Woo!

Spike figured he’d at this point forgotten as much as he knows. Maybe more. He knows he was in Hell for awhile, but that’s a bit of a wash. Before that, he knows he stumbled and crawled his way from Africa to Sunnydale, the weight of his returned soul driving him mad. He remembers scraps of humanity, as though his previous life were a painting he’d been fond of as a child. He remembers Buffy.

The tense shifts in this paragraph.

No such luck That

Missing full stop between luck and that.

(MORE MORE MORE!)

Is it just me, or is Victor turning into Shererazade, coming in to feed us our nightly story?

(MORE MORE MORE!)

You heard the lady.

Is it just me, or is Victor turning into Shererazade, coming in to feed us our nightly story?

But that would mean that he's telling the story in order to avoid having sex with us. I'm not sure I like the sound of that.

Hee. That's true. I always forget that part of the real story, because my parents used to read us a censored version.

Victor, so. fucking. fabulous.

But you give the dateline as:

Part Nine: Memory

China, 2003:

...shouldn't it be 2023?

Either he's doing it to avoid having sex with us, or to avoid us killing him.

(not really here, just popping in to say mmmmm more, please!) and g'night.

heheheheheheh.

Too much good stuff out here tonight. So damned good.

The section that will follow this message is continued from starts here and finishes here. Previous sections can be found here. I hit 18000 words tonight. Go me.

from her sunrise to clockwise (cont'd)

Making lists of what she missed was a lot more fun when safety and sex weren't heading it up. Well, in her altered and admittedly somewhat loose definition of the word, which had less to do with enjoyment and more to do with acceptable ways to pass the time. Buffy closed her eyes and tried to find the punching bag by instinct. Slayer reflexes were added to the list as her knuckles skimmed the edge of the bag, barely grazing the leather. Opening her eyes and focusing on the bag, she added one item per punch until her arms grew tired around the sense-of-purpose punch. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging her eyes and reminding her that she needed water.

"I miss endurance, too," she muttered as she uncapped the sports bottle with shaking fingers. There was definitely sleep in her future. Probably a shower as well. She glanced at the clock, startled to realize she'd been hitting inanimate objects for two and a half hours. Maybe the endurance was coming back after all.

She took her time cooling down, stretching carefully, torn between satisfaction at her returning flexibility and frustration at how weak she felt post-workout. With a soft grunt, she leaned against the wall and gave into the urge to collapse, letting her body slide slowly down until she was seated. Sipping her water, she watched the hands of the clock tick off the minutes until she felt ready to move again.

Wesley was asleep on the couch when she entered the living room. Buffy felt a brief stab of guilt as she noticed the book still clutched in his hands and the frown that hadn't been erased by slumber. She'd thought he spent a lot of time researching before, but over the last two weeks, she hadn't seen him do anything but research. He'd also been sleeping less than she did--which was no small feat--and refusing to talk about anything he'd found. She knew him well enough by now to know the implications.

The book was one he'd consulted frequently when she'd first shown up in L.A.; its almost flesh-colored leather binding with the stylized and gilded demons on the front was unmistakable. Research had never been her number one skill, but she'd done enough of it to understand that you didn't go back to the books you'd already looked at unless you were running out of options and hoping you'd missed something the first time.

There was still just enough money in her bank account to get her out of the city if it came to that, and it wasn't like she had a lot to pack, just her limited wardrobe, a photo album or two, and a handful of CDs. He might think he was safe, he might even be safe, but if there wasn't anything he could do, there was no sense in risking him. She'd give it another month, maybe two, then she'd go.

Trying to ignore the sick feeling that rose in her gut at the thought, she took the book from his hands, setting it aside before waking him.

"What time is it?" His voice was rough with fatigue, and for a second, she wished she'd just left him to sleep. But if she'd done that, she'd have sentenced herself to a night spent alone and staring at the ceiling. She'd have plenty of those soon enough, and she wasn't in any hurry to reacquaint herself with them.

"Almost midnight." Buffy tugged at him until he stood up. "Which is early for you, granted, but somehow? I think you'd be more comfortable in a bed."

He smiled slightly, something bleak flashing in his eyes so quickly that she was almost able to convince herself it wasn't there at all. "In all likelihood, yes."