6.
The soft chime of the doorbell caught Buffy’s attention. She opened the front door to find Giles on her doorstep. He apologized for arriving unannounced at her door. It wasn’t a problem. Buffy was glad for the company.
“I was just going to warm something up. Have you eaten?” Giles set down his briefcase and followed Buffy into the kitchen. The prospect of a meal sounded too good to pass up.
“I haven’t actually, no.” Giles stood at the island counter and watched as Buffy peered into the open refrigerator.
“I’ve got some pasta,” Buffy peeled back a plastic lid and wrinkled her nose at the unattractive contents. “And that’s so seen better days.” She walked to the garbage can and tipped the container into the bin. The congealed mass slipped into the trash with a resounding thud.
“I think there’s some frozen curry.” Buffy opened the freezer compartment and brought out another container. “From the pot luck night. Spike made–” Buffy’s voice stopped in midstream. Spike made enough to serve a visiting army of ravenous slayers. The curry was a big hit and Spike made a most gracious host.
Buffy stared at the plastic container, transfixed by another memory. Even dinner was a struggle these days. She let out a slow exhale and put the frozen entrée on the island. Her mind idled on its familiar subject.
“He doesn’t know who I am, Giles. He doesn’t seem to have any memory of Sunnydale at all. He’s all ‘Where’s Drusilla? She’s sick. She needs me.'” Buffy looked from Giles’ solemn face to the dinner Spike had made a month ago. Within that frozen mass of legumes, ground beef and spices was the flavor of Spike’s affection.
“That seems to be the intent of the Alchemist’s work. It has discarded his memories of us. And I agree, he does seem quite preoccupied with Drusilla.”
“Well, we need to get his memories back. He’s a hero. He saved the whole world.” After that outburst, Buffy walked into a spontaneous embrace. It had been a while since Giles had been allowed to hold her and comfort her. “He shouldn’t be pining away for the psycho who did this to him.”
An audible sniffle sent Giles into action. He offered his handkerchief and she gratefully accepted. Buffy’s sorrow was beginning to annoy her. Sniffling and whimpering at the drop of a hat was hardly helpful to Spike. In fact, it was getting in the way. She needed to get angry and kick some butt. And start eating.
Spike experienced a periodic mope himself, but it had never put him off his food. Buffy needed to stay strong and focused. The curry went into the microwave. Giles set the table while Buffy sliced a baguette.
After they finished their meal, Buffy sat at the table rolling the edge of her place mat between her fingers. They broached the problem once more.
“What about Willow? Can’t she do something and magick his memories back?” What was the use of having a sometime goddess in the family anyway?
Giles took a deep breath. Willow had already investigated and discarded that possibility. “It’s not as simple as that. Perhaps if some spell had altered him then there would be a chance at a reversal, but his memories have been,” Giles reached for a neutral word, “taken…removed from him completely.”
“He thinks he’s just arrived in Sunnydale.”
“Apparently so. The demon appears to have removed selective memories but his core personality does seem intact.”
Buffy’s expression soured. Her frustration surfaced once again. “Personality? What are you talking about? He’s a complete asshole! I just want to throttle him and make him be Spike again.”
“He is Spike.”
“Spike can behave better than that creep.”
“That was the Spike you knew, the Spike who came to love you. Think back to what he was like when he first came to town.”
Buffy thought and her mouth turned into a frown. “He was a jerk. All puffed up ego and arrogant and–“
“Threatening…lethal…homicidal. Sound familiar?”
“Why don’t I just tell him everything that’s happened and see if he remembers anything?”
Giles knew it would be difficult to keep Buffy’s impulse control under rational management as his own was being sorely tested. “We’ll need to proceed carefully here. He hasn’t merely forgotten the past. The demon has taken his memories and that means they cannot be retrieved. That past no longer exists for him.”
“Should I tell him that Drusilla’s dead?” Giles winced and fluttered his eyelashes. Impulse control was going to be a problem. Again, he chose a calm and neutral response.
“That’s probably not the best place to start. Why don’t you give him the paper? He can read. He can see for himself.”
“Giles. He has a soul.” She looked at him with guarded, watering eyes.
“I know, Buffy.” Giles’ face stilled. He wanted to show support but he was under no illusions. Soulless Spike was an adversary he did not care to face again. Neither of them voiced their fear. Did Spike still have his soul? Or had Drusilla destroyed that as well?
*
“What?! How the hell did I fake the L.A. Times, Spike?” Buffy cried out in exasperation. Spike refused to consider that the date at the top of the page was the correct one. No matter what she said he refused to believe her. As far as he was concerned, it was 1997. He was itching to get back to Drusilla and then get as far away from the Hellmouth as he could.
It didn’t escape his notice that the Slayer used his name.
“Heard of me, have you?” That thought sent a blaze of macho gratification through his belly. Spike straightened his shoulders and began to pace in a proud manner. Cock of the walk. That’s what William the Bloody was. Yeah. So deadly to a slayer that he had to be captured and held at bay. Fearful little bitty this one must be. He bubbled with glee to think that his reputation had preceded him and that the scenario he found himself in was somehow an offshoot of his fearsome skill as the Slayer of Slayers.
“Right, I suppose I would figure prominently on the To Do list of any slayer,” his voice dropped seductively and he looked at her through hooded eyes. “I got a thing for slayers, you know. I like them up close,” he paused and sucked in a shudder of air through his teeth. The tingling tightness that accompanied those arousing memories was something to be savored. “And bloody.”
Buffy cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on the most neutral, inane mantra she could think of — flossing prevents gum disease, flossing prevents gum disease — anything not to acknowledge the bedroom voice he just used. Too late. She felt her toes start to curl.
The reptilian smile that greeted her cooled her down instantly. Spike took pleasure in sniffing the air in an exaggerated manner. She could still feel what he scented and fought against her mindless response. A nasty look of delight curdled the edges of Spike’s eyes. Even like this he got to her, under her skin, inside her mind, between her legs. It was the undiluted attraction between vampire and slayer. Homicidal bloodlust mixed with sexual need ricocheted off the walls of the small room and infused both occupants. Attraction and repulsion bristled on both sides.
“I think somebody wants to play. Does kitty need a scratching post?” That was one lurid grin. Again, retreat seemed the only option. Buffy turned and almost reached the door.
“Slayer,” his voice was low and gruff. “What say we lose the chains and fight each other as nature intended…to the death. Come on now, you know you want it.” He morphed before her. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Shut up! Just– Shut up!”
“Ooooh. Rough talk. Does kitty have some claws or just a sweet pussy?” Spike erupted into peals of laughter.
Buffy stood and shook with frustration. “Listen to me, you dolt. It is NOT 1997. For the last time, it’s 2005. Read the newspaper! You don’t know shit. Things have changed. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Drusilla has changed. Get the theme, Spike? Changed!” She roared out of the room. Her tears and anguished respiration floated down the hall.
“Why is that chit always bloody crying?” Spike squat down and spread out the newspaper. “And a fucking PEN would be nice to do the crossword!” he bellowed at the door.
Suddenly the door flew open. Buffy stormed back into the room, red faced and her chest heaving for air. She flung a bag of blood at him. A blood donor bag.
“Taste that you jerk! You always said that blood cannot lie. So here’s the truth. You can choke on it!” She stormed out again. Down the hall, through the shop, not even a good night to Giles. She needed to run. She needed to roar. She needed to put her fists through as many demons as she could find.
“Oh, I could dance with that one,” Spike murmured as he slit the bag. Again an unexpected fragrance filled his nostrils. He morphed and sucked out the contents only to be stunned by an unmistakable truth. This blood had an incredibly decadent bouquet of emotional turmoil laced with dynamic physical strength.
This was slayer blood. Enemy blood. It was her blood.
What the fuck was going on?
Spike’s eyes drifted to the date line on the newspaper spread out before him. August 6, 2005. After draining the bag he carefully pealed open its seams and methodically licked the intoxicating nectar from each plastic surface.
The slayer willingly fed him her blood.
Changed wasn’t a big enough word.