When Wolfram and Hart had folded up like a cheap Chinese fan - Angel was not supposed to win - things had gone from bad to...pear-shaped.   Gunn had survived, Lorne had disappeared, Lindsey had come back a la Lilah, and Wes was...around.  Sort of.  Sometimes.  And Angel...  Well, Angel hadn't signed his Shanshu away after all and Spike had stared at him, utterly gobsmacked for a good five minutes.  Then he'd got him to the ER with Gunn, called Giles and gotten drunk.  Really drunk.  He told Sunny at the Peppermint Stick that if she could make him pass out from orgasm he'd give her five thousand bucks.  She could, and he did, and he did, once he came to.  The next day.  It was all too much, really, and Spike spent a lot of time at the Peppermint Stick or up on the roof of this or that really tall building, just - keeping out of it. 

Connor joined him sometimes and he fell back into the Sunnydale routine - patrols, visit a demon bar, check out a crypt or two.  Connor loved it, Angel tolerated it - Illyria proposed genocide from time to time and Spike took to sneaking out and meeting Connor at La Mort.  Trendy and obnoxious but nobody from the revived AI would be caught dead there, so it was perfect.  Connor asked him one night if Spike wished he had gotten to be a real boy, and Spike had just laughed at him - told him he was too busy living to start dying now.  Connor had laughed too, a questioning look in his eyes, but it was true.  Spike had no intention of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon, and Angel could have the bad teeth and rheumatism and erectile dysfunction.   Nothing there to tempt any right-thinking demon, even a souled one.

The Watchers decided, after the great End of the World Death Match, that Angel really was a good guy after all and that maybe they should help.  So a trio of Slayers was dispatched, and then Buffy and Spike found himself at the club or his miserable little flat more and more often, avoiding the Hyperion like the plague.  Somehow, Wesley had managed to divert the budgets of several Wolfram and Hart departments to a Swiss bank account and about a month after the law firm went down a courier had arrived from Zurich with papers and passcodes and everybody was suddenly a millionaire.   Wes had even taken care of Spike, which made running into Wes' corporeal-but-still-not-right self in the halls of the hotel not quite as awful as it could be.  (Sometimes Wes looked fine - sometimes he looked like the moment he'd died.)  Spike didn't really like the dead days, so he took his shiny new credit card and he drank a shot with Wes and Gunn down in Wes' old office and then he was out of there.

Vegas seemed like a good idea, at least for a while.  At least until he could figure out his next move.  He didn't mind the odd patrol - the occasional saving of the damsel in distress.  He didn't even mind the thwarting of world-endings and the execution of uber-baddies.  It was something to do, after all, and he'd gotten into the habit of keeping the world spinning and the fools in his path alive.  But he was restless and a little bored.   After two weeks of winning on the tables - it was easy when the cocktail of scents from your opponent practically spelled out 'bluff' - he gave up and gave in and called Andrew.  During the whole psychotic Slayer debacle Andrew had told him - in between rhapsodizing about souled vam-pyres and the Watchers and Rome - that if he needed a job, call him.  Anytime.   So Spike did, and Andrew said yes, they did have some jobs that needed that 'special touch'.  Then he'd said that there were always dark deeds that the true Champions couldn't do but Spike, of course, could, and Spike had hung up on him.  But then he'd booked a flight to London and went to say goodbye to Sunny and Connor.

Spike was a Champion - more than rat-eating, alley-lurking, tried-to-end-the-world-a-couple-times-'cause-I-got-shagged Angel was, that was for sure.  At least he wasn't running on guilt and hubris.  He just - didn't want to spend his unlife keeping the sheep safe.  A little culling would strengthen the flock.  He wanted to do... 

*Something better - something different.  Something...effulgent.  Only without the actual flames, this time.* 

Spike did eight jobs in nine weeks and Andrew was right.   These were nasty little jobs that you couldn't possibly do if you were looking at the world through your rose-tinted, Pollyanna-brand spectacles.  Or if you had your head up your rose-scented arse and there was no way even Wes would have stooped to most of them.  But they were necessary - Spike always made sure of that - and they paid well.  And he got to move, to go, which had always been his problem, anyway.  Too much time in one place - one city - one mood and he was ready to make some noise.  Do a little damage.  Having to scramble for transport and shelter in rinky-dink airports and war zones and desolate, gods-forsaken holes was interesting.  A challenge and Spike breathed deep and plunged in head first.  Honed some long-forgotten skills and wore the shiny off that card.  He hadn't had so much fun in years.  Not since Prague - not since Dru.  Not since - oh, so many nights and deaths and fights ago, when things had been less complicated and more...visceral.  He kinda liked getting the visceral back.  And the jobs kept coming.

Late September in London was wet and cold and fogged and Spike breathed it and swam through it and felt whole in his skin again.  He hadn't actually been back to the city for nearly a year - not since he'd started working for the Council - but it was, ever and always, home.   Something inside of him settled when he walked the familiar streets - even his demon seemed to stretch and purr a little.  Spike had four days of whatever he wanted until the next job - something in Marrakesh, they were waiting on the right moon phase.  'Whatever he wanted' turned out to be a room at the Savoy and some heavy-duty carousing in the London demon underground.  Did enough high-grade alcohol and uncut smack to make Charing Cross station look like Mars and nearly went to sleep under the Waterloo Bridge until some extremely lucky and well-meaning tourists 'saved him from drowning', found his key and dragged him home to the Savoy ten minutes before daybreak.  Spike fell face-first onto the bed and didn't move for two days. 

Andrew woke him up with a pot of tea and a tray of croissants and jam and clotted cream and about a thousand little fiddly spoons and plates and cups that all jangled like badly-tuned bells in Spike's sensitive ears.  Plus there was the head of security from the hotel who had had to open the door and was standing tensely by, asking if he needed to call 999 or the hotel doctor.  Spike rolled over and stared at them both and then realized that everything he was wearing stank of demon sweat and the Thames.  He pushed himself shakily to his feet and started to strip - the security guard lasted to the jingle of Spike's belt-buckle coming undone and then fled.  Andrew retreated to the sitting room and Spike spent thirty minutes lathering, rinsing and repeating and then just standing there, hoping the hot water would pound the headache out of his head along with the shampoo.  It didn't, of course, but he felt marginally less like ripping Andrew's head off when he got out.  He put on his Savoy monogrammed robe and got his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat.  The smokes were fused together with river-water and he threw them down and scrabbled for the last pack in the carton on the dresser - shook the water out of his Zippo and stalked into the sitting room.  Andrew was perched on the edge of the couch, a scone held in his hands rather like a squirrel holding a nut and Spike lit his cigarette and called the front desk - arranged to have his kit cleaned and then hung up.

He slumped down in the easy chair and stared while Andrew compulsively nibbled the scone.  Strawberry jam was dripping between his fingers and Spike could see a dollop of cream on the expensive Savoy carpet.  "So?  My four days isn't up - what're you doing, coming in here and waking me up?"

"Actually your four days were up yesterday," Andrew said, and Spike tried to mentally count back to when he'd arrived.  He couldn't. 

"Huh.  Everything's a bit of a blur, really.  Well - suppose I'm off to Morocco, then?"

"No, no, there's been a change of plans.  We sent another of our dark operatives to Moroc-co.  We've - run into a bit of bother with Xander," Andrew replied - trying on his 'lofty Watcher' voice.  The crumbs and shred of jam festooning his upper lip rather spoiled the effect.

"Xander?  What's he done now?"

"Ah, well, that's not exactly the case.  I believe it's more of a 'what has been done to him' situation."  Andrew licked his fingers clean and then opened his briefcase - pulled out several different colored folders, spreading them over the coffee table and getting the corner of one in the ginger marmalade.  Spike just groaned in frustration.  The appearance of colored folders was never a good thing.

Ten hours later Spike was on the 9 o'clock Thai Airways flight to Hanoi, settled into a darkened First Class cabin that he'd bought out himself.  He wasn't in the mood for company and didn't feel like dodging questions or even talking.    He just wanted to have a drink or two and read over the files he'd finally physically snatched from Andrew's hands.  Harris'd been doing the same sort of odd-jobs Spike had, only with less killing and more following up strange reports and checking on newly-placed Slayers and Watchers.   And somewhere in Vietnam he'd stopped checking in.  When Spike saw why he'd been in Vietnam, he felt a slow burn of anger in his gut.  Three newly-contacted Slayers gone missing, one found dead and mutilated in such a way as to suggest pretty black fucking magic.  Why the Council had sent Harris to investigate some magical baddie who was killing Slayers, even untrained ones, was beyond him.  Spike threw the folders down in disgust and got another drink - stared moodily out the window next to him until, somewhere over Calcutta with dawn pinking the skies, he finally shut the blind and settled to sleep.

Vietnam was wet and hot and crowded - muddy and dripping.  He'd been there years before with Dru, dodging Viet-cong and French soldiers and going for a memorable helicopter ride one wild night in the middle of the monsoon.   They'd had a gay old time but they'd had to get new clothes every other day and Dru's pretty silk underthings had never been the same again.  Spike was pretty sure his boots would take a good week to get back to normal and he stared down at them as the car he was in juddered over the sad excuse for a road, dodging a pothole on the right only to bottom out in one on the left.  ABBA was blaring from the radio and the driver bobbed along, chain smoking and cursing and babbling at Spike.  Gesturing out at the low, black clouds and slanting sheets of silver rain.  Spike had no idea what he was saying and didn't give a fuck.  He was pissed off and tired and already sick of the smell of mud and cow dung and whatever it was that everything was pickled in, over there.  It seeped out of the driver's pores and Spike lit his own cigarette as a defense.  Tail end of the rainy season and the land was green and thick - teeming with life in every puddle and every huddle of little houses. 

Spike wanted to go home, where life kept itself decently hidden behind concrete and steel and tinted glass - didn't attach itself to your sole and grow, for fuck's sake, like the mold growing along the edge of the taxi's window.

Son La was west of Hanoi by about four hours.  Or maybe six, or maybe ten.  He hadn't been able to get a straight answer at the airport and suspected that it depended on the conditions of the road and the amount of money he was willing to spend.  To get Harris and get the fuck out, he was willing to spend a lot.  He was willing to pull some strings and get a helicopter to fly them out except there probably wasn't a place to refuel between where Harris was and Hanoi, and crashing into the steaming undergrowth wasn't Spike's idea of a fun time.  Once had really been enough.

The village itself was fairly large and it took the driver a few minutes of aimless circling to finally find the hospital.  Spike looked out at the brick-and-wood building and sighed - pushed open the door and stomped across the morass of mud and water to the covered porch, rain easily getting past his coat collar and trickling down his back.  Several old men - wizened and nearly toothless, sticklike arms and legs huddled around fleshless ribs - squatted near the doorway, smoking and chewing betel nut.  As Spike approached the door they shifted minutely, looking at him out of the sides of their eyes.  One made a gesture with his fingers, spitting, and Spike snarled involuntarily as the ward skittered over his skin.  The sooner he was out of there, the better.

The building was clean inside, if too crowded.  The scent of sickness was nearly overpowered by bleach, and clusters of family were gathered around the sick, tending little cooking pots on Sterno stoves and talking quietly.  There didn't seem to be much staff and Spike wandered around for a while until he nearly ran into a round-faced little doctor in tan slacks and a white coat coming out of what looked like a records room.

"Hey, you the doc?  Are you -"   Spike pulled the damp slip of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it.  "You Nguyen Sahn?"

"I am Dr. Nguyen, yes.  Can I help you?"  His English was very clear-cut and precise, as if he'd learned it from a tape.

"Yeah.  I'm - William Pembroke."  Using that name still grated, but he had to be official here - had to get Harris out because when the Council had finally tracked him down, he hadn't had a passport anymore.  Or anything else.

"Aah!  Yes, of course."  The doctor turned and called softly down the hall and a moment later a pretty girl in a nurse's uniform came out of a doorway and walked rapidly up to them.  She had a clipboard with a sheaf of papers stuck in it and Spike gritted his teeth.  Stuff to sign, stuff to read, just - stuff.  Too much stuff.  His suggestion to Giles, via Andrew's cell, that he go in and just kidnap the man had been tut-tut'ed and ignored.  Going through channels was the Watcher's petty revenge, Spike was sure, for turning up undead once again. 

"If you'll just come to my office, we can take care of the paperwork," Nguyen said, smiling with white, crooked teeth out of his cherubic face and Spike wanted to vamp.  See how eager he'd be to sit in a cramped hole of a room and shove papers at him then.

But he didn't.  Despite everything that had happened, he wouldn't leave Harris in a place like this, affected as he was.  It would be too cruel, even for him.   A thought that made Spike even grumpier, because sod it all, he was supposed to be evil, soul or no soul.  Supposed to be something other than the soppy git he'd let Dru take and turn and teach.    

It took almost two hours to fill out everything and twice Spike had to call London and consult with Giles - call the American consulate in Saigon and the embassy as well to hash out the finer details of it all.  Halfway through the local police came in and kibitzed from the sidelines and it was, over all, a right royal pain.

"Right, then - that's it?  We done?" Spike asked, grinding out his umpteenth cigarette, and the doctor sat back and scrubbed at his eyes with his fingertips.

"Yes, we are done.  Let me take you to your friend now.  The officer will accompany you back to Hanoi."  Spike looked up at the skinny man in the rumpled uniform - grimaced when he grinned at Spike with discolored teeth.  He reeked of sweat and pickled vegetables and Spike thanked Christ he'd gotten some money changed in Hanoi before he'd come out.  The officer would not be coming along if Spike had to give him every last penny he had.

"Right.  Let's get moving, yeah?  Got a schedule to keep."

"Of course," Nguyen said - rose and gestured for Spike to follow.  The officer wandered along behind, smoking a foul little pipe and leering at the nurses.  The rain still pounded down outside and it was near sunset, Spike could tell.  Getting a little chilly as the sun slid invisibly down behind the clouds.  The doctor led him down a hall and then another and another, and Spike smelled dust and rodent droppings - a drain that wasn't working and mildew.  Spike grabbed the doctor's shoulder and jerked him to a stop - jerked him half around, anger making his muscles knot.

"Here - where the bloody hell are we going?  Where've you stuck him?" 

The doctor blinked mildly up at Spike, sorting through a ring of keys.   "He has nightmares.  His screaming was disturbing the other patients.  We had to separate him."

"By putting him in some bloody dungeon?  Bastard -"

"He's not in a dungeon," Nguyen said - shook his head at the officer who looked as if he might try and intervene.   Spike hoped he would - it'd save him some dosh, anyway.  "This part of the building is older, but it is not unpleasant."  Nguyen turned, shrugging - slipping out of Spike's lax grasp and walking a few more feet, stopping in front of a dark-wood door.  He pushed a key into the lock and it clicked open.  The door swung out on oiled hinges and Nguyen made a small bow in Spike's direction.   "Here he is, Mr. Pembroke."

Spike glared at the doctor for a moment and then he strode into the room.  It was small, but the walls were whitewashed and smooth - the board floor clean.  There was a cot in the corner with a ticking-covered mattress and a tangle of blankets - no pillow.  A wide, barred window dominated the far wall, bamboo shutters pushed open on either side.  Hills of deep green fell away and away beyond the sill, rolling and thrusting like a dragon's back.  The clouds were lifting from the horizon and a thread of mellow gold showed all along the western sky, turning the air and the falling rain to a rich verdigris-gold.  Xander was curled on the floor by the window, his arm on the sill, his chin propped on his wrist.  He turned slowly as Spike came in, and the light gilded his eyelashes and the oddly short hair.  It gilded his too-pale skin and made his single eye a hollow as dark as the empty socket beside it.

Spike wanted to say all manner of things, but the mild, empty gaze kept all but the simplest from coming out of his mouth.  "Harris.  I've come to take you home."

Xander looked Spike over - looked at Nguyen, who had come up on Spike's shoulder and was nodding, smiling widely.

"I guess you know me then," Xander said, and his voice was low and a little hoarse.  Unexcited.

"Yeah, known you for years," Spike said, the tightness in his muscles getting a little worse, because...  Well, because.  He tried a little fake cheer.  "C'mon then.  Miles to go."

"Before we sleep," Xander said, and stood up.  "Someone told me that poem was about dying."

"I suppose that must be so, then," Spike said, and Xander walked past him and out the door.

Xander fell asleep about a mile into the journey, wrinkled plastic bag clutched in his hands.  His 'things', as the doctor had said.  Things that the nurses - who obviously doted on Harris - and the doctor had given him.  A t-shirt, a toothbrush, a pad of cheap paper and a pen with Mickey Mouse on it - several packages of sesame candy with gaudy yellow and green labels.   Spike refused to think it was pitiful and instead studied the sleeping man in the near-total darkness of the car's interior.

Xander had lost weight since Spike had seen him last - dysentery, Nguyen had said - and the points of his wrists and the curve of his collarbones pushed sharply up against his pale skin.  He'd been found with a couple of broken ribs and a gash on his head, and they'd shaved his scalp to stitch it up.  Someone - one of the doe-eyed nurses, Spike was sure - had clipped the rest and trimmed it all as it grew so Xander's dark hair was mostly all the same length.  It stuck up in spikes and tufts, glued by humidity and rain.  Spike thought it suited his new, thinner face.  He looked like a teenager, slumped against the cracked vinyl of the car's back seat, dressed in flimsy cotton pants and an old Oxford, the sleeves rolled up and the collar moth-eaten.  Cheap rubber flip-flops on his feet and a tightly woven bracelet of some sort on his left wrist.  It was too small to go on over his hand - it looked as if it had been tied there.

Spike lit a cigarette and glared for a moment at the driver, who was eating something out of a tin, driving with elbows and knees and burbling along to a local pop band.  Spike wanted to reach over and punch the radio - punch the driver.   Wanted to use some sort of magic to get them back to the States or London or wherever and turn Harris over to his friends - get back to his life.  He didn't want anyone depending on him right now, and Harris was nothing but dependant, lost as he was.  His whole past scrubbed clean - his future more than a little uncertain.  That was for the witch and the Slayer and the Watchers to fix - that was for Dawn to cry over.   Spike - had things to do, even if he didn't entirely trust the Council since they'd sent Harris into the fucked-up situation in the first place.  When Harris hadn't done his once-a-week check-in, it had taken days for the Council to sort itself and get their Asian contacts going.  Days and days longer to follow Harris' trail - to find who he'd spoken to, and where he'd gone.  He'd disappeared somewhere between Mai Chau and Son La and a farmer had found him in his fields, sick and bloody and incoherent - naked.  The Slayer he'd been checking on had disappeared without a trace.  Son La was the closest village with a hospital and it had been three more weeks before officials had put two and two together and connected the missing American with the fever-wracked, raving man they'd had to tie to his cot most nights.

Xander murmured in his sleep, fingers clutching slick plastic and then going still.  Spike could hear his heart, steady and a little fast - could hear his lungs, which were wheezing just a bit.  Touch of pneumonia, maybe, or maybe the strain of the broken ribs still - hard to say.  They'd be mostly mended by now, if Nguyen knew what he was doing.   Five weeks - nearly six - before Andrew had got Spike on a plane and Spike shifted and sighed and flicked his cigarette butt out the window - wrapped his coat a little closer around himself and settled back.  He didn't move when Xander turned in his sleep, seeking - something.  Warmth maybe, but Spike didn't have any to give.  He didn't push Xander away though when he curled into Spike's side and stilled, one foot tucked under his knee and his forehead pressed to Spike's shoulder.  It wasn't so bad.

It was raining in Hanoi, too and they pulled up to the hotel with nearly twelve hours to wait until their plane was leaving.  Spike shook Xander awake from his restless on-again, off-again doze and led him, groggy and stumbling, into the hotel and up to the suite he'd booked.  Xander followed him in and then stood there, staring around.  Mini-bar and Jacuzzi and a separate bedroom - plush fabrics and polished bamboo and all of it about ten times bigger than the little room he'd been confined to in Son La.

"Wow.  Nice.  Is this your house?  Is this where you live?"

"Nah.  Hotel, mate.  We're still in Hanoi.  I don't live here."

"Oh."  Xander wandered over to the French doors and stood looking out at the city.  Neon gleamed like streaks of wet, vivid paint through the grey of rain and cloud.  "I knew I wasn't in America when I first..."  Xander turned around, the plastic bag crinkling in his fingers.  "Hanoi's in Vietnam - we're still in Vietnam, right?"

"Yup.  Sure are."  Spike shed his coat - kicked his boots off, heedless of the streaks of mud they left behind and crossed to the bar.  He poured himself some Jack and drank it down and watched Harris trail slowly around the suite - go into the bathroom and run the water, flush the toilet.  He came out with drops of water beaded on his mouth, looking pleased.

"I knew I wasn't crazy when I dreamed about toilets that flushed.  They didn't have any at - at the hospital."

"Surprised they had runnin' water there," Spike muttered, having another drink and Xander wandered over and watched him.  "What - you want some?" Spike asked, and Xander reached out and picked up the bottle - sniffed it.  He wrinkled his nose.

"Nooo - I don't think so.  Umm...  Can I - ask you a question?"

"Sure," Spike said - took the bottle back and poured a little more, disconcerted by Harris' hesitant manner - by the almost deferential way he was acting toward Spike.  He was used to sarcasm and snide remarks and - fight.  A little bite.  This Xander Harris - had none.

"I guess - I mean, you know me and - I know you, I guess, but - what's your name?"

Spike couldn't stop the short bark of laughter that burst out of him.  "Bloody hell, man, why didn't you ask before?  Should have told you back in the hospital - guess I forgot that you - forgot."  He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and then realized they were in his coat still, so he walked around to retrieve them, Harris turning in place, watching him.

"We've known each other for years, mate.  Had some wild times too.  I suppose you could say we know most of each other's dirty little secrets - helped expose some of them."  Spike got his smokes - tapped one out and lit up, inhaling deeply.  Harris looked a little troubled, nibbling his lower lip and still - still - clutching that damn bag in his hands.  "My name's Spike."

"Spike?  Really?  That's - different."

"Earned it, I did.  You know your name, right?  They told you?"

"Oh, yeah!"  Harris perked up at that, looking almost relieved.  "They told me I'm Alexander Harris and I'm from America and - um - I was doing archeology research?  And I got lost and I f-fell..."  Xander's voice trailed off and his face went tight - his whole body went still and Spike heard his heart start to pound.

"What is it?  Something wrong?"  Spike walked over to him, looking at the single, glassy eye that wasn't looking at anything in the suite at all.  "Harris?  Xander."

"Huh?"  Xander blinked - took a sharp, deep breath and seemed to shake off whatever had gripped him.  "Xander?  Why'd you call me that?  I'm Alexander."

"Yeah, but your mates call you Xander."

"They do?"  Xander followed Spike over to the couch - watched him as he sprawled down onto the squashy cushions.  He settled more carefully in the corner, slipping the flip-flops off his feet and tucking up against the arm - folding and refolding the handles of the bag.

"Listen, you can put that down, you know.  I'm not gonna take it, promise."

Xander looked down at the bag and his fingers tightened on it.  "I didn't - I mean, I'm sure you wouldn't, it's just..."

"Just what?"  Spike craned over the back of the couch for an ashtray and flicked his smoke into it.

"Just - I remember everything in here.  Remember where it came from and who g-gave it to me.  It's the only stuff I remember that's real, you know?"

Spike thought back - for one shivery moment - to the high school basement and the times he would creep to the balled-up mass of black leather that he'd shoved into a crack between wall and box.  Put his fingers on it, press his nose into it.  Let it, for one moment, anchor him in reality, even when that reality was unbearable.  "Yeah, I know," Spike said softly, and Harris seemed to relax a little.  Spike smoked his cigarette down to the filter and squished it out - stretched hard, twisting his neck.   "I'm gonna call the front desk - have 'em get you some decent kit.  We'll have the tailor come up and get your size, yeah?"

"Uh - you mean clothes?  Yeah, okay.  I kinda don't wanna wear these pants on the plane."  Harris licked his lips and leaned forward a little and Spike wondered what sort of revelation would be forthcoming.  "They didn't give me any underwear at the hospital," Harris whispered, and Spike snorted laughter - felt an odd little bubble of lightness tickle its way up through his belly and chest when Harris - Xander - started to laugh, too.

"Don't blame you, mate.  Those get wet - you might as well sell tickets."  Xander laughed harder, and the plastic bag slipped out of his hands and slithered to the floor, and he didn't even notice.

The flight seemed to take forever and Spike was sick of planes by the time they were touching down in Heathrow - stepping outside into more overcast and rain, Xander looking a little more like himself in new, dark jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.   They'd got him a patch for his eye in Hanoi, too, and Spike kept feeling jolted when he looked at it.  He'd liked Xander's face better without that black flag.

"Is it raining everywhere?" Xander asked, looking with disappointment at the lowering sky and mass of hurrying black umbrellas.

"Just everywhere we're going.   Don't worry; there'll be a clear day or two in June."  Spike lifted his arm, signaling a cab, and they both picked their way across puddles to the waiting car.

"Ha ha.  Oh, umm...you're probably serious, aren't you?" 

Spike shoved their bags into the boot - climbed in after Xander and gave the drive the address for the Council headquarters.  "Oh, pretty much."  Spike grinned and Xander grinned weakly back - clutched at the door handle as the cab turned sharply into traffic, accelerating jerkily.

"So, June...what month is it, anyway?"

"It's September 29^th, 2005.  When - did you think it was?"

Xander's fingers kneaded at the jeans, digging in a little.  Spike had talked him into packing the plastic bag and Xander had fretted over it and unconsciously reached for it the entire trip.  "I - I didn't really think about it.  I mean - I knew it was 2005.  I don't know why I knew that and not the month."  Xander watched traffic and buildings and people go by out the window for a while and Spike smoked and did the same - found the silence disconcerting and finally stirred himself to break it.

"So - what do you remember?"

"That's the $64,000 question, isn't it?" Xander said, and then laughed.  "I guess I remember lame TV shows.  I remember...umm..."  Xander's fingers rubbed over the bracelet on his wrist, twisting it, and Spike watched him.

"Where'd you get that?  Remember that?"

"Not - really.  It's like - there's little flashes sometimes?  Like a movie.  But - I know when it's real and when it's, you know - Star Wars."

"Should hope so," Spike said.  The cab stopped with a jerk and Spike shoved the last of his cash through the slot - got out and got their bags and led Xander up the stairs and inside.  Nondescript sort of building near Finsbury Circus on the City Road.  Surrounded by museums and libraries - perfect camouflage for the buttoned-down Watchers.  Inside it smelled like books and dust and wet tweed and magic and Spike gave an involuntary shiver as he crossed the wards at the threshold.  They were spelled so he could get in, but they still felt like a two-second dip in burning ice.

"What was that?" Xander asked, standing stock-still in the entry, his bag in his hands and his expression a little wild.

"You felt that?"
"Yeah, it was -"

"Nasty, yeah.  Tell you in a bit.  Mostly it's just - protection."

"Protection from what?" Xander asked and he looked a little - freaked.

"Things that go bump in the night."  Spike headed for the lift, pushing back the scrolled gate and waiting for Xander to step in.  He didn't seem to want to.  "Listen, let's get upstairs and see Rupert - he can tell you what's what, all right?"

"Are there maybe some stairs we could take?" Xander asked, and Spike sighed.

"No.  Just for fires.  C'mon, the lift works great - just had the cables oiled." 

Xander gave Spike a look that was reminiscent of the old Harris - a look of utter incredulity and 'I'll make you sorry if you're lying' kind of look, damp hair sticking up in tufts and glittering with rain drops.  "I don't like - lifts," Xander muttered.  But he got in and watched Spike work the gate and the button and then stood there with one hand locked tight around the rail and the other white-knuckled on the strap of his bag.  Spike felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to take the stairs.  'Sides - he wasn't hyperventilating or anything, so he was okay.  "Is Rupert somebody I know?" Xander asked faintly, eyes on the creeping brass needle that indicated the floors.

"That he is, mate.  Known him longer than you've known me - practically your dad, isn't he?" Spike said.  Sure, laying it on a bit thick but the man needed a little reassurance.

"Why didn't he come to get me, then?  Why'd he send you?"

Spike saw the little flicker of uncertainty in Xander's expression - the hurt - and sighed.  That's what he got for trying to be nice.  "Dunno, really.  Important man an' all, Rupert is.  You'll have to ask him yourself."

"Yeah, okay," Xander said.  He didn't sound happy about the prospect.  Spike didn't blame him. 

*Can't remember his life and then I tell him his father-figure can't be arsed to come collect him out of the damn hospital on the other side of the world.  Fucking hell.*   Spike squashed the guilt handily, though - months and months of practice - and listened to Xander's heart pound.  He let him get out first when the lift stopped smoothly on the 5^th floor - led him down the hall at a brisk pace, hoping the adrenalin of the ride were wear off.  "Here we are, then - Rupert's office," Spike said semi-jauntily, pushing the door open and startling Miss Manners or Miss Marple or whatever the hell her name was.  "Get us a couple teas then, ducks, would you?"

"M-mister Giles isn't in," she said, clutching a handful of manila folders to her chest, and Spike - halfway into Giles' office - stopped on one foot and pivoted slowly back around.

"He - what?" 

She blinked and took a step back - firmed her chin and lifted her head.  "He had - there was an emergency.  In Greenwich.  At the - the Millennium Dome."

"How in bloody hell could there be an emergency at that bloody useless pile of rubbish?  It'd be a mercy if the sodding thing slid into the Thames!"

"Hey, Spike - it's - it's okay, I mean -"

Xander was looking a little upset and Miss Moneypenny was looking near tears and Spike just wanted to kick something.  "It's not all right, actually," he snapped and then clamped his jaw shut as Xander flinched and the girl abruptly sat down, straightening her folders with shaking hands.

"He had to - to stop a clan of Grav-somethings from opening a portal.  There was a - a scroll."

"Oh, bloody fucking Christ," Spike snarled, but Xander was looking a little more than upset now and the wards kept prickling, prickling, prickling the back of Spike's neck.  Reacting to his temper and driving him up the wall.  "There's always a sodding scroll.  Did he leave a - message or some such?"

"He called.  He said - he was stuck on Tower Bridge behind a - a lorry.  It overturned and there are - squid everywhere."  Xander let out a startled snort of laughter and Spike rolled his eyes.  "He said - go over to - to the flat on Elsberry Street and get settled and he'll - call you tomorrow."

"Elsberry?"  Wordlessly the girl held up a key and a bright blue Post-it and Spike snatched them and strode out of the office, Xander trailing along behind.  Elsberry was where Xander's Watchers Council flat was.  *What, you think he'll suddenly remember when he's surrounded by his bits and bobs?  Damnit, Rupert - you should have been here!*    Spike mentally shook himself.  Giles wasn't here, he was, and they'd have to make the best of it.  "That's that, then.  We'll just go on over to this flat and - get a shower and some sleep.  Get some Indian take-away, yeah?  Get you a vindaloo to die for."

"Are we going to your house?  A scroll of what?  What are Grav-somethings?"  Xander hurried after him, his bag banging into his knee.  This time, Spike took the stairs.

Xander's flat was on the first floor, overlooking an overgrown bit of garden.  He had a view of St. James Park out the kitchen window and Charing Cross Station was only ten minutes away.  A nice flat - in a building gifted to the Council by some long-dead Watcher or other - but one that Xander didn't spend a lot of time in.  It was obvious Giles had had someone in to dust and turn the boiler on and there was a carton of milk, soda, some butter, cheese and eggs in the little 'fridge - tomatoes and bread and crackers on the counter.  Xander stood in the middle of it all - kitchen, sitting room and bedroom, with a modern bath and toilet in the back - and looked...let down.  There was a shelf over the TV with framed pictures of Buffy and Dawn, Anya, Willow and Tara and Willow and Kennedy - a group shot of all of them, Xander in the middle and grinning like a loon.  Pre-patch days, probably right before everything and everyone went to Hell in a hand-basket.   Spike didn't remember the picture - hadn't been around for it, he was sure. 

Xander looked at the pictures and looked away and fiddled with the zipper on his bag and Spike put the take away on the counter with a frustrated little noise.  *Bloody Watcher, ducking out on this!*   Spike shrugged out of his coat and draped it over one of the two kitchen chairs.  They were both hand-made - both completely different.  Xander had turned and carved them while recuperating from the broken leg that had ended his Slayer-hunting days.  Spike had only heard about them through Andrew - one of his interminable rambles while he told Spike about his next job.  They were nice chairs.  Spike wondered if Xander would remember how to do that.

"Well, come on; let's have some of this, yeah?  Best in the city."  Spike peeled the foil back from various dishes, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant steam of lamb and pork and spices.  He dug out forks and searched for beer.   There wasn't any.  *Bastards.*

"Do I like this?" Xander asked, sitting down and running his fingers over the deep, carved relief of the chair's arm. 

"Dunno.  Guess we'll find out," Spike said, and dug in. 

"Yeah, guess so," Xander said.  He poked at this and that - finally took a mouthful and chewed contemplatively for a moment before his eye went wide.  "Ow!  Damn! Hot - hothot!"

"Yeah, it warms you up," Spike said, tearing off a chunk of naan bread and handing it over.  "This'll help."

"Water!" Xander groaned, and bolted for the sink. 

"Not a good idea," Spike chuckled.

Xander turned on the tap and stuck his mouth into the stream of water, gulping.  After a minute he coughed and turned it back off, looking desperate.  "Jesus!  That made it hotter!  Help!"  Xander stood panting, his eye tearing and his face flushed, water running down his chin.  His lips even looked a little swollen.

"Not that bad.  Well - Percy swore by milk - you've got some in the 'fridge, there.  But the bread'll help too."  Xander dove for the 'fridge - opened the carton and drank straight from it.  He groped his way back to the table, still drinking, and felt for the bread.  Spike pushed it into his hand, watching with amusement as Xander carefully sat.  Gasping, he finally put the carton down and took a huge bite of bread.   "So?  What d'ya think?"

"I think -"   Xander chewed - swallowed - eyed the food for a moment and then grinned.  "I think it's really good."

"Bloody right!"  Spike forked up another mouthful, chewing happily, and Xander followed suit, one hand on the milk carton.  

They ate most of the vindaloo and Spike finally broke down and opened one of the sodas in the 'fridge, drinking and making a face at the sweetness.   The food had been great but he was hungry still and needed to go out.  The rain had slacked off and it was dark outside - sometime after eight, Spike was sure.  Prime hunting time.  He had a few places he went - rounds to make, as it were.    A little compromise he'd made with his soul ages ago, and it worked quite well.

Xander was sitting back in his chair, his eye heavy - lid half shut.  Looking rumpled and exhausted and - lost.  When Spike stood up and pulled on his coat, he stood up, too.  "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere, mate.  I've gotta step out, is all - be back in half a tick."

"Uh - why don't I come with you?  I need to walk off some of that dinner."  Xander dug into his bag, pulling out stiff new jeans and shirts, looking for the leather jacket he'd picked out.  The one Spike had said looked good.

"Look, Xander, it's really not a good idea that you -"

"Spike."  Xander snapped upright, dragging the coat with him and spilling out pairs of socks and the plastic bag.  "I really - I don't -   Look, I'm not gonna stay here!"

His heart was pounding and under the grim look of determination was fear.  Fear in the white-knuckled grip he had on his coat - fear in the sharp, panting breaths he was taking.   He didn't want to be left alone in this strange flat - this strange city.  Spike got that.  But fuck - taking him along was going to be...  "Bloody difficult, you are.  You were always a pain in my arse, Harris."

"Was I?  Guess that's why we're friends then, huh," Xander said.  Grinned, and pulled on his jacket - ran his hand back through his hair and all but bounced in place.

"Yeah, that must be it, mate."  Spike couldn't stop the answering grin that stretched his own mouth and he shoved the flat's key into his pocket and opened the door with a flourish.   "C'mon, then.  Got some things to talk about while we walk."

"So I know the Slayer?  Or - one of them?" 

"Yeah - know several of 'em, actually."  Spike paused to listen down an alley - sniff the air that was thick with wet and rot.  Dockside, hunting - stalking through a creeping mist that was making Xander shiver.  It was oddly like old times.  Old old times.  "You know Buffy, and then there was some foreign Slayer and Faith - and then all those bloody Potentials."  Something scurried underfoot and Spike kicked it - sent the rat flying.  Xander shoved his hands a little deeper into his pockets, hunching into the jacket.   Spike needed to find something soon - Xander was getting cold.

"You're taking this awfully well," Spike said.  "Kind of thought you'd be calling for the men in white coats by now."

"No, it's...  I know you're not crazy."  Xander stopped when Spike did - watched him suss out a dark, derelict looking building.  "I do actually remember - one thing."

"You do?"  Spike turned, eyebrow going up in expectation.  There was something going on inside this warehouse.  Something nasty.  He could hear muffled groans of pain - harsh, panting breath.  "You remember something?"

"Yeah.  I never - forgot it, I guess.  I woke up knowing it."  Xander shivered, looking around them - looked at Spike and his eye was wide and scared - dark in the uncertain light.  "Demons are real.  That's the one thing I remember.  They're...real."

*Fuck.  That doesn’t sound good.  Maybe we should just -*  There was a sudden explosion of noise just behind them - a crash of something going over, shouts - and then the unmistakable shriek of someone in mortal pain.  Xander flinched, visibly cringing and Spike cursed.  "Stay here, right?  I'll be right back."  Spike darted into the building through a smashed door - took in a sharp breath.  Searching.  There.  Stink of burning and sex, filth and rotting food and alcohol.  There were two men - one was on the floor, screaming. His dirty fingers were clutched tight across his belly but his intestines were spilling out anyway; grey loops of flesh that glimmered wetly in the flickering light of a fire burning in a dented drum.  The man's clothing was torn - pulled half off him and his pale flanks were mottled with dirt and bruises.  Crouching over him - scarlet-bladed knife in one hand - was another man.  He was rifling the first man's pockets, scattering the meager possessions and pocketing a foil-wrapped square of some drug.

"Shut it, you!" the second man snarled - lifted the knife high, ready to make the final cut.  But Spike's hand was there, crushing his wrist - twisting it and sending the knife skittering over the floor.  The man on the ground was whimpering now - twitching.  Dying, his heart laboring to pump blood that wasn't there.  Spike didn't waste time talking.  He yanked the second man upright - wrenched his head over and bit.  The man yelped - jerked once - and then hung limply in Spike's grip as Spike rapidly drained him.   The blood was slick and hot in his mouth - down his throat - and Spike closed his eyes in pleasure.  There was a soft noise - a harsh, choking intake of breath and Spike spun around, feeling - almost dizzy.  Not wanting to see what he knew he would.

Which was Xander, not three feet away - staring in open-mouthed horror at the corpse in Spike's hands - at the near-corpse on the floor, gasping out a last, liquid breath.  Xander looking as if he was going to throw up and Spike dropped the man he'd drained - took one step forward.  "Told you to fucking wait -" Spike snapped, and only then realized he hadn't changed.  That his demon was snarling at Xander and Xander - was running. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"  Spike spun - kicked over the drum and watched for long seconds as the fire scattered - caught in the rubbish and rags strewn on the floor and leaped up, crackling and bright.  Then he ran, too.

He caught up to Xander about five blocks away.  Five blocks the wrong way and Spike leaped over a crumbling half-wall and scaled the rickety shed beyond - swung around a corner and caught Xander to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and spinning half around before he could slow their momentum - stop Xander's headlong flight.   Xander fought him, of course.  Fought hard, and Spike felt a cold skitter of unease down his spine as he realized Xander wasn't making a sound past his harsh, rapid panting.

"Xander - fuck's sake!  It's me!  Stop it - stop it!"

"You - you're - one of them, one of th-them, you're - d-demon -"

 Spike finally slammed him into a wall, fists bunched in Xander's new coat, pressing his shoulders into brick hard enough to hurt.   "Yeah, I'm one of them but I'm not - fucking hell, let me tell you -!"   Xander twisted, kicking, and Spike got one thigh between Xander's legs and got his knee up, pressing hard.  Xander gave a thin wheeze of pain and froze.  Somewhere along the way - during the fight, maybe - the patch had slipped off and he'd acquired a graze along his chin that bled sluggishly. 

Xander's hands were clutching Spike's wrists, nails digging in, palms hot and sweat-slick.   "N-nothing to tell, you're - demon, you -"

"Shut up!"  Xander and Spike both blinked at Spike's shout and Spike shoved Xander back again, making his breath huff out as his back connected with the wall.   Waft of vindaloo and sweat and Xander's chest heaving under Spike's hands.  "Listen, just - listen."  Xander was shaking his head wildly and Spike wanted to slap him - wanted to find Giles and gut him because bloody hell - this was the worst possible way of letting Xander know - anything.  If he'd just followed orders -

"You never bloody change, do you?  I told you to stay where you were but no, you had to come panting into that warehouse, following me like a fucking pup!"

"F-fuck you!"  Xander's hands squeezed, hard, and Spike snarled silently at the sting of the man's nails cutting into his skin.  "I heard - there was somebody being - hurt, I thought it was -   Let me go!"

"Stop it!"  Spike shook Xander again, but not very hard.  "Bloody hell, you need a manicure.  Listen - listen!"  Xander finally stopped struggling as Spike pushed with his knee again, making Xander stand up on his toes.  Spike bowed his head for a moment, trying to gather his wits.  *Thought it was me being hurt.  Came running in to help me.  Must be in his bloody genes.*   "All right.  Yes.  I'm a - a demon.  A vampire, all right?"  He looked up at Xander's shuddery gasp.  "But I'm not - I don't kill -"

"Yes you do -"

"Yeah, all right, I do.  But not - just anybody."  Xander's look of disbelief made Spike want to shake him again, but he refrained, just barely.  "The bloke I drained - he'd just killed that other one.  Raped him - took what bloody little he had and gutted the poor bastard.  Wasn't anything I could do, Xander."  Spike felt Xander's death-grip ease just a little and he backed off himself, forcing his hands to unknot from their grip on Xander's lapels - moving back just a little so his knee wasn't pressing up so hard.  "He was already dead - bled out before I got in there and that other one - he'd have done it again.  Done it lots, you know?"  Xander had slumped a little and now his hands slipped limply off Spike's wrists to hang by his sides.  His heart was slowing toward normal and he coughed once, turning his head and muffling it into his shoulder.  The mist had collected on his hair and eyelashes and he looked pale and cold - shivering in the dull, silvery light of a street lamp.

"I - saw him.  That - hurt guy.  His stomach -"

"Yeah.  Nothing to be done for him, Xander, swear on - on whatever the fuck you want me to swear on.  That knife was crawling - the whole place was.  He was dead no matter what."

"Yeah..."  Xander let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thump, eye closed and Spike finally let go of him completely - smoothed the crumpled leather of Xander's coat and took a couple steps back.  He felt in his pockets for his smokes and lit one, sucking in a huge lungful of smoke and holding it for a long moment.  Trying to calm down - trying to figure out what to do next. 

*I'll gut that bloody Watcher.*   "Sorry you saw that," Spike said finally, and Xander opened his eye - lifted his head and looked at Spike, his mouth a thin, grim line.

"Sorry I saw that guy with his guts on the floor, or sorry I saw you - s-sucking some guys blood?"

"Fuck you," Spike snarled and stalked a few feet away, smoking hard.  Wishing he could just send the man home and go get a drink.  Several drinks.   Several bottles.

Xander was silent for a moment and then he sighed and Spike heard his sneakers grit over the cracked pavement as Xander stepped up beside him.  "Okay, low blow.  I just -   I guess you're okay 'cause - you're that guy that came for me.  You got me - home.  I mean - they trust you, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Spike muttered, and plumed smoke into what was rapidly becoming a drizzle.  "Yeah, they trust me and I bloody well blew it, but - now you know."

"Now I n-know," Xander said, and Spike looked over at him - saw that he was shivering, his teeth almost chattering and his breathing - definitely wheezy.

"Sodding hell.  If you get pneumonia and die on me, mate, I'm gonna kick your arse from here to hell and back.  Let's get home and get you warmed up, yeah?"

"Yeah, s-sounds good to me."  Spike flicked the butt away and reached out - fumbled for a moment and then closed the zip on Xander's jacket, pulling it up snugly under his chin.

"You're too damn brave for your own good, Harris - you always were," he said. 

Xander managed a shaky grin.  "Yeah?  So I'm like, a h-hero or something?"

"Yeah, you're a hero," Spike said, and turned them in the direction of home.

Spike turned on the TV and watched footie and World Cup Snowboarding and some weird quiz show and what seemed to be an algebra tutorial - Xander apparently relied on the cabinets full of DVDs for entertainment.  Eventually he found himself dozing on the pull-out couch, body-clock still a little scrambled from international travel.    So he hit the 'off' button on the remote and settled to sleep, lulled by the rhythmless tink of rain against glass and the hissing drone of car tyres rushing over wet tarmac.

Something woke him - it felt like an hour or so later.  Something, and Spike lay there staring at the ceiling, hands tense on the loosely woven blanket he'd wrapped himself in.  Dawn was close - minutes instead of hours, now - and the windows were faintly grey.  Rain was still falling but the neighborhood was silent, suspended in that strange dead time just before the hustle of the day started all over again.  Spike listened and then he was moving when he finally figured it out.  It was silence, and the far-too-rapid pound of Xander's heart.

There was a lamp lit in the bedroom, dull amber light that showed an empty bed - sheets and blanket dragged halfway to the floor, pillow on the floor, squished between the bed and the night table.  And Xander's heartbeat, thundering in Spike's ears.  There was also the slightly wheezing, too-shallow gasps for breaths - the sound of someone trying not to breathe.  Or not to breathe too loudly.

"Xander?"  The breathing stopped with a tiny click and the shuffle of cloth on carpet - startled movement hastily frozen.  Spike walked slowly to the bed - pulled the covers up and piled them on the mattress.  Then he got down, first to his knees and then flat out on the floor, hands braced under his shoulders and his face turned toward the dark space between the box spring and the floor.  "Xander?"

Under the bed - pressed back against the wall - his fists curled up by his mouth.  Sweat-soaked hair sticking up in matted tufts and his eye wide and terrified.

"Hey, you okay?" Spike said, and then bit his lip, because - Jesus!  But what the fuck else was he going to say? 

Xander blinked.  "S-spike..."

"Yeah, it's me.  Spike."

"You need to get under here."  Xander's voice was thin with tension - breathless and rasping.  "You need to get under here right now."

"I do?"  Spike contemplated the narrow space - sighed heavily.  "Bloody hell, Harris -"

"Spike!  It's in here!"   A raw shout choked down to a whisper - wild look out into the empty bedroom beyond and Spike sighed - squirmed sideways until he was under the bed too, the slats pressing uncomfortably against his jean-clad arse and bare back.  He lay down, his cheek pillowed on his wrist.  Watching Xander shiver all over, convulsive twitches from nerves and chill.  His t-shirt was sticking to him with sweat and there was a draft somewhere.

"Happy now?" Spike grumbled, and Xander hissed at him.

"Shhhh!  Gotta be quiet, gotta - stay still.  Stay still, don't move, don't - make a sound, don't...shhh, shhh..."  Xander's gaze was glassy - distant - and Spike knew he wasn't seeing the room or the carpet or the vampire who was getting a cramp in his neck.

"Xander -"

"No, don't do that - don't do that!  Don't - fuck - gotta stop - stop it -"   Xander lashed out, kicking and hitting and clawing, eye screwed shut and his mouth open in horror and Spike scrabbled away - grabbed an ankle and hauled while Xander rolled and clawed the carpet, trying to get free - rapping his knuckles and his head on the wooden slats as Spike got him out from under the bed.  Gone silent again, gasping for breath - stinking of fear and misery and blood.

"Come on, Harris, wake up!  Wake up, Xander, you're dreaming - Xander -"  Spike ducked a flailing hand - caught a foot in the thigh and then a rake of Xander's nails across his cheek and he growled, vamping - pounced on Xander and crushed him to the carpet, arms around Xander's biceps and their legs tangling - hands locked across Xander's chest.  Squeezing until Xander went limp in his arms.  Spike eased up slowly, listening to the staccato beat of Xander's heart and the creak and rush of his lungs.  Xander's hands stopped clawing at Spike's wrists and he went limp - jerked hard, suddenly, and his head came up, nearly cracking into Spike's nose.

"What the - fuck - Spike?"

"Yeah?  I mean - yeah, Spike."

"Why are you - can you get off me?"

"Are you gonna go all - barmy on me again?"

Xander craned his head around, trying to see, and Spike twisted the opposite way so they could be sort of face to face.  The scrape on Xander's chin was bleeding again, just a little.  Xander looked - bewildered.  "Barmy?  What the hell is that?  Spike - my hand's bleeding."
"So's my face," Spike muttered, but he slowly let go and sat up - steadied Xander as he struggled upright and then slumped a bit.  "So's your face.  Again."

Xander examined his hand, wincing.  He'd skinned his knuckles under the bed somehow - on a slat, Spike was sure - and they were bleeding a little, looking bruised and sore.  "Damn."  He blotted at his chin with the sleeve of his tee and made a little hissing noise.  "Oo-kay."  Xander pushed his uninjured hand back through his hair - pulled his soaked shirt off his chest with a frown.  He looked up at Spike and his eye went wide and Spike almost ducked away from the hand that came up fast, to touch his chin and turn his face a little toward the light.  "Spike, Jesus!  Did - what happened to your face?"

"You happened to my face," Spike said, pulling away from Xander's cool fingertips - from the scent of his blood and chamomile soap.

"What?"  Xander seemed truly confused, his expression bewildered but...there was fear there, too.   Spike shook his head.

"Fuck.  Look, why don't you go get cleaned up, yeah?  Take a shower and wrap up your hand and -"

"And then you'll tell me why I attacked you?" Xander mumbled.  He was hunching over his hand a little, looking defeated.  "They - they tied me down, at that - hospital.  Tied me to that - cot.  I hurt Ngoc Minh one time, one of the nurses?  And Dr. Nguyen.  I didn't mean to!  Ngoc Minh gave me - gave me that Mickey Mouse pen.  So I could write stuff to re-member.  Thought it'd...stop when I was...h-ome..."   Xander's voice had gotten smaller and smaller as he talked and now it tailed off altogether and they sat there for a moment, Xander with his eye shut and his hands curled tightly into the hem of his shirt, and Spike...

Spike wanted to get up and kick the bed to fragments - wanted to call the Watcher right now and tell him get his arse out of bed and on this because -   Because it was all too fucking much like his own days of confusion and loss - sleepwalking through the streets and waking up with blood on his teeth and dirt under his nails and Xander...  Shouldn't have to go through anything like that.  Nobody should.

"You didn't attack me, Xander - just a dream, is all," Spike said finally, ignoring the sting of the cuts.  "You said - something was in here and I had to come under the bed with you -"

"Under the bed?"  Xander looked up then - looked at the bed and made a little face, like 'under the bed' meant 'under a slimy rock' or something.  "Why the fuck would I go under the bed?  I hate going under beds."

"Dunno.  You were -"   *Bloody crazy.  Scared to death and out of your head.*   "You were a bit confused -   told me something was in here and you started yellin' at it -"

"And then I hurt you -"
"I grabbed you!  Look - it doesn't bloody matter!"  Spike unfolded himself, standing up and raking his hand back through his hair, hoping there were no dust bunnies.  "Just a bad dream and we'll go see the Watcher tomorrow - well, today, and we'll get you sorted, right?"

Xander stared up at him - pushed himself to his feet and looked like he wanted to argue but then he just shook his head.  "This is really fucked up," he said.  He opened a couple of drawers and pulled out a fresh t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants - marched out the door and down the hall.  After a moment Spike heard the shower start up and he cursed softly.

"Yeah, fucked up is right, mate.  Fucked all to bloody hell."  Thank Christ they'd stopped on the way home and got a bottle.  Spike headed for the kitchen.

Three shots down, Xander came into the kitchen in his fresh clothes, his hair toweled to a hedgehog-y mess and a length of gauze fluttering untidily from his hand.  "I can't get this right," Xander said, sitting down and putting his hand on the table between them.

"Hands are hard to do by yourself."  Spike took Xander's wrist and pulled him a little closer - unwound the gauze and redid it, wrapping it neatly and then tying a small knot - tucking the ends under.  "There now, all better, yeah?"

"Sure.  It's weird.  When I was looking for a First Aid kit or something it was like - like I was snooping in somebody else's house."  Xander touched the white gauze with his fingertips and then looked up at Spike, his expression hopeful and a little wary.  "Spike?  Will you...would you do me a - a favor?"

"Sure," Spike said, pouring and drinking his fourth shot - taking a long breath as the burn became mellow heat.

"Would you - tell me...  Tell me about myself?  Tell me - how we met and - why I know Slayers and..."  Xander paused, looking down and away and taking a hard breath.  "Tell me what h-happened to my eye?  Tell me - everything."

"Don't really know - everything," Spike hedged, resisting for a moment.  Thinking it might be a bad idea, but thinking too, that at least he wouldn't make up lies or leave out the hard parts.

"Tell me what you know, okay?"

Spike studied the tired, earnest face across from his - poured his fifth and last shot and drank it down - put the glass carefully upside down on the table.  Then he leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable.  "All right, then.  Want me to start if off proper?"  Xander nodded.  "Right.  Once upon a time, there was a town called Sunnydale, and in that town was a boy called Xander Harris..."

"Really, Spike," Giles hissed, agitated half-whisper and much, much too close.  "Do you think that was wise?  I mean - you might have actually done him harm -"   Giles was looking harried, phone tucked under his chin and a half-dozen folders open on his desk - piles of papers and books and a faint whiff of spoilt shrimp from his shoes.   

Spike leaned away and put his cigarette between them as a shield.  Giles coughed.  "Do you think it was wise to not bloody be here when he got in?"  Spike didn't bother to 'modulate his tone' - took a hard puff off his smoke and ground it out in the congealed mess that was an early-morning bit of eggs and toast.

"There were Gravlocks, Spike, and they were attempting a Calling and I had to -"

"You had to do bollocks!  Andrew could have dealt with the bloody Gravlocks and you know it -"   Spike cut himself off in irritation as Giles held up a hand, his attention sharpening on the phone he was holding.

"Yes, I'm still here.  Yes of course.  A fax?  I don't believe I've received a fax, let me just -"   Giles strode out into the reception area, calling for his assistant and Spike kicked the wall, leaving a satisfying and dirty dent.

"Uh, everything okay?"  Xander was half in, half out of the room, looking as if he were interrupting the Pope or something and Spike kicked the wall again.

"Just Rupert being a sodding pain in my arse," Spike muttered.

"Weren't we...  I mean, didn't he expect us?" Xander asked, and there was that look again - that hurt, let-down look and Spike growled.  Xander just stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, he knew we'd be here. Oi, Watcher!!"

"I'm right here, for Heaven's sake, Spike."  Giles walked back into his office - stared pointedly at the damaged wall and then sat down, hanging up the phone.  "Now, Xander, if you'll take a seat.  I am - Rupert Giles, a Watcher -"

"Told him that already," Spike muttered.   Xander sat and Spike pulled out a cigarette and Giles leaned forward in his chair, looking very serious. 

"Perhaps you could tell me what you, uh, remember about your time in Vietnam?"

Xander blinked - looked over at Spike, who rolled his eyes.  "Well, uh...it was really hot and...I spent a lot of time watching it...rain?"

"Rupert.  He doesn't remember.  Did you not get the memo?  What he did for six bloody weeks in that bloody hospital has fuck-all to do with what happened to him!  What we need is a spell or something to fix it!"

Giles glared at Spike and Spike glared back and Xander sank down into his chair a little, looking less than pleased.   "We've set up an appointment with the coven.  They'll be coming here in a few days to see what, exactly, the nature of this - amnesia is."

"The nature of it?  It's a spell -"

"You don't know that, Spike!  He did sustain a severe blow to the head -"

"He can feel the wards!"

Giles opened his mouth and then shut it - looked over at Xander who smiled faintly.  "You can?"

"Yeah.  It was like...hot and cold and...furry.  But not nice-furry, it was more....bad-furry."

"How can there be a bad furry?"

"For fuck's sake, Rupert -"

"Mr. Giles, your three o'clock is here."

"Ah, yes, thank you, Miss Merchant."  Giles stood up - looked over his desk and removed the egg-toast-and-cigarette plate from the surface, shoving it into the rubbish bin.  "Really, Xander, I'm sorry, but until we can know the exact nature of your, um, problem, there's not much we can do.  We can't risk botching things and maybe wiping out your memories forever.  The coven representatives will be here on Thursday -"

"Thursday?" Spike barked, and Xander echoed him a little softer, looking dismayed.  "It's fucking Monday!"

"It was the soonest we could arrange for them to arrive.  Now look -"   Giles leaned on his desk - took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, a tired gesture that Spike supposed might wring sympathy from some.  But not from him.  "I realize, Xander, that this is a - a frightening situation to be in but believe me, we're doing our best."  Giles put his glasses back on - straightened up and brushed down the front of his suit-jacket.  "You're in your own flat, with your own things. I suggest you spend some time...familiarizing yourself with the things there and - and just relaxing.  Recuperating, as it were." Giles moved out from behind his desk and Xander stood up, looking like he wanted to say something.  Giles patted his shoulder.

Spike tossed his second cigarette after the first one and pushed between the two of them.  "Yeah, fine, we've got it, mate.  We'll push off now.  C'mon, Harris - things to do."  Xander gave Giles one last look, all sad brown eye and down-turned mouth like a poster for Oxfam.  Then he turned and followed Spike out of the office - past Miss Minchin and some suited, bespectacled Watcher-clone - and out into the hall.

"Guess that was kind of a bust, huh?" Xander said as they went down the stairs.  His voice was too low and too flat for Spike's liking and Spike stopped to light a cigarette - squinted at Xander through the smoke as he plodded down the stairs.

"Well, at least the witches're coming, that's something.  And - it's not so bad at the flat, is it?  Got lots of movies and things to watch.  Here, let's pick up the pace a bit, shall we?"  Spike grabbed his arm and hustled Xander down two more flights of stairs.

"Yeah, I guess it's okay.  I don't have it decorated or anything really, do I?  Don't I stay there much?"

"Guess not.  Out working like me, I expect."

Xander twitched in Spike's grip.  "Like you?  You said you killed things!"

"Oh, well -"   Spike was saved from explaining by the fire alarm going off and they sprinted the last flight - stood for a moment in the doorway, looking out into the dull-silver veil of rain.  "Got your brolly?  C'mon, then - gonna get a bit exciting around here, wouldn't want to get in the way."

"I guess not."  Xander opened his umbrella and they stepped out, walking briskly toward the tube station.  "Spike?  They're - I mean, the witches, they'll really help, won't they?  I mean -"

Spike sighed and stopped, turning to face Xander and hating the defeated look on his face.  "I promise you, mate, they will.  They'll do whatever they can.  Giles is being an ass but - you're a hero, right?  Saved the world a time or two, just like me.  They'll do whatever it takes, Xander."

Xander fidgeted with the handle of the umbrella, frowning.  "It's just that...he doesn't - Mr. Giles, I mean, he - does he like me?"

*Oh, fuck.  Fuck and damn.*   Spike had no idea why Xander's hesitant question was making his blood boil - was making him want to do a little damage to...certain people.  He just wanted to.  Wanted to get that scared, beaten-down look off Xander's face.  "Course he does!  He's just - he runs the whole Council, you know?  Very high-up muckity-muck with all the phone calls and - and random demons.  He's...always like that," Spike finished, thinking back, and yeah, Giles kind of was, anymore.  Falling further and further into the routines and the roles he'd grown up around - been a part of for so many years.  "Don't let it get to you, mate.  He's a right old bastard sometimes but if anybody has the answer, it's Giles."

Xander met Spike's gaze, holding them in stillness and silence for a long, long moment, the rain pattering on the nylon umbrella and the puddled concrete - gurgling in gutters and sluicing noisily down and down into the sewers.  It was a lot like Vietnam, really, except Xander was huddled into his new jacket and his breath smoked a little when he finally broke the silence.

"Yeah, okay.  I'm just - not gonna worry about it."

"Good on you, mate!  Now - got the whole afternoon to kill."   Spike took a last drag and flicked the butt away.   "What'll it be?"

Xander looked up, peering around the edge of the umbrella and getting rain in his eye.  "Well, no walks through the park.  Actually, I'm starving.  I didn't eat much breakfast so - could we get steak? And," Xander bounced just a little.  "There is no good food at my place, can we go shopping?"

"Bloody hell.  You're just like the girls.  Shopping," Spike sniffed, but he was grinning and Xander poked him with an elbow, grinning back - dodged a fat man in a flapping Macintosh and nearly jabbed Spike in the eye with the umbrella.

"Watch it, Harris!   Crossing here - mind the bloody taxis, they live to mow down pedestrians."   They dashed across the street and headed down the tube stairs, Xander folding the umbrella up and giving it a shake all over Spike, who growled softly.  The station platform was crowded and they fought their way toward the edge, Spike elbowing and stomping on toes without mercy, Xander apologizing every third step.

"Hey, Spike, why do you eat food?  I mean -"   He glanced around and leaned in a little closer, bringing his voice down to a whisper.  "Vampire!  I thought it was all about blood and real food would make you sick or something." 

"I like food, I'm gonna eat it.  Bugger the rules.  Do what I want, when I want, don't I?  Always have."

"So why do you work for the Council?"

"Some days I have not one sodding clue.  Here's our ride, step sharp."  They pushed onto the car and found a place to stand and Xander looked - happy.  Spike squashed the little voice inside that was happy for him and vowed to stop acting like a big girl's blouse.  The little inner voice jeered, and Spike did his best to ignore it.  *Never can get a break, me.* 

An hour and a half later Spike felt pretty sure he'd never want to see the inside of a Tesco's again.  Who knew picking out crisps could become a debate as serious as any Parliament session over euthanasia?  It went without saying Spike was for euthanasia.  And also for Prawn Cocktail crisps, which took a lot of maneuvering to get Xander to put them in the trolley.   

But now they were stocked: crisps, dip, cakes and biscuits.   Even some complicated bakery cakes to offset the preserved horror that were strawberry Swiss Rolls.  They had beer and soda, two whole roast chickens, a boxful of frozen mini-pizzas and, oddly, a bag of prepared salad that Xander had snuck in somehow.  Spike blamed the amnesia.

They were set, though, for some hard-core DVD watching and major couch-holding-down and it was the best way Spike could think of to keep Xander distracted until their appointment with the witches.

"Man, I'm like - a complete geek.  I've got all of Babylon Five!  And Star Trek, Star Wars, fuck - anything with 'star' in the title."  Xander gestured helplessly at the piles of DVD's around him, looking up at Spike with an expression of amused horror.  "Do I speak Klingon?  Or say 'May the force be with you'?"

"Not so I've noticed," Spike said, lighting up and ignoring the little sigh from Xander.  "There's good stuff too, though - Platoon and the Alien movies and -"

"Yellow Submarine.  Jesus.  How'd you stand to be around me?"  Xander selected something and slotted it into the player - climbed to his feet and came to sprawl down beside Spike, cradling a bowl of salt and vinegar crisps and some sort of dip.  An unholy combination in Spike's book, but then, Xander hadn't ever been subject to Clem's taste test parties.

"Oh, you had your good points.  Throwin' yourself into the middle of a good fight and distracting the enemy, that was always good.  And you always had good cereal on hand.  That chocolate vampire stuff," Spike said, making a vague gesture to represent the snaffling and violating of someone else's breakfast comestible.

"Wait, don't tell me."  Xander paused with the DVD remote pointing at the player.  "It went well in your blood?"

"As a matter of fact -"

"Jesus, don't go there!  Blood and Count Chocula, that's...that's..."
"Sacrilegious, you used to say."

"And I was right."  Xander hit play and settled back, munching contentedly.  Spike snagged a beer off the end table and opened it, getting comfy himself as the familiar, opening banter of Reservoir Dogs started to play.

Six hours and an unmentionable amount of snack food later and Xander was half-asleep, curled into the heaps of squashy cushions that he'd had the sense to cover his couch with.  Spike was dozing himself, blinking sleepily at the final scenes of Amazon Women on the Moon.  Xander had laughed himself nearly sick over the silly thing but now all he could produce was a sort of wheeze.

"Gonna live, then?" Spike asked and Xander stirred and pushed himself upright, his hair mashed against his skull and cheese dust along his lip.

"God.  I dunno.  Too...much...grease.  I need an apple or something."

"Bite your tongue!"

"Or you'll do it for me?"  Xander said, shooting Spike an arch look.  A clearly flirtatious look.   Then he noticed the raised eyebrow and, Spike was sure, confused gape and his expression went a little blank.  Spike snapped his teeth shut and groped for a cigarette.  "Uh - you did know I'm gay, right?"

"Well - uh - not as such -   Bugger!"   Out of smokes.

"Oh god!"  Xander flopped back into the cushions, disappearing from view.  "I can't believe I just outed myself.  I can't believe you didn't know!"

"Oi!  How in hell was I supposed to know!  Not like we ever had a quick round of 'hide the sausage', did we?"

"Did we?  I don't remember!  Maybe I'm so horrible in bed you're not telling me to save my feelings!  I mean -"

"Xander."  Spike pawed at the cushions in a growing panic, sending several to the floor until he found Xander's head buried in a bright orange one.   "I would never not tell you to save your feelings.   'Sides, you're probably right brilliant in bed.   Your bird Anya, she told me you were a Viking in the sack!"

Xander's head popped up, tousled and flushed and the little bastard was grinning.  "Oh, man, your face!"

"You tit."

"What the hell does that mean?  And I can't even begin to imagine a conversation where my - uh - girlfriend would tell you I'm a 'Viking in the sack'.  I mean - private, much?"  Xander sat up and rubbed his eye - stretched hard.  "I feel greasy.  I'm gonna call a hiatus to the moviethon and take a shower."

"Right.  Out of smokes, me, so I'll just step out to the shop 'round the corner."  Spike stood up and started looking for his boots - glanced back at Xander who was watching him with a closed sort of expression on his face.

"You really need cigarettes or are you going to...  I mean, it's been a while since you -"   Xander made a sort of grrr face, fingers hooked into fangs and Spike rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I really need more fags.   I'll just - slip out tomorrow and -"

"No, uh, you know what?   It's - it's okay.  I mean, the Council knows about you and...everything so it must be okay, right?  So - I mean, I don't want you to go hungry just 'cause I'm...uh -"

"Squeamish?"

"Freaked out.  But yeah.   Just - do what you gotta do."  Spike found his boots and pushed his feet into them - knelt to do up the buckles, watching Xander the whole time.  Xander stared back, absently rubbing his fingers together in a strange sort of washing motion. 

*And what's that about, I wonder?  Didn't do anything like that before - mostly just shoved his hands in his pockets and stood there...*  A half-dozen mental images of Xander Harris standing with his shoulders a little hunched, fists pushed deep into his pockets flashed in Spike's mind.  Mute and stubborn and immovable.  This Xander was just - more open.  *Same person, isn't he?  Same person only without all the...filters.  Years of filters.  And what the Council knows and doesn’t know is not going to be discussed.  I'll just let that one slide.*

"Right, then.    Won't take long - back in an hour, I'd say.  You'll - be all right?"

"Man, I just outed myself.  Nothing can faze me now."  Xander waved one cheesy hand nonchalantly but Spike could hear the tiny quaver in his voice.

"Promise I won't be gone long.  You just bolt the door after me and I'll - I'll be back before you even know it, right?"

"Yeah, okay."  Xander took a deep breath - looked around himself at the litter of cellophane bags and smeared plates and empty bottles.  "Not like I don't have anything to do here to keep me busy."

"You always were a bit of a slob," Spike said, swinging his coat onto his shoulders and happily displacing his own bad habits onto Amnesia-boy.  "Drove me right round the bend when we kipped together, your towels all over the place, your moldy cups -"

"Oh, yeah, right.  I can't re-mem-ber!" Xander sing-songed, crumpling up some bags in his hands.  "You could tell me anything!  You could tell me I liked to - to sing show tunes!"

"You and Liza, mate, every Friday."  Spike dodged an empty dip container and pulled the door open - felt for the key.  "Back in a trice."

"Yeah, yeah, go already!"  Xander grinned, shaking his head, and Spike slipped out and shut the door quietly behind himself. 

*Well, this is one night he won't forget, that's for sure.*

It was actually a bit over two hours - well, call it closer to three - before Spike got back.  There'd been trouble and vamps and a fucking vanful of the bloody filth descending on what they thought was a riot, for Christ's sake.  Spike had had a merry hunt through the tangled streets of Whitechapel, losing himself in the pub-crawl crowd and feasting on a baddie or two.  Kicking a little ass and getting his kicked back a little and he bounced up the steps to Xander's flat feeling good.  Pleasantly full and a little sleepy, ready for a shower and a shag -

*Not bloody likely I'll get that, 'gay' or not.  He's gonna be sorry for that, I'll warrant.*   Spike could see it, though.  Those big, callused hands and soft lips - dark eye all full of soulful caring and world-weary cynicism.  *Probably pulls 'em in like a moth to the flame.  Rollin' in boys, our boy.*   He snorted softly at that and dug out the key - opened the door and stepped in and shed his coat before noticing - anything.

"H-hey, Spike," Xander said, and Spike stopped still.  Too much emotion in that voice - far too much relief and Spike turned and stared hard at the couch - now pulled out to a bed - and at Xander, who was sitting in a huddled lump up in the corner, a pillow clutched to his chest and that fucking plastic bag by his feet.  Flicker of the television screen in a too-wide eye.

*Hell's bloody bells.  Now what?  Oh, fuck.  Overdue, aren't I...*   "Hey, Harris.  Xander.  Guess I'm a bit late, yeah?  Had a bit of a to-do over by -"

"Somebody - that girl named Willow?  Called?  And she - cried and...  I didn't know what to say to her.  She kept - asking me q-uestions."  The little notebook was open to a scrawled page of words, the Mickey Mouse pen stuck crookedly through the wire binding.  "And...and...Lili's going to kill the unicorn and Jack has to kill her -" Xander wiped at his eye - sniffed and seemed to shrink down tighter - further into himself.

"Xander -"

"This m-movie sucks, I hate - movies where - where the hero has to - k-kill -"   Xander staggered up and almost ran for the bathroom and Spike just stood there wondering what the fuck was going on. 

*Take Red and rip her a new bloody everything!  What in hell was she thinking, calling here and - and -*   "Fuck me!  Xander!"  He could hear water running in the bathroom and he stomped down the hall - hesitated outside the door for a moment because if Xander was sick or using the toilet he was not going in.  "Xander?"

"I'm - fine!  Just -"   The door opened abruptly and Xander stood there, head down - water dripping off the short ends of his hair and a spatter of it down his t-shirt.  He leaned on the jamb, picking at a nail or a callus or something, not meeting Spike's eyes.  "She kind of freaked me out," Xander mumbled, and Spike sighed and leaned against the opposite jamb.

"She shouldn't have called or - bloody hell, not like that, she shouldn't have.  She knows better.  I'll have her fucking eyes for soup," Spike muttered and then growled when Xander burst into hysterical laughter.

"Oh, god, that's so - so gross!  Soup -"  Xander wheezed and clutched at Spike's shoulder and Spike hauled him back out to the living room - shoved him down onto the couch and flung pillows at him until he was half-buried.

"Just shut it, you.  I need to get cleaned up.  Got a bit - spattered out there.  And then we're gonna watch the end of this sodding movie and you'll see what real heroes do."

"What do real heroes do, Spike?" Xander asked, pushing pillows aside.   His fingers were creeping out to the notebook and Spike wanted to tell him don't, but...

*The only real things I remember...*   "Real heroes always win, Xander.  Just like us.  We always win."

Xander's gaze met Spike's and he looked calm, but not...  Not as if he believed Spike.  Not completely.  "Okay then," he said and picked the notebook up and turned back to the movie - watched with an increasingly bigger smile as Lili cut the unicorn free and Jack defeated the Lord of Darkness and the world - Jack's world, the hero's world - became lovely and warm again.  Spring again, in time for the young lovers to pledge their troth.   Xander watched and scribbled and shooed Spike to the shower.  When Spike came out the TV was off and Xander was curled on his side, the bag tucked away somewhere and the lamp still on.

"Is it okay if I just...  If I just sleep out here?  I mean...  If - it's not -"

"Nah, it's fine.  Shared quarters with you a time or two.  Won't bother me."

"Good.  Okay, cool."  Xander settled deeper into the covers and Spike sighed and hitched the borrowed sleep-pants up a little higher.  His own kit was stuffed in the hamper, fouled with blood and ichor and alley filth and he hadn't packed but two changes, anyway.  Needed to fix that.  He crawled into the bed and found a comfortable pillow - turned and burrowed and settled.

"Did you mean it, about the - gay thing?"

"Yeah," Xander said, sleep and laughter in his voice.  "Promise I won't molest you in your sleep."

"Oh, no worries.  I've buggered my share - makes no difference to me."  There was a moment of silence from Xander and then a soft breath that Spike had no hope of interpreting.   "You gonna - stay out, you think?"

Xander shifted and Spike lifted his head and looked over at him and Xander was leaning up on an elbow, looking back.  "I dunno.  I don't know why - I mean - why wasn't I already?  It's...fucking weird.  I mean, I am.  Do you think -"   Xander stopped, twisting a pillow-case cover and Spike pushed his foot over in the bed and poked a body-part.  Knee, he thought.

"Think what?"

"Do you think that the other - the real me'll remember - this?"

"You're as real as the other, mate," Spike said, and Xander shrugged.  "Yeah, I think he - you - will.  You will."

Xander looked up - looked away - curled back down, pulling the covers up and hiding his face in the crook of his arm.  "Good," he said.  Tiny whisper but Spike heard it, and he agreed.

When the witches arrived on Thursday, Spike and Xander were already in Rupert's office, happily devouring the rather nice tea Miss Molly had laid on.   Giles, of course, wasn't there - something Spike had dreaded and expected in equal measure.  Xander hid his disappointment by having a third helping of scone and clotted cream.

"In a meeting, I expect," Spike mumbled around a mouthful of currant bun and Xander swilled down some tea with an appalling amount of sugar and cream in it and nodded, licking away crumbs.

"I kinda figured.  So - none of the people I actually know...actually live here?"

"Not really.  Buffy and her sis were here for a while before the Slayer went haring off to L.A...  Dawn finished out her school year and went back to California, too.  Mini-Watcher, really - probably lovin' learning all that Watcher stuff from Wesley.  When he's not dead," Spike added, pouring more tea.

Xander choked slightly on an iced biscuit and gave Spike a squinty-eyed look.  "Dead?  As in - smelly, corpse-y dead, or dead like you?"

"Nothing like me."  Spike eyed his cup and dropped in a third sugar cube - still three less than Xander - and found his spoon - licked the plum jam off.  "He died in the final fight, right?  But he had some - spell or something.  Some kind of deal he made or - hell, I don't bloody know.  Anyway -" Spike laid his spoon on his saucer and took a contemplative sip.  "Sometimes he was just - Wesley and sometimes he was - Wesley when he died.  When he was having a bad day, it seemed.  Thinking too much about being dead and in debt and he'd...remember."

Xander's hand was frozen between plate and mouth and he slowly lowered the slice of walnut cake back to his plate.  "So - when he was all - bummed - he'd look all...corpse-y?"

"Well, more bloody and such, really, but - yeah."

"Okay.  Gross.  Was he really bloody or -"

"More like - psychic blood."  Spike gulped the last of his tea and looked at Xander's plate.  "Gonna eat that, then?"

"Huh?  Yes, I am.  Paws off."  Xander hunched over his plate a little, grinning, and Spike rolled his eyes and fished out a cigarette.

There were voices down the hall - coming through the door - and Spike let his smile fade a little, puffing hard on his smoke. 

"Ah, they're waiting?  Yes, thank you, Miss Merchant.  Right this way, if you please."   Giles bustled through the door and Xander sat up a little straighter.  Five other people - four women and a frail-looking man - followed behind.   "There should be some tea - oh, good Lord."  Giles stopped dead and looked mournfully at the picked-over trays and plates.  "Like a plague of locusts."

"Good afternoon to you, too, Rupert," Spike snarled, and Xander wiped his mouth on his napkin and reached for his pad and Mickey Mouse pen that he'd brought along with him.  To take notes, he'd said, but Spike recognized a nervous tick when he saw one.

"What?  Oh, yes, good afternoon.  Now - Xander."  Giles turned to face him and Xander looked up, his expression carefully blank.   "These are the ladies - and gentleman - from the coven in Devon.  They've found a spell that will tell us exactly what caused your amnesia."  Giles looked at the plates again and sighed.  "This is Mrs. Covington; she'll explain it to you."  Giles ushered a middle-aged, neatly coifed woman around in front of Xander - plucked a folding chair from between two file cabinets and unfolded it.  Mrs. Covington sat down, her purse clutched in her lap and Xander turned his gaze on her.  Giles slipped out and Spike could hear him telling Miss Mousie that she should have saved the tea until they were all there and was the spell room ready?   Spike snorted smoke and dropped his cigarette butt into his teacup.

"Xander, is it?" Mrs. Covington said, and Xander nodded.  "Right.  Well, you call me Helen, Xander, and we'll get on just fine.  Now, what Rupert said is true.  We're going to do a spell -"   Spike got up and pushed through the witches to the outer office.  They gave him pointed looks, shifting away ever so slightly and he grinned.

Rupert was looking over a paper and Spike went over to him and snatched it out of his hands - scanned it for a moment before tossing it down onto the desk.  List of spell ingredients - a diagram to chalk. 

"Spike, will you -"

"No.  How about you spend more than two minutes with your boy in there?"

"What?"  Giles took the paper irritably from his assistant's hand and started to read it and Spike snatched it again - pulled out his Zippo and lit it and stuck a corner of the paper into the flame.

"You're not listening, you git."

"Spike!"  Giles looked ready to use his fists and Spike smirked at him - clicked the Zippo shut.

"You going to listen now?"

"Please say what you're going to say," Giles said, his voice strained and too polite and Spike tossed the slightly charred paper down and leaned his hip on the desk.

"You're avoiding Xander and it's makin' him all - mopey.  You need to fix that."

"And I suppose I should just stop trying to fix him -"

"He's not bloody broken!"  Spike reached out and grabbed Gile's jacket lapel - yanked him close and held him there.  "He just needs to know his bloody friends are really his friends!"  Giles jerked away and Spike let him - watched him straighten his lapels with a yank.  "Not one of you has said five words to him except Willow and she called and got him all upset!  Cryin' on the phone to him and makin' him all -"

"Yes, well, I had a word with Willow, she called here before...  I had no idea she would be so - emotional."

"Girl's a walking live nerve, Rupert - you should have told her to hold off or - or send one of her bloody emails or something."  Spike patted himself for smokes and realized they were in his coat in Giles' office.  Giles was rubbing his forehead, his glasses held loosely in his fingers.  He looked old and tired and harried but Spike wasn't feeling very sympathetic at the moment.  Well, he never felt very sympathetic, truth be told.  Except just lately, and only for Xander.  And that was too bizarre to think about, really, so he concentrated instead on being pissed at the Watcher.

"I've been trying to discover what happened in Vietnam.  We have three dead Slayers now, Spike."  Giles glanced at the closed door to his office and leaned in a little and Spike kept himself from leaning back.  "The first one you already know about - the one in Vietnam that Xander was - was investigating.  The two others that were missing - they've turned up dead as well.  Except the last one was found in Malaysia, so this thing is moving, Spike.  And it's - it's kidnapping and killing Slayers as it goes."

Spike stared at Giles for a moment, the fury building.   The wards prickled up and down his spine, not-so-subtle warning.  "I saw the bloody report, Watcher.  I saw how that first girl died and any bastard with half an eye for ritual could see it was for some seriously black mojo!  Shite the strongest witch wouldn't go near and you sent Harris to deal with it?  Did you just want him out of the way, then?"

"You ass," Giles hissed.   His face was reddening with his own anger - eyes glinting furiously and Spike could hear his heart pounding under the tweed, hard and fast.  "Xander wanted to go!  He helped recruit those girls - he knew them!   He was determined to help!"  Giles voice had dropped to a harsh whisper - Spike made no such concessions.

"And you think sending him out alone was the sodding answer?  There should have been a whole team over there!  Should have sent Willow along and that Kennedy bint and any other trained Slayer you could get your hands on and been bloody careful -"

"You have no bloody idea what's been going on and -"

The door to the office creaked and Giles whipped around, hands going automatically to his pocket - his glasses.  Handkerchief and a polish and Spike stepped back - shot a withering look at Little Miss Marker, who was pretending to be typing something.

"Everything all right?" Mrs. Covington asked, and Giles cleared his throat - put his glasses back on and straightened up.

"Just fine, Helen, thank you.  Are you ready now?  Did you explain -?"

"Yes, I think Xander understands what's going to happen.  You said you had a room?"

"Yes, right down the hall, actually."   Giles held out his hand and Mrs. Covington smiled faintly and walked past - out of the office and down the hall, the others trailing behind and Giles hurrying to catch up and open the door.  Xander came out a moment later looking a little pale and Spike cursed under his breath.

"So, you up for this, mate?  Not gonna make you dance the Macarena naked or anything, right?"

"Huh?  Oh, uh - no, they're gonna - uh -"   Xander fumbled with his pad of paper, flipping the cover and several densely scrawled pages over until he came to a particular one.  "She said they're going to - cast a circle.  For protection.  Protection from what?"

"Doing magic makes things unsettled.  Some things..."  Spike guided Xander out of the office and down the hall, squinting at his scribbled notes.  "Some things are just - drawn to magic.  They wanna come in and fool around - poke at you.  Steal things, if they can."

"What, like - my wallet or something?" Xander said, trying on a small smile and Spike sighed.

"Nooo, more like your soul."  Xander twitched.  "But these witches are the best - know exactly what they're doing and we'll be safe as houses, promise you."  Spike didn't bother to voice his own, long-held feelings about magic and witches and if any of this was really a very good idea.  No point in making things any harder for...Xander.

"Yes, Xander will be perfectly safe but, I'm afraid you can't participate - Spike, is it?"  Mrs. Covington stood squarely in the doorway to the spell room, her hair let down in loose, bronze-blonde waves.  She was barefoot and Spike could smell sage and lavender burning beyond her.

"Who says I can't?" Spike growled, and Mrs. Covington smiled.

"I'm afraid I do.  This spell is very - sensitive.  The magics that are inherent in a being such as yourself would - upset it.  It would disrupt the casting."

"What you're saying is, me being a vampire fucks with your auras?"

Mrs. Covington's smile vanished.  "What I'm saying is, if you'd like to help your friend you'll kindly stay out of the room while we do the spell." 

Spike wanted to tell her she was a bloody, bold-faced liar.  He wanted to bite her.  But he knew - through some rather grisly experiments with Dru - that vampires and certain magic simply did not mesh.   "Bloody hell -"

"Hey, Spike, it's cool.  I'll be - fine, they say I'll be fine and - and when it's all over and they've got the cure all lined up we'll - uh - go get a drink, okay?"  Xander looked even paler - was clutching pad and pen so hard they were both buckling and Spike squashed his rising temper and forced himself to smile.  From Xander's expression it must have been ghastly.

"Right.  Pint and pie at the pub, on Rupert, soon as they're done getting all - chanty.  I'll just - be right up the hall, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay.  See you - uh - in a while."

"Yeah, see you."  Mrs. Covington stepped aside and Xander went in and the door shut.  Spike stomped back for his cigarettes and spent the next thirty minutes smoking and pacing.   *Supposed to be out in Mongolia somewhere catching a fucking Urr.  Supposed to be enjoying my unlife with money and booze and my pick of the adoring masses.  Or fucking clueless masses, whichever gets me laid.  Not supposed to be giving a tinker's damn about Xander sodding Harris.  I'm not giving a damn.  Just...earning some points, is all.  Yeah.  Right.*   Spike had never been a particularly good liar, even to himself.

There was a burning smell coming from the spell room - much too strong for comfort and Spike had just about decided to go in and make sure *Xander* everything was all right when the door opened on a puff of pale smoke and the oldest witch - the frail, white-haired man - walked stiffly out, coughing and holding a handkerchief to his mouth.  Spike stood up out of his crouch with a curse and strode down the hall while the man shakily found the bench along one wall and let himself down onto it.

A moment later another witch came out and then Mrs. Covington and a fourth witch, both coughing and looking a bit rumpled.    The last witch - a very fat woman who seemed to be having trouble breathing - came out on Giles arm and immediately went to sit next to the old man, huffing and holding a hand to her chest.

Giles stood in the doorway for a moment staring at Spike then he turned and went back in.  Spike stomped to the door and looked in, squinting at the bright shafts of sunlight that were lancing down from high, round windows.  Xander was against the far wall, one hand braced against old, dark wood, the other curled to his chest.  His head was down - eye closed - and Giles was standing there, a hand on Xander's t-shirted shoulder, talking softly.  He glanced up at Spike and said something else, questioning tone, and Xander nodded.  Giles patted his shoulder and walked away - came abreast of Spike and stopped.  He had a smudge of something along his forehead and his hair was ruffled, as if by a strong wind.

"It work?" Spike asked, and Giles nodded.

"It worked.  We need to sort the information we have - do some research.  We'll have everything we need in a few hours."  Spike nodded, ready to collect Xander - take him home or out to get drunk or - whatever he wanted.  "Spike -" Giles held out his hand and Spike looked at him, eyebrow cocked up.  "You have to understand...  Xander is - Xander is very - important to me.  Very...special.  But I can't - I mustn't let my emotions cloud my judgment.  I must be - focused.  Do you understand?"

"I understand he thinks you don't give a damn for him, Rupert," Spike said, and Giles sagged a little, glancing back at Xander who hadn't moved.

"I know.  I simply...  I have to make this right, Spike.  He was - devastated when that girl was found.  Crushed.  He blamed himself - said he'd brought her to the attention of all the monsters in the world and she died because of it.  He wouldn't listen when I begged him to stay in Nam Dinh until a team could reach him."  Giles blinked - took a deep breath and pushed his hands back through his hair.  Spike saw the glimmer of silver there - saw the lines that were etched that much deeper into the man's face - saw the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Harris was always the white knight.  Played it for Willow - did it in deadly earnest for Buffy.  And for you.  For all of us."  Spike hesitated a moment - reached out and fleetingly touched Giles' shoulder.   "Know you're doin' your best.  He has nightmares, Giles.  Bad ones."

"I'm not surprised."  Giles tugged his tie straight and stepped out of the room.  "Take him home, Spike.  He needs...  He needs a friend."  Spike nodded and Giles walked away down the hall, collecting the witches as he went.  As they filed raggedly into Giles' office, Spike edged around the periphery of the room, side-stepping sunlight and ending up beside Xander in one of the few shadowy spots.  Xander glanced up at him and Spike could see he'd been crying.  Xander rubbed his face on the arm of his t-shirt and pushed away from the wall - turned and flopped back against it, looking up at the blue-gold haze of smoke and sunlight that criss-crossed the ceiling.

"G-Giles said it worked."

"It did.  Told you.  They'll have it all figured out in no time - have you back, right as rain."

"Yeah."  Xander sniffed and Spike noticed that - in the hand curled tight to his chest - was Xander's pad and pen.  The pad was crushed almost in half and the edges were singed.

"Fuck's sake, Xander!  Are you hurt?  Is your hand burned?"

"Huh?"  Xander blinked and looked down at his hand - unfurled it with a wince and examined his reddened, soot-stained palm.  "Uh - it kinda tingles.  It's okay.  It - it was here."

"What was here?"

Xander closed his eye - clutched the pad back close, wrapping both hands around it and bringing them up high under his chin.  "This - this - th-thing.  I think I dreamed about - it.  And there was - blood and this - girl...  Two - girls - fuck, fuck -"   Xander slid down the wall, curling in on himself and Spike followed helplessly.  "Is that what happened?  Are those girls dead?  Did I - did -"

"No.  You didn't do anything, you didn't hurt anybody, I can promise you that.  I dunno about those girls but - whatever happened I know you were trying to help them, Xander.  I know it."

"How do you know?  Maybe I - maybe I'm a crazy person, maybe this is the real me and -"   Xander gasped after a breath, his voice rasping.  "And crazy-me comes out and k-kills -"

"Oh, rot!  Bloody, buggering bollocks, mate!"  Xander let out a bark of near-hysterical laughter and Spike swore again.  "Absolute load of sodding codswallop.  Utter shite."  Xander rolled his head on the wall, turning his face up to Spike.  He was laughing and crying and shaking and Spike lifted his chin in invitation.  Xander leaned on him - put his head on Spike's arm and pushed in close, his knees falling sideways and almost touching Spike's thighs.  "Festering mendacities," Spike murmured, and Xander huffed a raw breath and sniffed hard - pulled up his t-shirt to wipe his nose and streaming eye.

"Okay, I g-get it.  It was fucking horrible, Spike.  It was..."

"Life, mate.  Our life.  Big, bad nasty things out there and we find 'em and we fight 'em and we kill 'em.  Know why?"

"'Cause we're fucking crazy?"

"'Cause we're heroes, Xander.   'Cause we...are heroes.  You just keep remembering that."

"Yeah."  Xander sniffed again - shifted a little, and his loosely curled hand slid down to rest on top of Spike's.  "Crazy, like I said."

Xander just wanted to go home, he said, and for the first time ever Spike used one of the Council cars to get them there, riding low in the back under his coat since the sun was still intermittently shining.  He expected a comment or two - even a joke - but Xander was deadly silent the whole way and disappeared into the shower without a word.  Spike paced and smoked until he came out.

The pull-out couch was still out - unmade and messy and so, so tempting.  Tempting to Xander apparently, too, since he headed straight for it, his expression inward and unhappy.

"Xander, you want to -?"

"M'tired, Spike.  I'm just...gonna take a nap, okay?  Just - a short nap."

"Sure, mate.  You go on then."  Xander curled up in the middle of the bed and closed his eye and - surprisingly - was asleep in less than five minutes.  *He looked knackered at the HQ,*  Spike thought, but he knew it was really avoidance.   *And who'd blame him?  Demons, dead girls...he only gets to remember the fucked-up bits.*

Spike finished the bottle he'd started a few nights ago - smoked too much and cracked a window on the garnet-blue twilight to freshen the air.  He finally settled moodily into the overstuffed chair catty-corner to the couch - and why did Xander have a pull-out couch, anyway? - and stared at the sleeping man.  Xander shivered in his sleep, his eye moving restlessly under the lid and his fingers making tiny, spastic motions, tangled in the sheet.  Locked into motionlessness by his body's own self-preservation mechanism but not sleeping easily for it.

Twilight deepened to true night and Spike could smell rain on the air - could feel the closeness of more clouds rolling in.  The flat was nearly pitch black, lit only by intermittent washes of brilliance from passing headlights and the faint, pewter glow of a nearby streetlight.  And Spike - sat.   He felt too heavy to move - too weary.  Xander sighed out a hard breath and Spike's hand lifted fractionally but he didn't move - didn't get up.  The double chirp of the phone startled him out of his strange, half-aware state and he stood up fast - strode across the room and snatched the handset off its base before it could wake Xander up.

"Yeah?  What?"

"Oh, yes - Spike?  It - it's Giles -"

"Can hear that, Rupert.  Have you figured it out, then?"  There was a sigh on the line and Spike gripped the phone a little harder, waiting.

"Yes, we have.  I had to call Wesley and - and consult.  This is - something new."

"New for you, you mean?"  Spike asked, and he could hear Giles rustling papers - could hear the soft gurgle of liquid being poured into a cup.

"Fairly new for all of us.  Wesley had read about this - demon once before but - none of us have encountered one until now."

"Yeah, so - he knows what it is, so we know how to kill it, right?   Gonna send out the troops?"

"Actually -"   There was a pause as Giles drank and Spike ground his teeth, resisting the urge to snap at the man.  "Actually, killing it may be somewhat - problematical..."

By the time Giles rang off Spike was pacing again - smoking again - and as he slammed the phone down Xander stirred on the bed - took a long breath and pushed himself up onto his elbow, reaching for the lamp on the end table.  He snapped it on, blinking, and Spike winced away, grinding his cigarette out.

"Is it raining?"

"Maybe later," Spike said.  He rubbed at his eyes and flopped back down into the chair and Xander scooted up against the back of the couch, dragging blanket and pillows with him.  His cheek was creased - his hair a tufty mess and he pressed his palm flat to his eye and yawned hugely.

"Did I sleep a long time?  I'm sorry, didn't mean to, just -"

"No worries, mate."  Spike felt after his cigarettes and came up with an empty pack.  He cursed softly and crumpled it - threw it hard toward the kitchen where it bounced off the table and tumbled away into shadows. 

"Did - someone call?  I thought - the phone -"

"Yeah.  Rupert did.  Seems they figured it out."

"Oh."  Xander yawned again - stretched his neck and huddled down into the pillows a little.  "So - you gonna tell me?"

"Not much to tell.  It's a new thing.  Dimensional - thing.  It came here - sort of piggy-backed in with something else.  Somebody near where that first girl disappeared was doing some magic they ought not to and this thing slipped through."  Spike stopped picking at his nail and glanced up at Xander, who had an expectant look on his face.

"Yeah?  And then?"

Spike sighed.  "And then, seems like this thing is drawn to power - needs it.   We can't really know, but whoever let it in is probably dead.   Probably just some local and the Slayer there was sent to look into it.  And, the Slayer being a powerful, mystical girl..."

"It went for her next."

"Yeah.  You, now..."  Spike couldn't stand to sit anymore so he pushed himself to his feet - walked over to the long bookshelf that was against one wall and stared at it.  Books, pictures, graphic novels - textbooks and atlases and what might be journals all crammed in, side by side with knives and stones and strange little objects.  Keepsakes.

"I'm not - powerful.  Why would it want me?"

"You're something different," Spike side, and Xander made a huffing sort of noise.  "You've been out finding these girls - these new Slayers.  You've been - telling them what they are and getting them training - checking up once they're placed somewhere."

"Big brother," Xander said softly and Spike nodded, gazing at a picture of Xander and what looked like an entire family somewhere in Africa.  Older man and women, middle-aged and younger and babes-in-arms, and one girl with a fierce stare like a lion.  Slayer.

"Yeah."  Spike turned around to look at him.  "Why'd you say that?"

Xander shrugged, rubbing his hands slowly together.  "I don't...know.  Just...  When I look at those pictures up there -" he nodded toward the ones of the Sunnydale crowd - "It just seems like...  I am.  And the other ones...  Those girls are Slayers, aren't they?  They look -"

"Look different," Spike said, and Xander nodded.  "They are different.  Different, marked - a bloody tragedy waiting to happen.  There are more of them now then there ever were but - they still die young."

"Fuck," Xander said softly, and Spike walked over to the couch - settled, after a moment, on the edge of the mattress.

"It's the nature of Slayers.  You gave them everything they needed to survive, Xander."

"But I guess I got them killed, too." Xander rubbed his hands harder, frowning - looking down at them with a far away sort of gaze.  "I - remember...  There was blood.  There was - blood on my....hands..."

"You remember this?  When?"

"It was - the spell.  During the spell that...that thing...it came in there.  Or - part of it did, I don't -"   Xander's hands were rubbing fiercely now - shaking a little and his heart was starting to pound.

"Yeah, Rupert said - they could watch it."  And probably it had watched them.  Or at least known it was being spied on.  Xander could feel the wards because there was still some sort of tenuous connection between himself and the demon.  The demon who remembered, now - remembered what Xander had forgot.  His memories weren't gone - they were merely on loan.   And whatever it was probably knew, now, that they knew.

"It killed them.  I was there when it killed them.  I s-saw it during the s-spell.  I saw -"  Xander choked and leaned down over his hands as if he were in pain and Spike didn't know what to do - didn't know what he could do.  Xander moaned softly into the tangle of sheet and blanket across his lap.  "Blood on my hands, oh god, blood -"

"Stop it, damnit," Spike snapped, but it came out much softer - more of a plea.  He reached out and gingerly touched the short, silken hair at the back of Xander's neck and rubbed tentatively.  "You went there trying to save them.  You heard what happened and the first thing you did was try to fight.  You're not to blame, Xander."

"Yes I am," Xander muttered, his voice thick, and Spike shook his head mutely, fingers rubbing - scratching softly.  At a loss.

"You're not.  This thing is, and the bloody idiot that let it in.  It's just a - a predator.  Mindless, mostly.  It can do a lot of damage but it isn't smart.  It takes power, Xander - that's why it went after those girls.  It took their power - got itself a body, got itself some shiny toys."  And it had to keep taking power to maintain that body - to be able to affect things in this world.  Keep taking lives.

Xander's head came up, fast, and Spike's fingers curled around the base of his neck, just holding.  Feeling the flush of blood there.  "Then what the fuck did it want with me?  You said I don't have any powers!"

"You do, though.  You know.  You see.  It's lost here - it needed your knowledge."  Another reason it would be hard to kill.  It had the power of three Slayers under its belt - and it had Xander's knowledge.  It could blend in, and that's exactly what it was doing, somewhere in the bee-hive swarm of islands and people in the South China Sea.

"Oh."  Xander's hand-washing motion slowe