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Author's Chapter Notes:
Finally found a minute of spare time to update! So here it is, and again quite a bit longer than usually. ;)

Previously: Spike tried to do the reversal spell, which of course backfired and now they are both memory-less.

Beta'd by the lovely All4Spike.
Chapter 24

“You don’t know who you are,” she repeated, her brows drawn together in suspicion as she stepped away from the dresser.

“Do you?” Had they drunk too much? An ocean of liquor to blur unwanted memories? He couldn’t spot any bottles. There was nothing but the bowl full of burnt herbs, tendrils of smoke still curling up into the air.

“No,” she said quietly, but was no longer looking at him as she took one bold step forward. “What the hell is this?”

He rose to his feet and took in their surroundings. The scattered grains of sand formed a circle with five thick candles drawing an impromptu pentagram. Were they witches? Because if they were, their skills left a lot to be desired.

“I may not know who I am, but I’m sure this is your fault,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest.

The urge to throttle her had him gritting his teeth and for a moment he wondered why that compulsion felt so familiar. “Well… you don’t know that. As far as I know, it’s you who bollixed this all up and tabula rasa’d our noggins!”

“What does that even mean?” She pursed her lips in self-righteous anger and toed the sand littering the floor. “Stupid, foreign guy.”

“Foreig—” He started out, incensed then stopped short. Wait a second.

Bollixed. Wanker. Sod. Knickers.

“I’m English!”

She rolled her eyes. “Wow, you’re a regular genius, aren’t you?”

“No need to be snide,” he said distractedly and scanned the room. “What do you think happened here?”

She let out a begrudging sigh and uncrossed her arms. “No clue. But it smells really, really bad.”

He sniffed, shrugging. “Could be worse.”

Her nose wrinkled at the offensive burnt smell and he couldn’t help but notice it was kind of cute. Sure, she had those scars on her face, but for some reason, it didn’t exactly bother him. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea what he looked like. She probably wouldn’t either, and the idea of telling her about the scars made his stomach clench. It was almost as though he cared about her. As though he couldn’t bear to see horror on her face once she saw them. Because he suspected she wouldn’t see herself the way he saw her. Women were just silly that way.

“You do realise you’re staring at me, right?”

That shook him out of his stupor really quickly and he gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Was just taking in the view.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture and glanced away like a startled prey. It made him want to growl and pounce.

“Well, it’s rude to stare at people.”

Oh, she was probably going for offended but he could see the faintest blush on her cheeks and it made him want to do everything to unsettle her again. Why, he had no idea.

“Then I’m a bad, rude man.”

“Bad, rude man with no name.”

“Not if I make one up,” he told her, lifting his chin defiantly.

“Or, we could just check to see if we have any ID.”

Well, if she wanted to be smart about it, he thought sullenly as she patted her pockets.

They had nothing on them, but they soon found a bag that contained a debit card belonging to one Buffy Summers.

The name sparked an image of wind weaving though a field of wild flowers, his taste buds throbbing with the taste of… her?

“What a stupid name,” he said just to spite her, contemplating the sudden knowledge of what her tongue felt like against his.

“At least I have one, Mr. English Guy,” she retorted and actually dared to stick her tongue out at him like an obstinate child who had just been scolded.

“I have one too. Just don’t know it yet.”

They proceeded to comb through the house. They were bickering like a couple of elementary school rivals when he wandered into a lived in bedroom upstairs and opened a drawer. What he found within gave him a pause.

“Do you own any bright colours at all?” A muffled voice came from somewhere behind him where Buffy was rummaging through a closet.

“Wouldn’t know, would I?” he said and stared down at the dozen or so fake IDs.

“It was a rhetorical question, you know.”

“Uh huh.”

All the IDs had his picture and he had to admit that he was a bloody handsome devil. The only problem was that every ID carried a different name. He figured Buffy didn’t need to know about this. Not when even he didn’t want to know what that was all about.

“Did you find anything?” Her voice was closer and he quickly picked a random ID before he shut the drawer containing the scam evidence away from her curious eyes.

“So?” She peeked over his shoulder and giggled. “Is that really your name?”

He actually read the ID he’d picked and grimaced. Couldn’t he have chosen a different one? Any other would have been better. Bloody hell.

“Randy Johnson? I can’t believe your name is Randy Johns—”

He turned on his heel and pressed his hand over her mouth. “No smart arse remarks.”

She opened her mouth under his palm which prompted him to give her a warning look. “I will spank you.”

She pushed his hand away. “I wasn’t going to say a word.” She pretended to zip her lips but he still saw the glint of amusement in her green eyes.

“You better not.”

“Of course not, Randy.”

The belligerent little bird was just waiting to tick him off. The little jabs, the insolent glances. As though she was challenging him to retaliate, to give as good as he got. Oh, and he’d love to. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself bent over his knee and—

“You’re doing that staring thing again.”

“It’s not like I’m the only one.” He slowly stepped closer, unable to resist the pull, loving the way she watched him as though prepared to flee. The effect he had on her could be a drug better than the cigarettes he’d found tossed on top of his bedside table. “You know, I have the strangest feeling.” Lifting his hand almost absentmindedly, he twirled the silk of her hair around his fingers. All the while he pretended not to soak up every expression that crossed her face, how her eyelashes dipped just a little bit lower and her teeth sank into her full lower lip. How her own fingers twitched as if with the urge to touch him in return.

“W-what feeling?”

“It’s too naughty for your lovely ears,” he whispered against her cheek and gave her hair a last caress before dropping his hand.

“Maybe you’re not the only one with naughty thoughts,” she said and his gaze dropped to devour the sight of her hands caressing the front of his T-shirt. “Isn’t it weird though? That I have no idea who I am but I know that the sky is blue and what year it is? Touching you feels so familiar too,” she murmured as though she wasn’t even talking to him and pulled away before he could stop her. His chest burned even after her touch was gone.

“Yeah, suppose it’s only affected our personal memories, whatever it was.” His hands slid into the pockets of his jeans as he forced himself to step away. It occurred to him that for all he knew, they could be related. Although that option was highly unlikely considering he imagined nibbling the curve of her belly above the low waistband of her jeans. That strip of bare skin was driving him insane.

“That makes sense,” she said. “We should probably check parts of the house we haven’t checked yet. Look for any other clues on how to fix this. This house is freaking huge, so I think we should split up. I’ll go downstairs.”

Clues, huh? It would have been nice if there was a letter saying, ‘Dear Randy, in case you cock up, this is what you do,’ followed by an instruction manual on how to get out of this mess. He doubted they would find anything of the sort.

“Got it. I’ll search this floor while you do.”

Buffy nodded. “Okay. Meet you downstairs after you’re done? I’ll look for some food as well because I’m starting to get hungry.”

Yeah, so was he. Just not for food.

“Sure, kitten.”

She stopped in the doorway and turned around with a strange look on her face.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head and gave him a confused smile. “Nothing. Just… a weird feeling.” With that she left.

Women, he thought with a shake of his head.

*******

All right. He had weapons. No big deal. What regular bloke wouldn’t have a gun or two under his bed? Or blades. Or wooden stakes that were slightly too phallic for his peace of mind. He was probably a collector.

Sure, let’s go with that one.

It probably wouldn’t do to tell Buffy though. No need to freak her out.

When he ventured down in search of her, the last thing he’d expected was to find her huddled on the couch looking pale and shell shocked. What in hell could have possibly happened to her in twenty minutes? He scratched the side of his cheek in thought.

“Buffy? What’s wrong?” He approached the couch, hovering over her shoulder when she refused to answer.

All he could see was the back of her head, her slumped posture.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked quietly, her hands twisting around in her lap.

Sighing, he rounded the couch and sat down heavily. “What are you on about? Tell you what?” She hadn’t seen the weapons, had she? Nah. Would have made a hasty exit if she had.

“That I look like…” Her lips thinned as she wiped her eyes with an impatient swipe of her fingers. “That I have those scars on my face.”

Ah, he should have known. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “I bet you’d like to know if there was an extra arm growing out of your head.”

“That would have been right handy, actually. It could hold a beer can for me.”

She snorted a laugh and the sound made the warmth expand in his chest. Although she still wouldn’t look at him, she was no longer crying and that filled him with a sense of accomplishment. He knew then. Memories or not, caring about her was something that was rooted deep within.

“I didn’t tell you because I thought it wouldn’t make a difference.” Because he hadn’t felt like hurting her. “You’re still… you’re still lovely.” Saying that made him feel strangely vulnerable, as though he was admitting something profound and for a moment he wished he could take the words back. That he’d said it without revealing so much emotion. But then she cast him a surprised glance, the corner of her lips being teased into a tentative smile and he knew it had been worth it.

“Are you as scared as I am?” Buffy asked and he was glad she hadn’t called him on the softness of his heart. “That we won’t get our memories back?”

He should say he wasn’t, that men were never scared of anything and he’d find a way to work it out. Instead he found himself nodding and wishing he could overcome the shyness she’d inspired, just so he could reach out and feel the solidity of her presence to assure himself neither of them was in this mess alone.

“We’ll go through the books I saw piled up upstairs, yeah? We’re bound to find something useful,” he said, mustering up as much confidence as he could. For both their sakes. “But I’m not working on an empty stomach. Come on.”

He rose to his feet and held out his hand. For a second he feared she wouldn’t take it.

It turned out his fears had been unfounded as she slid her hand into his. At the first contact, tendrils of heat raced up his arm. Just her palm rubbing against his, their fingers tangled together as she led him to the kitchen. Knowing she hadn’t let go the first chance she got made him want to smile, but the contact was so comforting in its intimacy he feared he wouldn’t be able to let go.

*******

The wind outside raged with enough force to rattle the window frames as they sat side by side on the couch in the living room again. The food hunt had revealed Randy had somewhat of a sweet tooth and that he was equally determined to turn her frown upside down. She had no idea why he cared, or why the thought of it sent her heart galloping. Here she was with a stranger and all she could think of was how much she knew him without knowing anything at all. How she trusted him without any proof he wouldn’t let her fall.

“I think you should watch your sugar intake,” Buffy said and watched amusedly as he took a last bite of his third waffle and sprayed a generous amount of whipped cream straight into his mouth. “Okay, that’s just gross.” And totally yummy looking.

“You’re just jealous,” he taunted with his mouth full, his knee bouncing up and down. This man definitely didn’t need any more sweets. And damn him, of course she was jealous.

So she pouted at him. “Can I have some?”

With a wink, he slid closer to her and shook the whipped cream can in her face. “Come and get it then.”

What, did he think she wouldn’t? She was plenty daring and refusing a challenge wasn’t in her nature.

She pounced just as he lifted his arm high above his head. They toppled backwards and she straddled him in order to reach up to confiscate the can from him. Just a little bit further and… Yes! Now to wrestle it out of his hand.

The playful grin froze on her face when she felt his breath graze her neck. Their grip on the can fell slack and it fell to the cushions above their head with a silent thump. Their eyes met. Slowly, Randy pulled her lower so they were almost nose to nose.

She swallowed heavily, knowing she should sit up and make a hasty excuse to get away, but his arm had sneaked around her waist and all she wanted to do was crawl inside his skin. To taste the whipped cream off his lips.

“You’ve got a bit left,” she whispered and licked her lips, her gaze fixed on the tiniest bit of cream beckoning her from the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe you could help a fella out,” he said huskily, the sound making her blood turn to simmering fire.

“I should,” she said and leaned in to brush her lips against his. She half expected him to sweep in and take over but he only tightened his hold and exhaled a moan into her mouth.

“Sweet,” she said as her tongue flicked out to taste his lower lip. It wasn’t a kiss filled with clashing teeth and desperate touches, but the intensity of the light, exploring brushes of their lips had her thighs clench tighter around his hips.

Randy’s hand snuck under her shirt to caress her spine, her ribcage, his fingers stopping just an inch beneath her breasts in the most maddening way. It wasn’t enough. The fire was pooling in her belly and she gasped when he covered her lips fully and kissed her slowly, deeply. As though memorizing the very taste of her.

She didn’t think, couldn’t, when she urged him to take her shirt off just to feel his calloused fingertips on her skin, to surrender to the sparks crackling across her nerve endings in the wake of his touch. Her hands caressed his throat and chest, feeling the muscles shift. Too much fabric between them, need to get it off, so she whispered her demand to roll them over and he readily obliged.

His shirt was pulled off and she had a mere second to admire how beautiful he looked before he took possession of her lips again, his tongue drawing out hers to play. Had she ever felt this way before? This breathless intimacy of her breasts pressing into his chest? The drowning ecstasy of cradling his hips? It felt really good. So good she wished they weren’t wearing jeans at all.

The muscles of his back bunched and moved under her palms as the slow grinding motion of his pelvis teased a whimper out of her throat. She felt almost delirious with need, but a sudden yank of pain had her eyes flying open and biting his lip.

“Ow,” he said and pulled away, his pupils dilated. “What’s wrong?”

“My hair.” The stupid locket she wore had gotten tangled in her hair and when Spike had slid his fingers into her hair, pain had flared up.

“Don’t move, I’ve got it,” he said and slowly worked it out of her hair.

“Take it off.” She wanted to go back to kissing him.

The clasp clicked open and the world came rushing back. The sound of the locket slipping out of Spike’s hand and to the floor was drowned out by the memories screaming within her mind. Her own lifetime flooded her in a millisecond like tsunami that had crashed through a dam. Her childhood, the monsters her mother had tried to sacrifice her to, the accident. All those years she kept everyone at arms’ length to protect herself from being shunned. Moments with her father, seeing Anya’s true face. The first day she saw Spike.

Spike who was currently breathing hard against her shoulder.

“I need to go,” she said and pushed at his shoulders until he was up and looking as out of sorts as she felt. She was half naked and confused and the mother of all headaches started to make itself at home in her head.

“Buffy…”

She gathered her shirt and quickly put it on, all the while thinking she’d almost had sex with him. When she hadn’t even remembered him! She’d put her trust in his hands and he’d wiped their memories clear. What would have happened if they hadn’t gotten them back? “I have to go. It’s too late, Dad will be worried,” she rattled off one excuse after another and started to gather her things, wishing that gathering her dignity would be just as easy.

She saw him sitting there on the couch, disheveled, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in the palms of his hands and she wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. To do something, anything, that would lift the weight off his shoulders. Instead she cast him one last glance and hurried out of the door.

TBC


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