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I don’t realize how hungry I am until Willow sets a stack of steaming pancakes in front of me at the small wooden table in our hotel room. The sweet scent of syrup mixes with the lovely aroma of batter, enticing my stomach to assert itself rather loudly. The fork I pick up is smooth beneath the pads of my fingers.



Red hair pulled up in a freshly washed ponytail, Willow opens the curtains so that rich morning luminescence flows over the table. Then, she fixes a second, matching tower of rich goodness and slides into the seat across from me, pushing a mug of coffee toward me.



She studies me, and I ignore her stare, asking brightly, “So, what are your plans today?”



Something shifts in her expression, and she sighs, poking at the top pancake with her fork. “Going with Giles to the bank to assess the remainder of our funds and then, going to a meeting with the insurance company. I’m dreading that one. Somehow, they don’t seem to be buying the idea that an entire city was sucked into a giant hole. . . even though there’s every evidence to prove it to them.”



A corner of my mouth lifts in amusement as I lick a bit of syrup from my lower lip. “Fun.”



She can’t help having a similar reaction, and we exchange knowing looks. “Yeah, right, big fun.” She pauses to take a bite. “What are you doing today?”



“Gotta get Dawn enrolled in summer school. I’m hoping they’ll take her back at my old school. Although with my record on file, I don’t know if they will.”



I wait for her next question.



“And then?”



“And then, I’m going to hit the books. . . try to figure out anything. . . prophecies, whatever, that might point to Spike’s return.” My green eyes light with defiance, and she turns hers away.



“Buffy, I. . .,” she stammers, only to be interrupted by a well-timed knock on our door.



Willow clamors to let in Giles. I sort of expect him to be alone. Angel is allergic to the sun, and Xander is in Cleveland.



Giles and Willow are uncharacteristically quiet despite being introverts. I decide to help them out.



“So, you want to talk to me about Spike,” I state, spearing my fork into the pancakes.



The metal rod stands straight up.



Willow resumes her seat, and Giles awkwardly drags up an armchair from the living area. Aware that Willow is looking at him to take the lead, he clears his throat and leans forward so that his arms rest on the table’s surface.



“Yes, Buffy, we do have some concerns about that.”



My defenses instantly rise at his tone. “Right,” I reply, more flatly than I intend. “I’m handling that just fine. I actually think I may be on to. . .”



“Buffy,” he interrupts, “we’re concerned that you’re taking the whole messages from Spike thing a little too seriously. I know you cared about him. . . .”



I watch Giles’s face as he winces slightly at the word “cared.” He has the expression of a father who will never really like anyone his daughter chooses.



“I loved h. . .” I hesitate not because my friends are upset with my admission but because I’m being inaccurate. “I *love* him. He may not have believed me in the hellmouth before he died, but I meant what I said.”



Giles jumps on my announcement, “And that’s precisely why I think that you’re deluding yourself.”



“I am *not* deluding myself,” I insist, twisting my fork in the dough. “I know that Spike is alive somewhere. I can *feel* it when I fight. That’s the time when I’m closest to him, and he’s trying to tell me something.”



I stare at the chunks of pancake that fall away as a gaping wound forms in the mound.



“Buffy, do you remember when I thought Jenny was trying to contact us through James?”



Of course, I know that he’s talking about James, the student at Sunnydale High who shot himself after his teacher ended their affair. “Yeah, I vaguely recall that.” I cross my arms and sit as far away from Giles and Willow as possible.



The wooden rods of the chair back are sticking into my ribs.



“Then, you will also recall how wrong I was. . . how I wanted to believe so much that she was still there in my life. . . still trying to be with me. . . how Willow almost died because of my stupidity.” His glasses are slipping down on his nose a bit. “I had to let go of my obsession with the notion that she might return.”



My temper flares. “Are you saying that I’m lying? That I’m stupid? That I’m obsessed?”



He quickly back peddles, “No, no, Buffy, you are far from stupid, and you don’t lie. . . at least, not outright.”



“Okay. So then, you think that I’m obsessed and delusional, that my judgment’s off, that Buffy’s fallen off the bandwagon.” My fists clinch involuntarily against my thighs.



Giles lowers his voice further, so that I have to shift closer to him. “Willow and I are just concerned that what you’re looking for is not to be found and that you’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger. You’re more incoherent and take longer to recover after every battle. We had to go looking for you this morning.”



“And what is it do you think I’m looking for?”



“You’re looking for a way to bring Spike back,” he says without censor. “And that may not be the best thing for you. . . or for him.”



“Remember what happened when we brou. . . ,” Willow trails off as my inner blaze re-adjusts itself to face her.



“Like I could forget that,” I retort.



Willow’s eyes flood with hurt, and I regret my harsh tone.



“I’m sorry,” I say, but her pain isn’t erased, and I realize that it’s not my fault if it never goes away. I take a deep breath to gather my thoughts and calm my feelings. “Look. I’m not doing this to defy you or make you worry about me. I’m doing this because I have a strong pull to do this. . . to try to find Spike.”



“Sometimes, the things that we’re pulled to aren’t exactly the best things for us though,” Willow whispers, and I fight the urge to bite back at her again.



Giles picks up where Willow leaves off, “And, you have no tangible proof. . . other than your feelings. . . that Spike is contacting you through the. . .”



“The fighting. . . the fighting dance,” I supply. With a burst of energy, I stand abruptly, startling my challengers. “Actually, I do. Got it in the last fight.”



Reaching into my pocket, I close my hand around the loose links of a metal chain. . . a chain attached to the medallion Spike had worn in our final battle in Sunnydale.





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