Part 1
"I want my smokes." She twisted a lock of hair around her fingers. "I want my smokes," she said again.

He stared at her blankly. "Why should I give them to you?"

Her dull green eyes stared back at him. "I've followed your fucking rules, now give me my fucking smokes," she said quietly.

He sighed as he unlocked the bottom desk drawer. "Yes, that was our agreement," he said. He pulled a carton of cigarettes from the drawer and handed it to her.

She opened the carton and removed a pack. Tucking the carton next to her, she tapped the pack on the arm of the chair. She opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette. She set the butt between her lips and waited.

He watched her slow deliberate movements carefully. When she flicked her thumb at him, he tossed her a book of matches. He noticed her nail bitten fingers trembled slightly as she tore a match from the book. Her slender fingers cupped the flame as it was struck and brought it to the tip of her cigarette. She shook the match out as she inhaled deeply.

She exhaled the smoke through her pursed lips and watched the silver ribbon float up to the ceiling.

"Why did you cut your hair?" he asked.

Her eyes continued to watch as the smoke slowly dissipated into the air. "Why not?"

"With a disposable razor?"

She took another drag on her cigarette and exhaled in his direction. "Won't let me have scissors," she said.

He looked down at her file. It was a thick file. Seventeen doctors had examined her, each coming to the same conclusion. She was crazy. "I've read what you did with the last pair you had. You're lucky to get the matches."

She tightened her grip on the cardboard book of matches. "Yeah, me," she muttered. "Can we get on with this?"

"Have someplace to be?" he asked.

"Yeah, got a lunch date with the queen."

"Why don't you tell me about your parents?" he asked as he made some notes.

"Fuck. You're one of those Freudian assholes, aren't you? Let me assure you I don't have an Electra complex," she chuckled.

"Do you love your parents?"

"As much as anyone can love a stranger."

"Then you hate them?"

She took another drag on her cigarette. "Let me see. They ignored me my entire life and then dumped me in this shithole. Hmmm. You could say that."

"They only want what's best for you."

"I got some ocean front property in Arizona I could sell you cheep. Got a view of the Brooklyn Bridge and everything."

He smiled at her sarcasm. She was a smart one that was for sure. It was a fact ignored by most of the doctors who had talked to her.

"Do you want me to tell you about my childhood now?" she asked as she snubbed out the cigarette. Immediately, she lit another one.

"No. I want you to tell me about Buffy."

She stared at him long and hard before speaking. "What about her?"

"Tell me anything you want."

"She was my friend and she died."

"How did that make you feel?" he asked.

She stared at him as she flicked her ashes onto the cracked vinyl flooring.

"I guess we do ask a lot of stupid questions," he said when she didn't answer.

"Ya think?" she asked sarcastically.

"You've lost a lot of friends, haven't you?"

She took a long pull on the cigarette. Again she stared at the stream of smoke drifting into the air as she exhaled. "You make it sound like I misplaced them. They died. Plain and simple." She held the lit cigarette in front of her eyes. She stared intently at the glowing red tip as if it held a memory. "Life goes on. Even if you don't want it to," she said softly.

He watched her far away look carefully. He sensed a lot of pain and sorrow in her. He knew she held may secrets deep inside where they couldn't hurt her.

She sat silently gazing at the burning tip as it consumed the white paper. Finally the embers melted into the gold paper of the filter. With a sigh she dumped the ashes into the ashtray and snubbed out the wasted smoke. "Are we done yet?" she asked as her attention returned to the man across from her.

"For today, yes," he said.

Quickly she gathered her cigarettes and left the small office.

He pulled the four files closer to him. It was time to read up on her. He checked the dates on the folders, opened the earliest file and began to read.

Willow Rosenberg. Age 20. Involuntary Hospitalization. Delusions, Paranoia, Possible Schizophrenia. Danger to self and possibly to others. Subject brought in by parents after tragic death of several friends. Subject attempted suicide. Has exhibited agitated behavior. Violent outbursts with almost immediate withdrawal. Wide mood swings. Manic depression?? Subject displays willingness to supply information and suddenly will be silent for days on end.

He continued to read similar diagnosis through out the four files. It was difficult to believe she had survived 2 years in the mental health system of California without going crazy.

****
Willow curled into the chair she'd pulled near the window. With a small spell she raised the window behind the metal grid. She removed the pack of cigarettes from her shirt pocket. Her fingers carefully removed the tabacco filled cylinders from the box. Setting them one by one on the sill, she made sure the seven she had just before lights out were still there.

Smokes on floor seven of Ambrose Mental Hospital were worth more than gold or diamonds. One patient, Becky, had been severely beaten for stealing cigarettes. Willow felt bad about hurting the timid brunette, but she had to learn. Becky had tried to tell the doctors what happened, but five others swore Willow was with them when it happened. Without proof they couldn't do anything against Willow and simply moved Becky to the tenth floor.

Willow tore open the thin cardboard to use as an ash tray. While there were no rules against smoking at night, the nurses locked all the ash trays away. Possible weapons, they said.

She picked up one of her cigarettes and pulled the book of matches from her pocket. If cigarettes were valuable, matches were priceless. The smokes could be traded for favors, or used as ante in the weekly poker game; matches were hoarded away. You could only get a book of matches from your doctor during a private session, usually once or twice a week. Because of a couple pyromaniacs, nurses weren't allowed to keep matches, even behind the locked doors of their station. Chain smoking was a major habit on floor seven. You lit a new smoke from the dying butt of the old one. If she was lucky, Willow could use one book of matches for one carton.

She struck the match and cupped her fingers around the flickering flame. She held the tip of her cigarette in the yellow flame. Willow pulled a drag into her lungs and watched to make sure the tip glowed orange. Nothing worse than wasting a match. She shook the match out with her right hand as she pulled the cigarette away from her lips with the left. With a sigh, she exhaled the lung full of smoke.

Settling back into her chair she allowed the soft night sounds to relax her usually tense body. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, while crickets serenaded her into a false sense of security. She stared blindly out the window as she smoked. Her mind began to drift. Subconsciously she picked up a new cigarette and pressed the lit end of the butt into the fresh tabacco. Once it was started she snubbed the old one out in her make shift ash tray.

Her thoughts soon returned to that night. The night her nightmare began. The night she killed her friends.

Part 2
"Evening, Doctor," a voice broke through the silence.

Dr. Piel started at the sound. He turned towards the voice. In the darkness all he could see was the glow of a cigarette. "Mr. Jamison?" he asked.

"Know anybody else who would arrange a meeting in a parking garage?" he asked as he stepped into a pool of light.

Piel stared at the tall lanky figure as it moved closer to him. "No."

"How is she?" he asked as he flicked the cigarette away.

"Mr. Jamison, I haven't had a chance to form an opinion yet," he said quickly. This tall blonde frightened him. His blue eyes glared at him. "But on first impression, I would say hostile, angry, and distrustful."

The blonde nodded his head as he tucked his hands into the duster pockets. "Does she look healthy?"

"More or less. She cut her hair off with a disposable razor."

"Why?"

Piel shuffled his feet as he answered. "She didn't say, but the charge nurse thought it was an act of rebellion. Her last doctor made some comment on her beautiful red hair." He watched in surprise as the man smiled.

"Did you ask her yet?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She said Buffy was her friend and she died."

"Anything else?"

"Just some sarcastic remarks."

"Not getting very far, are you?"

"I've only had two meetings with her," he explained.

Jamison pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Shaking one free he set the smoke between his lips. The sharp scent of lighter fluid filled the air as he struck the silver zippo. He inhaled deeply before speaking. "I'm paying you a lot of money. I would hate to think I'm wasting it."

Piel swallowed. "I am planing on increasing our sessions. I just wanted to get a feel on how to proceed with her."

He watched Jamison open and close his lighter. "Give her this," he said as he tossed the metal lighter to Piel.

Piel dropped his briefcase to catch it. Looking at the shinny object he spotted the etching, a willow tree with a rail road spike driven through the center. "I can't. Lighters aren't allowed on the wards," he said as he tossed it back.

Placing the lighter back into his pocket he took another drag. "Then ask her about Spike."

"Spike? Sure," he said tucking the name away.

"I'll be speaking with you soon," Jamison said as he stepped back into the shadows.

Dr. Piel picked his briefcase off the concrete floor and headed to his car. "Oh, wait."

"Yes?"

Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out a video tape. "I've got this for you. It's a copy of our sessions together. Since you're so interested in her I figured you'd want to see her for yourself." He held the tape out to him.

Jamison moved closer to him. He took the video from him. He stared at the plastic box for a few moments before tucking it into the deep pockets of him leather duster. "Does she know you taped her?"

"No. It freaks out some of the patients so it's done through a two way mirror."

"Good." He turned on his heel and left.

*****
Spike knelt before the bright light of the television screen. His fingers brushed gently at the image on the screen. The features were the same. The same pale skin; the same fiery red hair, even if it was hacked all to hell; the same full mouth; but the eyes were different. They no longer held the innocence and hope that used to make her green eyes sparkle.

He sat back as he carefully observed her angry movements. *She's scared,* he thought. He grinned at her defiant smoking.

"What the hell did she do to her hair?"

Spike turned to look at his sire. "Cut it," he said as he turned back to the TV set.

Angel knelt down beside his childe and took a closer look at the screen. "With what? A weed whacker?" he asked.

Spike grinned at the young woman on the screen as a cloud of smoke obscured her face. "A disposable razor."

"What did Piel say?" Angel asked as he moved to the couch.

"Not much. He's going to increase their sessions." Spike turned his blue eyes to his sire. "I've got to get her out of there, mate."

Angel leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "We will, Spike. We'll get her out, but we need to make sure she's ready. Just be patient."

"I've been patient for two years while we tracked her down," he muttered.

"So you can be patient a little longer."

Part 3
Dr. Piel looked up from the file on his desk at the knock on the door. "Come in," he called.

Willow entered the small office. "Nurse Ratchet said you wanted to see me,"she said.

"Willow, yes. Please sit down." He waited until she settled into the chair across from his desk. "I'm going to increase our sessions."

She looked at him wearily. "Why?"

Resting his forearms on the edge of the desk, he interlaced his fingers in front of him. "We both know you don't really belong here."

"Then sign my release papers, warden."

He smiled at her. "You do have some issues to work out before I can release you."

She rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette from her pocket. "Whatever."

He waited until she lit the cigarette to start the session. "I've had a chance to thoroughly read through your file."

"Nothing on TV?" she asked.

"Not really. Why don't you tell me about that night?" he asked.

She blew a puff of smoke in his direction. "What night?"

"The night your friends died."

"What about it?"

He sighed. "Do you really like it here that much?" he asked.

She glared at him.

Taking that look as a no, he said, "Then help me help you."

"Look, Jerry Maguire, I've told seventeen other shrinks about that night. Shit load of good it did me," she said flicking the ashes into the tray beside her chair.

"I know, but I'll let you in on a secret," he said as he leaned closer to her.

"Oh, goody."

"I believe you." He watched her carefully for any kind of reaction.

She stared at him wondering what kind of bullshit he was trying to throw at her. "You believe me? Maybe you belong in this hell hole, too."

He pulled aside his collar to show her the scar on his neck. "I know vampires really exist."

She looked at the bite mark on his neck then glanced at the window. Sunlight shone across his desk. *Well, at least he's not one of them.* She weighed her options. Talk to him and maybe get out of this place or talk to him and they throw away the key. *Got nothing better to do.*

Piel waited for her response.

"I used to live on a Hellmouth. My best friend was the Slayer."

"The Slayer?" he asked.

"Once every generation a girl is born to fight the vampires. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Buffy was the Slayer. My friend Xander and I helped her kill the vampires, demons and any other evil thing that came to Sunnydale."

"How old were you?"

"We were fifteen when I first met Buffy."

"That's awfully young."

"Yeah, well. Shit happens. Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry. Please continue."

"We killed vampires and such throughout high school and into college. Even stopped the end of the world a couple of times. One night Giles, Buffy's Watcher, tells us this big bad ass demon is coming to town to put an end to the Slayer. Nothing unusual in that. Happened all the time. Except this time he sent scouts out ahead of his arrival to interfere. I got involved with this one girl, Tara. She convinced me she was my friend. She worked at distracting me from helping Buffy. She was a witch. She messed with my powers and my mind. I could have stopped that demon with a simple spell if it wasn't for her."

Willow realized her cigarette had burned down to the filter. Dropping it in the ash tray she thought about lighting up another one, but decided not to waste it. "Anyway. The night that Buffy went to fight this demon, we went as back up."

"You and this Tara?" Piel asked.

"No. She never fought with us. Xander, Riley, Giles, Anya and I went to help. I tried a couple of protection spells, but nothing seemed to work right. He took out Xander right away. He was my best friend since kindergarten. Anya, Xander's girlfriend, was pretty upset and threw herself at the demon. Giles didn't last much longer. Riley and Buffy were doing a pretty good job of kicking his ass when he had some vampire minions go after me. I tried to fight them off, but there were too many of them. Buffy was distracted. Riley tried to hold him off by himself, but he was too powerful. With Riley dead, Buffy couldn't take the demon down by herself and save me. I knew I was distracting her so I ran. I shouldn't have. I should have stayed and fought beside her."

"It sounds as if you would have been killed, too."

"May I should have been. I don't know."
 
 

"What about Spike?"

She looked up at him sharply. "Where did you hear that name?" she asked.
 
 

He glanced down at the files on his desk.

"I've never mentioned Spike before. Where did you hear his name?" she asked again. "Who do you work for?"

Part 4
"Who do you work for?"

Dr. Piel looked at the agitated red head. "I work for the state of California."

"Bullshit. Who do you fucking work for?" she spit out.

He sighed. "Let's just say you have a benefactor who cares about you very much."

She glared at him. "If he cares about me so fucking much, tell him to come visit me."

Piel glanced out the window for a moment. "I will certainly pass the request along."

"You do that," she said. She sat back in her chair and pulled out another cigarette. Striking a match she lit the tip. She stared intently at him as she inhaled.

"Spike," he prompted.

She kept her eyes firmly trained on him.

"You're not going to talk about him, are you?" he sighed. She refused to respond. "Fine. What do you want to talk about?" Willow stared at him and smoked her cigarette. With a sigh he glanced at the clock. She had been in the room for less than half an hour. "We will talk about these issues, Willow. We're done for today."

Willow crushed out her cigarette and walked to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Same time," he called after her retreating back. He reached for the phone and dialed for an outside line.

*****
Willow returned to the day room. Other patients sat around watching TV and playing games. She weaved her way through the room to find a chair beside the window. Sitting she stared off into space as she thought about her session.

*Who would be paying him? Why? How does he know about Spike?* She knew that she'd never mentioned Spike to anyone. She'd kept that piece of information to herself. She needed to hold something away for just herself.

He was the reason she smoked now. The stale smell of smoke that imbedded itself into her clothes reminded her of the safety she had found in his arms. She found her mind drifting off to a time when she felt contentment.

//Flashback//
His fingers threaded through her hair. With a sigh she rubbed her cheek against his strong chest. Her fingertips traced abstract designs on his firm stomach. "I don't think I ever want to move again," she whispered.

He chuckled as he kissed the crown of her head. "We'll have to move eventually, luv. The Slayer lives here, too."

She turned her head to look into his blue eyes. "I never thought you were the shy type, Spike."

"Just don't go into exhibition. Besides, she'd stake my ass if she caught us."

"And such a fine ass it is, too. Hate to see it get dusted," she giggled.

He grinned down at her. "I knew you were just after my body."

"Yep."

He tweaked her nose playfully. "I can live with that."

//End of Flashback//

"Willow!"

Startled out of her memories, Willow turned to the voice calling her. Edward, one of the orderlies on Floor Seven, stood over her. "What?"

Edward saw a look he'd never seen on the red head's face before. If he wasn't mistaken, she looked happy. "You have a visitor," he said with a grin.

Part 5
Willow entered the visitor's room. She spotted Sheila and Ira Rosenberg staring out a window. *Perfect. Just what I need.*

Sheila looked up when the door opened. "Oh, my God. Willow, what happened to your hair?" she asked as she moved closer to her daughter. She reached a hand out to touch the ragged ends.

Willow pulled away from her mother's touch. "I cut it."

"With what?" Ira asked.

"A Lady Bic." She threw herself into the corner of the couch. Pulling an ashtray off the coffee table she set it on the arm of the chair. Defiantly, she placed a cigarette between her lips and struck a match.

Ira shook his head at the stranger that his daughter had become. "You shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your health."

Willow rolled her green eyes. "What do you want?"

Sheila sat in the chair across from her. "We came to see how you were."

"A little late to play attentive parents, don't you think?" she asked sharply.

Ira stood beside his wife. "Whether or not you believe it, we do love you, Willow."

"We understand you have a new doctor. Maybe he'll be able to help you," Sheila said with a shaky smile.

"That's what you thought with the first seventeen," Willow said. "Look. I'd rather you didn't come at all."

"Willow, don't talk to your mother that way," Ira reprimanded her.

Willow glared at her father. "Or what? You'll ground me?"

"I just don't understand what's happened to you, Willow. We raised you right," Sheila said as tears filled her eyes. "Where did we go wrong?"

Willow sat up and leaned closer to her mother. "This isn't about you, Mom. This is about me. And you didn't raise me. I raised myself. You and Daddy dearest left me as soon as I could take care of myself. You were fine as long as I didn't embarrass you in front of your friends and colleges. You have no idea what my life has been like. Hell, you were ready to burn me at the fucking stake. Don't act all concerned about your poor daughter now. I was just fine until you stuck me in this hell hole."

Sheila jerked back at her daughter's verbal assault. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just get me out of here."

Ira placed a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. "If we could, we would. Willow, sweetheart, you have to understand the things you told the doctors... They feel you need to be here. You're not well, honey."

"Whatever. Just don't come back." Willow rose to her feet and left the room. Any sliver of contentment she had found was lost again. Edward waited outside the door to escort her back to floor seven. "I don't want to see them again, Edward," she said in a quiet voice.

He saw the sadness envelop her face again. "Okay. I'm sorry, Willow."

She smiled up at the six foot man. "Not your fault. Just have lousy parents. Can't really blame them, I guess. I don't think they ever really wanted a kid anyway."

He placed a hand on her shoulder as they entered the elevator. "They do seem to care. At least they visit. Most folks here don't get that."

Willow sighed. "I know. I just wish they'd tried to show they cared when I lived at home."

"You never know what you had until it's gone," he advised.

"That seems to be my life's motto."

As the elevator came to a stop, Edward said, "Give Dr. Piel a chance. He's done wonders for other patients."

"Maybe," she replied as she stepped back into the insane world she lived in.
 

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