She woke up to someone carrying her. She could feel the slight movement of his steps, feel his arms—definitely a him—supporting her.

On instinct, she started moving and pushing away.

And he immediately set her down, carefully lowering her feet to the ground, one hand still on her back. “Didn’t figure you’d be out long,” he said.

She took a step away. “What?”

Why was she standing on a deserted street with this guy in the middle of the night? Why wasn’t she…wherever she was supposed to be?

“It was a bad hit, but not too bad,” he was saying. “No blood, at any rate.”

“Blood?”

“Yeah. On your head? Head wounds are bad news by themselves, but I know you hate getting blood in your hair.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” she echoed. But she gingerly touched her head, surprised when her fingers encountered a swollen, sensitive spot. “What’s…what’s going on? Why am I here?”

He frowned at her. “Buffy?”

Why was everything so…so… “Is that my name?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I be kidding?” she asked, waving her hands.

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing?” he repeated, voice rising. “Well, try again.”

She frowned, throwing her arms up. “Nope.”

“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant.”

“Excuse me? Why do you get to be annoyed? I’m the one who can’t remember anything—and hey, I have no idea who you even are, buddy. And what do you mean someone hit me?”

He took a deep breath. “I never said someone hit you, I said you took a hit, all right? You tripped and knocked your head on a headstone.”

“A headstone? Why were we walking around a cemetery in the dead of night?”

“Cemeteries are…romantic.”

A lone car drove by, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“Uh-huh.” She took another step away. “Well, uh, listen, not that this hasn’t been great and all, but I should go.”

“Now, hold on—” He reached for her, but then stopped. “You can’t just run off on your own like this.”

“I don’t know you. What if you’re the one who kidnapped me?”

He glared. “No one kidnapped you.”

“Well, how do I know that?” she said, crossing her arms. “And has anyone ever told you that you look like bad news? What’s with all the black?”

“Buffy, you need to go to hospital. Now you can either go with me, or we can call an ambulance. Though I’d rather not pay for the ride.”

Buffy—she supposed her name was Buffy, at least for now—considered. She really didn’t remember anything beyond a few moments ago. She certainly didn’t remember this guy or why she was with him.

“Look,” he said, “you can call yourself if you like.” He pointed to her jacket pocket.

She frowned, and then reached in. There was a cell phone. Okay, so some psycho probably wouldn’t let her keep her phone. Not to mention that he seemed to know where she kept her phone, so he probably knew her. And okay again, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to start off by herself when she had no idea where she was. Or who she was, apparently.

“Fine,” she said.

“Good,” he said. Then he gave her a reassuring look. “We’re not that far away from the apartment. Let’s walk back and get the car.”

Buffy didn’t say anything; she just nodded and gestured for him to start walking.

They walked beside each other in silence for one block.

“Is anything coming back yet?” he finally asked.

“No! Geez.”

“All right. Just askin’.”

“Are we even in America?”

“Yeah,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I think I sound American,” she said. “But you don’t.”

“Huh, you’ve got general knowledge. That’s something, I s’pose.”

“Goody for me. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Spike.”

Buffy sighed. “Of course it is.”

When they reached the apartment complex, she paused. “So…I live here?”

“We live here.” It seemed like he was watching her carefully for a reaction.

“Oh.”

Then he was just watching her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” His face shifted, and he held out a hand. “Keys.”

Buffy patted her pockets, and found a small key ring with several keys on it. She tossed it to him, and he led her over to a small white car and opened the passenger door.

Maybe she was a little too slow at walking over, because he snapped, “I’m on your side here, love.”

“This is just weird, okay?”

Buffy got in the car, and then he—Spike—got in the driver’s seat. He started the engine, and then they were pulling out of the parking lot.

He reached around to the backseat with one hand, dug for a moment, and then threw something in her lap. “Here, maybe this will jog your memory.”

It was a purse. Inside she found makeup—lots of makeup, she must like makeup—receipts from the grocery store, pens, a crystal, hair clips, a brush, and a wallet. She opened the wallet. Driver’s license. Buffy Summers.

“Are we in Los Angeles?” she asked.

“No. Used to live there. This is Sunnydale.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Buffy looked back at the license, puzzling over the bare facts it contained. There was also a student ID card in the wallet. So she was in college. There was some cash and one credit card.

Huh. Her life in a bag.

At the hospital, Spike checked her in and summarily turned her over to the nurse. Though that was more her doing than his. He’d asked her if she wanted him to stay, and she replied with, “Why? It’s not like I know you.”

“Fine,” he said tightly. “Got some calls to make, anyway.”

They did tests and took blood and asked her questions. Eventually they moved her to a room because they wanted to keep her overnight. A pleasant woman with curly hair arrived and introduced herself as Buffy’s mother and fussed over her, which was nice, but weird.

Spike just lurked in the hallway.

As far as she could tell, he never left, because he was there when she woke up the next morning as well.

She woke up to a conversation.

“…her particular sort is very unusual.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Spike’s voice.

“Is there any chance it’s something related to what you were doing last night?” the other man asked. “Magical?”

“It was just a vamp. Just a fall. Nothin’ special.”

“There’s every chance she’ll snap back quickly, then. Just as long as there’s nothing else we should be doing.”

“I must be dreaming,” Buffy said. “Did you say magic?”

“Magic you didn’t break your neck,” Spike said. “Morning.”

He and the other man were sitting in two chairs on the opposite side of the room. The unfamiliar guy was older and wore glasses.

“So, are you my dad or something?” Buffy asked.

“What? Er, no,” he sputtered. “I’m Giles, a—a family friend.”

“A family friend that comes to the hospital?”

“A close family friend,” he said. “Your mother went to get you breakfast, I believe.”

“She’s been here all night,” Spike said to him. “Even though I told her there was nothin’ she could do when I called and woke her up. Thought she should know when it happened, though.”

“So what about my dad?” Buffy asked. “Mom never brought him up, so I didn’t ask.”

“They’re divorced,” Giles said.

“Neither one of you is on speaking terms with him,” Spike said. “Gambling problems,” he added, before she could ask.

Her mother reappeared with breakfast then.

Breakfast also included the doctor coming in and talking to all of them. Buffy was being released, because there wasn’t anything that warranted her staying in the hospital. They said her memories could come back at any time, and that familiar surroundings would help. She had an appointment in a few days for a checkup, but other than that, there wasn’t a lot they could do.

Basically, there was no way to fix her until her brain decided to fix itself. Which was all kinds of wonderful, of course.

Also, she’d heard ‘amnesia’ so much that it no longer sounded like a word. Didn’t this sort of thing only happen to people on soap operas?

While her mother and Giles were dealing with the paperwork of checking her out, Buffy ended up with Spike at reception. She was still in the wheelchair that the nurse had brought her down in. Spike sat down in one of the waiting room chairs.

“So, I guess I’m supposed to go home,” she said. “Familiar surroundings and all.”

“That’s what they said.”

“So, I’m supposed to go home with you.”

His expression looked carefully blank. “Or your mum. Whichever.”

“Mom said I didn’t actually live with her that long here. I mean, if we’re going for familiar surroundings...” she trailed off. “Yeah, I don’t remember you, but it’s not like I remember her, either.”

“True,” he said. “But I’m a strange man you don’t remember. She’s a nice lady you don’t remember.”

“It’s not like you just picked me up off the street.” Buffy frowned. “Well, you know what I mean. Everyone seems to agree that we live together. You’re not just some lone wacko who told me to go with him. So...I’ll come home.”

She thought he looked slightly relieved, but it was hard to tell.

“You do want me to, right?” she asked.

“Of course I want you to come home.”

“Cause I could understand if you didn’t. I don’t even want to deal with me.”

His head tilted slight to the side as he stared at her. “Buffy, there’s no dealing.” A smile graced his lips. “It’s you.”

The conviction he said that with was sort of...wow.

“Okay,” she said softly.

Just as quickly as it had happened, the moment was over. But it was something. It was the first time she’d caught a glimpse of whatever life she used to have.

Buffy nodded. “Let’s go home.”

Spike was hyper-aware of Buffy’s presence behind him as he unlocked the door to their apartment. He was always aware of her presence, but the fact that she didn’t remember her life seemed to give significance to the smallest actions.

There was also the fact that he, Joyce, and the Watcher had agreed that it would be best not to bring up the more unusual aspects of Buffy’s life to her yet. There was every chance that she would recover quickly since she was the Slayer. No need to shock her right off the bat.

Spike paused and looked at Buffy. “Let me just nip in and make sure everything’s presentable, yeah?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, frowning.

Spike’s hand twisted on the knob. “I’ll just give it a quick once over.”

“What, are you a neat freak or something?”

“No.”

“Am I a neat freak or something?”

“Not really. But, y’know, first impressions.”

“The joys of amnesia.” Buffy waved a hand. “Whatever. Go pick up the dirty laundry—I don’t care.”

“Won’t be a minute,” Spike said.

Once inside, he made a quick inspection for any weapons that might be lying around. (Last night, he’d barely remembered to take the stake out of her purse and throw it under the seat.) But everything seemed to be in its place under the bed. Buffy liked to joke that she could literally roll out of bed and be ready for a fight.

In the kitchen, he hastily opened the fridge and pulled all of his blood bags out of the drawer they went in. Spike dumped them into an opaque Tupperware container and shoved it to the bottom and back of the fridge. It would do for now; he’d figure out something else later.

Satisfied, he went back to the living room and opened the front door. He gestured for Buffy to come in. “So, uh, this is it,” he said.

Buffy took a few steps into the room, looking around. She walked over to glance out the window. He resisted the urge to trail after her. He should probably give her a few minutes.

“I’ll just let you explore,” Spike said, edging toward the door.

“What, are you leaving?”

“Just steppin’ out for a smoke.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

He closed the door behind him.

-----

She was dating someone who smoked?

Ew.

But the apartment didn’t smell like smoke, and she didn’t see any ashtrays, so maybe he did smoke outside all time. Which was...fine, she supposed.

Buffy assumed that she must not be a person who hated smoking. Though as of right now, she didn’t think she particularly liked it. Maybe she just liked him well enough to ignore it. Because who would actually set out to find a smoker?

A thought occurred to her and she flung the door open. “Do I smoke?” she blurted.

Spike sputtered at her. “What? No.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Good.”

An eyebrow went up.

“I mean, you know, it’s fine that you do,” she rambled. “But I don’t want to.”

He looked amused. “Well, I don’t want you to, either.”

“But you smoke.”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

Buffy just nodded, and then awkwardly shut the door. The whole ‘you know how bad those are for you’ conversation was probably not good for getting off on the right foot. She wondered if they ever fought about that. She wondered if she wanted him to quit, or if she really didn’t care. She wondered what they did fight about.

Okay. Her—their apartment. Right.

Well, it was nice, she could say that much about it. It was on the second floor, and in a building that was fairly new. All the fixtures were shiny, the walls weren’t marked up, and the carpet was still plush. The ceilings were high, and there was tile instead of linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom.

She had done a quick walk through of the apartment when Spike came back in. Despite his saying that there was ‘no dealing,’ he clearly didn’t know exactly what to do with her. He might not see her as a problem, but there was no getting around the awkwardness. They couldn’t do whatever normal routine they had, and she doubted that he was just going to watch TV or something and ignore her. Not that she wanted to be completely ignored. But she didn’t know what she was supposed to do.

Buffy walked around the living room, running her hands over the table by the door and then the TV stand. She had noticed that this was all really nice stuff. Solid dark wood, new looking—no hand-me-downs or cheap particleboard.

“This is really nice,” she said.

“You picked most of it out when we moved in.”

“Oh. I have good taste.” She sat down on the couch, bouncing once before she got back up. “Does that sound snooty? I didn’t mean for that to sound snooty.”

He smiled. “It’s fine.”

“How long have we lived here?”

“A year.” He stood still for a moment, and then took off his coat, draping it over the back of the leather recliner.

“I like the colors,” Buffy said. The furniture was neutral, but the accent colors were dark blues and greens. “They’re relaxing.” She touched the curtains as she walked by. Buffy paused by a shelf, looking over the contents. A vase, some candles, various knickknacks—but none of it looked incredibly meaningful.

Spike followed her as she walked down the hallway and into the small spare bedroom that she had looked into before. There was a daybed, a corner chair and another TV, and a desk and several bookshelves. Not really a lot in there, so she didn’t stay.

They ended up in the master bedroom. It had windows on one wall, and a sliding glass door that led to the balcony on the other. There was a king size bed and matching dressers in dark wood with a smooth finish. The bed had a comforter that was a rich plum color, and there were lots of soft looking pillows piled on it.

And things suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

“You’ll sleep in here, of course,” Spike said, like he was reading her mind. “I’ll take the other or the couch.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding like she hadn't been thinking about that. “What happens if I don’t get my memory back?” she blurted.

“I think it’s a little soon to be worrying about that, love.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

“Like how?”

“We’ll do whatever you want.”

He said it so simply, so seriously.

“Oh,” she said.

Buffy wandered over to the glass door. She put her hand on the heavy curtains as she looked out at the balcony. There were two chairs, a small metal table with a potted plant and an ashtray on it, and several hanging baskets. It didn’t have a spectacular view, but it was pretty enough.

The bathroom was, well, a bathroom. But it connected to a walk in closet that Buffy had only stuck her head in before.

Now she lingered, looking at the clothes and shoes and purses. Spike was in the bathroom behind her, leaning on the counter.

“Well, it’s obvious I live here,” she joked. “All my stuff’s here.” Buffy paused. “Not that I know it’s my stuff. But it looks like stuff I think I would have,” she said decidedly.

Buffy turned around. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Do what we normally do? Have long meaningful talks about our history, or how I was prom queen or something?”

“We’ll do whatever you want.”

“But what about what you want?”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“Look, I don’t know.” Buffy sighed. “I just—need some time to process everything.” It occurred to her that she hadn’t actually had any alone time since she’d been taken to the hospital. “I think… I think right now I just want to sit here and dig through stuff. We can have the big talk later.”

“All right,” he said easily.

And then he was gone.

Buffy spent several long minutes looking through the clothes. You didn’t get much more personal than a closet. Everything in here was something she had picked out, something she wanted. And going through her things was sort of fun and relaxing, even if it was a little superficial. One thing she noticed, however, was how small everything seemed to be.

She had gathered that she was petite from the time that she had spent in the hospital room’s bathroom staring at her new face—her face—in the mirror. But now, looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door, she realized that she was really thin. She hoped she didn’t have some sort of problem.

But after looking for a moment, Buffy saw that she was also, well, kind of muscled. Not like body builder muscled, but lithe, yoga master muscled. Her arms were slender but seriously toned. Pulling up her shirt, she could see that her stomach was flat and had a faint line of muscle down it.

Huh. Maybe she was a fitness freak.

There was also something else on her stomach that she only noticed at second glance. On her right side, on the curve where her stomach became her side, there was a scar. It was just over two inches long, and was so thin that she could hardly see it. It looked like someone had taken a sharp white colored pencil and drawn a line on her. But there weren’t marks for stitches or anything.

Slightly weird. But for some reason, it wasn’t something she was sure she wanted to ask about.

In the bathroom drawers, she found the expected makeup and bottles and jars, so she moved on to the bedroom. There wasn’t much that was really personal in there, either. Just drawers full of socks and sweatpants and bras.

What did you expect? she asked herself. A book titled ‘This Is Your Life, Buffy Summers?’

Though it might be a good idea to look closer on the shelves in the other bedroom. Maybe she had a box of stuff, or photos or something in there.

Pulling open another drawer, Buffy discovered several items of nicer lingerie.

She also found a vibrator, a pair of handcuffs, and several long black scarves. She quickly shut the drawer. It was pretty tame as far as toys went, but it was just too much. She couldn’t deal with evidence of her sex life with a man that she didn’t even know.

No, a man she couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember was different than didn’t know. Wasn’t it?

How was she supposed to deal with any of this?

Buffy flopped on the bed.

But despite the crazy angst of not knowing who she was, things weren’t that awful, she supposed. She could try to be positive. Everything wasn’t bad. For starters, she had a great body. Which, okay, was sort of shallow, but it was an unexpected perk. She had a nice place to live and lots of pretty things. Again, sort of shallow. But the physical was all she had, since she had lost her mental.

She was in college. So she was smart and probably had goals.

She had a nice mom. Another positive.

And she had someone who was clearly in love with her. So she had obviously done something right. He seemed to really care about her. Buffy tried to imagine remembering. She thought she’d like to remember him.

She rolled onto her stomach and folded her hands under her chin.

Eventually, her eyes came to rest on the nightstand. There was a small lamp with a beaded shade. There was also a jewelry holder shaped like a swan. Two or three chains were lying in the dish part of it, but on the swan’s neck was a ring.

A diamond ring.

A really nice diamond ring. Buffy moved to reach for it. Unsurprisingly, it fit perfectly on the ring finger of her left hand. There was no way this was anything other than an engagement ring.

Which raised a whole new set of questions.

Was she married?

Were they married?

Surely that would have come up. Even if they were engaged, surely that would have come up. Someone would have said ‘fiancé’ instead of ‘lived with.’ Maybe they were secretly engaged? Which would be, well, weird.

But there was one way to find out. Buffy hopped off the bed. It looked like she was going to have the big talk about her life right now.

She walked into the living room where Spike was watching TV. Though he looked like he wasn’t really paying attention to it. For some reason, Buffy found herself taking the ring off her hand and holding it up between her fingers.

“Are we engaged?” she asked, when his head turned in her direction.

“Oh,” he said. “Er, sort of.”

“Sort of? How can you be ‘sort of’ engaged?”

Spike was silent for more seconds than she was entirely comfortable with. Like he was trying to put together the correct answer.

“We decided that actually getting married didn’t matter,” he finally said.

“Didn’t matter,” Buffy repeated. “So we’re like against marriage because it’s just a piece of paper?”

“Not—exactly.”

“Am I religious? Because I also found my jewelry box and there were a bunch of crosses.”

“No. You just like crosses.”

“Uh-huh.” She shifted her weight to her other foot. “But so… Our relationship isn’t really that serious.”

“It is.”

“But we’re not committing to marriage.” Had she managed to get engaged to one of those guys who proposed and then never went through with it?

He looked up at her. “Buffy, we’re committed. We’re serious.”

Buffy bit her lip. There was something he wasn’t telling her, she could feel it. “You’re like an illegal immigrant, aren’t you?” she blurted. “You don’t exist or something.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “If I was an illegal immigrant, I would want to marry you, don’t you think?”

“Oh, so it is you that doesn’t want to get married.”

“No,” he said, sighing. “Both of us, together, decided that a wedding wasn’t important, and that actually being married didn’t matter to us.”

She still thought there was something he was leaving out, but she didn’t have any idea what it was, or even if it was a bad thing. Lots of people didn’t get married these days, she supposed.

“So what’s with the ring?” she asked.

“It’s a symbol,” he said, with a shrug that completely failed at being casual. Spike was silent for a moment. “I gave it to you, and asked if you would spend the rest of your life with me. You said yes. And it was actually you who said later that we didn’t need to complicate things with hu—with ceremonies.”

“Oh, so you wanted to get married and I’m the one who shot you down. Great.” Buffy threw up her hands.

“Buffy, no.” Spike stood. “It’s not like that, all right? Believe me. Look, it’s always been about us, and getting married wouldn’t add anything for us.”

Buffy looked down, glancing at the ring again. “And we’re…serious. Like ‘spend the rest of our lives together’ serious.”

“Yes.”

He looked uncertainly at her, like he was waiting for her to freak out or something.

“Okay,” she said. There were worse things to wake up to than a committed relationship and a guy who gave you a huge diamond ring even though you weren’t married.

Again, sort of shallow, but she was trying to find all the positives she could.

“Well,” Buffy said, “Then I think I should know your last name.”

He looked surprised, but smiled. “Pratt. But you’re still Summers, obviously.”

“And your first name?”

His brow crinkled. “You know my name.”

“Somehow, I don’t think ‘Spike’ is your real name,” she said challengingly.

“William,” he ground out.

“Oh. I like that.”

“Well, I don’t,” he said, glaring slightly.

“Okay, okay.”

And suddenly, it was back to awkward. Buffy wandered toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I think I’m hungry.”

“I’m fine.”

Spike sank down on the couch, but he didn’t look back at the TV.

“I don’t know what I like to eat,” Buffy said, more to herself than anything. She opened a cabinet, only to find that it contained plates. She opened the next cabinet, finding boxes and cans. “I guess I like most of this, right? Except the stuff that’s yours.”

“Yeah,” Spike said, something odd in his tone.

Buffy looked over the different packages. “I think I want waffles. Waffles sound good.”

“You remember how to make waffles?”

“I can read the box. And I feel like doing something.”

He just nodded.

She banged around in the kitchen, finding a bowl and the waffle maker. Then she opened the refrigerator for an egg.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” Spike asked, sounding slightly panicked. “What?”

Buffy just stared at all the alcohol in the fridge. There was half a shelf of it—beer and other sorts of bottles that she couldn’t immediately recognize. She pulled out what was probably vodka. “Is all this ours?” Pointless question, since it was their apartment, but she had to say it.

“You don’t really drink.”

“So it’s yours?”

“Yeah…”

Buffy raised an eyebrow. “It’s a lot. Like, a lot a lot.”

“It’s not like there’s a problem,” he said. “I don’t get drunk.”

“Uh-huh.” It was beyond her how anyone could drink like that and not get drunk. And you didn’t keep that much alcohol unless you did drink like that. How could this not be a problem?

She didn’t know what else to say, so she made her food in silence.

-----

Buffy spent most of the day cleaning. She wanted to be doing something—anything—and cleaning had the useful benefit of allowing her to go through things while actually accomplishing something.

She had started in the kitchen, putting away the things she had cooked with and washing the dishes. Although, she found that the kitchen was clean. There weren’t any dirty dishes, there was nothing on the countertops, and the floor didn’t need sweeping.

Buffy had asked which one of them did the cleaning, even though she suspected it was her.

“You do,” he said.

“Do you help at all?” Not that she was getting judgmental about gender roles, but she was trying to figure out what sort of relationship dynamic they had.

“Not so much with the cleanin’.”

She’d frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I pick up after myself. Put things to place when I’m done. I vacuum sometimes. Do most of my laundry—” he smirked “—it’s all black. I offered to throw a load of your stuff in the washer once, and you said, ‘Are you insane?’”

Buffy considered. “Well, my stuff does look expensive. It’s probably all hand wash or something.”

She had ended up in the spare bedroom, dusting shelves as she studied their contents. It had passed the afternoon, at least.

There was a rap on the door behind her. Spike was standing there.

“Thought you might like to go out for dinner.”

“I guess.” Buffy shrugged.

She looked back at the bookshelves. “So, I’m guessing I’m not in classes right now because it’s summer. But what’s my major?”

Spike paused. Which she was learning was a sign that he was about to say something she wasn’t going to like.

“You don’t have one. You just finished two years.”

So she was a dropout. Wonderful. “Because…?”

“Because you decided that it wasn’t somethin’ you wanted to do.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to finish college? Do I even have a job?”

“You have a part time job at one of the college offices. But your mum called and explained to them, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“So I quit college—”

“There’s a difference between ‘quit’ and ‘not choosing’.”

“So I’m not choosing college, even though I’ve got nothing better going than a part time job.” Buffy waved a hand. “What’s wrong with me? How am I supposed to get a real job?”

Spike crossed his arms. “You don’t need a real job.”

“How are we even living here? This place looks really nice, and it’s filled with really nice stuff. What do you do?”

There was that pause again.

“Nothin’. At the moment.”

“Please tell me this whole thing is not leading up to you being in the mafia.”

He actually laughed. “I was workin’ for your father.”

“The gambler,” she clarified.

“Right.”

“Doing...?”

“Security.”

“Security,” Buffy echoed. “You exactly don’t look like the law enforcement type.”

“More like private security.”

“So my family has money?”

“Had.”

“Right,” she said. “Because of the gambling?”

“It was a bit more involved than that.”

Spike was clearly hoping she’d let it go. Buffy just stared him down.

“He lost all his money tryin’ to pay back someone he shouldn’t have borrowed money from,” he said.

She put a hand to her head. “Oh, God, we are talking about the mafia.”

He glared. “I’m not in the mafia.”

Buffy sighed. “Is that how we met, then? You were working for him?”

“Yeah. We spent time together.”

“And how long have we been together?”

“Almost two years.”

“Okay.”

There was a long pause.

“What?” he asked.

“I just—feel like there’s this piece missing. Which sounds ridiculous, I know, because everything’s missing. But I just keep thinking that if I find this one thing, then it will all click into place and make sense.”

“Things’ll make sense.”

Buffy eyed him. “It’s not encouraging that you agree that things don’t make sense.”

“I meant that you’ll remember.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look, you still want to go eat?”

“Sure. Why not? Food is good. Getting out is good.”

Being in the apartment was frustrating her. She’d been in and out of rooms, waiting for something to snap into place in her brain. Maybe a change of scenery would be nice.

She needed something good. Because she was starting to get the nagging feeling that something in her life was bad.