*****
Part 7:

Spike and I soon settle into a routine. It's quite simple: We avoid each other like the plague. When I get home he's either out or in the process of leaving. He usually returns when dawn approaches, shortly before I have to get up. If it weren't for the wet towels I wouldn't even know I've got a roomie.

Once or twice we spot him at the Bronze but he never joins us. He just nods, finishes his drink and leaves.

It's almost as if he's trying to be invisible. He's not inaudible, though. I'm a light sleeper these days. I can hear the door, the shower, the occasional squeaking of the springs of his mattress. No, he's actually not that loud, but his room is next to my bedroom and the wall is thin.

Whenever we do happen to meet, he's civil (and fully dressed). No innuendo. No talk of entrails or leg overs and no more offers. It's like none of that ever happened. As far as I can tell, he never tries to cut himself again, either. It looks like he's getting saner. But almost every morning the first thing I hear when I wake up, is Spike tossing and turning. Sometimes he's talking in his sleep. Whenever that happens I get up quickly and make my escape into the bathroom. Under the shower I don't have to listen to his pain and despair. And after that I make enough noise preparing my breakfast to wake the dead. Literally.

One morning, after more than a week of avoidance, I get up and realize I've forgotten to barricade my bedroom door last night. Does that mean I'm no longer afraid he'll murder me in my sleep or does that mean that part of me is hoping for him to just come in and. I don't know, jump my bones? Like that's ever gonna happen. The old Spike might have, but I'm beginning to think that he's gone. Anyway, it feels kinda pointless keeping up the Alamo stance when there's no real siege going on. I keep the stake but ditch the routine.

About two days later, while I'm at work, a furious Buffy storms in on me just as I am explaining some blueprints to my crew. "How long have you known that Spike has a soul?" she blurts out, eliciting funny looks.

Uh oh. "Coffee break. Back in ten," I tell the guys and herd Buffy into a quieter corner. "Buffy, be careful what you're saying and where."

"How long?" She interrupts me.

"Ten days or so," I admit.

"And it didn't occur to you to tell me? I have to find out from a student I'm supposed to be counseling? Who, by the way, is in serious need of saving. What were you thinking?"

"Gee, let me see, Buff. I was thinking, if Spike had wanted you to know he'd have told you. Why do you even care? That thing between you, it's over and out, right? Tell me, you two are not going to have another boinkfest now that he's got himself a soul." The mere thought makes my fists clench.

"Xander, we talked about this. That thing. with Spike. It's so over. I'm the Slayer. Whatever Spike does, it's my job to know about it."

"Your `job' is to counsel students during the day and stake vampires by night. And my job is to build a gym."

She glares at me. We are cut off in mid-argument when one of the guys comes up with a problem. She chews on her lower lip. I spread my arms and give her an apologetic `can't help it, I'm needed' look, although I don't feel sorry at all. She nods, obviously still peeved but heads back to her counseling office.

I watch her retreating back, remembering something she said. How come one of Buffy's student cases knows about Spike's soul?

***

That student, Cassie, talking about Spike's soul, turns out to be a subset of a larger puzzle. One that raises all kinds of questions about big-wordy stuff like destiny and predestination. It also makes you wonder what's the point in trying to help someone. I mean, we all pooled resources, wracked our brains, did the research and legwork, did all we could, Buffy whupped the demon's ass, saved the girl from ending up as demon chow, even Spike lent a hand. And then she just drops dead because of a heart-failure? Because she has an appointment with death? Hello? Wouldn't you feel like a puppet on strings if that happened to you?

We all go to the funeral, and by `we' I mean Buffy, Dawn, Willow and myself. When I get home to change into my work kit, I bump into naked Spike!

"Spike!" I exclaim, proving that even in the face of his sudden and mind-blowing nakedness I can still remember his name.

Okay, he's not all-the-way naked because he's got a towel wrapped around his hips, but naked enough. I stare. I know I do. I can't help it. The scars and burns - gone. Plus, he's filled out a little, doesn't look quite so starved anymore.

Spike closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then briskly strides past me into his room. A moment later he's back, buttoning his pants. He pulls a black tee shirt over his head and slicks back his wet hair with his fingers.

"Posh," he says, glancing at my dark suit. "What's the occasion?"

"Cassie's funeral."

He appears confused. "Who?"

"The girl with the visions. Who thought she'd die? Well, turns out she did, right on time, like a little clock that stops ticking." Do I sound bitter? You betcha.

"She looked alright to me," Spike mumbles with a shake of his head.

"Yeah well, she's not." I snap. As far as I'm concerned this conversation is over. I turn and walk into the bedroom. I toss my jacket on the bed and start unbuttoning my shirt.

"You say she had visions? Knew stuff?"

"Gah!" I squeal. "Spike!" He's followed me inside the bedroom! I glare at him. "Off limits, oh obnoxious one!"

"Oh, um. sorry, I wasn't thinking." He mumbles, dropping his gaze. He raises his hands defensively and backs off, until he stands outside. But instead of closing the door behind him, he kinda hovers.

"What?" I ask brusquely.

"The visions?" he prompts.

I sit on the bed and take my shoes and socks off. "Yes," I say tiredly, "Cassie had visions, saw all kinds of weird things like her own death. That's what the whole hubbub was all about the past few days." I see a certain realization dawning on his face and my own light bulb goes off. "Why, what did she say to you?"

"Nothing," he mutters and turns away. Moments later I hear the door of the closet fall shut. Was he always this bad a liar?

*****
Part 8:

Man, sometimes I really hate this: this town, the impending doom and the whole running around with stakes in your pockets. And I really hate this suit. This is the fourth funeral it's seen and if you ask me that's four too many. I bought it when Mrs. Summers died, and I wore it when we buried Buffy, then for Tara's funeral and today for Cassie's. I transfer change, keys and stake into my brown leather jacket, then put the suit on a hanger and hide it in the back of the wardrobe so I don't have to see it every day. Then I change into my work wear. Funeral funk or no, I gotta put in a few more hours at the site. If I don't get the machines set up for tomorrow's vent work, nobody else will.

I grab my keys and head outside. When I pass his door I hesitate. Damn Spike for making my life so complicated! I don't get it. Why does he get my motor running? When he's not even trying. And when I don't even like him. Okay, getting sidetracked here. The important question is: Why was he asking after Cassie? She must have told him something, something he doesn't want us to know. Maybe about that thing from beneath? But why share important visions with a guy whose body count equals other people's social security number and who is also a) undead, b) incompetent and c) off his rocker?

I can stand here, outside his room, and speculate about what's going on in Spike's head until the cows come home. Point is, I'm not the one who took psyche 101 from Professor Frankenwalsh. I'm not smart like Willow, I'm hands on guy. If your faucet needs fixing, then I'm your man. But all this psycho stuff?

I shake my head and leave. Maybe Willow can figure this out.

***

After work I'm at Buffy's, where we all try to exorcise the failure of saving Cassie by watching a couple of movies. But we end up marinating in our own gloom and doom. Half way through the second film Buffy leaves for patrol, not much later Dawn goes upstairs, because `remakes of 70s shows are so lame' and `Bill Murray's part should have been played by Heath Ledger.'

A few minutes later, Willow pauses the movie. "I gotta say, Drew Barrymore's got nice boobs and all but honestly? I'm not in the mood for this. Is it okay if we watch the rest of this tomorrow night?"

"I agree with you on the boobs. But, yeah, I think I've seen enough, I mean, sure, tomorrow night is fine."

She smiles and turns the TV off. Then she turns towards me. "So, Xander, what's up? You've got your `Something's freaking me out'-face on or. or maybe it's your `I need a friend to talk to' face, I'm not sure, but there's something you're not telling us. Is Spike giving you trouble? You wanna bitch about your roomie, go ahead. I'm all best friend-y."

"No. Yes. no, Spike isn't really giving me trouble. Yet. No stealing, no bloodstained mugs, no overflowing ashtrays, no insults. He hardly even talks to me. You know, he's so much under the radar I hardly know he's there, except for-" I stop myself.

"Except for what?"

"He's got nightmares, Wills."

Willow lifts her eyebrows. "And why shouldn't he, Xander? He's got a soul now, that's gotta do stuff to him."

"Yeah, well what exactly does a soul do? Other than make him talk to people that aren't there and sound like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now?"

"If YOU don't know that, who does? I mean, you guys live under the same roof. I know you're not friends or anything, but if anyone has a chance to find out what's going on inside of Spike, it's you."

That is NOT what I wanted to hear. "Well, I better get going." I grab my jacket and get to my feet.

"His nightmares, do they bother you?" Willow asks me, a the door.

"No. yes. I don't know. I mean, we're talking Spike here. He had it coming."

There's a strange look on Willow's face, that slowly turns into resolve. "Stay here, don't go away. I just wanna go and get something." She disappears upstairs. A moment later, she comes down the stairs again, a crystal flask in her hand.

"What's that?"

"A simple sleeping drought. Herbs and stuff. It should work on vampires too, keep the nightmares away."

"Oh, and you happen to have that ready?"

"He's not the only one with bad dreams," she says quietly.

I feel like someone kicked me in the gut. Deflated. "I'm sorry, Willow," I stammer, feeling like a complete idiot. "I didn't mean to--."

"It's alright, Xander," she answers and pulls me into a tight embrace. We stand there for minute or two, just hugging each other. It feels good to have someone to hold on to.

"Here," she finally presses the bottle into my hand and kisses my cheek. "Night, Xander."

"Night Willow."

When I get home the ex-evil roomie is out. I crawl into bed with some vague ideas about Drew Barrymore's boobies but pass out before I get any further.

***

When I wake up the apartment is quiet. I listen. No mumbling or humming, no singing, no squeaking mattress. Home alone! After about two weeks of cohabitation with Spike I feel like I'm a visitor in my own home. I can't even go and jack off for a while. In the evenings I tend to be too groggy, and in the mornings Spike's sleeping on the other side of that wall and I so don't need an audience. But today I can take care of my morning hard-on in peace. And if I think about Spike going down on me, it's only to get him out of my system.

When I head out of the bedroom and for the shower I almost squeal. Spike's sitting on one of the bar stools, hunched over the counter. I didn't hear the door, so he must have been there the whole time. Meaning it's possible he heard the whole thing, what with superior vampire hearing.

"Spike, what are you doing here?" I snap louder than necessary.

He looks up and arches his eyebrow. "Live here," is his reply. And for a moment there's a faint glimmer of the old Spike but then he frowns. He folds the paper he's been reading - MY paper! -, slides off the stool and points at the title page. "That really the date?"

"October 22nd, yeah, unless there's been some kind of time warp. So what's up with your sudden interest in current affairs? Is that soul of yours trying to whip you into an upstanding citizen?"

"When did she die?"

"Who?"

But he doesn't answer. Instead he gets that faraway stare. Swell, looks like his invisible friends just turned up. I jerk around, just in case, to check he's not staring at some kind of monster that's sneaking up on me. Of course, there's nothing there.

"Yeah? Wasn't listening ," Spike says. He gives me kind of an awkward sideways glance before he addresses thin air again. "Besides, it's none of my business. It's HIS place."

`His place'? As in `my place'? Hang on a second. What's he--

"So what? Thoughts are free," Spike says quietly. Another quick glance in my direction - and this time he looks downright embarrassed.

Hey! It's one thing for him to talk with his invisible buddies, but when they start talking about ME I get cranky. I step between him and who- or whatever. That gets his attention. "Okay, if you do all this crazy talk in my living room you could at least tell me who you think you're talking to."

He hesitates.

"Come on, Spike. I'm listening."

"Doesn't matter, does it? Spike's three sandwiches short of a picnic - that's all it is," he finally mutters, refusing to look me in the eye. "All in my head, I know that. I mean, usually I know. And I'm fine most of the time, aren't I? Try to stay out of your hair when I'm not."

Not for the first time I feel something twist in my stomach. Painfully. This time I don't stomp on the feeling of pity. I mean, what's worse than being crazy? Knowing that you are. Man, all this is getting to me!

"Who is it?" I insist.

"Me," comes the soft reply.

"Huh?"

"There are others. But right now I'm seeing. me," Spike continues haltingly. He appears distracted, like he's still listening to inaudible voices. "And I'm the way I was, before I. changed. Bad. Dangerous. Telling me. things."

This can't be good! If Spike's tapping into his old evil self someone might get hurt.

"There's nothing there, Spike. Snap out of it. Concentrate." There must be a way to shut up those voices, right? Maybe if I bring his mind back on track. I grab his arm. "Spike, what was it you wanted to know? Who died?"

"Purple hair." he reaches up to touch his head but freezes halfway. He tilts his head and a smile appears on his face. He begins to hum a tune.

"Purple hair? Are you talking about Cassie?" I ask urgently.

Something about him changes. He seems taller. More focused. Less ga-ga. Which is good, right? Right?

"Never mind," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Not important. Forget what I said."

What's going on? I know it's stupid but I have to ask: "Are you okay?"

"Never better." He meets my eyes evenly, even smirks a little.

Okay, plain crazy has just turned into darn suspicious. It's not in the words but in the delivery. He's too smooth. I've seen enough of him these past few weeks to know that he's anything but calm inside. Even I can see his pain and misery - whether I want to or not. Spike can't even look me in the eye for more than a second or two. I don't know why, but his sudden serenity gives me the creeps.

Something's wrong here!

Spike picks up his jacket and looks at my hand that's still gripping his arm. He's smiling, but underneath that smile there's a vibe of carefully restrained violence. I hurriedly let go and he heads for the door.

"Um, Spike?" I call after him. "It's daylight outside, you DO remember you're a vampire and extra flammable?"

"Don't worry. Not planning on going up in flames."

And with that he saunters away.

***

"There's something wrong with Spike," I say when Buffy and Dawn climb into the Chrysler.

"What do you mean, `wrong?'" Buffy asks with a frown.

"He's acting all funny."

"Funny? How? I thought you said he's getting better, settling down."

"He is. Was. I don't know. I just think there must be something we can do. All this talking with invisible people. I mean, maybe it's not the basement that made him crazy."

"Maybe it's the soul," Dawn pipes in. "Angel was pretty crazy when he got re-souled after his rampage." Let me just say, I'm glad it wasn't me who brought up the A-word.

"Angel is different." Buffy says, as usual coming to deadboy's defense. "He spent countless years in a hell-dimension before the powers brought him back."

"Yeah, but what was it like, when he got cursed the first time? Did he hear voices, too?" I ask.

"I don't know," Buffy admits. "We didn't really talk much about what happened before he came to Sunnydale."

Swell.

*****
Part 9:

Even when he's not around, Angel manages to bring a conversation to a screeching halt. One look into Buffy's face and I decide to drop the whole Spike going Jekyll-and-Hyde thing. It can wait.

At the construction site we're doing vent-work today, but I can't say I'm worth my pay check. Instead of concentrating on the job, I'm wondering what to do about Spike. The more I think about what happened, about the way he changed from one moment to the next, the more freaked I am.

What if we have to kill him?

All considerations concerning Spike's state of mental health come to a standstill when Buffy picks me up to go spider-demon hunting with her. I'm not sure what she needs me for. She does the necessary axe-throwing and demon-killing all by her pretty Slayer-lonesome. But I tell myself that anything is better than breathing freon for eight hours. Boy, was I ever wrong!

Because from then on things just get more and more insane.

Turns out Anya is responsible for that heart-rendering spider-demon and twelve dead frat boys. I just don't understand how Anya could do such a thing. Vengeance demon or no, she helped us out when Willow went all rampage-y. And a few weeks ago she de-wormed that Ronnie guy. It doesn't make sense.

And how can Buffy and Anya try to kill each other? It's their job? Hello? There's something seriously wrong with a job that tells you to go and run your best friends through with pointy objects. Never thought I'd say this, but if that's the price for all that super power stuff and the mojo then I'm I glad I'm just a carpenter!

In the end it doesn't come to the worst. We all walk away from yet another Scooby meltdown, scathed but more or less in one piece. Which is good. Any ending met on your own two feet is a good one. But I don't need a crystal ball to tell me there will be fallout.

Anya's friend - dead. Anya - no longer a demon. That thing from beneath us - licking its chops.

And Xander Harris - still in love with Anya.

I thought I was over her, but now I know - I'm not. Now I know that part of me still clings to the hope that maybe I'd get a second chance, that somehow we'd get together again. I love her and I want to protect her. Make sure she's alright. Which is why I can't let her leave like that.

I rush after her, out of the frat house. "Anya - wait!"

"Xander, please. Just go away."

"Whatever's between us, it doesn't matter. You shouldn't be alone in this."

"Yes I should."

What now? I don't get it. What's she talking about?

"My whole life, I've just clung to. whatever came along." Anya explains.

"Well, speaking as a cling-ee, kinda didn't mind." I tell her almost flippantly, but as her words sink in, dread rises up like bile. `Whatever came along?'

"Thanks. For everything." Anya says with a sincerity that feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

Oh god. It's over. Over and out. This is good-bye.

Guess that calls for a drink or two.

***

Of course I don't stop at two. I pull that classic drowning my sorrows thing, tossing back one after the other, fiddling around with my coaster, digging into the peanut bowl and staring at the glass in my hand, as if those ice-cubes were tea-leaves foretelling the future. I neatly avoid looking into the mirror behind the counter.

What if she never really wanted me. the way I wanted her.? If I was just. convenient? What if she just hooked up with the first body she could find?

Maybe that's what I should do. Get laid. Only without the cameras and my friends for a captive audience.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of Spike fucking Anya on the table of the magic box. I swig my drink and slam the glass back on the bar. "Hit me again!" I say. "Double Shot."

"I don't think so. I think you've had enough. Go home, sleep it off." Mike, the barkeeper, tells me.

Luckily, I picked my usual watering hole to get hammered. Mike likes me well enough to confiscate my car keys, in spite of my protestations, and call a cab before locking the place up. Otherwise I might have done something monumentally stupid.

I stagger back into the apartment, feeling useless and angry. Feeling Anya's absence like a stab through the heart.

The door to Spike's room is open. He's out. Good. I'm sick of him and his nightmares, the wet towels, and his continued presence in my screwed-up life. Sick of lying and pretending. Sick of seeing his image before me whenever I close my eyes.

I should probably sleep it off, like Mike said, but I'm way too fazed. Instead I pour myself a drink and wander into Spike's room.

Let's find out what our ex-serial killer has been up to these days.

I put my drink down, next to a small pile of books and leaf through the pile. Two paperbacks, thrillers bought second hand, one medical textbook wearing a library stamp, dealing with mental disorders.

I quickly rifle through the chest of drawers. A few T-shirts and button-down shirts, another pair of jeans, some socks. All black. No underwear! An almost empty bottle of cheap scotch, a book of matches from a club, with a handwritten phone number on it. Five crumpled dollar bills and some small change. A stake. This can't be all!

I sit down on the unmade bed. Come on, Spikey, we all have our secrets. So where do you keep yours? I look underneath the tangled sheets. Nothing. Pick up his pillow. Nada. Just smell of Spike, slightly earthy, laced with faint traces of tobacco. Not that I let him smoke in the apartment.

"Would you mind telling me what you're doing in here?"

"Gah!" is my less than articulate reply.

Spike is standing in the doorway. Not all sunny, like this morning, but looking pissed.

I realize he's caught me clutching his pillow. Crap! I drop it like a hot potato. "It's not what it looks like!" I slur. "Um. what DOES it look like?"

"You tell me."

"It's my apartment." I manage to say.

"It's my bed." His voice is low and smooth. I hate it when he talks like that.

I get up. The room is spinning or maybe it's just me who's swaying. I hold on to the chest of drawers. "I was just leaving."

"Were you?" Spike drawls. Then he spots the open drawers. His mien darkens some more. "Find anything interesting? Or should I say `incriminating?' What you looking for, Harris? `My Evil Diary'?"

I head for the door but he doesn't budge. Instead he slams his palm against the door frame, barring my exit with his outstretched arm. "Answer me!" he demands, his face just inches away from mine. I can smell cigarettes and alcohol on his breath.

I stare at his lips, wicked, evil lips, then angrily wrench my gaze upwards. "Or you'll do what? Call your invisible pals to beat me up?"

He doesn't answer. For a moment he meets my stare, then a wary look crosses his face and he pulls back. I've got the upper hand and he knows it. He glowers but lets his arm fall to his side, making way.

Except I'm not leaving. Instead, I'm clutching his head and yanking his face towards me. Before I know it, my lips are on his.

*****
Part 10:

Spike goes rigid. He jerks back - not enough to break free, but enough to make both of us lose our balance when I don't let go. He staggers backwards, until his shoulders bump against the wall. I hold on and press myself urgently against him, using my full weight and strength to pin him. No more holding back! I muffle his wide-eyed, open-mouthed protest with my tongue, invading his gorgeous, filthy, irresistible mouth.

This has got to be the clumsiest kiss of all times. Too rough, too reckless, too drunk. But - oh, man! - the sheer intensity of it! Spike tastes like hot chilli peppers and salt, seasoned with whiskey and cigarette smoke, rounded off with the coppery tang of blood.

He squirms and finally manages to twists his head away, out of my grip. "Are you out of your bloody mind?" he sputters. "Get your hands off me!" I just dive at his neck and start nipping and kissing cool smooth skin, while my knee tries to sneak between his legs. Come on, Spike, you didn't waste this much time with Anya. My hands take on a life of their own, one bunching up his T-shirt to get at bare flesh, the other going straight for his tight ass.

"Hey!"

Can't talk. Can't you see? I'm too busy biting your neck. Touching. Feel that? I rub against him, pressing my raging hard-on against his hip. Come on Spike, work with me here!

Spike inhales sharply and for a moment he seems to arch against me, pliant and wanting. Yes! Tiny electric sparks buzz through my entire body. Oh fuck, this is utterly wrong but it feels so right, better than--

His fingers dig into my arms. What? He's pushing me away. No! Wait, let me--

The next thing I know, I'm seeing stars as I'm knocked off my feet by a sledge-hammer blow to the chin. Ow! I crash against the chest of drawers, knocking over a stack of CDs in a noisy cascade of jewel cases. Stunned, I slide down until I sit on the floor, the drawer handles pressing into my back. I'm hot, and out of breath. I shake my head, trying to clear it, but it only makes me dizzy and kinda queasy.

Before me, Spike is kneeling on the floor, hunched over in obvious agony, palms pressed against his temples. A violent jolt racks his body, triggering a choked howl. I don't get it. Spike isn't doing anything. Why is the chip still punishing him?

After five or six shocks it's over. Spike stops twitching and falls silent. All I can hear is his ragged breathing. Scrambling towards him, I put a hand on his shoulder. "Spike? Are you ok--"

He slowly lifts his head, his face a grimace of pain and helpless rage. "I said: Get your hands off me!"

I back off and concentrate on getting to my feet without falling over. A moment later Spike gets up too, swaying unsteadily, still clutching his head. He blinks, exhales forcefully and lets his hands fall to his sides. Then he fixes his gaze on me. Like he's waiting for something.

There's a sick feeling in my gut, a strange ache. Not just from too much drink but from shock. I just made a complete fool out of myself. I frenched Spike and tried to cop a feel. Heck I tried to get into his pants! And I wasn't exactly scrupulous about it, either. I'm not sure what's worse: the fact that I went completely overboard or the fact that he shot me down. "Oh god!"

Spike gives me a bitter, twisted smile and slowly wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

I barge past him, literally shouldering him aside, and out of the closet. I head towards the bar, grab a glass and pour myself a double. Swig. Slam. Pour.

When he speaks his voice is calm almost weary: "Didn't pan out the way you imagined? What was the script? The evil disgusting thing drops to his knees and blows you?"

I flinch. That one hit just a little too close to home. I turn around. He's standing just a few feet away, tense. "Told you," he adds. "Not interested."

"Why not? You're the guy who fucked a piece of plastic." His jaw clenches but he holds my gaze. That's when I go straight for the heart: "And before you play Mr. Sensitive, let's not forget, Spike, YOU're the one who tried to rape the woman he supposedly loves."

Does he rage, hurl abuse or hit me? Storm out or hide in his closet? Go to pieces and talk to his invisible buddies? None of the above. Instead, he stands perfectly still, a pained look on his face. Then he nods. "I know."

Suddenly I can't bear facing at him. I turn my back on him and stare at the bottle of bourbon with loathing. Waiting for the room to stop spinning. Waiting for that painful knot in my stomach to go away.

Moments later I'm rushing to the bathroom and retching my guts out.

*****
Part 11:

"You gotta stop tossing your cookies when you're around me," Spike's voice greets me, when I finally return from the bathroom, much worse for wear. "Turning into a nasty habit, that."

Swell! I thought he'd be holed up in his room by now. Instead, he's standing outside, on the balcony, surrounded by a diffuse halo of cigarette smoke, facing away from me.

"Still here?" I snap. "Shouldn't you be huddling in some dark corner, atoning and feeling sorry for yourself?" Obviously I'm not handling this very well.

More smoke billows up, then comes his toneless reply: "Careful. Starting to sound like your old man."

That shuts me up.

I drag myself to the sofa, plonk down, and lean back. I try closing my eyes. Nope, not good. I settle for blindly staring at the ceiling. I'm still drunk as a skunk, the whole world is rocking and spinning and my jaw feels like it got hit by a wrecking ball. Add to that the fact that my whole life just blew up in my face and passing out definitely sounds like a plan.

Should I just camp on the sofa? Maybe I should make a big manly effort and go to bed - maybe even drink a gallon of water first - when I hear Spike coming back inside. I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling because--. Because. I mean what's the point? I know he's standing before me, waiting for me to acknowledge his presence. Cigarette smoke - dead giveaway. "Go away, Spike," I groan. Get out. Out of my sight, out of my mind and out of my life. Alaska maybe? At least until I feel more like myself again?

"You should put some ice on that bruise," Spike's voice carries a tinge of cold anger, but an exasperated, non-threatening kind.

He's right. I should. But this carpenter is going nowhere. I try on `What do you care?' for size, toy with another lame `Go away' but then I settle for a grumpy "Later."

Spike walks away. I hear rummaging and banging from the kitchenette and a muttered curse. Shortly afterwards, something cold lands in my lap. "Here. Lazy sod."

I snap out of my ceiling gazing and look at the bundle, then at Spike. "Shall I take that as a sign that the ripping out of my entrails and the strangling have been re-scheduled?" I ask, smiling nervously.

Spike thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets, and shrugs. "If I tried that now, my noggin' would prolly ooze out through my ears - long before we get to wrapping your guts `round your neck."

Ew. My stomach lurches. Violently. I fend off the urge to rush back to the bathroom.

Spike sees my sick face and smirks fleetingly. "You can breathe again. You're safe from me." He chuckles self-depreciatingly. "Seem to have lost my appetite for guts somewhere along the line."

"Could we maybe stop talking about viscera? Cause otherwise I can't guarantee for your shoes," I choke out.

He does that thing with his eyebrow, looking almost like old Spike, then he turns away and heads for his closet.

"Spike." I call after him. When he pauses, I gesture with the ice pack: "Thanks, pal."

He nods and disappears in his room and I can hear him moving around in there.

I press the coolness against my aching jaw. Better. Now all I have to do is de-fuzzy my brain. I know all there is to know about hangovers. A few aspirins. Lots of water. And then: Sleep. Maybe a quick hand job to take the edge off, first. I still feel horny, not so much in my pants but in my head: my mind keeps finding itself in places it shouldn't wander, replaying that moment where I thought-Okay not going there! God, do I really have to go to work tomorrow? Crap! The car's parked at Mike's.

I finally convince myself to get up and stagger to the kitchenette. That's when Spike comes out of his room, carrying a bundle of clothing under his arm. The sounds I've been hearing of drawers being opened and shut suddenly make sense: he's been packing. Intercept course! Before he can reach the front door I step into his path.

"Oh now wait, Spike, not so fast! What do you think you're doing?"

"Leaving," he states, waiting patiently for me to step aside.

Which I'm so not doing. "Oh yeah, I forgot, you have that lovely hellmouthy place waiting for you. Like the presidential suite of basements. Big creepy maze, dark and dank, and have I mentioned the creepiness? If you're thinking of going back there, then you really are certifiable!"

Somehow, Spike looks less than thrilled at the prospect, but he shrugs. "It'll do. Just let Buffy know, right? Don't really have the inside scoop anymore, but if she needs a hand hunting down some beastie--"

"No way!"

"What?"

"I'm not letting you go back to that place." I know, a few minutes ago I was ready to exile him to Alaska. That doesn't mean I wanted him to leave for real!

Spike snorts. "Right. Cause you enjoy my company so much."

"Enjoy? Not so much. But that's not the point. Like it or not, you're better off here. Okay, there's the catch that you're still hallucinating and acting funny but, hey, at least you haven't hugged any crosses lately. Or did I miss something? And with the basement chipping away at your marbles you're no good to Buffy - or anyone else. Also, I have to admit, you're a much better roomie than three years ago. You haven't even stolen anything. Or borrowed my stuff."

He looks at me searchingly, pursing his - ever so tempting - lips. "You're serious," he says, looking surprised.

"Mi casa es su casa," I say emphatically, and as the words leave my mouth I realize I probably overdid it. I also realize I actually mean it. Kind of.

Suddenly he's wary. "You know, you'd sound a lot more convincing if I hadn't caught you in my room going through my things." Crap! I'd forgotten about that. "Care to enlighten me?"

"I was sniff- snooping around for clues. Dunno. Maybe drugs." I rub my temples, trying to ignore the dull pounding in my head. "You know pills, not `drugs' drugs, although you'd take those too, wouldn't you? Say, if a vampire eats a junkie, does he get high, too? And when you smoke-"

"What kind of pills?" Spike cuts me off in mid-ramble.

"Prozac or something. Anything that might explain. this morning. Worst case of personality transplant I've ever seen. Actually no, that's not true. Angel turning into Angelus, that definitely takes the cake, but you came a close second."

"Eh?" Spike looks utterly bewildered.

"You. Going all weird on me. Running out in mid-talk. Remember?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Spike scoffs, but there's a worried edge to his voice.

We head back to the sofa. Spike drops his bundle on the recliner chair and we both sit down, as far away from each other as the furniture allows.

"You were asking me about Cassie--" I start.

"What, the girl with the purple hair?"

"The same. And then you started talking to your evil self, at least that's what you told me. And singing. We mustn't forget the singing. Oh and then you sorta changed, sounding - I dunno - not like yourself, cheerful, but in a dangerous kind of way. Like you were drugged up to your eyeballs. Then you walked out of the apartment and that's it."

"I don't-- why don't I remember any of that?"

"I don't know. Maybe your soul's broken? Or there's a loose connection, like when wires aren't soldered together properly." Now Spike looks wigged. "Whatever it was, it really freaked me out. I was going to tell Buffy, but then Dawn mentioned Deadboy. And after what happened today I'm glad I didn't. Cause she'd be standing here waving a stake around. Crap, I have to drive them to school tomorrow."

"Well, the state you're in, you're not driving anyone anywhere."

I vaguely recall telling him that I'm perfectly able to drive and that I'm totally in control, and Spike telling me to go and sleep it off and that's the last thing I actually remember.

***

When I wake up it's hot and sunny in the bedroom, meaning it must be at least noon. I'm sweaty and smelly and my hangover defies description. How did I get into bed last night? My pants, shirt and shoes are strewn across the bedroom floor but I honestly can't remember taking them off. The last thing I remember is talking to Spike about driving Buffy and Dawn to school. Buffy! Crap! I leap out of bed.

Leaping is bad. Very bad. My head feels like it's gonna fall off any minute and burst like a ripe melon. I pick up my pants. It takes me three tries to put them on, meaning I've still got a staggering amount of alcohol in my blood stream, literally. Man, did I get tanked last night.

Piece by piece the memories fall back into place. "Oh god!"

I rush out of the bedroom. The door to Spike's closet is closed.

*****