Every single night in bed
A black cross says “Perhaps you’re getting better
I’d like to thank you for efforts
To promote what really matters
Whenever you’re about to fall
Remember this, it’s not a news flash.
Don’t pretend to know it all, but go ahead
Call it a cocoon crash

What I really see in you
Is nothing like the things you do
As you are doing them right now
What you would really love to win
To become the air as well as trash
To get rid of all your skin
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash
Call it what you will, call it what you will
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash”

Suddenly the ego that I used to have
Is no bigger than an eyelash
Clearly I remember someone told me,
“Hold on tight, here’s your cocoon crash

-Cocoon Crash by K's Choice



Chapter 1:

So five years ago I told this guy, well the guy really, the big love of my life guy, that I wasn’t done baking. That I couldn't have a relationship and expect it to work until I figured out who I was.

I didn’t really mean it.

I was just trying to get rid of him. Not really sure why I wanted to get rid of him. Probably because I was trying to avoid all relationship issues at the time.

So I sent the big hunk away, out of my life with some sort of vague wait for me promise, and went home to the other guy. The not the love of my life guy the. . . well the other guy. I don’t really know how to describe Spike, never did. The first word to come to mind was always annoying. But maybe also devoted, and vulnerable, okay, and if you really twist my arm I’d admit that total hottie also comes to mind.

But I’m getting sidetracked. Neither of them are the point. The point is that the smartest thing I’ve probably ever said, the whole cookie dough not done baking thing, was said just to get my ex out of my hair so I could save the world. The point is, I didn’t listen to my own advice.

So a year and a half later when I met Sam, who had just gotten his MBA and was touring Europe before settling into his first real job, well we hooked up, traveled together, and after three months of vacationing together got married.

Can you spot my mistake? Never marry a guy you’ve only been on vacation with. It’s important to see the human male in his natural environment.

Not that Sam was messy, or mean, or well anything all that negative when we got back to the U.S. He was just, not so fun. He had his big important job climbing the corporate ladder and he just didn’t seem so trendy and fun anymore. I know, that sounds kind of shallow but the real point is that he was normal. So. Amazingly. Normal.

It’s what I always wanted. To be normal. Not to have to put my life on the line everyday. Maybe if we’d gone slower, not gotten married, just moved in together things might have gone better. Sam really was a nice guy. Maybe if I’d gotten an early taste of normal, tried to make my own life in the middle of all the normal I could have done it. But I didn’t, I just moved into his life, his friends, his job.

I’d thought of going back to school, finally getting a degree in something, but it was too late to apply for the current semester when we were first married. By the time I could have gone back to school, I had a career. Sam’s career. I was helping him up that corporate ladder. There were always parties to host and Sam always needed things done, he didn’t have a secretary yet. So I sort of became his secretary.

There just didn’t seem to be much time for me to pursue my interests. Not that I knew what my interests were. Besides, we’d talked about trying to have kids after our first anniversary. We didn’t. We’d talk about it, but I was already starting to feel less than satisfied with the way things were going. I was scared to bring kids into a marriage that maybe wasn’t going to last.

So eventually I did go back to school.

I got my degree in English. Weird I know, but I didn’t know what to study. I tried to think of something academic that I liked and that was pretty hard. It’s not like I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was still definitely cookie dough. But then I remembered back when I had quit college to take care of my mom, I was taking this poetry class I really liked. There was also him, the other guy, Spike.

Our last night we slept together in my basement. I mean that literally, all we did was sleep. But before we fell asleep in each others arms, we talked. I thought I was going to die in the morning. I think he knew he was going to die, which to be honest, if I’d thought about that amulet I would have known too. But denial is an old and dear friend of mine, especially when the world's about to end.

So we talked, and I realized that he knew all kinds of stuff about me, stuff that I would die from embarrassment if anyone else ever found out about. I told him it wasn’t fair, that I should get to have a secret of his. Something he couldn’t stand the others knowing about.

After some wheedling (and tickling) he gave in. He told me that all that stuff about him always being bad and tough, was a load of crap, and that when he was human he was actually a poet.

“No, really,” I said, “I want to know about you.”

But he insisted, and to prove he’d been a poet, he started reciting poetry to me. Not his own. He said that no power on earth would ever get him to reveal any of his compositions to me. But other stuff. Keats, Eliot, Shakespeare, and even some Dickinson just to show that he knew poems by girls too.

When he recited poetry, his voice changed. His accent rose by about five social classes and he almost sounded like Giles. Except Giles’ voice was never so sexy or velvety. I rested my head against his chest, closed my eyes, and felt the vibrations move through his whole body as he recited love poems to me.

Most of them I didn’t know and I forgot, only to be reminded when I’d run across them in class years later. But one poem I did remember, or rather I remembered enough of it to ask Giles about it. It was Emily Dickinson:

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

It was the last two lines I remembered. “Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” The sort of thing that makes you wonder if this Emily girl died twice and was resurrected by her meddling friends.

But I digress. (See I’m an English major now, so I can say things like that, although many of my professors were as convinced as Giles that what I speak isn’t English). The point is, I like poetry, and so I became an English major. The major of people who haven’t figured out what they want to do with their lives. Okay, I suppose that’s really Philosophy, but English is a close second.

I finished my degree, but I was still Buffy Anne Summers Adams. (Yes, my husband’s name is Sam Adams. His parents were Quakers and didn’t know they were naming their son after a beer.) Things weren’t that bad, and everyone always said that marriage is a work in progress. So I was trying.

We started talking about having kids again now that I was done with school, and not really looking for a job. But all the old fears were still there. I just wasn’t happy and what if a kid made it worse? On the other hand, there was something missing, and maybe that’s what it was.

I knew I should just leave him. He deserved better. We both did. But it’s funny, you put on that ring and suddenly there’s this huge gravitational pull on your life. It’s not easy to break out of. I remember once wondering why Xander was so terrified of marriage. He always went on about it being forever, but it’s not like it’s that hard to get a divorce. Still here I was, stuck in a marriage I wasn’t happy with and what was I doing about it? Not much.

So one day I was doing the grocery shopping and decided to pick up a copy of Cosmo. Or any magazine that said something like, “The 10 Things He Wished you Did in Bed,” or “Five New Ways to Please Your Man.” Not that I needed the advice. I knew tons of stuff we’d never tried, never even talked about trying. On the other hand some of that stuff, well all of that stuff, I’d learned from a vampire, so I wasn’t sure if it wouldn’t freak out a normal guy.

Not to mention we’d been married for several years now, so I thought I need an explanation of how this stuff had occurred to me. He didn’t know about Spike, and there was no way I could explain Spike to him. Sam knew nothing about me being the Slayer, just that I had weird friends and my hometown had been swallowed by an earthquake.

So I scanned the magazine racks in the supermarket hoping that different sex would solve some of our problems. That’s when I saw the cover of Rolling Stone. It had one of those captions that are supposed to grab you and make you want to read what’s inside, “Who is John Doe?” in big dramatic type, which I thought was a particularly dumb question. But I was only thinking about that because I didn’t want to think about the guy on the cover.

He had curly brown hair, but it was bleached at the tips. A look I thought of as “Crazy in the High School Basement.” He stood against a white background, a guitar slung over his back, his legs spread apart, and his hips jutting forward. His thumbs were hooked through the belt loops of his faded jeans and his fingers framed his crotch. If it wasn’t bad enough that the whole photo seemed to emphasize that part of him, he had this look in his blue eyes which said, “Come on, you know you want to suck my cock.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that explicit a look, but I knew him. I could here his voice teasing me, “See something you like, pet?” And he did look smug, smug and sexy; vintage Spike. Except that it couldn't be Spike because Spike was dead. I'd watched him die in a big blaze of glory.

And besides, what would Spike be doing on the cover of Rolling Stone anyway?

Chapter 2: Buffy

Never let it be said that I’m not predictable, at least when it comes to guys. I thought Sam and I were safe from my old favorites like sleep with a guy and he turns evil. Or, him not just leaving me, but leaving town. Let’s not forget killing my boyfriend to save the world. Yeah, he was safe from all of these, but I still found a way to pound Sam into the mould of disastrous Buffy relationships.

In his case it was: breakup with your current guy cause your last guy now has the perfect life. Okay, maybe that’s not quite right. It’s more like, see your ex living the good life and realize that you don’t want the life you have. That’s why I broke up with Spike when Riley breezed back through town (with his too perfect wife named Sam, how creepy is it we both married people named Sam?) Now I was finally leaving my Sam because I’d seen Spike.

Maybe I should have been wondering how was he alive? Why didn’t he come find me? And how did he end up a rock star? But I didn’t ask any of that. I didn't really believe it was Spike. Just some guy who looked like him. Instead I looked around at my life and thought, this isn’t who I am. I’m The Slayer. Well, a Slayer anyway.

I’d always wondered why my friends stayed in Sunnydale, stayed in the demon fighting biz. Sure Willow had the magic, and Sunnydale was a good place to learn that. But Xander? Why’d he stay as long as he did? Especially when he had a great job and a normal life was just waiting for him.

Even after the Hellmouth bit off more than it could chew in the form of Spike, they never went off and had normal lives. They started helping with the slayer gathering and training effort. I was the only one who went off to normalville. But then everyone expected me to. Once we realized what it meant, the Hellmouth being gone, well, I’d always used that as my excuse for not having a normal life.

That and being the Chosen One.

But I wasn’t the Chosen One anymore. It should have made me glad, excited. The world should have been my oyster, or at least an all you can eat buffet. But I didn’t know who I was anymore. Suddenly I was more like flour, which didn’t know if it was going to be bread or rolls or cookies. At least when I was The Slayer I knew I was going to be cookies someday. (Way to hold onto a metaphor and not let go, Buffy.) So I did what everyone expected. I jumped into normal with both feet and didn’t look back.

Until I saw Spike.

It all probably seems pretty fickle. Like I was still looking for the grass to be greener on the other side. Sam couldn’t do it for me, so maybe Spike could. But it wasn’t about Spike. It never occurred to me to go find him, well never seriously. Okay, so I did buy the magazine, but I didn’t open it or read it. I guess I didn’t really believe it was him. I mean, how could it be? Just some guy who looked like him.

I bought my groceries, went home, put them away, and waited for Sam. When he got home that evening I told him that I was sorry but we just weren’t working and I wanted a divorce. He didn’t take it too well. First there was yelling, and then there was crying. Part of me wanted to take it back, but only because staying would have been easier than leaving.

Finally he stormed out, and I heard the tires of his car squeal out of the driveway. I was a little worried, but then I realized all the things I hadn’t thought of, like where I was going to go, and yeah, the big one, what I was going to do? So I did what I always do, I called Giles. I told him things weren’t working out with Sam and that I wanted to come to England, to the slayer school.

He tried to talk me out of it, tried to convince me that I should really stay in Ohio so I’d have a chance to work things out with Sam, but I told him I didn’t want to work things out.

As for messy details like the divorce, about all I really wanted was my clothes. The rest of it, it didn’t feel like me. Seeing as how my house was swallowed whole by the earth, I hadn’t brought a lot to the marriage. I suppose I could have gotten the house, or the car or alimony or something, but I didn’t really feel I deserved it. Sure the first year I’d done a lot to further Sam’s career, but then he paid for me to go to college, so I pretty much figured it was a wash. Besides, I didn’t want to become dependent on his checks. I remembered what that was like with my dad. It would be better just to make as clean a break as possible.

Finally Giles caved in, and soon I had plane tickets for the next day. I packed up most of my clothes and went to bed. Deciding to throw your whole life into chaos can be tiring so I was out like a light. I didn’t even notice when Sam came home later that night drunk.

I noticed in the morning though. He felt awful, and then I felt awful. So awful that I called work for him and told them he was too sick to come in and he was throwing up everywhere. It was an exaggeration, but he had thrown up last night, so it wasn't an outright lie.

Not making him go to work had seemed like the humane thing to do, except that it meant he was moping about the place while I made my last arrangements to leave. He begged me to stay, but somehow I made it out of the house and to the airport with plenty of time to get through security for my flight.

In the airport, he haunted me. Not Sam, Spike. Or rather the not-Spike as I had dubbed him. It seemed like everywhere I turned there was another magazine stand and that same cover looking out at me, taunting me. I had wanted to get something to read on the plane, but I didn't dare go in and pass by all those not-Spike's looking at me as if to say, "You know exactly what you want, luv. Me. Why won't you just admit it?"

It was silly I know. Running scared from those issues of Rolling Stone, especially considering the one I'd bought the day before was safely tucked away in my carry-on luggage.

I never got it out though. It just sat there, unopened and unread in my suitcase. Instead I got on the plane and endured the long tedious flight to England.

When I got off the plane, Giles was there waiting for me. And when I hugged him, I knew I'd done the right thing. I've never liked England, way too rainy for me. But when I hugged Giles I knew I'd come home. Cause you know what they say: Home is the place that when you leave your husband and show up there with hardly 24-hours notice, they have to take you in. Or something like that.

Chapter 3: Buffy

Giles wasn't the only familiar face waiting for me in England. When we got to the school, Faith was standing out front waiting to greet me as well. We hugged like we'd been the best of friends back in the day, but the truth was I hated her a little. The Faith I saw standing in front of the school was the Faith I'd always feared most. Not the "evil killer who's trying to seduce my boyfriend" Faith, but the strong, confidant, I'm on top of the world Faith that I'd seen when she first rolled in to Sunnydale.

Of course that Faith hadn't really been as strong and confident as she'd seemed. In fact she'd been scared and hurt. But I hadn't seen that at the time. All I'd seen was a girl who seemed to be taking over my life. Who seemed to be more liked by my friends than I was. I've always wondered if things might have been different if I'd been able to see past my own fears, if I'd been a little nicer to Faith maybe things could have been different. The fact that nowadays Faith would be the first to tell you that the only one responsible for the things she did was her, only makes it worse.

Still, I meant it when I hugged her, and when I looked into her eyes I could see the lines and the scars that came from worrying about the lives of all these girls. From being afraid that if you messed up, they died. And then I kind of hated myself for leaving her behind to take care of my job while I went off and lived the normal life. On the other hand, maybe she was the lucky one. She knew where she belonged while I've been living this big lie for the last five years.

I guess when all's said and done Faith and I will never be best friends, but sometimes, well sometimes there are these moments where we just click. The truth is, the only one who really understands what it's like to be the Chosen One is Faith. Sure the world is full of slayers now but that's just the point. They'll never know what it's like to be the one person that everything and everyone is depending on. They'll never be alone the way Faith and I were. Don't get me wrong. That's a good thing. I'm all for the Sisterhood of the Slayers, it just means that every now and then, when Mercury is in the fifth house, Faith and I get each other in a way that no one else can.

She gave me a tour of the school, showing me the class rooms, and the student dorms and stuff like that.

"So B, what is it you want to do here?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. Not teach math. But other than that. . . " I shrugged.

Faith nodded. "It's okay. We'll figure something out. So this is my office."

Faith had an office. Weird. It wasn't a stuffy office though. It was actually kind of cluttered and there was a calendar with a very nicely muscled biker on the wall. In fact as soon as she sat down she kicked her boots up on the desk.

"The thing is B, you need to understand about the girls, who they are, and why they're here."

I looked at her a little confused. "They're here because they're slayers, right?"

Faith smiled a little indulgently at me. "Yeah, there's that, but it's a bit more complex. You remember how it was right after Sunnydale? Almost no watchers and all those girls who'd never even heard of a slayer. That's why we started the school. But now we have enough trained slayers and watchers that we don't have to take girls away from their families."

Faith sighed. "Problem is, the world’s far from perfect. Some of the girls here don't have families, others have bad ones that we couldn't leave them with. And then. . . I don't know if you noticed how. . . multi-ethnic the students here are but, well. . . "

Faith got up and looked out of her window. "I used to think I had things rough in Boston, or that Sunnydale with its Hellmouth was dangerous. Some of these girls, their families begged us to take them. They figure their daughters were safer fighting demons than living in their home countries. Others, well, not all the world’s cultures really embrace the idea of super powered girls."

Faith shrugged and turned back to look at me. "It's hard you know. These girls have this destiny to fight evil, but only if it's got fangs, or horns, or scales. How do we tell these girls that they're not bullet proof, that they have to stand aside and let some warlord kill their neighbors?"

I got up before I started squirming in my chair a little too much. "I'm sorry, I guess I never really thought this all through back in Sunnydale."

"No, B. Don't be sorry. You did the right thing. These girls, they're amazing. You've got no idea." She smiled. "But you will."

Faith was right. The girls were great. Of course before I found that out I had to get publicly humiliated. Okay, maybe public humiliation is a bit strong, but it definitely wasn't my finest hour. The next day Faith called an assembly so that everyone could meet me all at once. So what happens when you gather a bunch of hyper, super-strong teenagers into one room and introduce them to the famous "rival" of their favorite teacher? They want to see who's tougher, that's what.

I knew it was a bad idea, but I just couldn't admit that I wasn't up to fighting Faith. Of course, considering that I hadn't fought anything other than tooth decay for the last five years, well let's just say I went down fast and hard. The girl's cheered for Faith even as she helped me back up to my feet.

"Would you believe I was just getting warmed up?" I asked sheepishly.

"Don't tell me you wanna go again, B?" her tone was mocking, but there was this look in her eyes that I recognized.

Before everything went crazy and bad, Faith and I spent a lot of time patrolling together. During that time we learned to read each other in a special kind of way, and the look she was giving me now meant "trust me." Of course in the past Faith would give me that look before jumping headfirst into a nest of vampires with no plan other than punch them a lot, but still we never did get ourselves killed (although I almost drowned a second time) so I figured, why not?

We squared off again. The fight was longer this time, and this time I won. Well, sort of. She knew and I knew that she let me win, but she made it look good. Not that it did much for my self-confidence. I mean, what had the world come to when I can't beat Faith without her letting me win? But no one seemed to catch on.

Well, except for Giles, which was even worse in some ways. But Giles didn’t say anything, which was definitely worse.

Chapter 4: Buffy

It’s been three weeks since I left Sam and came to England. Long enough to get over the jet lag and to fall into a routine. If there’s anything I’ve learned it’s that whether you’re fighting the forces of darkness while trying to graduate high school, working at the Doublemeat Palace, or teaching the next generation of slayers while trying to get a divorce, life always becomes routine.

Not that I’m complaining. Life is actually good, if a bit uncomfortable at times, those times being when someone brings up Sam or I have to deal with details of the divorce. But those have been rather few and far between so far.

Every morning I get up earlier than I like to, so that I can hit the practice room before anyone else. There’s nothing like getting your ass handed to you by your biggest rival to make you rededicate yourself to training. And the more I practice the more I realize how really out of shape and sloppy I’ve become. But little by little I’m becoming me again.

Luckily I’m not teaching any combat classes. I’m actually teaching English, which makes Giles nearly faint every time he’s reminded of it. I think Faith did it just to watch him sputter and clean his glasses. It’s fun though. At least most of the time. Most of the girls are happy to be here, but you still do get the “what do a bunch of dead white males have to do with us” complaint.

I’ve even learned the names of most of the girls here. It scared me at first. I kind of tried not to learn the names of the slayerettes in Sunnydale. But then I knew that many of them were going to die. The whole point of this school is to make sure these girls live long and healthy lives.

That’s why I’m rather proud when I enter the living room and know right away that the three girls who seem to have Giles cornered are Indrani, Saada, and Patricia.

“But there could be demon activity,” Patricia argues.

“I highly doubt that,” Giles says in an all too familiar tone that makes me smile.

“What could be demon activity?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Giles says before the girls can speak up. “They are just trying to find an excuse to go to a concert in London.”

I can’t help thinking Good for them. They’re still teenage girls.

“But, you should really hear his lyrics,” Indrani insists. “He obviously knows about the supernatural. Some of his songs are clearly about vampires, and he’s got this one song called, The One, and I think it might be about a slayer.”

“Yes, because there has never been a fictional reference to a vampire in popular culture before,” Giles says sarcastically.

“To be fair, Dracula was real,” I point out. I can’t help it, this is kind of nostalgic.

“Really?” the girls say almost in unison.

“That’s hardly the point,” Giles interjects.

By this point Saada has pulled out her iPod and is hooking it up to the stereo system.

“Listen, this is definitely about a vampire,” she insists as she hits play.

Giles rolls his eyes, and there’s a moments silence before an all too familiar voice croons from the speakers.

I died
So many years ago,
But you can make me feel,
Like it isn’t so.

It’s like being slapped across the face with a two-by-four. It’s not just that it’s Spike’s voice echoing from the past, or the humiliating memory of Sunnydale the musical. It’s the idea that someone is exploiting a deeply personal (and best forgotten) moment of my life for personal gain.

As the song continues I’m dimly aware of Giles arguing that the song has nothing to do with real vampires, not to mention that it’s clichéd. But I’m not really paying attention.

My mind is replaying the image off the Rolling Stone cover. It’s not Spike, I know that more now than ever. It doesn’t matter if it sounds like him, it can’t be. He was even more embarrassed by that song than me, and even if he wasn’t, there was no way he would ever share something that private with the world.

Except for that one time with Xander and the axe, Spike was always discreet.

There’s only one explanation. It’s a trap. The magazine cover, the song, obviously it’s the work of some demon or other bad guy who’s trying to lure me out of retirement. In a world full of slayers, trying to end the world is less of a big deal for me, but pretending to be a dead ex-lover, well, I have to admit that got me out of the rock I’ve been under for the last five years.

“I’ll take them,” I pipe up.

Everyone stops talking to look at me, and I’m suddenly grateful that they weren’t paying attention a few moments ago. Giles doesn’t recognize the voice, (thank god) and no one saw me looking like I’d seen, or rather heard, a ghost.

“Buffy, really,” Giles starts to argue. “You know as well as I do there’s nothing demonic about this, and we can hardly bow to every hormonal whim of teenage girls.”

Actually, Giles is pretty wrong here. Not that it’s the first time. Sure there may be a lot of teenage hormones involved, Spike does tend to do that girls, but they are slayers, and that gives them a certain sense about these things. I can’t remember how many times I had to convince Giles and the others that something supernatural was going on when they just saw the mundane.

But sometimes the best way to win an argument is to agree, especially when you don’t want your ex-Watcher to know that someone is impersonating the vampire who he always thought you behaved irrationally around.

“Yeah, no demons here,” I agree. “But you know teenage girls, especially slayers. If you tell them they can’t go, they’ll just lie, sneak out, and next thing you know they’re being sacrificed by a fraternity to a giant snake. At least this way they have a chaperone.”

It kind of funny seeing the girls try to follow my logic, but Giles gets it, and I have to admit I’m glad that not all of my exploits have made it into the Slayer 101 class.

“I’m not sure. . .” Giles starts.

“This concert is on the weekend right?” I ask the girls.

“Yes,” “Definitely,” “Saturday night,” they all chime in.

“See,” I say. “They won’t miss any class, and if they use their own money to pay for the tickets. . .”

Who knew when I insisted that the new Council start paying slayers a salary that it would help me take a bunch of girls to a concert in London?

The girls are practically tripping over themselves trying to agree, and it’s too late for Giles, he’s lost.

I feel a little guilty. Not because I’m bringing these girls dangerously near a trap meant for me, after all they are slayers, but because after I find out who is behind this, I’m going to kill their idol.

Every single night in bed
A black cross says “Perhaps you’re getting better
I’d like to thank you for efforts
To promote what really matters
Whenever you’re about to fall
Remember this, it’s not a news flash.
Don’t pretend to know it all, but go ahead
Call it a cocoon crash

What I really see in you
Is nothing like the things you do
As you are doing them right now
What you would really love to win
To become the air as well as trash
To get rid of all your skin
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash
Call it what you will, call it what you will
Go ahead, call it a cocoon crash”

Suddenly the ego that I used to have
Is no bigger than an eyelash
Clearly I remember someone told me,
“Hold on tight, here’s your cocoon crash

-Cocoon Crash by K's Choice



Chapter 5: John Doe

“John, sweetie, I’m telling you, I have a good feeling about tonight. Tonight could be the night,” my manager, Kev, tells me over the phone.

I wish I could believe him, but he always says that. The wanker’s been saying that for years. The truth is I’m starting to doubt him. Just because a guy’s a demon doesn’t mean he can see into the future.

To be honest, I’d be happy if he could just see into the past, my past specifically.

It all started five years ago. When I say that I mean it literally. For me everything started when I woke up in the California desert. No memory, no money, no ID. All I had was the clothes on my back, which oddly enough included a black leather duster, which I have to say is a really poor choice of clothing for the desert in May.

Luckily I found a highway, and by following it found Margine’s Truck Stop. I was upfront about having no memory and no money, and before I knew it, Margine, (lovely old bird) took me in, gave me a place to crash (even if it was just a storage room) and hired me to help her out with the heavy lifting around the truck stop and dinner. She called me Sebastian, partly because even though I didn’t know so much as my own name, turned out I knew quite a bit of Shakespeare.

I saw doctors, but none of them could figure out why I couldn’t remember anything. Not a thing wrong with you, they said. Useless wankers. The only clue, if you could call it that, was my accent, but no devilishly handsome Brits had gone missing in America. I even tried contacting the British Embassy, but there didn’t seem to be any record of me on either side of the pond. No one reported me missing. No one seemed to be looking for me.

But I was looking for them, whoever they were.

Or more specifically whoever she was. Back then I was sure there was a ‘she’. I would dream about her. Sometimes she would smile at me, and I’d feel like I could take on the world. And sometimes she would cry and I’d feel lost, and want nothing more than to make her smile again.

But when I’d wake up all I could ever remember was that there was a woman. No matter how I’d try I could remember anything. Not the color of her hair. Not the sound of her voice.

I still have the dreams, but I don’t really believe in her anymore. She’s probably just wishful thinking on my part, the longing for someone to know who I am.

Which I guess makes me even more of a fool for listening to Kev.

But then I don’t know any better way to figure out who I am. And girl or no girl, that’s what I want more than anything. That’s why I still follow Kev’s adivce, even though after three years I’m no closer to knowing my own name.

‘Course he has made me a millionaire, which is pretty nice.

Still, sometimes I think he’s been lying to me all these years. That he doesn’t know anything. That he’s just trying to make a buck off of me.

I met Kev about three years ago.

When the private investigators failed to turn up the slightest clue about who I was, I started to get a bit desperate. When the conventional failed me I turned to the supernatural. A whole stream of fake psychics, and the like. Thing is, they’re not all fakes, and that gave me hope. I began chasing down rumors about a demon who could help me find my way, and eventually I found Kev.

It was Kev that talked me into becoming a singer. He said that I’d find her if I just got my face out there. So I started playing in clubs around L.A. Got my face up on posters. It was even Kev’s idea to call me John Doe and market my amnesia as part of my act. The idea was that sooner or later someone who knew me would see my face, recognize me, and then come looking for me.

Three years later I’m still John Doe.

It makes me wonder if it was worth everything I went through.

To be fair, a lot of people have claimed to know me. Mostly young girls. But in the end it turned out that they were liars. The first few times I actually believed them. It hurt like hell when I realized that they knew nothing, that I was no closer to figuring out who I was than I’d been that day I woke up in the desert. I’ve gotten real good at spotting liars, and I’m starting to think that if there was anyone out there who cared they would have found me by now.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve stopped bleaching my hair. I’ve stopped trying to hold onto the the look I had when I first stumbled out of the desert. Maybe it’s time to stop worrying about who I was and start figuring out who I want to be.

“I’ll talk to you later, Kev,” I say as I shut my cell phone.

I don’t want to get my hopes up. Honestly I just want this concert to be over. I want a chance to wander about London. I’m not sure if I was from London or some other part of England, but maybe something British will jog my memory.

It’s a slim hope, but it’s the last one I have left.

I stand there patiently as the assistant hooks up my mic. I can hear the screams as they wait for the show to begin. It’s time to stop worrying about the past or the future. I’ve got a show to do, and at least for the next few hours that’s all that matters.

Chapter 6: John Doe

Forget all my bitching and complaining. I love my life. There’s nothing like a few thousand people cheering and screaming and wanting you. Performing gives me a high like no other.

Or rather drugs and I don’t get along. Tried them a couple times. Thought an altered state of consciousness might knock free a few memories. Didn’t work. I had crazy bad trips: people torn apart, screaming in pain. Needless to say I didn’t develop an addiction.

But now I’m on top of the world. I give my last wave, bow and leave the stage reveling in the adoration as they chant my name. All that malaise over my past has evaporated, at least for the moment.

For just a bit it feels like I’m actually connected to the world. There’s this thing you feel performing, this kind of psychic joining with the audience, it can make you feel not alone.

At least until the roar of the crowd dies down. Then you’re just stuck by yourself in a limo on the other side of the world from the only memories you do have. It’s even worse then. It’s the quiet that makes the desolation unbearable.

But there’s more than one way to feel connected. So I tell the driver not to take the back way into the hotel, but to head for the front entrance. My bodyguards groan and prepare themselves for the crush that awaits us.

As I get out of the limo I’m greeted with a fresh set of screams. I move through the crowd signing the occasional autograph and smiling at all the young girls, although what I’m really for is a pretty thing who’s of age.

And then I see her.

In the midst of the smiling, waving, screaming girls stands a woman who’s almost defiant. Her arms are crossed angrily in front of her chest, and her green eyes are almost challenging me. I don’t know why, but I can’t resist her or her silent stare.

I move towards her and hold out my hand. “Are you coming, luv?”

That stirs up the crowd even more, and I can feel the hands of my bodyguards trying to move me inside.

She looks at me, and tosses a lock of blond hair over her shoulder before taking my hand.

When we get inside, and in the relative privacy of the lift I ask her, “So what’s your name, luv?”

For just a second she looks surprised then she shrugs, “Sure, if you want play it that way. I’m Buffy.”

I can’t help but smile at her name. Who in their right mind names their kid Buffy? On the other hand, with my luck my real name is probably something awful like Randy.

“Pleasure,” I tell her as the elevator stops.

I’m not positive, but I think she snorts at that. I start to wonder what I’m doing. All I wanted was an easy lay, and idiot that I am, I choose the one girl in the crowd who doesn’t look like she’s dying to fuck me.

“Allow me,” I tell her as I open the door to my suite for her. Not that she could open it without the card of course, but in situations like this looking chivalrous can’t hurt.

The bodyguards take up their positions outside the suite, and I’m glad. I always feel a bit nervous around them. Buffy on the other hand regards them with suspicion. As the door shuts behind us she looks around the room like she’s expecting something to jump out at her.

“Do you think we can cut to the chase?” she asks, but from her tone I don’t think she means skipping the small talk and going straight to the wild sex. “Can we both just agree you’re not Spike?”

I shrug, not knowing what she’s talking about. “Sure?”

“So who are you then?” she asks. “Or what are you? Demon, sorcerer, what?”

“Rock star actually, or didn’t you notice the fans?”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, as if she doesn’t believe me. “Real clever I have to admit. It did draw me out, and now you have me here, so what’s the deal? Is this a fight to the death thing, or are you trying to blackmail me into a favor? Just so you know, either way I’m kicking your ass.”

So yeah, I’m an idiot. All I see is the blond hair and the pretty face and ignore the signs that she’s a psycho. On the other hand, she’s tiny, and not only do I have body guards on the other side of the door, but I can take care of myself. Whoever I used to be, I knew my way around a fight.

Still there’s no reason to escalate things just yet. After all this is England, much harder to get a gun than the U.S. Maybe I can get her out of here without too much of a tussle.

So I don’t let her know there’s no way she’s going to be able to “kick my ass.” Instead I ask her, “What’d I do wrong, luv? We only just met, seems a bit premature to start fighting.”

“Please, you already admitted you’re not Spike. And he deserves better than this. Pretending to be him may have gotten me here, I but I think you severely underestimated the pissed off factor.”

“So Spike’s not a dog then I take it?”

My patience is starting to wear thin. I’m starting to have a suspicion about this girl. She’s one of those groupies who’s going to pretend she knows who I really am. I have to give her points for not acting as if I’m her long lost love. The pissed off angle is actually new. Still I don’t want to have anything to do with it.

She snorts, but I can see the hint of a smile. “Spike was a dog, just not of the furry, floppy eared variety.”

A smile is good. A smile I can work with. Hell, I’ll probably have her eating out of my hand in a few minutes. After all she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t have a thing for me.

“So who was he then?” It’s always good to appear interested.

“He was. . .” she crosses her arms over her chest, and then uncrosses and recrosses them, obviously not sure what she should say. “He was Spike. And that’s not the point. The point is. . . well I don’t know the point because you still haven’t told me why you lured me here. Can we just get to the fight part of the evening already?”

I tried. You can’t say I didn’t try. But the bird is just too crazy. She might be cute, but she isn’t worth this much effort.

“How about we get to the you leaving part of the evening,” I say moving to open the door.

Her jaw drops. Okay, it doesn’t really, but it’s obvious that she wasn’t expecting that. Pretty thing like her is probably used to getting her way no matter what.

“You want me to leave?” she asks.

For just a second I hesitate. She looks innocent, and sweet, and not so crazy. But I’m also tired. And this girl has high maintenance written all over her, and one good night just isn’t worth it, although I’m guessing she’d be a hell of a fuck.

“Yeah. I think that would be best. After all I’m not Spike, and you’re not. . .” sane, is the first word that comes to mind. But that’s not exactly the smart thing to say to the crazy lady. “You’re not in the mood for a fight.”

I start to usher her towards the door, and I can see that my bodyguards are watching with interest to see if they need to get involved.

“But-” she starts.

“Been a long night,” I interrupt. “Big concert, jet lag, rather knackered really. Best that I get some kip. Maybe another night, hmmm?”

“But-” she says again as I close the door in her face.

Chapter 7: Buffy

I’m an idiot. I stand there with a door shut in my face and realize I’m an idiot.

I don’t like it.

I also don’t like the way the bodyguards are looking at me. I glare back at them, daring them to lay a hand on me. They don’t look scared. Stupid guys.

For a moment I contemplate beating them up and breaking down the door. Which would be a fabulous plan if I had the slightest idea what I’d say once I got back in the room.

So I opt for Plan B.

Leave in a huff, head back outside, and look for something to kill. Violence always clears my head.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it.

I mean, it would have been a really cunning trap for me, if you know, there’d been an actual trap. Maybe whoever’s behind this got spooked by the fact that I was on to him, and not all ‘Oh Spike, thank god you’re back!’

Except what if it really is Spike?

It can’t be, we’re not on a Hellmouth.

Oo, a vampire. This should be good for a distraction.

“Hey, fang face!” I yell, to distract him from the girl he was about to snack on. “Why not pick on someone my size?”

Okay, obviously it’s not just my fighting skills that are rusty.

And then there’s the fact that I didn’t bring a stake with me tonight. I’ve kind of gotten out of the habit of carrying one around with me.

But hey, I’m improv girl, and there’s got to be something I can kill a vampire with around here.

And anyway, a stake would make this too easy. This guy is not exactly the Master. Still there’s not much in the way of weapons in this alley, who knew the British kept their back alleys so clean?

And then I feel the slight tap as the pendant I’m wearing bounces against my chest. I give the vamp a good kick to the stomach to send him flying back and to give me a minute with my hands free. Then I unclasp the pendant. I let him get to his feet, and take a swing at me. I go low under the punch to come out behind him. Then I turn and pull the necklace chain tight around his neck.

It only takes a moment to pull it hard enough to sever the vampire’s head, and next thing I know I’m sneezing from the dust.

I lean against a wall and let the cool night air wash over me. I feel alive. It’s wonderful and terrible all at once. I belong here in the night, and I can hear Spike’s voice taunting me, telling me that I should have always known that.

And that’s when I know. It’s him. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it’s him.

My first instinct is to rush back and tell him everything. Then I look down and see the pendant in my hand, Sam gave it to me back when we were dating. I remember him putting it around my neck, and I remember what it was like to love him.

And then my cell phone is in my hand, and he’s still in my speed dial.

“Buffy?” he answers. I guess he hasn’t removed my number from his phone yet either. “Where are you?”

“London,” I tell him.

“What? Why?” he asks half concern, half annoyed. “Look, Buffy we need to talk.”

“Yeah,” I say sadly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. . . I’m not sure, I don’t know exactly where I messed up. . .”

“Flying to England?” he snaps. “That might have been a mistake.”

I wince. But I kind of deserve it. “Yeah, look I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken off like that. . . it’s just. All of a sudden, I had to be me again.”

“Buffy, if you needed a vacation, a change of scenery. . .” his voice trails off, and I get what he’s thinking.

When we met I didn’t have a home. I was just wandering aimlessly around Europe. Well, not quite aimlessly, I was actually looking for newly called slayers, but he didn’t know that. He doesn’t know any of that stuff.

“It’s not that. It’s not the travel. I . . .” and suddenly I can see Sunnydale falling away into the desert, and things are almost clear for a moment. “My whole life was swallowed by the earth. Just like that, everything gone. And it seemed like such a good thing, like a chance to start over, be the girl I always thought I wanted to be. But the thing is, I never stopped being the girl I was. And I never let you meet her.”

“So let me. Look Buffy, I don’t get this, okay I admit it. But how can I if you’re on the other side of the world? Come home.”

I wince. He’s so nice, and so hurt. And he wants to make it work. He wants to fight through it, not just take off like Angel and Riley did. And that really makes me cringe, cause guess who the flight risk in this marriage turn out to be.

“Sam,” I say as delicately as I can. “It can’t work. I can’t be Mrs. Sam Adams anymore.” I can hear him start to talk, and I can’t bear to hear what he’s going to say, so I continue, “I’m going into the Underground now, Goodbye,” and flip my phone shut.

Yep that’s me. The big courageous hero. And so yeah, it’s true I have been standing in front of a train station for the last few minutes and I didn’t have to go in just then. I could have talked to him.

On the other hand there’s a hotel room full of slayers unsupervised.

And then it hits me. I’m an idiot. The kind of idiot who gets young girls killed. It wasn’t a trap for me. It wasn’t really about me. It was the girls. A way to get a bunch of the girls away from the school, away from safety.

And I walked right into it, or away from it. While I’ve been distracted with Not-Spike, someone was going after the girls, and I let it happen. After all these years, I still don’t know a distraction when I see one.

I don’t bother with the Underground. I’m not that far from the hotel, and I don’t have time to wait for the more infrequent late night trains. I run, and just hope it’s not too late.

It’s not. I get to the hotel and other than some underage drinking, the girls are just fine. Annoyingly curious about where I took off to after the concert, but fine.

It’s kind of too bad. I mean, not that I want something terrible and evil to have happened to them, but if it was all a trap I wouldn’t be where I am now. Trying to figure out how Spike is back, why he doesn’t remember, and how to convince him I’m not a psycho. Not to mention the big, ‘so what does this mean for my life and my marriage’ question that I am absolutely not thinking about. Nope, not even a little.

Not thinking about it at all.

More than anything I need to talk to someone. Giles is way out of the questions, as is Xander. Dawn’s a possibility, but she’d probably rush down here and try to make everything work out the way she thinks it should. Of course Willow was my best friend for pretty much forever, well not the last five years, but before then.

It begins to feel like I need someone to talk to about who to talk to. And then before I’ve quite made up my mind I’ve got my phone back out and I’m calling the only person who might listen and understand.