"I told you I'd get back to you."

The Sunnydale High basement was cold. It made Buffy shiver. It wasn't darker at this late hour— of course not— but now that all the monsters had been slayed and the school was silent up above, there was an eerie stillness to these shadows.

She clung tight to the dark blue fabric in her hand.

"Spike? Are you still here?" she asked, closing the heavy door behind her. She paused and reconsidered, opening the door once again with a loud creak. "Spike?"

"'S about power."

Buffy heard his faint voice and looked to her left. He was crouched there against the wall, hugging himself, one arm around his soft middle and the other high on his shoulder. His hair was so wild and ragged, like him.

"Spike," she whispered, walking toward him, not sure if his name from her mouth was a question or a statement.

He looked up at her and she hardly recognized this man— this vampire. He seemed different from Spike in every way. Broken and shaky and terrified when he'd always stood so sure. He'd been sure of her and himself and of them, but now he looked like he might not even know his own name.

His eyes leapt left and right and then back to her before he shuddered harshly, like he was cold, too. He held himself tighter. "Not about right, not about wrong. I know. You don't have to tell me. You just bloody said it not a moment ago."

Buffy's eyes widened as she knelt down in front of him, still holding the soft cotton in her hands. "I'm… not. I'm not telling you anything. I'm just here." She sighed. "Because I said I would be."

Spike leaned his head all the way over to his shoulder, his face wrinkling with confusion. "You the Buffy in my head?"

"No. I don't know. I'm… just Buffy."

Spike reached out to touch her, but she jerked back so that he couldn't. His eyes were big and frightened with surprise, but then he just looked down at the floor and closed his eyes. He sounded heartbroken as he muttered, "She won't understand. She won't understand. She won't understand."

Hard to argue with that.

"Tell me anyway. What's happened to you, Spike? Talk to me."

"I… had a speech. I learnt it. Learnt it all. Doesn't matter, though. She won't listen."

He laughed abruptly, high and cackly, and Buffy cringed.

"A speech? For— for Buffy? Uh— " She shook her head. "For me?" Her voice was soft. She felt like she was talking to a small child. Or a maniac with a bomb. One of the two.

Spike stood up abruptly, laughing harder, a rumbling chuckle of bitter amusement. "Of course it was for Buffy— everything's for Buffy!"

Slowly, she rose as well.

"Are you really her?" he asked, all humor evaporated in an instant.

Buffy nodded.

"Are you sure?"

Slowly, she nodded again.

Spike sighed with… relief, maybe. "All right then. Enjoy the show. He's bit of a poet— and not a good one— but he still likes to perform! Need a twirly stick… don't you have one?"

He began pacing and Buffy shook her head, watching.

Then he froze and placed his hands on the wall, closing his eyes and hunching over. "Here goes. Didn't mean to hurt you… Buffy. Hate what I— I— I didn't… Christ, I'm forgettin' the words already." He slammed the wall with one fist and shouted, "We bloody well rehearsed this!"

"Spike—"

"Don't interrupt!" He whirled around with outrage and then his lip quivered as he began unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. "Please don't interrupt. Please. I'll— I'll lose my place."

Buffy's face felt tight in a permanent crinkle of confusion, but she nodded as if he was making any sense at all to her.

Spike reached one hand inside his open black shirt and his arm shook as he began to talk again. "There's a fire in me— no, I'm in the fire. I am the fire? There's light all around, up 'n down. I'm lookin' up, burnin' up. No. No, that wasn't— not the speech. That's them talkin'. Puttin' pictures 'n words in my head. Bloody…" He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head again before opening them. "Say my piece. Can't say sorry. Can't say forgive. Can only say never again. Can only say I changed. I changed, Buffy. Spike's changed. Put the fire in— for you. I had to. Only way. Burns the bad out." Tears sprung to his eyes and he looked so desperate for her to understand. "It was the only way, you know? Had to burn— burn it all. Buffy?"

"I'm… still here," she said, not knowing what else to say. His voice was too high and all wrong and it was bothering her to hear it.

Spike nodded and then quickly shook his head. "No! Bugger! Not a fire. That's not… that's not right is it? William was never that bright, you know." He pinched his thumb and one finger together a few times. "Like a fire, but not so big, not so bright. Burning. It burns. Hurts. Small as it is. Zap!" He clapped his hands together, then laughed a bit. "Dead mosquito. Filthy, rotten bloodsucker."

Buffy clutched her arms against the cold. "Spike, please… try to… I don't know, say something that makes a little bit of sense. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong with you." His hand went back inside his shirt and Buffy stepped forward and pulled it away. "Stop hurting yourself."

Spike fell backward against the wall and ripped his wrist from her hand. "Shouldn't touch. Touch is bad. No more touch."

"Well…" Buffy shook her head with distress. "Neither should you! Stop. In fact, I— uh, well I brought you this." She held out the shirt and shrugged. "There's no buttons, so um… I don't know. Maybe it'll help— with the no cutting. You shouldn't hurt yourself. The world's painful enough."

Spike took the navy shirt, held it out, and looked at it like he'd never seen a shirt before.

"I— I know it isn't black. I just— well, hey maybe we've found your new color."

He kept breathing, hugging the shirt to his chest and slumping down into a crouch again. "A— a costume? For the show? For Buffy?"

Buffy exhaled hard and frowned. "We need to get you out of here, Spike. Whatever you've been doing here, it is clearly not good for you."

"Not good," he mumbled, looking down at the floor and nodding hastily. "Spike's not good. Dru keeps tellin' me. They all do."

"Not like this, you're not."

Spike lifted his face to look at her. His eyes swimming with ghosts, fires maybe, something smaller. Zap. "This is my home now. Always has been really. Beneath you. Always. Always beneath you. From beneath you— "

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Stop it! Just stop. This is not your home. This is not your place. You have a place. It's nice— you know, for a crypt— and it's dark, just like this, but with candles and— and a TV! You're gonna miss all your shows if you keep hanging around here! Don't want that, do you?"

He held up the shirt. "For the show?"

"No. For Spike." She added with frustration, "Is he even in there anymore?"

"Not a quick study. Can try. I always fail, though. So weak. Always. I'm sorry."

Buffy crossed her arms and knelt down beside him. "Try harder, Spike. You can try harder. Be better. You seriously have to get it together."

"Do somethin' different," he said, shakily, like every word was new to him. "Faster, more clever. See it all again. Do it right. Do it right this time, you stupid sod."

Buffy shook her head and grabbed it with both hands. "God, I feel like I'm getting crazier just talking to you."

His lip quivered as he turned his face toward her. "Does your back still ache, pet? Hit the tub on the way down." He lowered his voice for the first time all night. "Did you bruise?"

Buffy's heart dropped, ice crackling through her veins. She shot to her feet and kept her back to him. "That's enough," she whispered.

"Didn't mean to, did I?"

He sounded sad again.

"You meant to," she said without hesitation.

Spike sobbed once and buried his face in the blue shirt. The sobbing turned into a growl. Words came out, all muffled by the shirt. "Bad man. He's a bad man. Not a man. He's a monster. Treat him like one. He's not a man. I'm not a man. I can't do this. Couldn't do it. Would never hurt— " His voice cracked and strained. "I can't do it." He cried out again and still didn't look. "Buffy, are you there? Buffy?"

She was inching toward the door, unable to look at him anymore. It was probably midnight by now.

"No, Spike. I— I don't think I can help you. Not with this— whatever this is. Definitely not with... that."

Buffy turned and walked, feeling the harsh strike of every heel on the concrete floor. She heard Spike wailing softly like a wounded animal.

"Wait, Buffy. Please."

She wouldn't. She couldn't. She shouldn't.

As she hit the stairs, just barely she thought she heard him say, "Oh, thank god. Thought you'd really gone..."

It made her pause and grip the railing hard. He sounded so relieved. Delusional, obviously, but relieved.

Then she remembered the betrayal of his suffocating weight and the cold tile against her back and her favorite bathrobe that mom gave her that she couldn't wear anymore.

Buffy stomped up the stairs and slammed the door hard behind her.