The day was going to be a dazzler, all cerulean skies and sparkling sunlight. It seemed odd to be carrying a bag full of blood to the undead on such a day, but really, Buffy thought, what in her life could be considered odd anymore? Her errand to feed Spike reminded Buffy of when Angel had reappeared in her life and she'd played nurse Buffy. Not in the fun way, in the literal way. Buffy decided that unlike then, she would tell Giles tonight that she was choosing to extend some trust to Spike.
She knew what Giles would say. Of course she could never fully trust Spike; he didn't have a soul, his moral compass was limited to people he valued while others were expendable, he might abandon her when he was recovered, returning to his sinister ways. All these facts were a consideration, but the benefit of having a master vampire at her disposal seemed to outweigh them. Angel had left a hole when he'd left...in the team, Buffy reminded herself, hastily. Buffy wanted to have someone as strong as she was just in case something happened to her.
Buffy stepped onto the craggy steps of Spike's new lair, falling under the shadow of the structure. She tentatively opened the door and then walked into the murky darkness. It felt like walking into a dim movie theater and it took a moment for Buffy's eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw Spike had cleaned up a bit since the night before. The living room was cleared of the collected detritus once belonging to twenty years' worth of college freshmen.
"Spike?" Buffy shouted.
A few seconds later he creaked down the stairs, his black boots thunderous. Spike looked marginally better. His face was completely healed and he was wearing a clean t-shirt. His hands were still a mess and his crowning glory of peroxided locks were gone. Instead there was a velvety, brown nap.
"What's with the hair?" she asked.
He hopped down the final step, standing a few feet in front of Buffy. He rubbed a ragged palm against his fuzzy scalp.
"Fallin' out anyway so I decided to go gracefully and shave it all off. Try to work the football hooligan look for awhile," Spike said.
Without thinking, Buffy reached out and stroked the top of his head. His eyes shut with a flutter and he seemed to savor her touch, like a stray that had been starving for a little love. Buffy withdrew her hand when she realized what she was doing and neither of them spoke for a second.
"Brought you some blood," she said, holding up the bag.
"Brilliant," he said.
They walked into the living room and sat down on a plaid futon in the middle of the floor. Spike took the paper grocery sack from her and went to lift out one of the plastic bags of blood when he found something that gave him pause.
"What's this?"
"Gloves. I figured you could wear them until your hands heal, maybe keep them from getting more banged up," Buffy said.
Spike lifted the black, leather gloves out of the bag and slipped them on. He made a fist, testing the material and then nodded to her.
"That's good. Thank you."
He took out the blood and impaled the thin membrane, turning his face away so she wouldn't have to see his angry bumpies. Buffy couldn't help thinking of how it felt when he drank from her hand and shuddered involuntarily. Spike's back arched slightly; he could smell her moods shifting on the air. Her eyes spanned the grimy walls. Every few feet there was a poster of Monet's "Waterlilies," or Gustav Klimt's, "The Kiss."
"Quite a collection. Were they selling it by the pound?" she asked, pointing to the paintings.
Spike unhooked his fangs from the bag and swallowed.
"Not exactly. Just wanted to cover up the holes in the walls to keep the light out before I had the chance to do a bit of spackle and patch. Spent most of the night covering the skylight with plywood," Spike said.
"It's funny, I guess Klimt's work was supposed to be obscene and Monet was this revolutionary who started a whole art movement but now you can get their stuff on coffee mugs. It just doesn't seem right," Buffy said, crossing her legs. Spike looked at her bouncing foot, his eyes brightening.
"Time does that. Art that's shocking gets assimilated, the original meaning is sanitized and lost. Like punk used to be the Sex Pistols and the Ramones, now it's bloody Blink 182 and Green Day."
"Hey, that one song about masturbating is pretty good," Buffy said, immediately wishing she hadn't.
Spike grinned lasciviously, teasing the edge of his sharp teeth with his rough tongue. She could've sworn it got longer when he was all vampy.
"Now I know a little more about the slayer's hobbies. No whipping up cunning sweater sets for you, eh? Got a better use for those clever fingers I 'spose," he said.
"You...just...get your brain out of there, buddy! Even though I'm doing the Florence Nightingale thing you should remember my hobby is shoving wooden implements into vampires," Buffy said, standing up.
"Touche, love," Spike said, returning to his meal with a grin.
Buffy began circling the room, trying not to pay attention to sounds of him gulping the blood. She decided to change the subject.
"Probably a lot of lucre here. I bet there are whole rooms of stuff from their victims. I guess that's yours now," Buffy said.
Spike nodded. Buffy went to the mantle above the disused fireplace in the far end of the room. There was a wooden statue of a man doubled over, the round sculpture no bigger than her fist. She ran her finger down the smooth ridge of its back and thought of how decimated Spike had been when she'd seen him the day before. She heard him rise and move toward her. He was standing so close if she turned, Buffy would have bumped into his chest.
"The weeping yogi. He bears your troubles for you when they become too great," Spike said.
"He also makes a nifty paperweight," Buffy said.
"That too," Spike said, then took a breath. She wondered why he always did that when he didn't need to breathe. It was just another Spikism that made him seem more human, like his enjoyment of hot cocoa and daytime t.v. Another piece of subterfuge making you forget what he really is, Buffy thought.
"We need to talk about last night, love. What you did for me was beyond generous, but I can't feed from you anymore—"
Buffy whipped around.
"Well yeah, that was just a one time thing because I was afraid you wouldn't make it through the rest of the night," Buffy said, defensively.
"I know, but sharing blood can get addictive. For both of us."
Buffy didn't know how to respond, so she started walking away when he grabbed her arm.
"Spike—"
"Hear me out you bossy, little bint. I felt you, I know it got you off."
"I so don't want to talk about this," she said, jerking her arm free and striding to the exit.
"It's supposed to feel good," Spike said. Buffy stopped and looked at him shyly over her shoulder.
"So it's normal, I'm not a freak?"
"Wouldn't go that far," Spike said, giving her a leering grin. She faced him and smacked his arm softly, the way she would have when Xander teased her.
"The pleasure keeps most of those sorry sods from struggling. It's why I didn't when Dru did me. That blend of ecstasy and pain. I know how you're feeling, slayer, because I felt it, too, except I wasn't strong enough to fight it," Spike said.
"Thank you for telling me. All this time I thought I was some kind of vampophile, like I needed to put my name on a registry pledging I wouldn't get closer than twenty feet to any cemeteries or something," Buffy said. Spike smiled at her quip and she found herself smiling back. "Why wouldn't Giles have said anything?"
Spike crossed his arms over his chest and bounced on his heels.
"I expect he doesn't know. Most who come as close to death as you don't report back to headquarters. The few who do would probably be a bit embarrassed, like you were, kitten. Anyway, the drawing of blood is an intimate act of power. If you started tapping a vein every time I get peckish, we'd cease to be equals. If I were to bite you, it would be a mark of possession. Taking a sip here and there blurs the lines but a bite is different. There's no going back after a bite. You'd lose yourself to me until I ended up killing you one day, even if I didn't want to. It's an ugly relationship the pet and the master. It's not what I want for us and the temptation is strong there already because of this," he said, dragging a gloved finger along the scars Angel and the Master had made on her neck.
The contact sent shivers through Buffy and her nipples hardened under her thin, blue t-shirt. When his caress receded, she clapped a hand over the place he'd touched.
"Don't do that again," she said. She'd never reacted like that to anyone else touching her there before, except for Angel. Spike's eyes took on a hint of sadness.
"I won't, if that's what you want. Just had to show you the spark there. You've been marked by two of my bloodline. There's a connection between us because of that. It's obvious you feel for me, you offered me your blood. Not all of that is under your control. You've been branded by my family and it makes you feel like you're part of us. It's the same for me, that attraction, but it makes me feel like you're a possession," he said.
"I-is that why you think you love me, because Angel and the Master got all bitey with my neck?"
"No, the blood connection...it's the opposite of love. That link through the blood makes me feel like possessing and destroying what you are to create what I happen to need at the moment whether that be a lover, a servant or a snack. I shouldn't feel anything else when I look at you, which is why my loving you is so...so fucked. I should've wanted to kill you a thousand times over and I just can't. I don't want a world without Buffy Summers."
"That's not super-reassuring when it comes to me not staking you, Spike," Buffy said, trying to keep her voice strong.
The benefits of having Spike by her side in a fight suddenly seemed paltry in comparison to the potent risk. Still, Buffy couldn't bear the thought of dusting him, though she knew her friends would spare her the task. Spike probably wouldn't resist, either and for some reason that twisted her heart.
"Not here to be reassuring, just trying to be honest, love. Don't know why the great git didn't warn you about it prior to him taking a chunk out of you or, you know, before you opened up the dimpled knees," Spike said, causing Buffy to wince.
"Don't talk about Angel like that—"
"He's my grandsire, I'll talk about him any way I damned well please,” Spike said, his voice rising, “it would have been the decent thing for him to let you know your eternal love might've been a side effect of big daddy getting chompy." Spike was moving closer to her, causing Buffy to back up. "And don't kid yourself about him not knowing. Who do you think taught me to keep pets—"
"Spike, don't push me—"
"Or what, you'll give me what I'm beggin' for?" he asked, getting so close his words stirred the tendrils of hair that had fallen out of Buffy's ponytail. She reflexively shoved him a bit too hard, sending the weakened vampire sprawling across the room. Buffy didn't check to see if he was alright, even when he landed with a sick thunk. She ran out of the darkened house, gulping fresh air and basking in the sunlight like it was the last time she'd get the chance.
On her way to Giles,' Buffy re-examined her whole relationship with Angel from beginning to end, trying to figure out exactly when they fell in love. It wasn't the first time they kissed. Buffy remembered what that felt like, the thrill of it and the lure of the forbidden. That wasn't love but the sugar rush of new infatuation. She'd adored him before the Master's attack, though. Hadn't she? Now she wasn't sure. The first time she'd told him she'd loved him it had come in response to his demand. Now Buffy was wondering if she would have said it otherwise; felt it otherwise.
Buffy reached Giles' house and he let her inside with an embarrassed grin. She noticed his guitar lying against the couch and figured she'd caught him mid-practice, which explained his abashed expression.
"Would you care for some tea, Buffy? I've just put the kettle on," Giles said, gesturing for her to sit. She felt grateful to sink into a squishy chair. Giles' house always smelled like sandalwood, cannabis and just a hint bacon; very comforting especially after everything Spike had revealed.
"Tea would be good. Tea would be great, actually. I found Spike," Buffy said.
Giles looked over his glasses at her and his brows shot up in alarm. He opened his lips to speak when the kettle started to whine. Giles nodded and ran into the kitchen. When he returned with two steaming mugs and a plate of oatmeal cookies, Buffy relayed her story. She was prepared for Giles' stern face, not his excited face. In fact he was so excited, Buffy's feelings felt a little sore.
"Do you realize how invaluable a resource Spike might be to us? His cooperation could save lives. My relations with the council are far from warm, but sharing this information with them may protect many, many people," Giles said.
Buffy put down her uneaten cookie and the drink that had grown tepid through the course of her story.
"And the part where my first love might be a symptom of vampiric possession, that doesn't even warrant a mention?"
Giles' mood deflated considerably and he put his hand over hers.
"You need to speak with Angel, that's for certain. If what Spike says is true, you should not be near Angel again, under any circumstances."
"What about being around Spike?"
"That will also be problematic, but Buffy, you are the strongest young woman I know. If you feel like interaction with him is beyond the scope of your comfort, then by all means, avoid him. But should you decide to utilize Spike's skills on patrol, there's no need for you to ever be alone with him," Giles said.
Buffy sighed.
"I don't think I need a sitter, thanks. I was able to control the lusties with Angel...not that I'm attracted to Spike except for the feeding stuff. So I can control the blood lusties just fine," Buffy said, coloring like a cherry tomato.
Giles smiled.
"Buffy, shame is a luxury we can ill afford. If you have...um...romantic inclinations toward him, it's alright. Just be aware of them and file them away with the types of feeling that should be controlled. If your affection for him could develop into something deeper, you must be aware of your own mind. The danger is grave and myriad. We were both naive when it came to Angel but in my case there was no excuse. I should have protected you better," Giles said.
Buffy looked down at her hands.
"There are some areas of the Buffyverse where I don't want your protection, Giles, my love life being the biggest. It's weird talking about this with you."
"I was hoping to ameliorate your discomfort by using really big words to make it all sound slightly clinical. Did it work?" Giles asked.
"Kinda," Buffy said, her face breaking into a smile.
~*~*~*~
Spike had been working on the house all day, pausing only at dusk to go out and get himself a day's supply of blood from the butcher. Sunday had stolen electricity to power lights and a couple mini-dorm fridges set up in the kitchenette. Those were more than enough for his food and some soda for Buffy, should she stop by. He was sure either she or the watcher would inevitably, if only to finish him off.
He'd gone through all the rooms in the house, taking a summary inventory of their contents. One was stacked almost to the middle with purses and wallets. Spike emptied a few of the pocketbooks where he found more than enough money to keep him in blood and smokes for a year. With that merry bundle of cash he could fix things up, make the house look nice. Why he had that impulse, Spike couldn't tell. Perhaps it was the same longing that made him buy all that Diet Coke.
Other rooms had other treasures. Stacks of mini-fridges. A museum of television sets ranging from the late seventies to the present. There were video game consuls and box upon box of jewelry. Most of that was costume but there was probably at least one good piece in every jewel case and there were easily two hundred of them. He could plunder and pawn at will. Another of the rooms upstairs was filled with mirrors, some broken, some intact. Spike held his breath when he walked through there, wondering what on earth they'd saved them all for. The emptiness in the mirrors when he walked through the room chilled him to the core. Spike ended up barring the door from the outside.
In the living area he unfurled a deep, red Persian rug that was probably someone's pride and joy. He found a decent wing chair and wooden, rolltop desk that he dragged downstairs, too. Perhaps they'd offed a dean of students somewhere down the line, Spike thought. He placed the biggest telly from the ones piled in the basement on an orange crate along with the best video cassette player and a few bins of films in one corner of the living room. It was not terribly posh, but with a good-looking, black, velvet comforter over the dingy plaid futon, it was alright. Spike decided he had kind of a look going.
There were some plusher sheets and blankets along with a real full bed instead of one of those extra long twins. He set that up in his bedroom with some of the nicer bookshelves and better books. He also hung two poster-sized, framed photographs of Tinturn Abbey on the wall, not to cover up any holes but just because he liked them.
At around two in the morning he collapsed on the wing chair with a mug full of blood, thoroughly exhausted. His hands hadn't fully healed and they were sensitive beneath the black gloves. As he sipped at the heated blood he could feel the itch of new skin forming. Spike knew he should get to patching the walls, but he figured it could wait another day. He'd set the glass on the floor and begun to doze, when he heard someone banging at the door.
"Hold onto your knickers," Spike shouted. He pawed beneath the futon until he found the samurai sword he'd stashed there. It was one of the few real weapons he'd unearthed in his perusal; the rest were shoddy flea market finds or replicas one could order from one of those ads in the back of Spin magazine. Spike had hardly tottered to his feet when the door burst open with a shower of splinters and Angel stepped inside.
"Hello to you, too, Peaches," Spike said, leaning on the sword like a cane.
"Spike, what the hell are you doing here?" Angel asked, trying to swing the gaping door shut. It wouldn't close properly so the bigger vampire just left the entrance ajar.
"I'm here to help Buffy. Did she phone you about our conversation or something? Before you start tossing blame around, let me remind you I was just being truthful with the girl—"
The dark haired vampire's prominent brow gathered in confusion, clouding his brown eyes.
"Conversation? Buffy hasn't called since...ever. I wrote her a letter with my contact information in L.A., but she hasn't used it. The last time I saw her was two months ago, on graduation day," Angel said, sadly.
"Then why the hell are you here?" Spike asked, plumbing his front shirt pocket for smokes. He produced a pack and teased out a thin, white cylinder of tobacco with his lips, his left hand never leaving the sword. Angel seemed to be watching his movements with particular interest. Spike shoved the pack back into his pocket, then took a few steps backward to the mantel. He felt around for the box of wooden matches, found one and then snapped the match into life by dragging it against the wall. He brought the tremulous light to the end of his cigarette with shaky fingers.
"What happened to your hands?" Angel asked, striding closer to Spike.
Spike sucked in a lungful of smoke, raising his eyebrows at the same time. He exhaled as he spoke.
"Poor nutrition. Again, why are you here, Angelus?" Spike asked, relishing his grandsire's grimace of disgust at the use of his older name. Angel was continuing to advance, so Spike decided to stand his ground.
"You're dining on pig's blood and having chats with Buffy. Why do I find it hard to believe you're as innocuous as you seem, William?" Angel asked, stopping a foot in front of his grandchilde.
"I don't know, because you're a stupid git? I lost Dru not too long ago. It did a number. Now all I've got left is makin' sure the slayer's life isn't cut short. That's all this is," Spike said.
"If you couldn't protect Drusilla, what makes you think you'll have a better shot at protecting Buffy?" Angel asked.
Spike gripped the pommel of the sword so tightly it opened up the new flesh webbing around his knuckles, soaking the leather glove with his blood.
"Got to try, that's all I can do. You gonna deny me three times, or are you gonna tell me why you're here?"
"My colleague had a psychic vision that Buffy was in danger and you were there."
"So did Miss Cleo say I was the one puttin' her in harm's way?"
"Actually, his name's Doyle—"
"Never mind," Spike said.
"He said you were with her and I figured you were the threat," Angel said.
"I know nothing about that, except that she's always in danger, but I'll pass on the info. Maybe the Watcher or the little witch will have a clue."
"What were you talking about before, Spike? Why would I need to blame you?"
For the first time since he entered the house, Spike gave Angel his full appraisal. His grandsire looked quite well-to-do; a nice black leather coat and tailored trousers the same color. The shirt Angel wore was heavy, white silk. Who knew virtue could pay so well, Spike thought.
"I warned the slayer about the dangers of blood. She didn't know what wearing your bite-mark meant. I was worried because she let me take a nip when I was doing poorly—"
Angel struck with fluid speed, clutching Spike by the neck of his t-shirt.
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now?" Angel asked through clenched teeth. Spike slapped Angel's hands away with a flip of his sword.
"The only reason I'd care is if me dying inconvenienced the slayer. I feel like she ought to be the one to decide when it's time for me to shuffle off, seeing as Dru dusted saying I was to be put to Buffy's use."
"So you bit her? How's that supposed to help her?"
"I tasted her, big difference. I wouldn't bite her no matter how sick I was," Spike said, pointedly, leaving Angel's face a boiling crimson. Spike walked casually across the room, wanting to put distance between himself and his enraged grandsire.
"I told her you have a power over her she doesn't understand, and I do as well. She's not a child. This is her life we're talking about and she deserved to know," Spike said.
"Turning her against me never crossed your mind?" Angel asked, as he put his hands on his hips and did his best intimidating smile.
"I'd take that as a happy accident," Spike said.
"What do you think is going to come of this, Willy? It's not like she could ever love you. You're a soulless monster."
"And you're so much better because you've got that bright, shiny soul?" Spike asked, poking Angel's chest with the tip of the blade. Angel swatted the offending object. "Didn't stop you from nearly draining your sweet girl dry, did it? Then when she happened to survive, you didn't tell her that you could turn her into a blood slave with the touch of your hand, did you?"
The two vampires were so deeply engaged in their mutual glaring, they didn't notice Buffy standing in the ruined door frame until she spoke.
"What's a blood slave?" she asked. She looked and sounded very small, so much so both vampires wanted to go to her and provide comfort. Buffy's blonde hair was pulled into pigtails, she wore jeans with sparkles on the pockets and a red t-shirt that had an anthropomorphic black cat riding a Vespa emblazoned on the front.
"Tell me, Angel. What does Spike mean?" Buffy asked.
Angel appeared to be drowning, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to draw air where there was none. Buffy stared into Angel's eyes as though she could find her answer there.
"Tell her, Ang. Tell her that until you dust she's going to feel you weighing on her heart. Tell her how when she tries to be with another man, all she'll feel is your absence. Tell her how you condemned her to a life of loneliness or servitude. Hell, if it weren't for you she would have let me die. Tell her why she's got a bond with your self-described soulless monster."
"Shut up, Spike," Buffy said, softly.
"As you wish, love," Spike said in equally hushed tone, taking a last pull on his cigarette before pinching out the cherry with his fingertips. He stuck the butt in his jeans' pocket because he didn't want to leave a pile of fag ends lying around. It was a bit low class now that he had a proper house.
Angel and Buffy didn't look at Spike, continuing instead to stare at one another. Spike gripped the sword with both hands and waited with a patience he'd just recently acquired. When Buffy finally spoke again, her voice did not crack and the tears hovering in a pool above her eyes didn't fall.
"Did you manipulate me into thinking I loved you, Angel?"
"Spike, could you leave us alone for a minute?" Angel asked.
"I want him here. If you do have power over me, what's to stop you from using it?" Buffy asked.
Angel's brow got even crinklier and he conceded her point with a double dip of his chin.
"What we felt, what I felt was real. I loved you from the first moment I saw you, before I even spoke to you. You loved me too, I'm sure of it. I never used the family connection to make you do anything. You've always been your own person I mean, God, Buffy, you sent me to hell. If the Master's bite had that much sway over your emotions, you couldn't have done that to me," Angel said.
"Thanks for not holding a grudge about that," Buffy said with a twinge of a smile.
"You, too."
"But what about the one you gave me?" Buffy asked.
Angel looked at the ground. Spike shifted, getting into a stance that would make it easier to lop off his grandsire's head should the older vampire try to attack Buffy.
"I didn't ask you to do that for me, Buffy, I mean, I wouldn't have, but you forced me—" Angel said.
Spike scoffed and Angel's expression continued to curdle. Buffy seemed to be holding back until Angel was finished.
"What Spike said is true. If I were to touch the mark and say your name you'd be at my disposal until I released you," Angel said.
"What about the rest of it? Do you see me as less than you?" Buffy asked.
"I fight it, but the inclination...it's there. Which was why I left, because hurting you was too potent a temptation," Angel said.
Buffy pressed her eyes with the tips of her fingers and sniffed loudly. Both vampires watched her until she put her hands on her hips and tilted her chin up defiantly.
"Do it."
"What?" Angel and Spike asked in unison.
"I won't believe you're capable of this until I see it for myself."
"You trust him with your life, love?" Spike asked.
"I do. Plus, I trust you with that samurai sword," Buffy said.
Spike smirked at that, but Buffy's face stayed neutral. Spike slid the blade out of the scabbard and then lifted it with both arms. Spike let the cold steel rest in the crook of Angel's shoulder. Angel reached out his hand to Buffy and she walked over until she was within arms reach. Buffy waited as Angel trailed a light fingertip along the raised crescent-shaped scar that marred her neck.
"Buffy," Angel said.
Instantly, she fell to her knees and angled her head to expose her throat. The two vampires silently watched her folded in supplication. Spike could sense Angel's excitement and fear; he wasn't sure which part of the situation he could ascribe each reaction. Spike wondered what an outsider would think of the three of them locked in their disturbing tableau. Buffy was frozen like a doll and Angel was stroking the mark affectionately, making blood rise to the surface of her skin. Spike was the one who looked like the threat with his brightly burnished steel digging into Angel's flesh.
After awhile Buffy's skin started to chafe under Angel's hand.
"I think you proved the point, mate," Spike said.
Angel seemed to return to the present.
"You're released," Angel said.
Spike retracted the weapon from Angel's shoulder, but kept it ready at his side. There was something off about his grandsire, like a man who'd had a bit too much to drink and was hoping to pick a fight.
Buffy darted to her feet and backed away.
"Are you alright?" Angel asked.
"Get away from me and don't come back," Buffy said.
"Buffy—" Angel said. Buffy held out both her hands as though repelling him.
"Now. Go away now before I kill you again," Buffy said.
"I never wanted this for you," Angel said, and walked out of the house. Spike would have described his particular mode of retreat as skulking.
Spike and Buffy looked at one another for a long moment. He thought of offering her a soda, but realized that was idiotic.
"I've never been that powerless before," she said, rubbing the vulnerable scar.
"And you never will be again. Peaches loves you, he won't use it," Spike said.
"What about Angelus?" Buffy asked.
Spike swallowed, hard.
"There's got to be a spell to reverse it somehow. Red is dead useful with that type of thing. I'm sure it will be alright," Spike said, lamely.
Buffy walked over to him and put her arms around his waist. After the brief surprise of her embrace, Spike returned the hug.
"Thank you,William," Buffy said, giving him a squeeze before letting him go. Before he could respond, Buffy had retreated into the night.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you to the lovely Sanityfair for her work editing this piece.
Chapter End Notes:
Miss Cleo was a telephone psychic who had a fake Jamaican accent. Her commercials ran late at night and during daytime television in the nineties here in the United States. I figured Spike would be familiar with her work.