Night came slow. Spike lay back and waited for the sun to fade, for the rest of the light to be gone, for any sound of life to return to the house, as time went by in the kind of slow that made every tick of the clock feel personal. Dawn was banished off to Buffy's friends - Buffy’s orders, delivered in that calm-I’m-not-arguing voice that brooked no debate - and Spike hadn't seen or heard from the little Bit since. Giles had come and gone, he had spoken to Buffy before he'd left earlier with a murmured promise to research further. Buffy herself had shouted up the stairs if Spike needed anything before she'd gone for groceries, and Spike, left alone in the daytime, had nothing to do.

  The house had gone quiet again, the kind that had felt deliberate, as the vampire was stuck in the bedroom while the afternoon sun poured through the downstairs windows. Thick, dangerous bars of gold, turning the living room into something almost holy, untouchable for the vampire, so Spike stayed upstairs. He had spent the afternoon staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks that he was pretty sure he shouldn't have been able to spot with the naked eye. Probably. Hard to tell when the only reference he had to experience the world through, was waking up as a vampire some five nights ago. Man, he really needed to pick up a hobby or something; because time felt like molasses, dripping and slow, and agonizing; creeping through his skull, each moment stretching into eternity. Not that the house hadn't been quiet before too, after Dawn had gone and left the place to feel dead. Just him. And Buffy. And the creeping dark outside the windows.

  He didn't get up until it was almost dark. And it indeed, was, almost dark. Spike moved to the dresser, while he felt the world return, the light almost gone, the vampire could feel it without having to look past the curtains and out the window to the sky above the gilded cage he'd been in. He opened the dresser, wherein lay the clothes had been brought to him. His own clothes, he surmised, seeing that the fit was his exactly. If a bit on the tight side... He lifted up a shirt, black, like most everything else. Leather, silk, cotton. Things that looked expensive and dangerous and very much like they belonged to someone else. Spike brought the shirt to his face, but there was no flash. No memory. No great revelation. Just the scent of smoke, old bourbon, dust. Disappointing.

  Spike dropped the shirt back onto the bed like it had bitten him, a snarl building from in his core, a sound that he felt as much as heard - but Spike in his current blank state had somehow managed to still be surprised that it was him who had been the source of the snarling. He took in a sharp breath, reaching back into the dresser, looking to distract himself maybe, or for something that wouldn't sting.

  Spike picked up the duster next, it was a long, black, leather duster, that definitely felt made for someone else. He felt the leather, tried the same, tried to remember something. Anything. Like - maybe - if he tried hard enough. Maybe, if he just kept searching and checking and trying to find things familiar, maybe he could start to remember himself. Who he'd been, who he knew, what he'd felt... But he heard sounds, this time, as the door downstairs opened, and voices came flooding in.

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  "And it was nothing but "Spike this." and "Buffy that.", he got really mad. It makes sense really. It's the Slayer's job to slay vampires. He felt really betrayed." A voice that Spike didn't recognise had come up sharply.

  "But he's my friend." From downstairs, the voices drifted up. One voice was low, careful, Buffy... And one was, not.

  "Oh and you're his friend! A really good friend, not as good as me, of course, but that's different' because of all th-" The other voice said. Buffy had returned after going out for groceries with a woman, one with a chirpy, high voice, who spoke a good deal less carefully than Buffy.

  "I-! I get it Anya. Thanks." Buffy had cut her off, and upstairs Spike wondered why Buffy was talking with the woman if she was going to be cutting her off mid-sentence; then he just shook his head. Just another thing you don't get.

  "I mean, it's a good thing really. Sort of an improvement if you ask me." The woman said, and no one had asked her, but Spike assumed this was one of Buffy's friends since she was in the house with her and they were discussing, presumably what had happened earlier that day.

  "Sure he doesn't remember anything else; but at least now he doesn't remember being completely in l-" The woman who had been cheerfully chattering had been saying when Buffy cut her off.

  "Anya! Shush." Buffy shushed her, an instant pause was created, after which, Buffy spoke, more quietly than before.

  "He can hear..." Spike stilled at that. He decided to put the duster down and got changed proper, jeans, a belt, a black shirt - because it was virtually all black so he didn't have much choice on the matter. He noted that he didn't actually feel cold, so perhaps there was no need for the duster.

  He heard from downstairs as more people arrived at the house. Giles, bringing news of what he had found from his research. Another woman that spoke quietly and haltingly, one of the women that Dawn had been staying with, Spike had realised. All of them meeting together, and speaking with Buffy while she put her groceries away judging by the sound of cupboards being opened and closed intermittently. The people downstairs kept their voices low after that. The words were too soft to catch all of, but the tone was unmistakable: strategy. Planning. What-to-do-with-the-amnesiac-vampire summit.

  Spike felt melancholy; He hated being the topic. He could not even argue back - though he wanted to - he yet again was reminded that Spike remembered nothing, and so had nothing to make a case for himself over. Brilliant.

  Spike huffed as he was left with the quiet words that were half heard from the downstairs, as well as his self-mocking words, if only Spike could remember some of what things were. Maybe then he could be better. Maybe things would get better. He thought.

  He sank onto the edge of the mattress. He tried not to listen in this time, wondered if vampires could chose to switch off the super hearing at will if they wanted to. The answer was a resounding No. Elbows on knees. Head in hands. Spike, he tried again - really tried - to reach for something. Anything. He thought, if he remembered, he could be less of a burden. Less confused.

  He thought, sometimes, that he could half remember something. Laughing. Smiling. Falling. Pain. Heat. Biting... It was just a sensation, one that made his chest ache. Nothing else. Though he growled low in his throat, frustration boiling over into something sharper and his fingers tightened in his hair, he just couldn't force the memories to come.