"I knew her, I think."
Cynthia looked up from their game of rummy. Spike had a faraway look in his eyes, like he was trying to recall something buried so deep in the past he had to step out of time to find it.
As she waited for him to continue, she shuffled her cards around, fanning them, un-fanning them, turning them over. But she was patient.
"I think maybe…we were friends? Her name is so…familiar to me, I must have known her before."
"When was 'before', William?" she asked. He focused his confused gaze on her a moment before replying.
"Before I was here," he said, as if it was the most obvious answer. Cynthia put her cards on the table and leaned back in her chair.
"You need to remember," she coaxed. "You're not supposed to be here. There must be a reason you are."
He frowned, concentrating. He tried to call up the voices he used to hear, but they seemed to have faded. Spike focused on Buffy's name and tried to conjure an image of her, something for him to grasp. But he couldn't.
"I - I can't remember!" he spat. He jumped out of his seat and began pacing back and forth, like a caged animal. "I don't remember a thing. I only have these…feelings! Like, I know this Buffy girl meant something to me. I knew her. But I can't.remember.her."
"What about yourself," Cynthia pushed, "do you remember who you are? Anything? Like, what you like to do, what's your favourite colour, that sort of thing?"
He plopped himself down on the couch and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and pressing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I didn't fit in. I always felt like an outsider. I was - was ridiculed, a lot. I remember fear, and anger, embarrassment, loathing…and…an intense desire for…something."
Cynthia rose then, and sat stiffly on the couch beside him. He could feel her eyes boring into his back, but he made no move to acknowledge her presence. So she gripped his shoulder firmly and forced him to turn to her.
"I'm going to say some words to you, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to your mind."
"I don't want a psychological evaluation, thank you very much!"
"Just - just do it, okay?"
Spike could see the curiosity and anticipation behind her eyes, so he decided to humour her.
"Fine, okay. Let's get this bloody show on the road."
Cynthia made herself more comfortable, and riveted her attention on him. She was silent for a moment before beginning the test.
"Night."
"Dark."
"Moon."
"Sun."
"Demon."
He frowns. "God."
"Witch."
"…Tree."
"Tree? Any specific tree?"
He frowns even harder now. "A, uh, a willow tree."
Now Cynthia frowns. "One."
"Only."
"Chosen."
"Picked."
"Slayer."
Spike's eyes practically pop out of his skull. "I know that word!"
"What is it?" Cynthia asked, clearly on the edge of a breakthrough.
"It's a…title. Like, a job. There's only one. The…chosen…one!"
She gets up and assumes the same pattern of pacing that Spike had earlier.
"Watcher."
"…Knowledge." Her eyebrows raise.
"Vampire."
He stiffens. "Evil."
"…Master."
"Leader." He know looks perplexed.
"I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest 'Hellmouth'."
"Sunny…no, that can't be right."
"Yes, yes it is!" she cries, rushing to him. She kneels on the floor before him and grasps him by his upper arms. "The Hellmouth is in Sunnydale! My God, you must have lived there. With - with Buffy!"
"I lived with Buffy?"
"Maybe not in the strictest sense, but that's where she worked, that's where she fought!"
"She's…she's a Slayer, isn't she."
Cynthia's exuberant expression becomes a little clouded. "The best."
"You know her?"
"Oh, no. We never met. Well, she never met me. That's - that's why my grave is out there. I was the Slayer before her. My death called her. She is my successor. And she's the best damn Slayer there's ever been."
"I don't think I understand."
"I don't expect you to. Why don't we give up the stroll down memory lane until tomorrow. I'm feeling kind of tired."
Spike looks her over and sees not only the weariness in her body, but in her spirit as well. She looks haunted, as if she's seen a ghost. Perhaps the ghost is her.
"All right. My brain's feeling a little raped right now anyway."
She laughs lightly, and he can't help but smile at the way she laughs so easily to his lame and somewhat rude joke. He gets the feeling that he never got to create laughter before. At least, not often.
****
He rolls over in his sleep and reaches for the woman who isn't there. But now she has a name.
"Buffy."
****
"Where are my clothes?"
"Excuse me?"
Spike walks into the kitchen wearing only the drawstring pants he found in the closet. Somehow, he knew he would never wear this.
"The clothes I came here in. Where are they?"
"Oh, you mean those ratty old jeans and that black shirt and that ancient leather jacket?" She shrugged. "I tossed them in a box. They should be around here somewhere."
"Can you be more specific?" he asks slowly, obviously becoming agitated. Cynthia notices this and gives him her full attention.
"Try the front closet." Spike turns on his heel and heads out of the room. She gets up and follows him. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just…have a feeling."
"Wow, you're really getting good at describing these feelings of yours. I think our therapy session worked like a charm."
He glares at her as he yanks the accordion-style door open and begins to rummage for the box.
"Why the bleedin' hell do you have skis in here?"
She shrugs. "Makes me feel athletic."
As he continues to search for the box, he tosses things over his shoulder. A soccer ball, a Time magazine, one blue sock, 'Monopoly', a pair of broken sandals, one red sock, a die (which lands on 2), a baseball cap, three tennis balls (all in succession), a waffle maker, a Snoopy tie, the other blue sock, a King of Hearts ("That's where that went!" Cynthia cries), and a pair of fuzzy pink bunny slippers.
"It's not in here," he says.
"Obviously. I mean, it would have been right on top, since you only got here two days ago."
Spike gives her the glare of death before getting to his feet and stalking into the living room.
"Hey, aren't you going to find my other red sock for me?" she yells after him. He slams the back door in answer.
She sighs at the mess he made and kicks everything back into the closet, including the now complete pair of blue socks. The die lands on 6.
The back door slams again and she hears Spike cursing up a storm. She giggles a little at his sudden change in persona - he's definitely going to keep her guessing. Cynthia saunters nonchalantly towards him, trying her best to look uninterested.
"How did you manage to lose the only things that I actually own?" he demands as he begins to search the house for his missing clothes. He opens every cupboard, every drawer, lifts every seat cushion, and looks under every table and chair. She watches all this from afar.
"Oh, Cynthia, you're doing a wonderful job holding up that wall for me," he snaps at her.
"God, why don't you save yourself the frustration, Spike, and use your brain for once."
He looks up sharply from underneath the table cloth. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Duh! Where do dirty clothes usually go?" He frowns.
"The laundry?" She taps her nose.
Spike clenches his jaw and heads out the back door once more. Cynthia follows close behind him, not wanting to miss a moment of the entertainment. The box comes into view as they approach the water pump, and Spike curses himself as he picks up the pace.
When he gets there, he dumps the box onto the grass and begins combing through it. She watches him, puzzled.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"When you said I didn't belong here, you said there must be a reason I'm here."
"Yeah, I recall saying something along those lines."
He grins triumphantly and pulls something sparkly from the heap of clothes.
"Might it have something to do with this?" He holds up a necklace by the clasp, and it twirls slightly, enough for it to give off little flashes of light as it moves.
Cynthia reaches out and he hands it to her. She holds it up to her face and squints, as if doing so will make it clearer in the already-broad daylight.
"Well, I'll be damned," she mutters.
****
To be continued…