassuring smile, and the door swung open.

"Buffy." Angel greeted her with a warm hug and then stepped back, pointing to each one of the figures in his office in turn. "Fred, Gunn, and, of course, you remember Wesley. Lorne couldn’t get out of a meeting, but he’ll be here as soon as he can."

Buffy nodded and returned the introductions. "This is Vivienne, Willow. Spike and Veronica should be here any minute." They had called earlier that morning from the airport, and Buffy had advised them to come straight downtown instead of stopping at the Hyperion first.

Vivienne’s eyes widened as she stepped forward. "Wyndam-Pryce?"

"Cantor?" Wesley returned, a warm flush rising in his cheeks as he rose and grasped Vivienne’s hand. "You look…well."

"You’re looking well yourself," Vivienne replied with a grin. Off Buffy’s questioning look, she continued. "We trained together for a time in London, back when I was working for the Council." Vivienne paused, and her lips curved upward in a wry smile as she looked at him again. "At least I used to know a bookish sod with a propensity for tweed who bore a slight resemblance to you. Seems as if being sacked did you a world of good."

"You as well," Wesley returned, inclining his head toward her and smiling broadly.

Buffy looked around the room with a frown. "Where’s Cordelia?" she asked.

Almost as soon as she said the name, Buffy could feel some strange sort of energy moving in the room. By the looks on Willow and Vivienne’s faces, they had felt it, too. But of the others, only Angel seemed to acknowledge it. His lips thinned into a hard line, and he avoided Buffy’s eyes.

"Cordy had an accident," Fred supplied softly. "She’s been in a coma."

"Oh, my God," Willow said, stunned. She looked at Buffy and saw her disbelief mirrored on Buffy’s face. "Is she going to be okay?"

"We don’t know," Wesley answered. "We’re hoping for the best."

"Does this have something to do with why she was sick when I was here before?" Willow asked. "She was sick in bed, and—and someone else was here. I thought…." Her voice trailed off uncertainly, and her brow furrowed with the effort of retrieving the memory.

"Someone else?" Gunn broke in, curious. "Who?"

"I can’t remember," Willow replied, rubbing her forehead, uneasy.

"I think you must be confused, Willow," Angel said quietly.

"Who’s confused about what?" Spike asked from the doorway, raising his eyebrows. Veronica was at his side. He glanced around the room, his gaze resting on Angel. "You didn’t start without us, did you?" His eyes narrowed. He never liked walking into a tension-filled room, and the fact that emotions were already running high before he had even arrived was unsettling.

"No, you’re right on time," Buffy said, approaching him. "Come in and meet everyone." But she didn’t have a chance to complete the second round of introductions before Angel’s voice broke in.

"What is that?" Angel turned stunned eyes on Spike, his voice incredulous. There was no way Angel could be hearing what he thought he was hearing. But even in that moment of disbelief, he knew that to deny it would only have been to delude himself – Angel heard Spike’s heartbeat as if it were the only sound in the world. "How did you do it? What in the hell did you do?" He grabbed Spike by the collar and shoved him harshly against the wall.

"Whoa, man," Gunn said, coming forward. "Spike’s one of the good guys now. Right?" His eyes shifted from Angel’s dark expression to Spike. "Or did I get the wrong memo?"

Spike shook free of Angel’s grasp and smoothed down his shirtfront as Veronica glared at Angel. "Watch it, mate. I’m not as fragile as I look. And by the way, always a joy to see you, Angelus." Spike’s eyes flashed. "I’m so glad to see that the passage of the years and the addition of a soul haven’t done anything for your manners. Good to know there are a few things in this world that I can still count on."

Buffy turned to Angel but halted her remonstrations when she saw the shock written across his face. "What? What is it?"

"He’s alive," Angel replied, backing slowly away from them.

"I told you he was alive, Angel. Remember? That’s why we’re here." She tried to stifle the hint of annoyance in her voice. "To figure out how. Something happened in that last battle, or afterward, and now he’s alive."

Fred pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stared at Spike as Wesley and Gunn exchanged perplexed looks.

"Wait, are you saying Spike is human again?" Wesley asked, sitting on the edge of Angel’s desk.

"Yes. Didn’t Angel explain?" Buffy caught her breath and directed her comments to Angel. "You just thought he was back. I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t explain it very well."

"Nah. No way." Gunn’s voice broke into the quiet. He looked at Wesley. "It wouldn’t work for a regular vampire, no matter whether he fought on the side of a Slayer or not, right?"

"The part about the soul was quite specific," Wesley mused thoughtfully, almost to himself. "It is a rather strange coincidence, though. I’ve never heard of anything like it."

"What are you talking about?" Veronica demanded as the two men turned their eyes to her. "I left my cryptic code breaking kit at home."

"Wesley, are you saying that you would have some idea of what happened if Spike had had a soul before he died?" Vivienne inquired.

"I might have a theory or two," Wesley hedged, but then he shook his head dismissively. "But that’s all academic, isn’t it? Angel is the only vampire who’s ever had a soul."

"No." Angel’s voice sounded strangled, wrenched from his throat. "Spike had a soul, too. Before."

"Oh, my God." Fred’s shocked whisper would have been inaudible had the room not fallen so silent.

"Yes, yes, it’s all very surprising," Spike said, irritated at the mixture of horror and dismay on the faces of Angel’s friends. "But why all of the long faces? It’s not like someone died." His eyes searched Buffy’s, but she could only shrug in confusion.

Gunn, Wesley, and Fred spent a long moment looking anywhere but at Angel, but eventually the gaze of each of them was drawn back to him. Angel offered them only his profile, turning abruptly to large picture window behind his desk, his features as still as if they were carved in stone.

"Is someone going to tell us what is going on?" Buffy asked impatiently.

It was Gunn who finally spoke, his voice full of shock and wonder. "Spike got Angel’s shanshu."