"Hey. Wes? Are you awake?"

Wesley's eyes opened and he sat up, wincing at a crick in his neck and wiping the corner of his mouth. The Wolfram & Hart infirmary didn't encourage visitors, and the hard plastic chair he'd dragged in from the lobby was intensely uncomfortable.

"Fred," he husked. Cleared his throat, tried again. "Sorry. I hadn't expected to doze off." He rubbed at his eyes, blinking sleepily and fighting back a yawn. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, actually," she said. She seemed alert enough, from what Wesley could see, sitting up in the infirmary bed and fiddling with the oxygen monitor on her finger. "A little queasy. A little embarrassed," she chuckled, "but otherwise I feel like I'm caught up on sleep for the first time in months." Fred ducked her head and smiled up at him through her lashes. "Is it bad that I'm kinda glad I got hit with that tranquilizer?"

Wes felt himself smiling in response. "I suppose as long as you don't make a habit of it…" he began, and was rewarded with another smile and a bit of shy laughter. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet, nodded toward the door. "Can I get you anything? You must be thirsty."

"If it isn't too much trouble," she replied. "And, you know, if you can find someone to spring me out of here, that'd be great. Oh! What about Spike? How is he? Have you heard anything?"

"A bit," he said. "Let me get you that drink first." He couldn't help brushing his fingertips across the back of her hand before he left.

After flagging down a passing nurse, it took longer than Wesley expected to find the vending machine, and then to pick something that Fred might enjoy without upsetting her stomach. It'd been some time since he'd had much experience with such things, but he still remembered the nausea that some drugs could trigger. By the time he got back, a bottle of water in one hand and a bottle of fruit juice in the other, Fred was sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the infirmary bed, biting her lip while trying to put her hair back up into its bun. The nurse had brought a doctor with her to Fred's room and was standing off to one side, tucking her blood pressure cuff back into her coat pocket.

"…so as long as you agree to take it easy for the next twenty-four hours or so, I see no reason not to let you go," the doctor was saying. The tag on his lab coat read David Carter. "Give yourself time to get the last traces of the drug out of your system. I admit I'd really prefer it if you went home, but as I understand it Dr. Sato – he's our head of neurology – wanted to speak with you concerning the other patient that was involved in last night's incident."

"You mean Spike?" Fred asked.

"If that's the vampire's name, then yes," said Dr. Carter. "He's not one of my cases so I'm afraid I can't tell you much more. I generally don't work with the non-humans anyway," he admitted. "I don't really have a background in xenobiology, and apart from that I have an irrational fear of being dismembered and eaten. I try to make it a policy to avoid that happening…"

Wesley coughed politely into his hand.

The doctor chuckled weakly, then scribbled something inside the manila folder he was holding. "So. Any questions?"

"Nothing strenuous, stay away from solid foods until the nausea is gone, get a good night's sleep tonight," said Fred. "Did I miss anything?"

Dr. Carter snapped his folder shut with a smile. "Sounds like you've got it," he said, offering his hand for Fred to shake. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Burkle, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. Welcome to the firm."

Rather than heading home, Fred convinced Wesley to take her to the small commissary two floors above the infirmary. "The chicken soup here is actually pretty good," she said, "and I need something in my system before we meet with Dr. Sato."

At three in the afternoon, the commissary was practically deserted; apart from a tired-looking woman behind the counter and a trio at another table (two human, one tk'Uktik folding its ten legs across two chairs), Fred and Wesley were the only people there. They were halfway through what passed for lunch before anyone else came in; another human, he paused in the doorway for a second, spotted them, and then made a beeline for their table with a huge smile on his face.

The man was Asian, and the laminate card around his neck said "Sato" in large letters next to a photo that looked very little like him – partly because the photo showed someone much… tidier, Wesley decided. Unlike Dr. Carter in his pristine lab coat, Sato was wearing rumpled blue surgical scrubs and a pair of scruffy loafers under a business suit jacket with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He was younger than Wesley would have expected, and his hair was sticking up every which way thanks to the pair of wire frame glasses Sato had propped up out of the way above his forehead.

"Very sorry to interrupt you," said Dr. Sato, "but I could not risk the possibility that you would leave before I was able to speak with you. If my findings are correct –" He stopped himself with a little shake, and his glasses slipped down to plop on the tip of his nose. "Forgive me," he said. Nudged the frames into place. "Let me begin again. I am Dr. Makoto Sato, head of neurology and assistant head of non-human medicine here at Wolfram and Hart infirmary. Please, may I join you?"

Introductions all around, and an order of double-strength coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich as the doctor pulled up a chair. "This latest case… I have not slept since he came in last night," said Dr. Sato with a grin. "This is breakfast for me. Very glad to learn that you had come up here or I might have forgotten to eat anything."

"I'm no expert, of course," said Wesley, "but given that vampires are technically dead, it seems a little odd that Spike's case would be referred to a neurologist, doesn't it?"

"Well, seizures," said Fred. "I mean, I'm not an expert either, but I do know that seizures are caused by out-of-control brain activity. And remember, before he recorporealized, my scan detected brain wave signatures. Which is weird all by itself, when you think about it."

Sato nodded vigorously, his mouth full. "Hai. You are both correct," he said, "so I was a little skeptical to hear that my seizure patient was a vampire. These are not concepts that belong in the same sentence, do you see? But I enjoy a challenge." He swallowed with an effort, licked a crumb off the corner of his mouth, grinned again. "I spoke with Mr. Angel earlier and he said that Mr. Spike – is that really his name? – that Mr. Spike had a tendency to defy expected parameters. Not his exact words, of course."

"Of course," said Wesley. "Angel was here? I don't recall him stopping by Fred's room…"

"I could not say," replied Sato. "I only requested for him to come to my department so that I could perform a few simple tests."

"Tests?" asked Fred. "There's – did something happen to Angel?"

"Not at all," said Sato. "I simply needed to gain some understanding of what brain scans ought to reveal in a typical vampire. In order to assist Mr. Spike, of course. I tested Mr. Angel, also his receptionist, and all the other vampire staff members I was able to locate. There were not many. Only eight, but still I was able to discover certain consistent patterns."

"Such as?" Fred leaned forward in her seat, ignoring her bowl of soup.

"Perhaps most fundamental is that, when at rest, there is no detectable brain activity. This I expected," said Sato. "As you have said, Mr. Wesley, the body is not living. The demon which animates it only utilizes what it must. Even when in motion, there are only a very few indications that the brain is even sending nerve signals to operate muscles. The demon appears to move them directly, with only indirect participation by the brain. While a typical scan compensates for artifact signals, it is still possible that what I detected were the muscles sending responses back to the brain, rather than command impulses generated by the brain itself." He drank a little coffee, wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. "When the vampire is speaking, there are indicators to suggest activity in the cerebral cortex. The demon is utilizing memories stored within the brain, perhaps. But for the most part, the demon is… how do you say… a mystical presence, rather than a biological one. Background activity does not present."

"Present?" asked Wesley.

"Show up in test results," said Fred. Dr. Sato nodded and took a large bite of his sandwich.

"If that's the case," said Wesley, "then it should be impossible for a vampire to have a seizure, independent of an outside stimulus such as electric shock."

"Hai," said Sato, "very good. It is possible to induce convulsions in that way, but the cause does not originate in the nervous system. Not a true seizure."

"But wouldn't something like that produce an immediate reaction?" asked Fred. "Spike had just gone through… well, I'm not sure yet how to classify the energy source, but it would have to be pretty significant in order to take someone from ghost-like to solid and corporeal again. But he didn't collapse until almost ten minutes after that."

Sato grinned, an "I know something you don't" sort of smile, and picked up his coffee mug.

"Impossible, hai?" he said. "A vampire should not exhibit any but the most minimal brain activity, and that all associated with higher functions. An entity without a physical body should not be capable of producing such energy at all." He beamed at them, inviting them to share his excitement. "Even more impossible for a vampire at rest to present clear signs of activity – vigorous activity – originating in the brain stem."

Fred's eyes grew wide. "And Spike did?"

"He has not stopped!" Wesley watched, bemused, as Sato wiggled in his seat, a full-body shiver of such delight that he apparently didn't even notice when his coffee sloshed out of the mug and splattered the floor. "We have monitored Mr. Spike constantly since he was admitted. There have been two events – that is to say, two more seizures – during the night. Both of them mild. But in between, the output from Mr. Spike's brain stem has continued without pause!"

"But that's –" began Fred.

"Impossible!" said Sato. "I know!"

"Please," Wesley interrupted. "I'm afraid I haven't studied any sort of human physiology since primary school when I was a child. What is so significant about your discovery?"

Sato leaned forward, eyes shining. "Mr. Wesley, the brain stem is the most primitive part of the human brain, and concerns itself with the most basic of functions. It is responsible for maintaining consistent body temperature. With management of digestion and elimination. With respiration. With heartbeat."

Wesley blinked. The doctor couldn't be saying…

"Mr. Wesley, the brain stem is responsible for the mechanics of life."

There was a Man, and he was in a Place, empty and dark. Occasionally the Place would fill with light, lightning bolts and firefly flickers in every color the Man had ever imagined or could remember. With the lights would come sound, noise, everything from softly-spoken words to shrieks and squealing feedback to bone-rattling reverberations almost too low to be heard. When they came the Man could also feel strange sensations, bewildering and random, pain and pleasure and prickling, tingling, in his arms and legs and teeth.

While all this happened, thought was impossible. The Man only knew that he was, and the Place was.

When all this subsided, the Place would become empty and dark again, and the Man would remember. There was something he needed to do.

Something he was searching for… no. Someone he was searching for.

It occurred to the Man that he was walking. Sensations resolved themselves into legs, moving in rhythm to a drum somewhere far behind him. Its beat was uneven and faltering, so the Man ignored it and moved forward.

The Girl. The Man remembered now. He was searching for the Girl, trying to get to… Her.

"Her" seemed like the right word. Yes. The Girl was Her.

Around the Man, the Place began to change. The darkness was no longer absolute; lights resolved into little glowing pinpoints far overhead. It occurred to the Man that there had been no such thing as "overhead" until the lights began to define it. Below the Man – another new concept – legs swept across ground. New shapes came into being, concepts like "grass" and "tree" and "stone" coming to the Man as he walked.

The Man became aware, gradually, of the concept of Outside. Somewhere Outside the Place, hordes of other beings existed, like the Man and yet not. Like the Man as he had once been – and with that thought came a new concept, "time", and along with it "before" and "now".

There came also the notion of the Man, Himself, as distinct from these other beings. Some of them were Men, too, but they were not Him. He was…

He was something called "Spike".

The recovery of that concept unleashed a flood of others. Comprehension washed across the Man – across Spike – and he found himself now walking through thick fog, stars twinkling overhead. No idea where he was.

No, that wasn't quite right… No bloody idea where he was. Yes. That was better.

He had to find the Girl. The Man could feel the Girl – no, he fought to keep his awareness together – Spike could feel the Girl. They were connected… Spike struggled to think. That connection… another concept, the best one of all. It was called "love".

Spike loved the Girl… loved Her.

Loved "Buffy".

Another wave of understanding engulfed him. Yes. Oh, yes.

Spike loved Buffy, and he needed to get to her.

Through the fog now, he could see the shapes of grave markers, all different sizes and shapes, the occasional bunch of fake plastic flowers sagging under the weight of the damp air. Dripping onto the grass. Tree branches overhead now and again; one of them dripped down the back of his neck and he shivered, muttered a curse. Sodding thing. Distractin', is what it was.

Spike concentrated, felt within him for that point where his love for Buffy was anchored. He pulled up the collar of his duster against the damp and the chill, and followed love as it led him forward.

Buffy'd had this particular stake for a couple of years, now; kept it sharp, smoothed the splinters out of it every so often. The tip finally broke the skin along the inside of her left breast. The first drop of red seeped up into the wood, following the fibers, staining it with living blood for the first time.

Buffy winced at the sudden, bright pain. Wuss, she thought. You can get body-slammed, thrown clear through a wall, pummeled by monsters from hell and not bat an eyelash, but an oversize splinter has you flinching like a baby.

Just because I'm ready to… just because I know what's on the other side of the pain doesn't mean I actually like having to go through the pain to get there, she retorted.

The second drop welled up and began to trickle down, a dark line tracing the edge of her breast, before she felt it – that tingle along her spine that said a vampire was nearby. Oh, of course there was. Buffy rolled her eyes. She was naked from the waist up in a cemetery with a stake to her chest – a little busy, here – and now was when they finally decided to show up?

Buffy huffed out a breath and concentrated. Whoa. Definitely an older vampire. Strong. This one would not make for an easy kill. Senses alert, she hopped off the gravestone and took a couple steps out, giving herself room to move and peering through the fog for any sign of its approach. Barely noticed, her shirt and jacket flowed back into place as her attention shifted.

Oh, sure, drawled the little voice inside. There's nothing to keep you here anymore, you're ready to finally go back to that peace, but the first sign of a vamp and you just drop what you're doing and go right back to your sacred duty.

Buffy frowned. Remind me not to use that level of sarcasm on myself ever again, she thought.

Looking, listening… nothing… nothing… there. A vague shape moving between the stones, coming toward her. It didn't seem to have noticed her yet – maybe she could get the drop on –

"Tryin' to off yourself, Slayer?"

Oh. Oh, god.

"There'll be none of that, now," it said mildly. "Killin' you is supposed to be my job, last I checked."

It was still too dark, the fog too thick to make out details, but she'd know that walk anywhere. She came up out of her fighting stance, her heart starting to pound as the mists thinned. The shape resolved, edges sharpening around a patch of blackness amid the shadows – duster, punk-rock mosh-pit stomping boots – and the stars overhead gave just enough light to illuminate white-blond hair, glint off a heavy silver belt buckle.

She couldn't feel her fingers and it was hard to breathe. The stake made a quiet little noise, or maybe she did, as it landed in the grass, and tears welled up in her eyes.

Buffy tried to say his name, but no sound came out. He kept walking, no slower, no faster, just calmly approaching her until at last he stood in front of her, close enough to touch if she dared. One tear spilled over, hot as it flowed down her cheek.

"Hullo, pet," said Spike.

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