Chapter Text
Night 13 continued.
Riley Finn hardly knew how or why he'd taken it into his head to ask Buffy on a date, but he had. So now he found himself going to meet her, 'for coffee', and feeling very nervous about it.
He heaved a sigh. It wasn't that he didn't like Buffy; he liked her well enough. But he always felt awkward when trying to make small talk with girls he liked. Actually, he hated making small talk at all; so little in his life was small enough to fit. Okay, in his head, that sounded like bragging, but he knew what he meant.
He also knew from experience that the way Buffy looked at you made it especially hard on the brain, when you tried to form a coherent sentence.
As it turned out, Buffy said she was hungry, and Riley brightened at the thought that food might get the conversation going. But when he saw the diner's laminated menu, Riley had to hope Buffy wasn't a food snob. Best not to talk about the food then.
Still, they had to talk about something. "So, Buffy. How was your day?"
"Oh, you know. Studying. Hanging with my friends."
Evasive as usual: not giving him anything to latch onto.
"How 'bout you?" Buffy added helpfully.
And because she looked like she actually wanted to know, Riley decided to say what was on his mind. Maybe it would help clear his head. "It's been kinda strange actually. 'Groundhog Day' strange, except without the remembering-things part."
Buffy frowned. "More 'splainy?"
He winced inwardly, then tried again. "Like … I don't quite remember where I'm supposed to be, or what I'm supposed to be doing, or whether who I am is who I want to be."
Buffy wrinkled her nose. "I'm still not sure I get it."
He sighed. "Well, do you ever get the feeling you've forgotten something really, really important that you had to do? Or –" And this thought came unbidden into his mind: "– something really bad that you did, that you're supposed to feel guilty about?"
The memory of the encounter with the stranger outside Lowell House had come back to bother him again.
~~
"Oh, I get that all the time." Buffy nodded vigorously. "The 'I've forgotten something' feeling anyway. It's usually related to homework."
Okay, probably not to sort of thing you should say to the TA. Quick: distract him with a light-hearted quip. "Not the 'doing something bad' feeling. I never give in to the Dark Side."
Riley seemed sadly oblivious to her feeble jest. But at least he didn't seem to be thinking about her homework, either.
He looked at his hands, loosely clasped on the slightly greasy tabletop. "And then – and this is the weirdest part. Just before I came to meet you, some guy came running after me, like we were meant to be meeting up. It looked like he'd been waiting outside for me, but I didn't even recognise him. And then he said it was a mistake. But it couldn't have been, because he knew my name, he called me by it."
Buffy's eyes widened. "Riley, you have a stalker?" With some difficulty, she managed to stop herself from offering her assistance in dealing with the problem. In what passed for real life, little girls weren't supposed to try to protect big men.
"No, I don't think he's stalking me. He just looked totally weirded-out that I didn't know him. Like I really should have. But I don't think I ever met him before."
She shrugged. "Well, you must meet a lot of people, being a TA and all. And you know how helpful you are. Perhaps you offered to tutor him? You can't expect to remember everybody you –"
"No." Riley shook his head. "I would have remembered this one. He was … distinctive."
Buffy began to perk up at the thought of a mystery to solve. Not that she'd felt un-perky to start with, but this provided a welcome distraction from the pain in the ass that was small talk. "So, what did he look like?"
"Well, like I said, distinctive. About five-eight, all in black, and kind-of emaciated. And he had bleached hair …"
… and talking of pains in the ass … Spike! And he was stalking her date! But why? Oh, like, he needed a reason to piss her off!
Buffy placed her cup carefully on the table, trying very hard not to slam it down, and smash it to pieces.
Riley, looking contemplatively into his coffee foam, didn't notice. "And I think he was wearing make-up."
"Spike!"
~~
"Spike!"
The sound struck a tuning fork in Riley's mind; he didn't know what it meant, but he wanted to. "What was that you said?"
Buffy looked like she'd been caught smoking in school. "Spite!" she blurted out. "He might be following you out of spite."
As liars went, Buffy was cripplingly poor. But a first date was way too early in the relationship – if that's what this was – for him to start cross-questioning her. And what was she hiding?
"To get back at you for that bad thing you did," Buffy rattled on. "The thing you can't remember."
The more she blustered, the more Riley wanted to find out the truth.
Buffy played with the sugar lumps in the bowl. "This guy – Bleached Boy – he didn't try to … harm you did he? Like … bite you or anything like that?"
"Bite me?" Riley raised his eyebrows. "No."
This girl seemed a lot more clued-in to the darker side of Sunnydale than her slightly ditzy façade let on.
"I just heard it's a craze going round at the moment." Buffy hid her face behind the menu. "Going up to strangers and ... biting them."
"Well, I hadn't heard of that one before. I guess it's all the cool kids that are doing it."
Riley's mind spun. Had the guy he'd met earlier been a vampire? It didn't seem possible. He had been very pale, but not fangy or bumpy. If he were a vampire, the only place could have met before was in the Initiative. But how would a vamp have gotten out? And if he had, why would he approach Riley? For revenge?
The stranger hadn't looked vengeful.
Riley noticed the waitress standing at their table, pointedly tapping her pen on the order pad. His mind fogged up. What had he just been thinking about?
Oh. What to order. That must be it.
Buffy ordered a cheeseburger with fries.
On impulse, Riley said, "I'll try the veggie-burger."
Buffy looked at him in mild surprise. "You converting?"
"No … I don't think so. Maybe." He smiled. "Just call it one for the cows. Choosin' life for a change."
Buffy looked at him quizzically. "You're a good man, Riley Finn."
"No," Riley said, without quite knowing why. "I don't think you say that."
He shivered. Even though night had fallen hours ago, he felt a shadow pass over the sun.
~~
Numb with shock, Spike stayed slumped at the foot of the tree for he didn't know how long; long enough that his eyes seemed to have finally run dry. Didn't have the will to get up. What would be the point?
Buffy Summers and Riley Finn: the perfect golden couple. No point hoping for an invite to the wedding.
Couldn't blame Riley. Hardly the poor sod's fault Maggie Walsh had done a mind-wipe on him. He'd given himself up to save Spike's wretched hide. And look where it had got them both.
Spike couldn't even summon up the energy to hate the Slayer.
It was hard to feel anything any more.
He was done; finished.
Riley had moved on.
What the fuck had Riley ever seen in him, anyway? He was a piece of trash. From the moment he'd first seen Riley, almost to the end, he'd used and manipulated him. It was almost enough to make a bloke believe in karma.
He deserved this.
No; what he deserved was to have been left in that cell, where Riley'd found him.
He stood up creakily, spread his arms wide, and turned his face up to the sky.
"Come on then, You Wankers!"
He'd tried to shout, but his voice came out cracked, and loaded with still more tears.
"Hostile Seventeen here!"
He managed to belt that out with a bit more vigour. Didn't care if they caught him. Now he knew all was lost, he wanted them to catch him.
"Hostile Fucking Seventeen calling! Bring me in, my time is up!"
At least if they took him back down there, he might get the chance to see Riley again; even if he couldn't see him, he'd know he was near.
"Come and get me, You Bunch Of Idle Tossers!"
The woods answered him with silence.
He took a deep breath, and managed a good, loud bellow, and this time he aimed it at the ground.
"It's bloody buggering Hostile Seventeen! Are you lot sodding deaf down there?"
The grass made not a whisper in response.
"Fucking … come, will you?" His voice dropped and faltered. "Come and get me." He sank back down against another tree, weakly sobbing, "Come and get me. Please come …"
But no one came.
He was cold.
Suddenly, everything seemed very clear.
Getting up; making one foot move in front of the other – it was hard, but there was just one more thing he had to do. Find a cemetery. Always one handy around here.
Within a minute, he found one. Starting at the eastern end, he wandered along the rows, reading the inscriptions.
… 'In Loving Memory' … 'Dearly Beloved Wife'…
Everybody loves you when you're dead, don't they?
… 'Sorely Missed'…
He'd died in an alley. Dru and Angelus had buried him in a shallow grave: no epitaph. When he'd crawled out, he'd had to kill the only person who might have missed, or even remembered him.
…'Beloved Son'…
Each epitaph felt like a punch in the guts, but he didn't stop reading. He searched and read, searched and read, until he found the grave of one – 'Sorely Missed' – who, like himself, had shuffled off this mortal coil in 1880. It was a girl, but it didn't matter. He was a fucking drama queen after all. Cried like a girl, so fucking what, who cared?
He lay down on the slab.
Closed his eyes, crossed his hands over his chest, and just lay there.
And though he lay as cold and still as the stone beneath him, it felt as if he were ticking: a metronome, ticking away eternity – so fucking tired. The universe seemed both unbearably far away – a distant, delicate flower on a black expanse – and oppressively close, crushing down inside his eyelids. Had the skies come down to smother him? Or had the grave on which he lay soared up like a beanstalk, elevating him to the heavens?
Thinking about it made him nauseous.
Then he felt himself sinking through an endless dark tunnel.
He would lie here.
He would lie here all night.
He prayed that when morning came, it would not be a cloudy day. When the sun rose, maybe – just maybe – for a brief glorious moment, he would feel a glimmer of the warmth with which Riley had filled him, in those few dark hours before dawn.
Tomorrow morning, when he had turned to dust, the memory of that night would be gone forever.
It couldn't come soon enough.
~~
Every time Riley fell asleep, he kept getting woken by disturbing dreams.
First, his mother called to tell him that she'd felt shamed before the family when she heard about the murder - and the call made him late to meet Buffy.
Then, he'd got distracted, picking flowers in a field for Buffy, when he was scheduled to turn up for duty.
Then, a unicorn appeared in the field. He'd seen it before, but couldn't remember where. It looked at him across the waving grasses, with an expression of such sadness that he felt his heart might break.
When he looked again, he saw a wooden stake in the unicorn's chest, and blood seeping from the wound, to soak the milky purity of its hide. The creature turned and cantered slowly away, looking back over its shoulder. It had blue eyes.
He wanted to follow it – try to catch it, maybe take it to a vet - but you have to be a virgin to catch a unicorn, and anyway, he found he couldn't take a single step.
Then he saw why he couldn't move.
He was a cake.
He tried to say, 'Eat me', but no sound came.
~~
"Hey, Feller! What 'cher doin?"
The irrepressibly friendly, and vaguely familiar voice jolted Spike out of his self-pity-induced coma. He groaned.
"Stargazin, huh? They sure are beautiful tonight, ain't they?"
Spike didn't bother opening his eyes; he just responded in a flat tone, "Please, oh, please, just fuck off, and let me die."
"Don't you want to take me for a few more dollars? I promise I ain't been practising."
With a supreme effort of will, Spike opened one weary eyelid, and took in the blood-hound features of one of the demons he'd hustled a few nights ago. Before Riley had innocently crushed any hope he'd had. It seemed so long ago.
The hideously flabby-skinned creature was looking down on him with such naïve optimism – such kindness – that Spike could hardly stand to see it.
"Hey! How about a game of Kitten Poker?" The demon used his most cajoling voice. "There's one set up down at The Fish Tank."
Spike could barely summon up the energy to speak, but this chummy fellow clearly had no intention of going away unanswered. "Clem, isn't it?"
Clem nodded cheerily.
"Well, Clem, I don't eat kittens. Fur gets stuck in the fangs."
"Well, how's about we just have a few beers?" Clem cocked his head.
"I'm going teetotal."
In fact, Spike was planning on being totally dehydrated, in a few hours' time.
"Oh well ... okey dokey then." Clem was trying not to sound too downcast. "See you round."
"Yeah, whatever."
Spike sighed, and closed his eyes again.
~~
Day 14
Clem hummed to himself as he headed back to his cave. His poker playing hadn't yielded much profit - just two tiny tabbies. But it didn't really matter. He never had the heart to eat the little fur balls, anyway, so he'd left these two in his wicker basket, on some human's doorstep. Humans liked kittens, didn't they?
But what was this? His playmate of a few nights ago, still lying there on the slab, with his arms across his chest?
Couldn't leave him there – oh no! That would never do! In less than an hour, the sun would rise, and then ... Clem shuddered to think of it.
So he went over to the sleeping vampire, and patted him on the arm.
Clem didn't have time to blink in surprise, before he felt Spike's hands around his throat. The vampire hadn't even opened his eyes.
When he did open one of them, he let go of Clem at once. "Oh. It's you."
~~
"Hey, it's nearly sunrise! I thought you vamps knew when to get inside. Don't you have some sort of, sixth sense?"
"No, we have watches," Spike lied blandly. "And I don't want to get inside. I'm old, and I'm cold, and I'm sick of trying. I've had enough." He put a hand over his eyes to avoid seeing Clem's worried look. "Don't trouble yourself over me."
"Come on Spike – it is Spike, isn't it?"
"Last time I looked, yeah."
"Well, Spike, remember this. However bad things get, there's always someone worse off than you are."
Spike sighed deeply. "Only a sociopath would find that thought comforting."
"Well, have you tried looking on the bright side? Stopping to smell the roses?"
Clem wasn't one of the most fearsomely-armed demons, but apparently he had plenty of platitudes in his arsenal. Oh well: fight fire with fire.
"Haven't you heard the song? Every rose has its thorns, Clem. The last time I sniffed one, it pricked me on the nose. So just go away, and take your roses, and your bright side, and your always-someone-worse-off, away with you."
He crossed his hands over his chest, and closed his eyes. But after a few moments, he could still feel Clem hovering around, accompanied by the faint scent of lavender, so he opened them again. Sure enough, Clem was leaning over him, with a look of busy concern furrowing his already creased brow.
What would it take to make the penny drop?
"If you must know, Clem, sunrise is what I'm waiting for. I'm looking forward to it. That side bright enough for you?"
"Waiting for …" Clem cocked his head. "But that will …"
"Kill me?" Spike gave him a desiccating look. "Oh, dear, I hadn't realised. Good job you warned me. Thank you so much. You're a good friend. Now piss off."
But Clem was thick-skinned, yes he was.
"Come on, Spike! You know what they say. Look for the silver lining! It can't be as bad as all that."
"It is, okay? It is that bad. It's worse than that bad. And silver's not worth squat these days, if you hadn't heard." Spike sat up suddenly. "Now will you please, SOD OFF AND LET ME DIE WITH DIGNITY!"
Though Clem jumped backwards to avoid getting head-butted, he seemed unimpressed by the sudden wall of sound, the fangs, or the bumpy face.
"Come on Spike, don't take on so! We all have a bad day sometimes, and get a bit down."
"Yeah, right." Spike lay back down on the stone. He didn't actually believe that this remorselessly cheerful fellow ever had a dismal thought in his life.
Clem folded his arms. "Things might look bad now, but good times are just around the corner, you'll see. You just have to soldier on!"
Spike winced, and rolled onto his side, to face away from Clem.
Clem just stomped obstinately around Spike's stony bed, and peered into his face. "Has someone been upsetting you?"
Exhausted by his earlier outburst, Spike could now barely raise an eyebrow. "You could say that, yeah."
"Well, I'm sure whoever they might be, they're not worth killing yourself over."
Spike was about to set Clem straight on that score, when he heard a noise, about twenty yards away. He put a finger to Clem's baggy lips, and listened. Someone was speaking into a walkie-talkie – calling for back-up – and he could even hear a crackly response, though he couldn't decipher its contents.
Fuck.
Initiative boys.
That was all he needed.
Couldn't a fellow even commit suicide in peace?
A few hours earlier, he'd have been happy for the Initiative to take him back below; but seeing Riley now, after the night he'd spent, and having Riley not even recognise him …
Anyway, his baggy-skinned would-be benefactor would probably get caught as well, and that wouldn't be fair. Spike heaved a sigh, and rolled off the tomb, dragging Clem to the ground with him, so they'd both be shielded from view if the soldier pointed his flashlight this way.
"No need to be like –"
Spike clapped a hand over Clem's mouth, and whispered in his ear, "If you want your internal organs left where they belong, we need to get out of here. Comprendez?"
Clem, his eyes wide as saucers, nodded.
"Where do you live?" Spike whispered urgently.
He heard a muffled sound, which continued until he remembered to take his hand off Clem's mouth.
"About two minutes away. It's only a cave, but I've done it up –"
Spike's hand went back over Clem's mouth. "Less talking. More leading the way."
Clem made as if to stand, but Spike pulled him down again. "Crawling, not walking. I'll watch your back, for all the good I can do against these guys. Keep low, and keep quiet."
As they made off, zig-zagging as fast as their knees could carry them, between the tombstones, Spike wondered where he'd acquired his white hat.
~~
He was a cake?
The part of Riley's brain that was already waking up told him he watched way too much Star Trek.
His alarm clock tweeted.
He picked up his bottle of vitamin pills.
Did he really need vitamins? He ate pretty well.
Perhaps he wouldn't take one today.
He put the bottle down again.
He did some press-ups.
~~
Spike lay shivering under one of Clem's homemade quilted eiderdowns.
Clem had a lot of the cheerfully chaotic patchworks, all of them made by his girlfriend. She obviously wasn't the same species as Clem, or she'd have kept getting her skin folds trapped in the sewing machine. Though Spike was sorely tempted to mention this observation, the surroundings somehow made it impossible for him to be so impolite.
The whole cave – apart from the narrow tunnel that led back into the hillside – was festooned with lace doilies, and antimacassars, and floral prints, and populated by hundreds of china animals of all breeds and sizes, painted in unrealistic hues: as if an insane colour-blind granny lived there.
In short, it was homely.
They'd arrived here without further contact with the enemy, and once inside, Spike had allowed one of the voluminous easy chairs to engulf him.
Despite Spike's protests that he didn't want anything, Clem at once set about making a brew, and placed a fabulously old and expensive bone china tea set on the table in front of him. The pattern looked painfully familiar. Spike had seen his mum serve tea in one just like it, a thousands times, and that nearly set off the waterworks again.
Clem must have noticed, because he sat on the arm of Spike's chair, and patted him on the shoulder: an intimacy Spike allowed without complaint.
"So. What upset you so much you wanted to end it all, Spike?"
His new pal had momentarily shed the upbeat tone, and Spike was almost tempted to tell him everything – just spill it all out - but it felt too raw. Even thinking about it was more than he could bear. Instead, Spike just shook his head, and curled up in the chair, clutching his teacup with both hands to warm them, and muttered, "Can't talk about it."
"Okay then." Clem bustled around with firewood and a kettle, leaving Spike in peace for half an hour.
After that, Spike found himself being hustled into bed with a hot water bottle. Resistance – apparently – was futile.
"Now, I have to go out now, and do some shopping." Clem tucked the covers in. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Spike closed his eyes, comforted by the thought that surely now, at last, his humiliation was complete.
Then the scent of lavender filled his nostrils, and he felt a dry, rather flabby kiss being planted on his cheek.
"Sleep tight!"
~~
Spike felt thoroughly disgusted with himself: lying - no, snuggling! - under a patchwork quilt, in a random demon's comfy bed, when he should have been blowing in the wind. And what had brought him to this pass?
Toss up between Good Samaritan-ing, and lack of guts.
If he'd really wanted to get caught, he could have made himself conspicuous, and led the Initiative boys away from Clem: killed two birds with one stone. But his insides had collapsed. Bloody duvet had more stuffing than he did.
At last, he fell into a light sleep, but he found no relief there. Well, he did, but of the wrong kind. Not the unconsciousness kind.
He dreamed about Riley.
No disguise.
No metaphor.
No symbols.
No puns.
No abstruse meaning.
No complex layers of narrative, concealing repressed desires.
Just himself and Riley Finn, lying together in a field of grasses and red clover.
The sun beat harmlessly down upon them. Riley was leaning over him, stroking his face, kissing him softly on the lips. Riley's tongue made gentle, idle explorations of his mouth. The hum of insects soothing them, their love-making observed only by the birds, and the beasts of the field, their bodies moved against each other, in languid, asynchronous accord.
Their hardnesses pressed against each other, but they were in no rush. They had all the time in the world. Riley was holding him now, and he was holding Riley. Spike bit his lower lip, and looked into Riley's eyes; he saw himself reflected there.
"You don't have to be cold," Riley said. "Not any more."
Spike pressed into Riley's hand. He felt the promised heat spread across his loins, and up through his torso, all the way to his heart. It started beating.
Spike started to come: a bright rainbow shower arcing over both of them. Riley said, "We're dreaming this together."
But Spike wanted it to be real. He struggled to keep hold of the beautiful fantasy; pressed his eyes closed, to stop the cold hand of reality prying them open on a day he didn't want to face.
Then he was spilling himself into Clem's quilt, moaning in shame, and thwarted desire, and grasping himself so as not to make it any worse; crying to dream again.
Surely this must be the lowest place yet.
Groaning, he shrugged out of bed, and somehow made it to the far end of the cave. He had little enough left to empty, miserable and alone, in that sordid alcove, and what there was, he covered with some rubble. He hoped Clem's nose was less sensitive than his own.
Given the overwhelming miasma rising from all the pot pourri about the place, that didn't seem too much of a stretch.
But what the fuck was he going to do about the quilt?
There was nothing to do.
He'd have to own up.
Suddenly furious, Spike shook his head. Own up? Did he think he was in prep school? Back in Angelus' household? He didn't need to own up to anything. He could wank over every sodding crocheted doily, table-mat, and cushion cover Clem possessed, if he wanted.
Clem was a demon, and not an especially powerful one at that. No need to be embarrassed. He could easily snap Clem's flabby neck, with his bare hands, any time he wanted. And he could see plenty of stuff to use as weapons: cutlery, rocks … heavy ornaments.
He played it out in his head: Clem coming in with his shopping, humming the theme tune to 'Hawaii Five-0' or something equally retro-pathetic; Spike, concealed at the cave entrance, hitting Clem on the back of the head, with that whopping great china leopard.
Then he snorted at himself.
Who the bloody hell was he trying to kid? He could no more kill Clem than he could've killed Buffy's mum, bless 'er. Clem was a bit annoying, but he'd treated Spike alright. Shouldn't kill blokes for trying to be nice to you – didn't make sense.
He'd been taught – and even managed to convince himself – that such scruples were weak and foolish; sentimental; something to be ashamed of. But from now on, he'd be ignoring that lesson. Sod Angelus! Like his life was such a shining example.
After hunting around for ages, for some tissues to clean himself up, Spike managed to find them, artfully concealed under an embroidered and appliquéd tissue-dispenser, disguised as a window box. He couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Clem really gave demon-kind a bad name.
By the time Clem came back from wherever he'd been, Spike had rolled up the offending quilt, and decided to put a brave face on it.
"Really sorry, Mate, but d'you have a laundry basket I can drop this in?"
~~
Night 14
Riley put the phone down.
Buffy had said she couldn't meet him tonight.
Riley could have sworn she'd expressed an interest in 'going to check out willies', but – into his puzzled silence – she'd quickly clarified, "'Free Willy'! I have to check out 'Free Willy'. From the video shop. And 'Thelma and Louise.'"
Then, apparently, she and her mom were planning to watch videos, and eat popcorn.
So she'd said.
The ideas pin-balled around the bagatelle of his brain, trying to find a slot to rest in.
For the first time, he noticed that the photo of his family had fallen face down. He went to set it right; ran his fingers around the frame. A wash of nostalgia swept through him. He missed his Mom; he wanted to go home. He looked at the calendar on the wall: pictures of the mid-west.
A realisation hit him like a thunderbolt: he'd missed his flight home for Thanksgiving.
How could that have happened? What can he have been thinking? Could he have gotten so caught up in his work, that he forgot to fly home?
Hell! He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing!
Riley picked up the phone. He ought, at the very least, to call home, and let them know he couldn't get there. But then he set the receiver down again. He couldn't think of any excuse; how to apologise.
Maybe it would be better to write down what he had to say. He needed time to think. For some reason, this all felt too much right now. He couldn't cope. He felt confused; on edge; lacking something, but he didn't know what. Was there a guy equivalent to PMT? If so, he felt like he had a terminal case.
Searching for his letter-writing paper, he opened one of the top drawers of the dressing table drawer - the wrong drawer.
Everything this last day or so was giving him a disturbing sense of déjà vu.
Exactly when had it started?
Yesterday morning: that was it! He went across to his pack, dug the sharpened tent peg out of the side-pocket, and sat on the edge of the bed, turning the home-made stake around, and over, in his hands.
When had he ever needed one of these?
His mind tried to slide away again, to thoughts of Buffy, but he dragged it back. He had something important to attend to. Stashing the stake in his pocket, he scanned the room for anything else that looked out of place, or seemed off; any clues as to why he felt this way.
On the floor on the other side of the room, he spotted a glint of metal. He went over, and picked up the object: one of his medals, the Legion of Merit. It looked rusty, but when he looked more closely, he realised that it was stained with blood. As he turned it in the palm of his right hand, it fit perfectly into some half-healed puncture wounds he'd forgotten about.
Then he noticed a couple small brown stains on the floor near the bed. He must have sat on the bed, right there, and gripped the medal so hard, it had pierced the skin, and his blood had dripped on the floor. Then he'd thrown the medal across the room.
The image rang true, and the words, 'Make me proud', flashed through his mind. With it, came the thought that he really had murdered someone, just like his mom had said, in his dream.
What if he had?
What if he had, and the army had covered it up? Somehow made him forget, so they wouldn't have to lose him, or to face the publicity?
Riley felt wracked with guilt. What had he done? It must be something ... He had to find out: but how? If the military had caused his amnesia, they sure as hell wouldn't tell him.
The stake, the medal, and the picture of his mom: how did they fit together?
He'd have asked Forrest or Graham, but when he'd gone down to the base last night, Angleman told him they'd both gone home on leave.
But they hadn't said they were going home; hadn't said good-bye. That wasn't like either of them.
The growing feeling, that information had been kept from him, set off a slow-burning anger in his belly, but he didn't know what to do with it. Needing some air, he went outside to walk under the stars.
The night air cooled his fevered brain; the mental fog began to lift. And he knew, just as surely as he knew his own name: something had been done to him.
Something had been taken from him.
Something he wanted, though he didn't know what that thing might be.
Not yet.
But he meant to find out.
As he passed the tree under his window, he noticed some cigarette butts on the ground: four – no, five. Someone had smoked five cigarettes here. Then Riley remembered the man he'd met the night before: the stranger who knew his name.
Who knew where he lived.
It had only been last night, and yet he'd almost forgotten the encounter already; even now, he had a hard time remembering anything about the guy. That, in itself, was suspicious. This man must be important: perhaps even the key to it all.
He wouldn't forget again.
And Buffy had asked if the guy had tried to bite him. Maybe he was a vampire. Perhaps that was why Riley'd made that stake – for self-defence. But the stranger hadn't looked like he wanted to harm Riley; far from it.
Why would a vampire be looking for him; waiting for him? Surely he must know something; perhaps wanted to tell him something.
Riley took himself back to that night, and the stranger's features slowly resolved themselves in his mind's eye.
He needed to find him.
~~
Riley knew how to find vampires, but finding a specific vampire posed more of a challenge. Maybe you could set a vampire to catch a vampire?
He went to the nearest cemetery, found a fresh grave, then sat and waited. Before long, he got lucky. Luckier than the occupant anyway. Riley watched in fascination as the earth began to move and turn, like a living thing itself. A hand appeared, grasping.
And Riley cursed himself as an idiot. A newly-risen vamp wouldn't come out of the ground with a copy of, 'The Vampire's Rough Guide to Southern California' in its pocket! It would be just as ignorant as Riley, about where blood-suckers went for a night out.
Feeling oddly unhappy about it – like it was cheating or something – Riley dragged the struggling vampire out of bed, and staked him.
It was easier to do than he'd expected, considering he'd never done it before. So far as he could remember ...
After that, it took him half the night to find an obvious vampire out on the hunt – well, lurking outside one of the dorms, anyway. It was a female, a blonde. He crept up behind it – her; grabbed her, and held her against a tree, with his stake poised over her heart.
With a defeated sigh, the vampire shed her game-face, and Riley took a step back. Did he know they could do that?"
She pouted prettily. "Huh! Everyone's getting in on the act now! What is this, open season? Is there a 'V' in the month? First it's just the Slayer we have to worry about. Then we gotta look out for the army too. Now even the students are coming up and staking us. It's not fair!"
Riley blinked. "Er ... sorry, I guess." The undead were protesting about unfair treatment now? And who, or what, was 'the Slayer'? "I just need to find a vampire."
Harmony – for it was she – rolled her eyes. "Well, duh!"
"Not you. A specific vampire. A guy-vampire. I don't know his name." He paused, because the next question sounded ridiculous. "Do vampires – hang out? Go somewhere to … I don't know … socialise?"
"Well there's a couple of bars, both pretty skanky." She sounded apologetic. "You really don't want to go to 'The Fish Tank' – trust me!"
Disconcertingly, Riley found that he did.
"But you could try the other one. You'd probably be safe at 'Willy's Place'."
That sounded familiar. Riley paid close attention to her directions, and when she'd finished, said, "Thanks. That's very helpful."
He shook his head at himself. Apparently he'd forgotten that this was an interrogation.
She shrugged. "Willy will probably know where your … friend, enemy, whatever he is ..." She frowned, then added, "is."
Then she heaved another sigh, deeper than any which had come before. "I guess you're going to stake me now." She flattened herself against the tree-trunk. "Go ahead! Put me down like a dog! Being a vampire's pretty rank, anyway – not like on TV, all floaty capes, and castles, and stuff." She screwed her eyes tight shut, waiting for the killing blow.
Riley released her, and backed away. "No. You get a free pass. Just, stay off campus for a while, okay? Leave the students off the menu."
Her eyes widened. She nodded eagerly, turned and fled, as fast as her stilettos would carry her.
Feeling oddly relieved, Riley watched her go.
~~
Spike sat on one of Clem's over-plumped sofas, brooding.
Yes, brooding!
And why shouldn't he?
He had as much right to brood as the next vamp! There wasn't anything else he felt like doing. Didn't want to stay in; didn't want to go out; didn't want blood, even though Clem had apparently been to Demon Mall, especially to get him a bottle of the stuff, with a kitsch little label that read, 'The Master's Choice: Suppliers of Fine Bloods since 1937.' He'd tried – out of good manners – to drink a tumbler-full, and managed, with difficulty, and a dash of Glenfiddich, to keep some of it down.
Give Clem his due: even if his taste in décor was a disaster in a wallpaper factory, he knew his liquor.
Without thinking, Spike reached for his fags, and drew out the pack Riley had given him. He'd long-since smoked the last of the contents, but hadn't had the heart to chuck the box away. Now - unable to crumple it and throw it out; unable to put it away again - he stared at the box sitting in his hand, Warholesque, prosaic, and symbolising everything he'd so briefly thought was his: now burned to ashes in his mouth.
Clem didn't disturb his reverie for some time.
But after about two hours, he got to his feet, and rubbed his flabby hands together in anticipation. "Okay, Spikey! What's it to be? Shall we go to the bar? Or I could get some videos in, and some popcorn?"
Spike shook his head. "No thanks." Then he looked up, slightly intrigued, despite himself. "I didn't see a telly in here."
Clem pointed to a television-shaped object, swathed in coloured fabric.
Well, that mystery hadn't lasted long.
Spike looked back down at the cigarette packet.
"Come on Spike, snap out of it! Things can't be so bad. What doesn't kill us makes us stronger."
Spike gritted his teeth, and said nothing.
"You know, one day you'll find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if you only keep looking!"
That did it. The unremitting, grating cheerfulness finally had Spike on his feet, and diving across the room, pinning the startled Clem to the wall, and roaring in his face, "JUST SHUT THE BLOODY FUCK UP, WILL YOU?"
Various appendages immediately sprang out of Clem's face.
That caused Spike a momentary double-take. He must have really scared the poor bloke. Muttering an apology, he carefully lowered Clem the few inches to the floor.
Clem patted himself down, and retracted his facial pop-outs. Then he pottered away, humming, and putting the kettle on: clearly upset, but trying to pretend it was okay for house guests to assault their hosts; sending Spike even further into the Land of Wrong.
Spike felt such a heel, that he gave in. "Look, we can go out if you like, okay? Go to Willy's." Why the hell not? But he was already running out of steam. "Whatever."
Clem turned round with a triumphant grin. "That's the spirit!"
So out they went.
To Willy's.
~~
Now Spike drifted, like a dry leaf on the wind. He wondered idly whether he could piss someone off - enough to make them kill him. Surely he must be worth a dusting? Slayer might show; Willy said she'd been in earlier, looking irritated, and wanting to know where he was. She'd probably do for him, if he begged - her rather puzzling record of failure in that area, notwithstanding.
But Buffy didn't co-operate.
And no one else had asked after him.
Spike tried to drum up the enthusiasm to join Clem in a discussion of the cultural significance of 'Baywatch', and whether the Six Million Dollar Man would have beaten the Six Million Dollar Woman in a fist-fight. Both topics would normally have engaged his attention for some time, but right now, it hardly seemed worth drawing breath to speak.
Even so, Spike got through the first ten minutes without mishap.
At least no one bothered him. There was a mellow vibe in the place tonight, and he managed to hold it together, until someone put Nat King Cole on the jukebox, singing, 'Autumn Leaves.' The song took him back to Ronnie Scott's – around 1961 it must have been. He and Dru had danced to this very song, played by a little jazz quartet - the bass player, right in the zone.
The blood tasted sweeter back then: not full of artificial crap ...
Good times.
But as the record played on, all thoughts of Drusilla burned away like morning mist in summer. He sank his head on his arms. This song wasn't anything to do with Drusilla – not any more, not for him.
'Since you went away, the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling …'
Spike leapt to his feet, sending his bar-stool clattering to the floor. Going to find the Slayer; tell her something – anything – to get her to put him out of his misery. Tell her he'd shagged her boyfriend. Two of 'em, actually.
Yeah, that oughta do it.
Without a word to Clem, or Willy – not wanting anyone to try and stop him this time – he headed for the door.
And walked straight into Riley Finn.
~~
Riley had thought he'd prepared himself for whatever might happen.
Walking into a demon bar for the first time? No problem! He'd come unarmed – apart from his knife, and the sharpened tent peg – but what the hell ... Just have to make like he went into demon bars every day of his life, and try not to stare at the clientele. Go up to the bar, talk to Willy – whoever or whatever he was – and give him a description of the guy he was looking for; ask if he was a regular, or if Willy knew where to find him.
He felt set; focused; determined.
But he hadn't expected to locate his target by walking straight into him. Too surprised to stop the guy from swaying back, and bolting around him out of the bar, Riley got outside in time to see the flighty stranger's coat tails, disappearing around a corner.
"Hey, I need to talk to you!"
But the vampire – if he was a vampire – clearly didn't feel like chatting.
Determined not to lose his quarry, Riley took off, at a dead run. He just about kept the stranger in sight - sometimes gaining a little, sometimes falling back, but never getting within striking distance.
So, on they ran, through the Sunnydale night, pursuer and pursued, under the same stars.
Eventually, the man seemed to tire; he resorted to making detours, apparently trying to throw Riley off the scent, with changes of pace and direction, and Riley dared hope he would soon have him.
Turning a corner, he saw the end of the man's long coat flick around the gate of a very familiar-looking cemetery. Well, they all looked familiar when you were in the Initiative, but this one struck a particular chord in Riley's mind. As he reached the gate, he slowed down, which was lucky, because he caught his foot on the edge of a manhole cover, and almost went flying.
That manhole cover, that hadn't been properly replaced, seemed significant; but he didn't have time to contemplate it, if he wanted to catch up with his man.
He slipped through the gates, and ran at a crouch, from one gravestone to the next, looking around, and listening intently. From further in, he heard a muffled thud, followed by what might have been a curse. So the man was still here; just have to try to get near him.
Riley spotted a large mausoleum, about ten yards away, that would provide more cover, so he made a run for it, flattened himself against the side, and slid around it.
A female statue – a caryatid – stood at each corner of the memorial. Riley didn't know where he'd picked up that name for them, but felt oddly embarrassed to find himself indecently assaulting the lady at the north-east corner. He quickly removed his left hand from a stone breast.
"Sorry," he whispered, then shook his head at himself.
He moved round to the eastern elevation, where the entrance was situated. With a prickly feeling growing inside him, Riley took in the smashed door, then pulled out his flashlight, and pointed it inside the desecrated chamber.
~~
Now, Spike was the hunter - not a very efficient hunter: he'd just stubbed his toe on one of those marble cubes they stand the vases in - and Riley the prey: not that Spike wanted to hurt Riley; not that he could.
He'd taken to his heels when he'd bumped into Riley, but not in fear for his life. Though Riley looked like he might have been about to kill someone, that wasn't what had scared him. Riley could kill him, and welcome, if he wanted. What Spike just couldn't stand, was the thought of those candid grey eyes looking at him, and not knowing who he was.
But God, did he want to see Riley!
His heart felt like it was pounding, though he knew it couldn't be. He crouched behind one of the larger tombstones, watching, as Riley insinuated around the edge of the Van Outen Memorial. Logic having long since fled his brain, Spike kept trying to stay hidden, while, at the same time, willing Riley to develop x-ray vision; willing him to see him; to see him, and to remember.
Was it possible?
He'd led Riley here, on a faint hope.
Could the memories be coming back?
Riley'd shown up at Willy's, after all.
Maybe he'd remembered, and freaked because of the vampire issue, or the both-being-blokes thing. Maybe he'd come looking for Spike, to make sure he never had the chance to put a black mark on his service record again.
Suddenly, Spike no longer knew why he was bothering to hide.
It was foolishness.
Riley would know him, or he wouldn't. Either way, he had to find out. Nothing could make things any worse. He stood up, went towards where Riley stood, shining his torch into the darkness, then followed him into the tomb.
~~
Riley swept the interior of the mausoleum with his flashlight. The beam revealed a perplexing still life: a familiar-looking piece of ironwork, with a set of Initiative-issue handcuffs dangling from it; a groundsheet, spread out on the floor: his groundsheet, with his name printed on it in indelible ink, in his own neat capitals. A flak jacket and tee shirt: also his. An Initiative-issue radio.
A tube of medical lubricant.
Riley felt a thrill run through him.
He heard a sharp intake of breath, and turned, to see his quarry standing just inside the doorway.
In the distance, a clock chimed midnight.
Riley swallowed. "What happened here?"
The stranger began to speak, then frowned, half-formed words dying on his lips, as he struggled to answer the question. At last, he simply said, "What didn't?"
Riley covered the few strides between them, and pushed him – un-resisting – up against the wall.
"You know something - something I've forgotten." Riley looked earnestly at the stranger - but he turned his face aside, as if afraid to face Riley. Every muscle in the man's body was taut, and … oh … he was hard.
Riley blinked, processing.
"Please … they made me forget. Just tell me what's goin' on."
~~
Words jostled with each other, trying to make themselves heard, but there was so much Spike wanted to say, that nothing could get out.
Riley released him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw him reach into a pocket, and pull out a stake.
Spike flattened himself against the wall, but didn't try to flee.
"Why have I got this?" Riley held up the stake, in front of Spike's face. "Tell me!"
Fuck. This new Riley was a sadist.
Bit of a shock.
Didn't matter.
Riley Finn could do what he liked; could ram that stake up Spike's arse if he wanted, if he would only remember ...
Spike tried to keep his voice level. "All the better to stake me with, Granny?"
Riley held the point at Spike's chest. "So, you are a vampire?"
Nothing to lose. "Well, yeah …"
"Then show me!"
Today seemed like a good day to die.
Breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself, Spike slowly let the demon surface; let blue eyes fleck with gold, then give way to it; let flat teeth sharpen, and smooth skin crease and swell to turgid ridges.
Riley's only reaction – a gasp of wonder.
Marveling at his continued existence, Spike tilted his head to one side, and that too, made Riley's breathing hitch.
"So. Now you've seen. Are you gonna do me?" Spike licked the tip of one of his fangs, bloodying his tongue. "Be doin' a bloke a favour."
Riley frowned. "'Do' you?"
"Kill me," Spike carefully supplied.
"What?" Riley's eyes widened. "No!"
"Then why are you pointing that thing at me, Mate?"
Spike glanced down at the stake, and then lower, to where Riley's cock pressed against his own - separated by their clothing, but neither of them unaware of it. "Accidents will happen, you know."
Riley threw the stake aside.
~~
"I don't want to kill you," Riley said vehemently. "I want … information. Even if you kill me, please, just tell me first. I have to know, what's going on? What happened here?" He glanced at the cuffs. "Are we enemies? Did we fight?" He looked down at the groundsheet; the lube.
"Did we …"
The thought seemed incredible, until he looked into the hungry depths of those lion's eyes, and then it astounded him even more, that he might have joined himself with this wild and compelling stranger - this vampire. A flush spread through him.
"Were we … intimate?"
At these words, the vampire's eyes glowed like coals. "You could call it that."
Riley shook his head, not in denial, but in anger and frustration. "I don't remember!" He gripped the man's shoulders. "I want to, but I don't. Help me! Tell me something – anything! Please make me remember!"
~~
Such loss, and loneliness; such regret.
A bubble of hope expanded painfully in Spike's chest. "Would if I could, Love. Don't know how. Don't know what they did to you."
Spike looked away again, afraid of what he had to say. "Maybe you can't remember. Maybe if you do, it'll hurt you. Like what they did to me."
"What did they do?"
"Initiative – your lot – put a gizmo in my head, that stops me fighting humans. Zaps me if I hit 'em, stops me biting anyone. Stops me feeding."
Riley shook his head. "But I had bite marks on my chest, my back. Did you do that? Was that why they –"
"Can bite you, if you let me." Spike shivered, remembering. "If you want it. And you did. Before …"
Riley pulled down his collar, baring his neck. "Bite me again. I have to know –"
Spike pulled back, his nostrils flaring as he fought for control. "Don't ever do that, Riley!"
Riley recoiled, as if Spike had slapped him; Spike could feel him blushing furiously in the dark. And he was sorry, that the first time he'd dared call Riley by name this night, had been in reprimand. But he couldn't afford to let the kid off the hook. "Didn't you mother ever warn you never to bare your neck to a vampire?"
"Please." Riley closed his eyes. "I want it."
Spike shook his head, as much to deny himself, as Riley, while the scent of the blood – Riley's blood – so close, and offered freely, drove him near the edge of reason. "No! Not from there. I couldn't stop myself taking too much. Not after everything …"
"Then where?" Riley pleaded.
Spike reached for Riley's left hand, where the wound was still raw; raised it to his lips; inhaled deeply, and brushed the torn flesh with his mouth. "Ask me again," Spike said softly.
Riley moaned. "Bite me. Take as much as –"
Spike clapped a hand over Riley's mouth, and said thickly, "Take that back!"
Riley's eyes clouded with fear and confusion.
"God, you like to play with fire, don't you?" Spike released Riley's lips, and slid his hand down the side of Riley's neck in a sinuous caress, and further down until it came to rest, splayed over Riley's heart. "Don't want to hurt you. Don't throw the door wide open for me - not like that. I might not be able to stop myself. Understand?"
Riley nodded mutely.
"Sure you want this?" Spike's eyes flared briefly.
"I want it. I want to remember. Maybe this is the way."
"And if it's not?"
"I want it."
"Then promise me one thing."
"What is it?" Riley said quickly. "Anything."
"If this doesn't work …" Spike let the demon face slip, and dared to look Riley in the eye for the first time, because it might be the last. "If you can't remember, you must promise to stake me."
"No!" Riley backed away, his eyes wide, and horrified. "Why?"
Spike turned away. "Just promise me –"
"No!"
"Fine. No deal then. Just have to do it myself."
Spike pushed past Riley, and dived for the stake, but Riley bent and snatched it up.
"Okay." Riley still looked doubtful. "It's a promise, okay?"
Spike turned back. "An Iowa Promise," he said, half to himself.
A shadow of – something – passed across Riley's face, and the hope it gave Spike nearly blew his fragile control to pieces.
"Alright then."
His demon face coming to the fore again in anticipation, Spike took hold of Riley's wrist. He felt so afraid this would fail, he was shaking as he slid his fangs into Riley's palm. And now he let his emotions loose – all his hopes and fears - and tried to make it like before: massaging Riley's hand to increase the flow of blood; timing the draws to match Riley's heartbeat; pinning him with an incandescent gaze; trying to bring him back.
He felt a jolt run through Riley; saw a flicker in his eyes; heard a gasp.
There ...!
Riley's eyes widened in epiphany, as the memories – all those moments he'd feared were lost forever – began to awaken, and show forth their petals to the light: a field of scarlet poppies, first one, then another, then all the others blossoming at once.
Spike could feel them; Riley's blood sang with them.
Intoxicated, Spike dropped to his knees, clinging; felt Riley stroking his hair.
Then Riley murmured, "Spike …"
Oh! He knows my name.
"Spike, I'm so sorry …"
Feeling Riley's hardness against his cheek, Spike rubbed against it with a whine of relief, like a dog whose master has returned after a long year away.
This man had tamed him; he felt no shame for it.
Then Riley was pulling him to his feet and kissing him with everything he had, and now Spike's blood was singing too. He was known, and – being known – he was wanted. For a long while Spike lost himself in the kiss.
At last Riley drew back. "I tried so hard, but they made me forget …" and Spike stroked his brow, saying softly, "I know you did, Mate. I know …"
Spike sniffed, and turned away for a moment, hiding his elation; unable to express it – it was too much.
Riley put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Can we –?"
Relieved to be given a direction, Spike pulled his shoulders back, and tried to focus. "Not here. Not gonna make that mistake again. But I know somewhere your lot won't look. Old hang-out, a bit musty, but quite comfy."
He swooped to pick up the lube, and took Riley's hand in his. "Come on."
In a daze of remembrance, Riley followed unquestioningly.
Today was Thanksgiving.