Last night, Buffy had told him that if he had proved dangerous, he would be dealt with. That should have stung. Maybe it would have, once. Right then however? It just felt… grounding. Like rules in a world with no map, something he could use to tell him where he stepped wrong, why all these people might have behaved around him the way they had. Frankly, he'd appreciated the quiet moment amid the chaos. The irony of it, appreciating being told of the conditions of his being kept, so long as he had a nice warm cuppa with the lady while she warned him. He scoffed, a sound almost akin to that of laughter. At least his manners had slipped through. Hints, of what he was, without the full recall...

  He ran his hand through his hair. He looked about the room, tried not to linger on the matter. She'd left him clean clothes and so he snatched at them, not his, not made for him at least, he could surmise. They were too tight. Still, he shrugged off the shirt he wore and looked down at the bandage at his side. It hadn't been changed since the crossbow bolt. He pulled at the medical tape, silent and stoic as the tape peeled away to reveal pale skin... Wait. There was no wound there. He blinked, had he imagined the whole thing?

  Spike looked down at himself, looked at his arms, his palms, he turned them over searching for some sign of what harm he must surely have suffered. Nothing? How was that possible, no, that couldn't be possible. People don't heal this quickly, he thought, and even that bit of knowledge he doubted in his utter lack of any sort of memories before waking up there. They had told him - Buffy, Dawn, they had told him - "You fell, for her." they said he fell. "You were hurt." Right, they said, hurt. They said he was hurt. She told him he'd been there, after the fall, for twelve days!

  Alright. Stay calm. I am calm! He turned his back at the dresser, trying to catch a better angle of where he'd caught a crossbow bolt for Dawn. He remembered that, he'd memory of it, he was holding the bandage in his hand - that was real! ... Spike blinked. He looked at the mirror, moved, tried to angle himself in front of it properly... He stared.

  Spike stared at the room behind him, then at the mirror, he moved to the bed, ruffled it, then back to the mirror. Spike gripped the edge of the dresser as he lent against it hard, leaving indentations where his fingers were in the wood there as he crouched down low in front of it. He stared harder, willing the image to appear, fingers digging into the dresser until the wood groaned under his grip, stared at the reflection of the room behind him that had reflected accordingly in the mirror, bed ruffled, abandoned bandage, spare clothes, dimly lit morning window, he saw the entire room reflected in the mirror. There was just one problem: he didn't appear in the room.

  "Gah!" An involuntary yell escaped from him as he reeled backward away from it, the scream ripped out of him before he could stop it, utterly undignified. The mirror mocked him with its perfect, empty reflection. Nothing. No face. No body. Just the rumpled bed behind him, the doorway, the wall. Nothing. He had a horrified expression on his wide eyes when the door of the bedroom flew open with a bang!

  "Spike!" Buffy, bursting through the open door, stake already in hand, eyes wide with alarm. He spun, instincts screaming danger, body coiling like a spring even as his knees threatened to buckle.

  "What are you-?!" Buffy looked in the direction he had stared when Buffy came through the door, looking for the enemy, looking for danger, stake already drawn, eyes scanning for threats. Buffy's gaze locked on the mirror. The empty glass reflected the room perfectly: with nothing where Spike stood. No bleached hair, no pale skin, no wide-eyed shock staring back.

  "Oh g-" She began, but Spike forced himself straighter. Locked his knees. Refused to let the trembling show. He would not collapse again. Not in front of her. Not like some pathetic-

  "I... there's nothing. There's nothing there." His voice cracked higher on the last word, pure Victorian horror bleeding through the modern slang he'd picked up unconsciously. Spike's hands raised, pointing at the mirror as if it were threatening Spike's very existence, finger trembling. His mouth worked soundlessly for a second before the words tumbled out in a strangled whisper.

  "I-" His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again.

  "There's nothing. There's nothing in the bloody mirror." He said and Buffy began to move, wooden stake being stowed, her hands moving fast and yet he could somewhere in his mind realise that he could track her, hyper-focused on that motion, while he felt like ice had formed in his chest and that a fight was coming at the lack of a reflection.

  "That's not - people have reflections. I should have - why don't I-?" He shot out breathlessly, shoulders pressed to the wall and knees locked as she approached, expecting a fight, expecting trouble, he glanced at the mirror then back to her as Buffy stepped forward. Slowly, and deliberately, Buffy had placed herself between him and the glass like she could block the truth with her body.

  "Spike," she said, worried, but firm.

  "Look at me." He did. Had to. Couldn't look anywhere else when that mirror had betrayed him.

  "It's okay. It's... it's going to be okay." Buffy said from where she stood in front of Spike, between him and the mirror, blocking Spike's view as if she could shield him from the mere reflection. So he looked at her, blue eyes huge and glassy, pupils blown with panic.

  "Am I dead?" The words tasted like ash.

  "Am- am I a ghost? Did I die on that tower and this is some kind of—punishment?" He said, trying to shift his body to see the mirror over her head, but Buffy moved, shifting in time with him. In synch with him. Like they had known each other's movements from before.

  "Limbo? Some, dead thing? Wandering around, pretending to be alive?" He asked in a huff, eyes focusing on her as he sought some answer from her, watching the way her palms were raised peaceably, watching her for sharp movement, hyper aware of her heart, her breath, the way her hair fell, trying desperately to find out what she was doing and what she'd do next and - oh bloody hell was he already dead!?

  "No." Buffy said, instinctive, sharp, but then caught herself. Spike watched her as she swallowed hard, hesitated. He wanted to scream he was so desperate to hear her explain. But of course what she had to say didn't help:

  "You're not, "dead"... Not exactly." Buffy said with a cringe, and he could hardly believe his ears.

  "Not exactly!?" The man demanded, sliding on the wall away from her, toward the window, straightening some.

  "What the ruddy hell is that supposed to mean?" He tried to sound manly, calm, but his voice came out a little bit too high pitched for his own liking. He tried to get some room away from her, but she moved again, blocking his path - trying to keep him away from the window, and the mirror, and - and - why was she still carrying that sharpened wooden stick!?

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  "What is going on?" He looked about the room, just in case another piece of furniture would taunt him next, - maybe the ceiling light, or that drawer handle - what if that bed wasn't even a bed and he wasn't here at all.

  "Why's there nothing in the bleeding mirror, why am I not still hurt after twelve days, what is going on!" His tone grated out on the last word, through clenched teeth and tight chest, trying to hold onto sanity and to keep breathing. He was trying to hold it together, he really was, some form of decorum, or semblance of reason, or show of bloody spine.

  "Nothing is making any sense and without one sodding memory I am about ready to tear my hair out, I swear." He said as quickly and as calmly as possible - which is to say not calmly at all - and Buffy seemed to make some kind of decision: or she lost her patience, he wasn't sure which.

  "You're a vampire." She said it. Deadpan, flat, as if to make it stick.

  "A vampire?!" He tested the word like it might bite. Spike blinked, then a short, disbelieving laugh escaped him, like a slap, almost manic. Buffy didn't seem to think it's funny. Didn't laugh, just staring at him, with that infuriating green gaze that seemed to cut right into him past the skin and into the soft bits underneath it.

  "Right, a vampire!" He nodded when he tested the word, wore a look that was jagged, more snarl than mirth, rolling around that blunt concept like he could taste it - slick with iron.

  "Brilliant. That explains - everything then doesn't it?" He said, finally slipping past her, only to pace into the room. He had been hearing her heart since she'd burst through the door, pressed a hand to his own chest as he walked bare on the floor. Nothing.

  "No, heartbeat. No, reflection. No-... A-And, the blood!" He realised with a start, turned then, turned back to face her; chest bare, words raw. Spike was accepting this far too easily, he thought, trying to cling desperately to something - anything - that might make sense of what had been a distressing mess of utter chaos since the very first moment he'd become conscious.

  "Right... Of course... I've been drinking blood. That's why I felt there was something wrong with the blood. The thirst, the way that stuff in the mug tasted wrong. I drank your blood!" He pointed at her, like an accusation, like he'd been furious, but he was furious with himself. His fingers curled, he glared at his own hands, fingernails still barely bearing little marks, chipped and black, marring the otherwise white of his hands.

  "I drank from you. Like some - some monster!" His gaze snapped to Buffy, horrified, stomach twisting.

  "You were dying," she said quietly.

  "And that makes it alright!?" He snapped.

  "You were in pain, writhing with it. For days, the chip kept firing constantly." Buffy said like it was meant to mean something.

  "Chip! What chip!?" He thrashed his arms, as if he needed another thing that he was clearly not capable of remembering.

  "You needed it to heal. You saved Dawn. You fell from the tower saving her." Buffy went on, and for each pitch of his voice that had gotten louder, hers had gone more quiet - he hated it.

  "Saved her. And before that?" The part, that Dawn hadn't been talking about, the part that, Buffy had been worried about, the part that had gotten him shot and that had Spike isolated and had convinced Buffy to send away Dawn.

  "What was I before the fall? Before the nothing in my head?" He asked and ground two fingers into his temple in frustration, knowing he was piecing together parts of a puzzle, one that he hadn't the full picture of, broken shards that were being stuck back together, like he just didn't want to fit. Buffy's jaw tightened.

  "Complicated." She said, one word, her lip jutted out in a way that made Spike feel like a blaggard for it. And yet he didn't stop, driven by a need to know more, he allowed himself to be carried on by his emotions, if a little less loudly than he had thus far. His hands, carefully kept at his sides, curled into fists.

  "Complicated." He scoffed when he echoed the word, because Spike, he knew what that meant.

  "That's a polite way of saying monster, isn't it?" His deep voice resonated, but Buffy raised her chin.

  "You needed it to heal," Buffy said, a bit less quietly, seeing Spike reigning himself in, Buffy stepping closer. He straightened, despite the instinct screaming 'Danger.', despite the fact that he stood with his chest bared. His jaw locked, the muscle in it tensed, he didn't want to startle her, to hurt her.

  "I'll say it one more time, Spike. You were dying. Because you did what you did to save Dawn, you were dying - the permanent kind." She said with a smile that was more cheek and less mirth, the way the corners of her pink lips quirked making Spike tense - as if a blow was being prepared - like something painful was going to follow.

  "You saved Dawn that day, and you needed it to heal - so yes. You drank my blood. You deserved that much, after what you did for Dawn and me." Buffy said, but the tone Spike heard wasn't one that meant 'thank you', the way Buffy said he'd drank her blood, like some leech, was with a tone that said 'get over it'. He stared at her incredulously a moment, mouth agape, before Spike's laugh turned bitter.

  "DId I?!" He heard his tone rise sharp again. He stopped and turned away from Buffy, his hand going up to scratch at a scar in his brow that he didn't remember getting, before quickly dropping again, just using the time to try to be more gentlemanly, when next he'd speak:

  "You look at me like... like I'm a bomb about to go off. Like I might rip the Nibblet's throat out the second you turn your back." He said, didn't expect to hear himself use that nickname, something old and affectionate that had slipped out without him realizing. Spike wiped the surprise off of his face before he'd turned back to face Buffy.

  "And now, you're telling me I'm this, this thing..." he nodded his head in the direction of the mirror, not looking at it, not wanting to be reminded of the utter absence that lingered where he ought have seen himself. His first undeniable proof that he's not human, shattering the fragile normalcy he had been clinging to.

  "And suddenly, it makes some sense. Why your mates look at me - like that." He raised his hand so that it was level with his eyes, pointing two fingers loosely at Buffy, not moving close, because she was staring at him like she might need to use the stake... His shoulders slacked.

  "Buffy, I don't remember anything." He said though he'd been terrified of saying it, though she knew, he hadn't said it until then. Not out loud. Not in so many words. His memories, what he was, they were all gone.

  "I don't remember my own name. I don't know why I want to tear apart anyone who looks at Dawn wrong. I don't remember who I was. What I was. I don't remember why I saved her. Or why you-" He looked at Buffy, voice dropping.

  "I don't know why you look at me, like any of it matters." He said, his chest heaving heavily with one deep breath. He was laying it all bare.

  "Because if you're telling me, I'm some sort of monster. Hollow, and empty. Then I don't know why you're looking at me, like it even matters what I did. Instead of, what I am." He frowned, one hand gesturing to the mirror with self-loathing. A thing. A thing that doesn't reflect. That isn't really there, not fully, not remembering. And right then, he felt like he was about to snap.

  "I don't even know why I'm bearing this all at your feet." He added finally, letting his body slack, he took a half turn and seated himself there on the bed. Head hung low, forearms on his knees, hands left to hang in the empty air between them.

  For a moment, there had been the silence that screamed. The kind that, without memories, had been tearing at his cold chest, screaming for something to happen. To sound. To beat. He felt it, Spike felt all of it, felt it too much. He almost missed the ringing, he'd take that over the silence.

  He heard her move, before seeing her, steps padding determinately but not away from him, toward. He looked up, when she stopped before him. His deep, blue eyes gazed up at her seeking his meaning, and when she spoke, she offered some miniscule hint of it.

  "It matters. To me and Dawn." Said Buffy. Gone then was the loathing that Spike thought he saw in those green eyes of the blonde, he huffed in relief as what fierceness he'd first encountered in her countenance had softened a blow - just enough - that she had seemed willing to see him, and weigh him, upon the cusp of her gaze.

  "You promised you'd protect her, "Till the end of the world", even if you don't remember; you kept your promise."