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Buffy led Spike to the Flat. Since his feet were bare, she tried to stick to the sidewalks. She was sure people watched them as they passed – two soaking wet and wilted blondes trudging through rain, one of them naked under a raincoat three sizes two small. If they did, she didn’t notice. She focused instead on the sound of his breathing, which was a slow, hushed sound, perfectly natural for a normal man.

Except Spike was not a normal man. He was a vampire. Ergo, no breathing. No heartbeat. No steady pulse thrumming softly beneath supple skin. This Spike moved with the slow deliberation of a man recovering from near-fatal illness. With every cautious step, she imagined him feeling the weight of his limbs for the first time in over a century. He said nothing, and kept his eyes fixed on the ground. When he did venture a glance around, he looked out at the city-street in utter disbelief.

Once they entered the empty, quiet house, Buffy closed the door securely behind them. She guided him then toward the stairs. Spike suddenly flinched away, dragging her with him. He cringed in the corner, with his face turned to the wall.

“What?” Buffy said. “What is it?”

Spike lay there, panting. Buffy looked back, catching her reflection in the mirror that hung in the entry hall.

“The mirror,” she said. “You’re reflection. I should’ve remembered...”

“The world was ending,” Spike said again. He looked somewhat ridiculous and helpless, kneeling there in her obviously ladies-wear raincoat.

Buffy knelt beside him. “You said that. Do you remember... anything?” She brushed her hand over his forehead, trying to soothe him.

Spike shook his head. But he said, “Rain.”

“Lots of that going around. Here,” she said. She covered his eyes with her hands. “We’ll face the whole mirror thing another time. First task – finding clothes. I think Giles leaves his rooms unlocked. We can find something there.”

“Giles?” Spike said. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she detected a note of displeasure in his voice.

“It won’t be that bad,” she said. “Maybe we can pull off a grunge look. Not your speed, I know, but better than your present – might I add, rather revealing – selection.” Buffy helped him to his feet, then led him to the second floor.

As she suspected, Giles’ rooms were open. She brought Spike into the bedroom, stopping him in front of the closet door. It was strange, to see him so quiet, so watchful and still. She could just lead him around like a sleepy, complacent child. Obviously, there was confusion and disorientation. Rightfully so. Buffy knew that feeling. She understood how he felt. Her heart gave a small but painful lurch.

She turned from him to the closet, where she rifled aimlessly through Giles’ non-color-specific wardrobe of T-shirts and blue jeans. Finally, she tugged out at random a beige shirt and worn jeans from their hangers.

When she turned back, he had helpfully shrugged out of the wet coat. Problem was, there he stood, quite naked. But that was just it. He was unclad and unmoving. He looked way too lost for comfort.

Buffy stepped in. She drew the shirt over his head, pulled his arms through the sleeves, then smoothed it down, firmly, reassuringly over his chest.

“We’ve been here, you and me,” she told him. She helped him pull on the pants, one leg at a time. Again, with the general sleep-walkiness. He stared beyond her into empty space. “We were right here. Only, I was where you are. Remember?” she asked. She looked up into his uncomprehending eyes.

“Spike? Do you know where you are?”

Spike didn’t move for a long while. Then, he shook his head.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’ll come.”

When she touched his arm to lead him back downstairs, a wave of chill bumps coursed across his flesh. Spike shuddered, bodily, but she caught the trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

That was promising.

“Are you cold?” she asked. Spike nodded.

Buffy pulled a flannel shirt from the chair beside Giles bed. She slipped it on him, then stepped back.

“Yep,” she said. “Grunge look. We may have to party like it’s 1992.”

No almost smile this time, just basic vacant stare. So not encouraging.

“It’ll come,” she said again, mostly to herself this time. Buffy led Spike back downstairs front parlor room, where they sat together in silence, listening to the sound of the falling rain outside.


Hours passed thus. Maybe it was hours, anyway. The passage of time lost meaning. Buffy stared at him, expecting some movement, something. He was so still he was almost unresponsive. He seemed at one point to realize that he was breathing, because he took a series of deep breaths, inhaling slowly, then exhaling, then repeating process.

Buffy wanted to talk, wanted him to talk, but all she could do was sit and watch him draw breath.

It was too surreal, and for her, that was saying a great deal.

The shadows in the parlor lengthened, and soon, there was spastic teenage girl commotion at the front door. Spike shrank away from the noise. Buffy immediately went to the entry hall.

Dawn, drenched, dark hair flying, ran inside and started up the stairs.

“Soccer’s called on count of rain. Could you guess?” she yelled down at Buffy. “A whole morning of tromping through marsh...”

Buffy rounded the base of the stairs. “Dawn,” she called to her, softly.

Dawn whirled. She recognized the tone in her sister’s voice right away.

“What is it?” Dawn asked.

“Come see,” Buffy said.

Dawn came back down the stairs, much slower than she had gone up them.

“What is it?” she asked again.

Buffy stepped toward the parlor, indicating with a twitch of her head that Dawn should follow.

Spike had gotten up from the sofa and crossed to the center of the room. When Dawn came to the doorway, he merely stood there, looking out of sorts.

“But...” Dawn said. She dived in for a hug that nearly toppled them both. “When did you get here? It’s good to see you. After we didn’t see you in Rome, we...” Dawn paused, then stepped back, gripping his forearms.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. She looked to Buffy. “What’s wrong with him?”

Spike blinked.

“N-Nothing,” Buffy said. “Nothing’s wrong. But I think,” she scanned her brain for the right words. “He’s been through something. Some kind of trauma, and he doesn’t know.”

Spike gave a little nod to that.

“Oh,” Dawn said. Then she hugged him again.

“Wait, Dawn,” Buffy said. “Maybe he’s not ready for the hugfest. You know, trauma and all.”

Spike lowered his chin to the top of Dawn’s head. “I’m good with the hugging,” he said, quietly.

“Oh,” Buffy said. She stood fidgeting for a whole three seconds before nudging in to hug him as well.


Dawn suggested they all move to the kitchen. Lightning and thunder had joined the rainy day games, and all the flashing and noise made Spike flinchy. They gathered around the table, and although Dawn brought out some Jaffa Cakes, no one touched them

“We have to call him,” Dawn said.

“He said he’d be busy all day with Watcher stuff,” Buffy said.

“This is kinda important, Buffy.”

“I know,” Buffy said. “I know. I just want it to be us right now. Everyone else will find out soon enough.”

Dawn looked over at Spike. “You should maybe eat, you know. Or, maybe drink? We’ve got like a hundred kinds of tea.”

Spike just shook his head.

“When will Xander be home?” Dawn asked.

Buffy looked to the clock on the wall. “Soon,” she said. “What about Andrew?”

“No, he said not to wait up,” Dawn said. “He’s got a date with Nighna.”

Spike chuckled softly at that.

“Oh!” Dawn squealed. “He laughed at Andrew. I think he’s gonna be okay.”

Buffy looked hopeful for a moment, then shrugged. “Nah. We all laugh at Andrew.”

The front door opened, letting in the sounds of wailing wind and pounding rain, plus one swearing and soaking wet Xander.

“Great shaken vermouth, it’s a downpour,” he called out. “Buffy! You home?”

Buffy looked from Dawn to Spike. “In the kitchen,” she said, weakly.

Xander came into the hall, shaking himself in dog-like fashion. “Hey, guess what,” he began, then turned, slowly, on the ball of his foot. “Something must be wrong with my eye,” he said.

“Xander,” Buffy said.

“Spike,” Xander interrupted. “Why are you here? Why are you dressed like Giles? And more importantly, why are you here?”

“Xander,” Spike said, carefully feeling out the shape of the name.

“Uh, what’s up with him? Buffy, what’s happened?” Xander said.





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