Chapter 9
Spike walked the outer edges of the research center's property, well aware that security tracked his every move. He inhaled the dry scent of the desert, needing the familiarity, because nothing else about his life seemed remotely familiar.
Not the idea of being a psychiatrist or the people he'd met at the funeral or the little apartment he'd returned home to.
Home.
What did it mean for him? He had nor friends. No family. Not even back in LA where Riley Finn, the head of the psychiatric ward had told him he'd moved from. Hell, Finn had even shown him his résumé, but the info on it seemed foreign as well. Apparently he'd worked at a small private practice before signing on wit the research facility in Sunnydale.
The doctor warned that it would take time to recover his memories. How much time would it take? Would his memory ever fully return? Would he ever feel like the real James Courtland again?
An image of Buffy's grief-stricken face flashed into his mind, emotions gripping him. If they'd never met, why had he experienced visions of her when he'd touched her?
On Monday morning, Spike stepped inside the research center feeling lost. His leg throbbed and her leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. A good shag would be nice.
"Good morning, Dr. Courtland. I'm Drusilla, your secretary. You can call me Dru."
He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?
"I worked for Dr. O'Connor."
"I...I'm sorry about your boss."
She gestured toward O'Connor's office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. "I'm afraid Dr. O'Connor didn't get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center."
"Thanks." Unfortunately, he couldn't tell her much either.
"If you need anything, just let me know." She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. "Dr. Giles mentioned that you wouldn't be seeing patients for awhile."
"Yeah. I have to get acquainted with things." He pushed open the door to Angel's office. His new office. "Thanks for the offer."
"The delivery guy already brought in your boxes."
Bloody fantastic. Only he had no bleeding idea as to what was in them.
He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle through the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and motes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn't any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?
Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. That's a bloody laugh, me patient.
He chuckled and then stopped short when he realized that he'd remembered something about himself. That he wasn't a patient man. Oh, well. Not that big of a deal.
Spike noticed as he got to work that all of Angel's own books and research manuals cluttered the bookcases on one wall, the materials piled haphazardly as if in no particular order. The man obviously hadn't been obsessive compulsive about neatness. Except that his notes were typed, not handwritten.
Probably couldn't read his own writing.
He stopped, wondering how he had made that deduction. Was it the first sign that he was a psychiatrist? It was a small tidbit, but was more important than remembering that he wasn't very patient. Now what should he do?
A silver-framed five-by-seven of Buffy Summers O'Connor and her husband occupied the corner of the desk. His gut clenched at the ghostly feeling that encompassed him.
She wore a deep blue sundress that brought out her deep tan, he wore a brown shirt and khaki pants. Angel's arm was thrown around his wige's shoulders, wind whipped through their hair, sails flapped in the breeze, and the bright sun gleamed off their smiles. They looked very happy.
He didn't think that he was normally an emotional man, but it seemed like a betrayal to Angel's memory for him to move into his space so soon after his death. To take over his office and discard his personal things. To put Angel's wife's photo aside and add one of his own. Not that he had any personal photos to add.
But Finn insisted that Angel would have wanted his work to continue, that Angel lived for his research and prided himself on his commitment to his profession and his patients.
What about his wife? Had Angel been a doting husband or had he been so obsessed with his work that she had taken second place?
He shook away the troubling thought, wondering why he had even given it a moment's thought. Buffy Summers had looked very happy in the photo. And she had been grief-stricken at her husband's funeral. Besides, she was not his problem. God knew he had enough of his own.
Still, so far the memories of her had been more tangible than any others.
Maybe she held some secret key that might unlock his past.
TBC.
Spike walked the outer edges of the research center's property, well aware that security tracked his every move. He inhaled the dry scent of the desert, needing the familiarity, because nothing else about his life seemed remotely familiar.
Not the idea of being a psychiatrist or the people he'd met at the funeral or the little apartment he'd returned home to.
Home.
What did it mean for him? He had nor friends. No family. Not even back in LA where Riley Finn, the head of the psychiatric ward had told him he'd moved from. Hell, Finn had even shown him his résumé, but the info on it seemed foreign as well. Apparently he'd worked at a small private practice before signing on wit the research facility in Sunnydale.
The doctor warned that it would take time to recover his memories. How much time would it take? Would his memory ever fully return? Would he ever feel like the real James Courtland again?
An image of Buffy's grief-stricken face flashed into his mind, emotions gripping him. If they'd never met, why had he experienced visions of her when he'd touched her?
On Monday morning, Spike stepped inside the research center feeling lost. His leg throbbed and her leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. A good shag would be nice.
"Good morning, Dr. Courtland. I'm Drusilla, your secretary. You can call me Dru."
He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?
"I worked for Dr. O'Connor."
"I...I'm sorry about your boss."
She gestured toward O'Connor's office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. "I'm afraid Dr. O'Connor didn't get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center."
"Thanks." Unfortunately, he couldn't tell her much either.
"If you need anything, just let me know." She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. "Dr. Giles mentioned that you wouldn't be seeing patients for awhile."
"Yeah. I have to get acquainted with things." He pushed open the door to Angel's office. His new office. "Thanks for the offer."
"The delivery guy already brought in your boxes."
Bloody fantastic. Only he had no bleeding idea as to what was in them.
He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle through the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and motes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn't any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?
Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. That's a bloody laugh, me patient.
He chuckled and then stopped short when he realized that he'd remembered something about himself. That he wasn't a patient man. Oh, well. Not that big of a deal.
Spike noticed as he got to work that all of Angel's own books and research manuals cluttered the bookcases on one wall, the materials piled haphazardly as if in no particular order. The man obviously hadn't been obsessive compulsive about neatness. Except that his notes were typed, not handwritten.
Probably couldn't read his own writing.
He stopped, wondering how he had made that deduction. Was it the first sign that he was a psychiatrist? It was a small tidbit, but was more important than remembering that he wasn't very patient. Now what should he do?
A silver-framed five-by-seven of Buffy Summers O'Connor and her husband occupied the corner of the desk. His gut clenched at the ghostly feeling that encompassed him.
She wore a deep blue sundress that brought out her deep tan, he wore a brown shirt and khaki pants. Angel's arm was thrown around his wige's shoulders, wind whipped through their hair, sails flapped in the breeze, and the bright sun gleamed off their smiles. They looked very happy.
He didn't think that he was normally an emotional man, but it seemed like a betrayal to Angel's memory for him to move into his space so soon after his death. To take over his office and discard his personal things. To put Angel's wife's photo aside and add one of his own. Not that he had any personal photos to add.
But Finn insisted that Angel would have wanted his work to continue, that Angel lived for his research and prided himself on his commitment to his profession and his patients.
What about his wife? Had Angel been a doting husband or had he been so obsessed with his work that she had taken second place?
He shook away the troubling thought, wondering why he had even given it a moment's thought. Buffy Summers had looked very happy in the photo. And she had been grief-stricken at her husband's funeral. Besides, she was not his problem. God knew he had enough of his own.
Still, so far the memories of her had been more tangible than any others.
Maybe she held some secret key that might unlock his past.
TBC.