Spike sat on the bed in Xander's room, resting after a thoroughly unfruitful round of snooping. He'd turned over everything but aside from some weapons and mystical what-zits that he'd steered well clear of, there was nothing that told him anything about who he was. The man...Xander, had taken his phone and as far as Spike could tell there wasn't anything like a diary or a computer anywhere in his room. He couldn't even find a prescription for the anti-psychotic meds he was sure Xander must be on. So he was sitting there, contemplating his next move.

"Really," he thought to himself, "I should just get the hell out of here." After talking to Xander, it was pretty obvious that they didn't actually know each other. He would admit a resemblance to the bloke in the photograph, but otherwise nothing Xander had said made sense. Spike sighed.

Maybe that was why he was reluctant to leave. He thought he'd made his peace with the blank spot in his past. But then, when he'd met Xander, and thought for a brief moment that Xander actually knew who he was, could shed some light on the mystery that was his broken brain, he'd felt his hopes jump unexpectedly high. So now that it seemed to be just another dead end, he was reluctant to let it go.

Spike closed his eyes in defeat. There was nothing for him after all. He should just leave.

"You could do that. Or you could come down to the basement and I could give you your memories back."

Spike's eyes jerked open and he whipped his head around, looking for the source of the voice. There was no one else in the room.

"Who the bloody hell was that?" he asked under his breath.

"Me," the voice said again.

He jumped off the bed and darted into the hallway. Again, he saw no one.

"I'm in your head, dude." the voice said, sounding mildly apologetic.

"Well get out! Who the hell are you?" Spike demanded, turning around and yelling at no one.

"Jeez! Relax! This is just how I talk. I'm George. Betta George."

Spike paused, staring at a point in space not far in front of him.

"George?" he asked aloud, refusing to believe the voice was really in his head.

"Hey, believe whatever you want buddy. But if you want, I can give you your memories back."

"Oh really?" Spike asked. "Why would you want to do that? And where the hell are you, anyway?" he asked, poking around the house, trying to pinpoint where the disembodied voice was coming from.

"I'm in the basement. I live here. And as for why I'd want to give you your memories back? I dunno. You're a pretty cool guy. And one time, when I was doing the my-species equivalent of shrooms, I saw an alternate time line where we were friends. It was pretty cool." Spike blinked.

"Is there something in this house that makes people absolutely bonkers?" he asked, beginning to search for the basement door.

"No...Well, maybe. I don't know. But we really were friends! You saved my life, I saved yours. We liberated a supernatural asylum together. You avenged my temporary death. All very touching."

"Right..." Spike said aloud, wandering down a hallway that looked promising. "About the other thing you said. How, pray tell, could you get me my memories back?" he asked incredulously.

"It's not that hard. They're still in your head, just...moved to the side. I guess the Powers figured you might need them back someday. Which is pretty lame of them, in my opinion, because it means they never intended for your reward to be permanent."

Spike tried the handle of a door at the end of a hall. The doorknob rattled.

"This your door, mate?" Spike asked, knocking.

"Yeah. You can come down, but you have to promise not to freak out."

"You've been talking nonsense into my brain for a while not and I haven't freaked out yet. I think I can handle whatever it is you think might throw me." There was silence for a minute, and what Spike might've described as a "hesitant" sensation inside his brain. He shuddered at that.

"Look," he started, but immediately stopped when the door unlocked with an audible click. Spike paused for a moment, then firmly opened the door. It led downstairs into a dim, furnished basement. Spike peered into the gloom, trying to make out who was down there. He wasn't afraid, but he also wasn't keen on walking unarmed into a darkened room by himself without knowing who or what was down there.

As his eyes adjusted tot he light he saw a giant, fish-shaped pinata suspended in the middle of the room. It was pointed so that it's giant, shiny eyes were looking right at him. Then the pinata blinked.

"Alright. I may overestimated my freak out thresh hold," Spike allowed from the other side of the door he had immediately slammed shut.

"It's cool. Most people react that way. It's why I generally stay in the basement." The voice, which Spike was now willing to grant probably was just inside his head, sounded sad but resigned. Spike felt a little guilty, but not nearly guilty enough to want to try opening the door again.

"Right. Okay...right then. Alright."

"You're spiraling," George observed.

"I bloody well am not!" he yelled. Then in the silence that followed, "Sod it, alright, maybe I am. It's been a rough night."

"I get that. It's cool."

The voice said nothing further as Spike continued to lean against the door, attempting to regain his equilibrium.

"So...you're some kind of fish monster?" he tried eventually.

"I wouldn't put it that way, but if it helps, I suppose it's not entirely inaccurate. From your perspective, at least," George allowed. "And what I said before was true. I could help you get your memories back. If that's what you want."

"Right. Because we're such good friends," Spike said incredulously to the door.

"In an alternate time line."

"Yeah."

"Right."

Following this statement there was silence. It seemed as if the fish...George, was waiting for his response. Spike continued to breathe deeply. The thing seemed benign, if incredibly freaky.

"Will it hurt?"

"Pardon?" the fish-thing asked, as though snapping to attention after letting his focus wander. Spike rolled his eyes.

"The...memory thing. Will getting my memories back hurt? Or...you know, damage me, in any way?" he asked.

The fish did a mental equivalent of a shrug.

"Maybe a little discomfort? I would be introducing you to memories you don't perceive to be belonging to you. I can imagine that's not the most pleasant sensation in the world. But no, no permanent damage. You won't turn into a vegetable or anything. I wouldn't do that to you," he added the last quietly, as though hurt Spike would even suggest such a thing.

"Of course, if you're happy with the way things are..." George hedged.

Spike turned that over in his head. It sounded like the fish-thing was telling the truth. And if it was telling the truth, then he could get his memories back. So the only question was...did he want that?

Spike thought about his life. He thought about his friends from the hospital; his job at the bar; his classes. His life was good, better than most peoples'. BUT.

Here Spike cringed internally. Because he knew that "but"; that stupidly insistent urge to know the truth, to face the things in the dark, that told him if he walked away now he'd always be looking for his lost past. Spike could feel the void inside him. Maybe he would be better off never knowing, going on with his pleasant existence. But it was a lie. And now he knew it would always be a lie. A lie and a cop out. And he might not know he who used to be, but he knew who he was. And he wasn't a coward.

"Yeah. Yeah let's do this. I want to know." he said finally.

The thing on the other side of the door wavered. "You sure?" it asked.

"Yes." Spike said with a confidence he didn't feel.

"Alright. Hang on to your brain," it said quietly. That was all the warning Spike got before a door opened in his mind and he was drowned by a crushing wave of memories and emotional baggage.