While Tara finished up the last of her questions with Joyce, Spike had led Wesley back to his own office, closing the door behind them with an almost silent click. Sinking gratefully into his overstuffed, leather desk chair, his hand dove immediately into the bottom drawer, seeking his pain pills. With a deftness that spoke of too much practice, he popped off the safety cap with his thumb and shook three of the Excedrin out into his palm, tossing them to the back of his throat and washing them down with the dregs of his neglected coffee.

"Spike, are you quite all right?" the P.I. asked, his concern evident as his accent stiffened.

Frowning at the moniker, Spike none the less nodded and stuffed the bottle surreptitiously into the pocket of his jacket, now slung over the back of his chair. He'd be needing three more before the day was out.

"Just a bit of a headache mate," he soothed, rolling his shoulders. "Must've slept on my neck wrong."

Wesley nodded, though he remained unconvinced.

"So," Spike sighed, pulling his file towards him and flipping it open to a blank page as he uncapped a pen. "What can you tell me about our boy?"

"Angelus O'Connor," Wesley sneered, reaching into his own file to pull out a photo. Tossing it across the desk to Spike, he began to page through his own meticulous notes. "Big bloke. Six one, almost six two, just under two hundred pounds and all of it muscle. Played football in high school so he knows how to throw his weight around."

Spike looked down at the picture in his lap and felt his fingers go cold. There was something familiar about the man; not the shape of his face, or the way his hair stuck straight up from his forehead, not the easy one-sided smirk that he had thrown to the camera. No, it was the eyes that always got him, every time he encountered one of the men who had so damaged one of his girls. Windows to the soul they were, and with these bastards the windows were always black.

"Mum tried to file a report against him once," Wesley continued, "When the girl showed up at home with a wrenched shoulder. Got as far as discussing a restraining order before Buffy backed out. She'd never really claimed it was him; was Joyce who'd done all the talking, and after that she refused to say another ill word against him."

"So she's never admitted to anyone that he's the one abusing her?" Spike asked with concern. That could be a big problem.

"That's the strange thing," Wesley said, "She's willing to admit that she's hurt. She's sought out medical care, shown her mother her injuries. She's not trying particularly hard to hide her bruises." As he spoke, he ticked each thing off on his fingers, a list of contradictions that Spike had never seen before in a single girl. "She's an anomaly," the investigator concluded, throwing his hands up in the air.

"One of a kind," Spike agreed, stroking the scar that laced through his eyebrow with his thumb as he leaned forward on his elbows.

"She has the mental capacity to recognize that she's being hurt," Wesley continued, frustration thick in his voice as he drummed a finger against the desktop with each word. "She knows it's abuse Spike, I can feel it. She knows what he did to her is wrong. But she doesn't seem to be able to say it; to herself or anyone else."

"Most of the girls here can't do that," Spike pointed out defensively, though he knew what Wesley was getting at. "Very, very few of them can speak out against their abusers."

"True," Wesley agreed. "But many of them don't consider it abuse either. They're conditioned to believe that they deserve it, or that it's normal. Many of them think they love the men who hit them, or are too scared to speak up. I don't see any of that from Buffy."

Spike sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. "This is Tara's territory mate," he muttered.

Wesley narrowed his eyes. Spike never sloughed off any part of a client's treatment, and this typically was the part that he was highly involved in. The circumstances of his past made him particularly well qualified to consult with Tara when a patient first arrived. He was good at watching people, at sizing them up and figuring out their weaknesses, a valuable tool that helped to figure out what made these girls tick. It wasn't like him to be fading out, to show disinterest or even fatigue. Spike ran like a fine German sports car; smoothly, quietly, with well harnessed power and boundless energy.

"Do you have a copy of her medical history?" he asked abruptly, pulling Wesley from his musings. "I know Jenny has a copy, and I plan on making sure that Buffy gets over to see her first thing tomorrow, but…"

Pulling out a list that filled the length of two sheets of paper, Wesley slid it across to him. "Not sure everything's there," he cautioned, "But I got as much of it from her mother as I could. Everything from the hospital as well. Of course there's no telling what injuries she sustained that were never reported, or that her friends and family never noticed."

"Contusions, lacerations, sprains…" Spike read off, flicking back and forth between the pages. "A broken nose, the wrenched shoulder. The concussion, broken arm, and choking she's coming in with. The drowning. God, she was actually dead?" he asked in a horrified whispered.

"As I understand it," Wesley confirmed, his expression grim. "Her heart had to be restarted with a defibrillator. There was water in her lungs, so she was still breathing when she went into the fountain. But they were in a part of the club that was hidden from the cameras, and there weren't any witnesses, so I've got almost nothing to link him to it."

Shoving back angrily from the desk, Wesley stood and began to pace across the brief length of the office, running his hands roughly through his hair. His voice had risen as he spoke, and Spike could see the hanger and frustration simmering underneath the Brit's usual stiff upper lip. Slouched back in his seat, he watched in silence as the investigator moved in short, harsh strides, turning tightly on the heel of his boot. He was reminded uncomfortably of a dog staked out on the end of its chain, wearing the grass down to dirt as it ran in never-ending circles.

"I've got nothing on this bastard!" Wesley barked, causing Spike to wince as his voice bounced off the walls of the enclosed space. "He attacked her in their apartment, any fingerprints that the police or I pull from it are going to be circumstantial. She got the concussion when he bashed her skull off the hardwood floor, so there's no weapon to bill into evidence." Suddenly he slammed his palms onto Spike's desktop, leaning towards him with eyes flashing. "I've got nothing Spike. If Buffy doesn't testify against O'Connor…"

"I'll do everything I can to help put this guy away Wes, you know that," Spike assured him, speaking slowly and calmly until his friend eased back down into his chair. "But our first priority here is always the girl. If it comes down to it, I can't jeopardize Buffy's progress to make your case."

"Of course," Wesley muttered, nodding in agreement. He cared about his clients, cared about the victims more than any conviction, and Spike had experienced it first-hand. Wesley had a soft heart, a good heart, though it had been hardened over the years. He might show cynicism, a vicious tenacity whenever he went after a criminal, but it was these cases in which he invested himself. His devotion to the well-being of victims and their families, his willingness to go above and beyond and to do everything in his power to gather up the pieces of a broken life had literally saved Spike's life. Now it was Spike's turn to take the pieces and start gluing them back together.

"Well, we have some time," he sighed, beginning to collect his things for departure. "Since this most recent… incident, no one's seen or heard from O'Connor." Spike rose reluctantly, uncurling his long frame from behind the desk to following his friend towards the door. "He has some family left in Ireland; L.A.P.D. is watching flights out of country and state."

"You're treating this as attempted murder then?" Spike asked, locking his office door and heading down the hallway towards the lounge where they had left Tara and Joyce Summers. It would be hard to get any serious response from international law enforcement for a count of domestic violence.

"I'm going to try," Wesley responded, his tone uncertain. "The bruising on her throat makes it pretty clear that strangulation was the intention. For God's sake, there's a bloody handprint on her neck! And with all the unanswered questions surrounding the drowning…"

Spike didn't answer, his mouth occupied with a twisted grimace. Rounding the corner of the hallway, he schooled his expression into something more neutral, Joyce and Tara's voices reaching his ears.

"Ladies," he smiled, coming alongside Tara and placing a light hand at the small of her back. "All finished up?"

"I think so," Tara replied, smiling at the frazzled woman in front of her. "Joyce here was quite helpful."

"You, you do think you'll be able to help her?" she asked, wringing her hands in a nervous manner. Though she had come to be much more comfortable with the psychologist in the past hour, it was Spike she addressed.

"We never make any promises Mrs. Summers," Spike began carefully. "But we're dedicated here at Effulgent. We do everything we can to help our clients, and from what you've told us and what I've seen so far…" Here Spike looked over at Tara, and she nodded encouragingly. "I think that Buffy has a very good chance of growing into a happy, successful adult capable of finding a happy, healthy relationship."

He wasn't ready for Joyce's reaction to his words. He had seen almost everything over the years; crying, begging, threatening, even total silence. He had seen parents drop their daughter's off and walk away without a word, watched friends shrug off weeping girls and duck hugs before running back to the car. But this was the first time that someone threw themselves at him, pulled him into their arms and hugged him warmly, without guise or mal-intent. For a moment he stood stiffly, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as his mind ran through the proper, professional protocol for such a thing, but he couldn't find it and so he caved, returning the hug and simply enjoying the embrace and what it meant.

After a moment, before his anxiety could set in, he gently disentangled himself from Joyce's arms. Her eyes were wide and teary, and Spike flashed her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Stepping forward, Wesley placed a hand at the small of her back.

"We'd best be on our way then," he said lightly. Everyone knew that this could be the most difficult part, the actual leaving. Joyce had shown herself to be a very loving and concerned mother, and no doubt it would be extremely difficult for her to abandon her daughter here. But the core of strength Spike had glimpsed in both her and Buffy made its appearance once again, and Joyce straightened her shoulders, her expression hardening.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she agreed. Reaching out a hand, she grasped Tara's firmly. "It was nice to meet you, Miss McClay. I've no doubt you'll be able to help Buffy." Turning back to Spike, she graced him with another sad little smile. "Thank you Will," she said softly. "I wouldn't presume to know why but… I can see that these girls matter to you. More than I would've expected. And to be quite honest, I've more hope today than I've had in… well, in a long time. If anyone can help Buffy, I expect it's you."

Spike could only nod around the knot in his throat.