Spike stepped back as Buffy stood to leave, and offered a hand for
support, but she refused his help, looking wary as if he'd said or done
something to upset her. Odd, how just a few moments before he'd met her,
he'd had visions of knowing her, of seeing her before, when now his mind
almost seemed blank. Like a deep tunnel, long and empty and devastatingly
dark.
Briefly he wondered if they could've had an affair.
No, she hadn't acted as if she'd known him at all.
Of course, his face looked different, but if they'd known each other before, if they'd met, she would've recognized his name.
Instincts told him he wasn't the kind of man to sleep with another man's wife.
Or was he?
Confused, he hunched inside his duster and followed the other mourners. God, he hated this bloody cane. A redhead about the same height as Buffy gathered her into a protective embrace. Obviously a close friend, Buffy leaned on the other woman as if she were exhausted. He imagined she was. His own muscles protested the long walk. He hated the weakness right now. Hated any kind of weakness.
The light rain drizzled down, the fall wind kicking up, stirring wet leaves and forcing flowers from other graves to sway and droop as he limped across the grass.
Giles turned to wait for him at the edge of the cemetery. "How's the leg?"
Spike grimaced. "Getting' better." He squinted through the hazy sky as Buffy and her friend climbed in the car. "Have I met Mrs. O'Connor before?"
"Not that I know of." Giles frowned and pulled out his keys. "Why do you ask?"
Spike shrugged. "I don't know. She just seems...familiar."
"You probably saw a picture of Angel and her somewhere. I believe he's got one in his office."
"Probably."
"Get some rest. I'll see you at the center."
Spike flicked his hand in a wave as Giles jogged off to his car. Spike couldn't move quite so fast. The scent of sorrow and dank muddy ground assailed him as he headed down the embankment. He dreaded going back to his place.
The small apartment at the edge of the research center didn't hold a bleeding bit of recognition for him. A place he'd been told he'd agreed to rent when he'd signed on with SRC and made his transition from...where did they say he'd come from? Oh, yeah, the City of Angels. Los Angeles.
But he remembered none of it. And the apartment he'd chosen to live in didn't feel like a home at all. It felt like a prison.
Briefly he wondered if they could've had an affair.
No, she hadn't acted as if she'd known him at all.
Of course, his face looked different, but if they'd known each other before, if they'd met, she would've recognized his name.
Instincts told him he wasn't the kind of man to sleep with another man's wife.
Or was he?
Confused, he hunched inside his duster and followed the other mourners. God, he hated this bloody cane. A redhead about the same height as Buffy gathered her into a protective embrace. Obviously a close friend, Buffy leaned on the other woman as if she were exhausted. He imagined she was. His own muscles protested the long walk. He hated the weakness right now. Hated any kind of weakness.
The light rain drizzled down, the fall wind kicking up, stirring wet leaves and forcing flowers from other graves to sway and droop as he limped across the grass.
Giles turned to wait for him at the edge of the cemetery. "How's the leg?"
Spike grimaced. "Getting' better." He squinted through the hazy sky as Buffy and her friend climbed in the car. "Have I met Mrs. O'Connor before?"
"Not that I know of." Giles frowned and pulled out his keys. "Why do you ask?"
Spike shrugged. "I don't know. She just seems...familiar."
"You probably saw a picture of Angel and her somewhere. I believe he's got one in his office."
"Probably."
"Get some rest. I'll see you at the center."
Spike flicked his hand in a wave as Giles jogged off to his car. Spike couldn't move quite so fast. The scent of sorrow and dank muddy ground assailed him as he headed down the embankment. He dreaded going back to his place.
The small apartment at the edge of the research center didn't hold a bleeding bit of recognition for him. A place he'd been told he'd agreed to rent when he'd signed on with SRC and made his transition from...where did they say he'd come from? Oh, yeah, the City of Angels. Los Angeles.
But he remembered none of it. And the apartment he'd chosen to live in didn't feel like a home at all. It felt like a prison.