Chapter Seven

I pick up Dawn at the bus station, and by the time we get home, Spike is there, watching TV, sprawled out on the easy chair just like he used to in Sunnydale. Only now Taylor is sitting on the couch, a book in her lap, her eyes focused on him.

He's not paying her any mind. I stand in the doorway and think that she could strip off all her clothes, and he might look, but he won't touch. Spike has always been a one-woman man, and for a long time now, I've been that one woman.

He rises formally as Dawn comes in. She drops her bag in the hallway and throws herself across the room into his arms, and he lets the momentum take him back into the chair, and they land there, and Dawn hugs him and squeals and screams and generally acts like a 14-year-old who just won a date with Justin Timberlake.

Spike can't speak, but he's holding her and smiling, and she's never needed much in the way of feedback anyway. She's yanked him down onto the floor and is telling him all about school and the bus ride north from OSU and her really itchy roommate when Taylor joins me in the hallway.

"Don't you, uh, worry? About them?"

I give her a freezing look. She doesn't know Spike. Or Dawn. Or me for that matter. "She's been like a little sister to him for five years. No. I'm not worried."

Taylor looks back at them. Dawn is now sitting on the chair, Spike at her feet, patient as Job as she plaits tiny braids into his tousled hair and chatters about summer school and her internship at the library.

"I see what you mean," Taylor says. She's actually smiling -- not that smile I'm used to from her, but a real smile. "I have a big brother too. Only he'd never let me braid his hair."

Spike looks up, shooting a glare at her.

"Let me warn you, Taylor," I say, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the kitchen. "Vampires have very acute hearing. And that one especially likes to eavesdrop."

"Okay," she replies meekly. "How about you hang out with them, and I'll take care of dinner?"

An offer I can't refuse. Of course, she just calls the Chinese place down the street, the one that delivers, but that's what seems to pass for cooking among slayers. Works for me. Dawn makes Spike sit with her and share her chopsticks, and they spill rice all over the carpet and the couch. But they're having such a good time I don't make a fuss. I have to marvel at Dawn. It's like none of it matters -- their estrangement and Spike dying twice and the years apart and his lack of speech -- as long as she can sprinkle fried rice in his hair and tell him what's happened on OC since he died the last time. And Spike's just the same, holding her down with one hand on her shoulder while using the other to fingerpaint her cheek with plum sauce. They've both reverted to nursery school, and I think it's okay.

I guess actually I like it. We feel like a family.

Well, Taylor's not part of it. But she excuses herself to go get ready for patrolling. I remember that – getting all dressed up special, like I was going out to a club instead of decimating demons. Of course, that was back when I'd be sure and stop by Spike's crypt --

I consider this, then run upstairs to re-apply my makeup.

When I return, the news is on. Dawn is sitting decorously on the couch, and Spike is looking very innocent in the recliner, and I figure they've just cleaned up some mess they made after a sweet-and-sour sauce fight. Dawn makes a face at Spike, and then smiles at me, and pretends to be interested in the latest fight over the city sewer contract. I sit down next to Dawn and start picking rice out of the upholstery.

As the story changes to something about schools, I hear a familiar voice, and look over to see Josh. Dawn pipes up. "Isn't that the guy you're dating, Buffy?"

Spike doesn't say anything. Well, of course he doesn't. But he doesn't get up and stalk out. He just gets very still, and Dawn glances over at him, and says, "Oh." And then she looks at me. "You didn't tell me you two were -- "

"Yeah. We are," I say brusquely. "How about you go on up and use the shower while you can? It's so muddy out there. Taylor and I are going to come back dirty, even if we don't waste any demons."

She turns to Spike and mouths "sorry" before she runs up the stairs. Once she's gone, I cross over to the recliner and kneel down in front of Spike. "Listen. As soon as I had any suspicion you were back, I broke it off with him. It wasn't serious. And --" He is gazing over my shoulder. I put my hands on his face and make him look at me. "It made me realize how serious you and me are. Get it?"

He doesn't nod. I don't know if he can. I mean, I don't know if nodding for "yes" is too symbolic for him. Instead he wriggles out of my grasp and goes to the door and outside.

He's waiting there when Taylor and I emerge with our axes. I brought one for him. He smiles briefly. No matter what else is going on, he always likes a nice axe.

We have to drive to the cemetery, one I seldom patrol because it's so far from the hellmouth. But it's a good place for training, because the vampires tend to be the B-team, dumb and slow and depressed. They practically want to be staked, so they provide some educational opportunities for a newbie.

The first one slips in the mud and falls at my feet, and she's so scared she can't move. So I get to show Taylor exactly where on the chest to plunge the stake. When the dust settles, I look around for Spike, and see he's found a couple Wehoes. He's kind of amazing that way. I guess it's because he's always ready for a fight, so fights always find him. Wehoes are a lot more rambunctious than the resident vampires, so he's having a good time. It's strange to hear his kicks connecting, his punches whooshing through the air, but not his voice.

I lead Taylor over, but tell her just to watch and learn. Then I join in. Spike and I fight like we always have -- the perfect team. As he shoves one Wehoe over to me, I remember that first time we fought together, back in front of my house. He tossed a vamp over to me, just like this, and I did the staking. I was still in love with Angel then, and he was still in love with Drusilla, but we fought like we were destined to be lovers too.

Ever since then, fighting with him has made me, uh, horny, I guess. So after we dispatch both demons, we walk back to the car, and I bump him with my hip and feel that special vampire vibration. Spike vibration -- I don't know if any other vampire has it. Angel didn't, that's all I know. Maybe it's just between the two of us – the thrumm of shared passion. For fighting, for loving.

Taylor is right behind us, and when I climb into the driver's seat, she mutters, "I want one of them."

"A demon?"

"No. A Spike."

I scowl at her. "Vampires are bad. And Spike is --"

"Yours. Yeah. I think you've made that clear." She kind of sulks all the way back to the house, and Spike leans back in his seat and tries to look like he isn't just about as pleased as punch. He wants me to know that he's in demand. That Taylor is rich and could make him a better deal than I do. That he could sell out to the highest bidder as a slayer-companion. But then he reaches over and squeezes my knee. I am a jewel beyond price, that's what he's saying.

So I drop Taylor off and drive back to Spike's crypt. I try to tell him with words and then kisses that Josh doesn't matter, hasn't mattered since I entered the garden and sensed it was Spike's. I've hurt him so many times. Not going to hurt him this time.

But now he's sad and tender and a little distant, and I think maybe it's not jealousy here. He's thinking that stupid thing, about how Josh is a silver-tongued TV reporter, all glib and fluent, and Spike can't even say his own name anymore. And that he's a burden to me.

I can tell all this in the downturn of his mouth, and I try to kiss it away. Sometimes I wish I didn't know him so well, that I'm not so intuitive with him, that I can't read his face so easily. Then I wouldn't hurt with him so much.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him fiercely, pushing him back onto the makeshift bed. "And neither are you. We're going to be together. Because I say so."

And he smiles that smile, and I know he's thinking, that's my slayer. And I kiss him till I answer all the questions he can't ask. Yes, I love you. Yes, you're mine. Yes, I'm happy. Yes, you better stay if you value your hide.

I have to leave as soon as the sun rises, but by that time, I think, he believes me.




But it gnaws at me. At first I tell myself it's for him, that he's so obviously frustrated, that he feels like a lesser man. But when Dawn grills me the next morning, I admit that I hurt for me too. To think that I'll never hear him say my name again, to say those words he used to say so often. Back then, I would get mad when he said that-- I love you -- but it never failed to touch me too, somewhere deep inside where I really need love. And I won't hear it again.

So while Spike and Dawn spend the day in his crypt playing Grand Theft Auto and eating total utter junk, I put in a call to Giles and fill him in.

Giles does his hmmm thing, which I take to mean he's not too happy about Spike but is intrigued by the mystery. "So you don't know how he came back. Or found you in Cleveland."

"No. And they think he's dust, there in LA. Gunn and Angel. So it wasn't any spell of theirs that brought him back." I add, "Do you think it's a curse?"

A curse can be broken. Angel's proved that, though he never did bother to get that happy-codicil deleted while it might have done me some good. Not that I'm bitter. I have Spike, after all. But if anyone could get around a curse, it's the W&H CEO.

Unfortunately, Giles is demurring. "To be frank, Buffy, it sounds more like some neurological damage than a curse. Curses tend to be simple. If he could still write, and just not talk, I might suspect a curse. But the comprehensiveness of the impairment -- "

He trails off, and I know what he's thinking. Why can't Buffy find a nice normal young man? Bad enough that Spike is a vampire. Bad enough that he used to be our enemy. Bad enough that he's got a list of sins as long as Interstate 90. Bad enough he can't go out in the sunlight and lives in a crypt and can't give me children. But now he can't even talk?

"I love him," I say defiantly.

"I gather you do," he replies, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Let me do some research here, but really, Buffy, odd as it might be, this doesn't seem to be mystical or magical." I'm about to hang up, but he says, "You should call Willow. Curse or not, she might have some solution."

I can't call Willow before I call Xander. He's right here, and he'd never forgive me. Well, he'll never forgive me for getting back with Spike probably, but he'll never forgive me sooner if he hears it from Willow.

So I call him at work and ask him to come over later and hang with Dawn. Taylor makes herself scarce, and Dawn promises to let me tell, and Xander arrives right on time at 8, his dark hair still wet from his shower. He's got pizza and the whole Matrix trilogy on DVD, and I'm in the kitchen, grabbing some forks and napkins, when the doorbell rings.

I drop everything, but I don't make it to the front hall on time. Xander is already opening the door. And there's Spike, looking wary again, as Xander staggers back, his hand on his heart. "You!" he whispers.

I come up behind him and hold him up. "I was going to tell you --"

Xander is still staring at Spike. Spike stares back. And then, very deliberately, he steps across the threshold, his arrogant posture proclaiming I'm invited. He pushes past into the living room, where he joins Dawn on the couch and picks up the TV remote.

I decide that Xander can stand on his own, and let him go. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He's still staring at Spike. "Wow. Hey. Spike."

Spike looks up, his face still closed.

"I'm going to send this into the Guinness Book of World Records. Most resurrections per unit."

Spike regards him steadily, then settles back on the couch and flips on the TV.

"See that?" Xander muttered. "I try to be nice. Or sort of. But look at him. Comes back from the dead, and he still holds a grudge."

Since Xander is the king of grudge-holding, this almost makes me laugh. But I can see Spike's shoulders tense up, and I say hastily, "Look. There's something you need to know."

"Spike can't talk," Dawn interrupts. She pats his hand sympathetically. But he is humiliated. I can tell.

Xander takes our explanations with uncharacteristic silence. He helps me dole out the pizza, occasionally casting a look at Spike. Finally, when there's nothing left but crusts, and Neo is just learning about the Matrix, Xander sits down on the recliner and kicks Spike's boot with his own.

"You still drink beer and play pool?"

Spike glances over. Grins. And before I know it, they're out of the house, and they don't come back until they're both well and truly drunk. Too drunk to drive home. Too drunk to be let upstairs where there are two more or less innocent teenaged girls (who have never ever been drunk themselves, right). Just drunk enough to sprawl on separate bits of living room carpet and pass out.

Spike's a vampire and recovers quickly, even from excess. So just before sunrise, he comes into my room, kisses me, and – just for old times' sake, I guess – opens the window and drops to the ground. I worry for a moment that he might not make it home in time. But then I remember that he's 150 or so, and has only died a few times, and never because he missed the sunrise.

But Xander's only human. As Dawn and Taylor and I are getting breakfast, he wakes up with a groan, stumbles to the phone, and calls in sick. Then he mutters something about bad influences and goes back to snoring on the living room rug.

"Well, that was surprisingly easy," I tell Dawn as we wash up the dishes. We cooperate so much better when she's only home for a weekend at a time.

"I guess Xander is more sympathetic now," she says. "Since he's got a disability of his own. Not that losing an eye set him back that much. He can still drive and work and all that."

We both consider Spike and his disability -- so much more comprehensive and, well, disabling. Dawn glances around to make sure no one is listening, and says, "I don't care, you know, for me. I mean, I'll love him anyway. But he's trying to make the best of it, and still he's so sad. I can see in his eyes that he wants to say something, and he can't, and -- " She swipes at her cheek with the dish towel. "He's going to stop believing, isn't he? That we want him?"

"We just have to make sure to keep saying it," I reply. But she's right. Spike's as cocky as all get-out, but he's always been insecure too. And I suppose I haven't always helped him feel more secure. And so I can see him – well, not leaving me. No. But I can see him hiding in the shadows, emerging only to help me when I need it, fighting demons beside me but leaving afterwards, planting his garden but never staying there to enjoy it with me. Kind of a Phantom of the Cemetery.

It's just too sad to contemplate. "We have to help him," I declare, and Dawn says she'll call Willow and work with her on finding a talky spell, and we hug and cry a little. Xander comes in then, and claps me on the back, and falls down into a kitchen chair.

"Weird thing about Spike," he says. Then, as if this was as much as he could manage without up-chucking, he buries his face in his arms and moans. I get him a cup of coffee and Dawn wets down her towel for his forehead, and pretty soon, with lots of cooing, we get him to sit up.

"I told him I'd help him build a trellis," Xander remarks. "He wants to do a rose arbor next."

"How did he tell you that?" I ask.

"Oh, we went past a garden store and he pointed. Least, I think that's what he was pointing at. Maybe he was trying to tell me to turn right, I don't know." He heaves a sigh. "Never thought I'd miss him calling me names. Well, I guess I don't miss that. And we sure cleaned up, playing pool. I told everyone he was my cousin, and he was sort of slow, and so they all underestimated him." He pulls some crumbled twenties out of his pocket and smooths them out. "Weird, isn't it -- he remembers how to play pool, but he can't say 7 ball in the side pocket."

I stare at the bills he and Spike won. "Did Spike have any money? Last night."

"Well, yeah. Some." Xander brightens. "Maybe you're right, that this guy is redeemed. He even bought me a drink. Or four. I forget. He kept going to the bar and coming back with beer. Don't know how he ordered." He grinned at me. "But the bartender was a woman, so he probably just did his flirt-thing, and she didn't need him to order."

I scowl at him, and Dawn says, "You better tell him." And then, before I can, she says, "Buffy and Spike are together again. You know. Like together." She winks a couple times, just in case he didn't get it.

Xander shrugs. "Yeah, figured that out."

"You're not... mad?" I ask.

"Life's too short," he answers with a sigh. "Unless you're Spike, and have a dozen lives to spare." He reaches over and pats my elbow awkwardly. "After all we've been through -- the hell with it. Grab all the gusto you can while you can. Right?"

And I know he's thinking of that last year, when if he'd been brave and faced up to his fears, he would have married Anya and given her at least a few months of happiness. "Right."

He shakes his head. "But really, Buff. Only you would wind up with a vampire who can't even talk."

"I've wound up with Spike," I declare. "I don't care what he is. I know who he is, inside."

Xander looks taken aback by my vehemence. But he can't find the energy to continue the conversation. He trudges out with his coffee cup and takes up residence on the couch, and he's watching Regis and Kelly and groaning periodically when Taylor comes in from her class.

Xander's not at his best. He's stubbled and worn and hungover, and he's got on old blue jeans and a t-shirt with paint stains. His hair hasn't been combed since someone spilled beer in it last night. Taylor, of course, is impeccably Nieman-Marcus, and gives him one look, and another look, and says, "Oh. Hi."

I'm trying to assemble my books and notebooks for the schoolday, but stop for a moment to quickly introduce them. Xander casts her a weary glance, says, "Another slayerette, huh? Hi. Welcome. All that," and goes back to Regis and Kelly's cooking segment.

I can tell Taylor is about to say something withering, you know, nice of you to dress up for us, but he isn't paying her enough mind to be able to interpret sarcasm. And so she says, marginally polite, "So you're the famous Xander Harris."

This gets a nod from him, and that's about it. She tries another couple conversational gambits, and he answers in monosyllables, if at all. Finally he looks straight at her and says, "Listen, doll. I'm still half-drunk, and fully hungover, and the last thing I need is perky slayerettes being perky around me. So here's your choice. You be quiet, or I'm taking my famous Xander Harris self outa here."

"Well!"

She jumps to her feet and barrels past me up the stairs, and I shove my psych book into the bag and point out, "I'm trying to train her, Xander, not alienate her."

Xander starts flipping through the channels. "If I can scare her off, what use is she going to be with demons, huh? Anyway, she's snotty. I don't waste my famous Xander Harris charm on snotty girls."

I shake my head. Taylor probably needs a comeuppance, and anyway, it's not my problem. "Hey, I told Dawn she could use my car today. Could you drop me at school?"

He moans and groans about his hangover, but really, he just wants to see if Regis manages to flip the pancakes right, and once that's done, he finds his keys and we head off. We're just turning onto Mirabelle when I say, "That garden store Spike pointed out to you. Where is it?"

"On the way." He takes a couple more turns until I'm pretty thoroughly lost. "There. Blooming Ohio. That's it."

I know I won't find it again by myself, so that afternoon I requisition my car back from Dawn and drive to Spike's cemetery. He's in his crypt, waiting for sundown, and when I come in, he looks up from the TV with a smile But it's a sad smile. I sit down on his lap and give him some love, and he's happier after that. I'd forgotten how easy it is to make him happy -- I guess because for a long time, I concentrated on making him unhappy.

I was good at that too. But now I'm trying to make up for all that. So I call him sweet names and kiss his nose and tell him I love him, and generally make a besotted idiot of myself. Spike's cool with it, however.

Then I announce that I want to visit his garden store, and he pulls away. He's resistant. Reluctant. He really ought to know better by now. There is nothing more calculated to make me determined than that. So as soon as the sun goes down, we're in my car – he insists on driving, and if you want to know how a mute man can insist, well, let me just say somehow he ended up with the keys and I ended up with a big grass stain on the back of my khaki shorts.

He drives around for awhile, pointing out important south Cleveland landmarks, like the old dairy with a big plastic cow on the roof, and the elementary school attended by some real important punk rocker whose name I can't remember, and a bridge named after an astronaut. I realize he's killing time until the garden store closes for the evening, and I yell at him until he sullenly turns the car the right direction.

It's a long low brick building with just a few parking places -- the rest of the lot is given over to tables and tables of bedding plants, some covered with awnings, others open to the sky. It smells sharp and sweet, and Spike stops and inhales, and I have to shove him to get him moving inside.

Then I find out why he was so reluctant. We get about three feet into the big cement-floored room when a woman appears from behind a potted tree and grabs Spike. She hugs him and he (after a glance back at me) hugs her back. "Spike! It's been too long! Three days!" she cries, pushing him back in order to gaze up adoringly at his face.

She's way too old for him. Okay, she's maybe 50, and he's a lot older than that. But she doesn't know that. She's lean and blue-jeaned, and her hands are rough, and she has this amazing gray braid hanging down her back, and Spike's smiling at her like they're old friends.

That better be all they are.

She finally lets him go and turns to me. "Oh! The lady love! The one Spike built the garden for!"

Okay, I don't know how she knows his name, and how she knows about me, and how she knows about the garden. I mean, he can't even talk, right? But she is chattering on about how wonderful Spike is, and how adventurous he is -- turns out she's not talking about, you know, slaying dragons, but planting cannas in this climate. And Spike is leaning back against a steel post, trying to look uninterested, but drinking all this in. He is such a conceito.

Eventually even he gets bored with how amazing he is, and wanders out back. I see through the window that he's checking out the trellis kits (not that Xander's going to let him use a kit -- Xan will probably say they have to cut down some trees and mill the wood themselves). The storeowner, whose name is Fleur, although I bet that's not what her mother called her, takes me by the arm and leads me outside into the growing dusk. "So tell me! How did you meet Spike?"

I think about telling the truth-- all about his vow to make me his third dead slayer, our first meeting outside the Bronze over the dust of his minion, my mother hitting him with an axe at the school, you know, our greatest hits, volume 1-- but settle for saying, "Oh, we've been friends a long time. We used to live in the same town in California."

"Isn't that just like an Englishman?" she exclaims. "Even in California, he didn't get a tan."

Quickly I say, "Well, he's not really good in the sun. So, anyway, he's been buying plants here?"

She plucks some dead leaves off a rose bush and regards it critically. "Yes, and I guess you've seen the results! He's been so excited about his gift-garden. He's been buying mostly annuals, but we're already planning the perennial bulbs he'll plant in the autumn. I'm putting some away for him -- the more exotic sorts of irises, you know. You'll love it."

"How – " I take a deep breath. "How do you know? I mean, how do you know his name?"

"Spike? Well, it's on his credit card. Spike Williams."

Credit card. Williams. Ho-kay. "And about the garden? That he was making it for me?"

She gives a little laugh. "It was obvious from Day One that he meant it to be a garden of love. Plus there was that look on his face. He was so sad, and so melancholy -- I mean, if he'd come right out and said he was wounded in love, I would say duh! Tell me something I don't know! And then he comes in early this week, and he's smiling that smile of his, and I realize he's found you again." She sniffles, and in the glow of the security lamp, I swear I see tears glistening in her eyes. "And here you are." She puts her hand on her heart. "It's so sweet. And if you hurt that poor sweet boy, I'm going to brew you some nice tea made of devil's weed, I will." Now she smiles at me. It's sort of a lethal smile.

"I don't intend to hurt him," I snap.

We glare at each other for a little while, then we both seem to figure out the other has his best interests at heart, and she reaches out and pats my hand. "He loves you so much."

"Well, I love him right back." I stick out my chin. "And I want to help him."

She glances back at the door, and whispers, "Has he always been like this? Mute?"

I shake my head, and feel the tears start up in the back of my eyes. "No. He used to... talk. And argue. And laugh. Sometimes he drove me crazy. Now I'd give anything to hear him sing along to the radio again."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. He was -- " I have to think of how to say it. "He was gone for awhile, and then he came here. I guess to find me. And he couldn't speak."

"He can't write, either," she says. "I asked him to write down the names of the plants he wanted me to order, and he just looked at me so... so sadly."

"How does he sign his credit card receipts then?"

"Oh, he just makes some lines. Like it's his crazy signature. No one checks those anyway." She glances at me, her expression troubled. "Something must have happened while he was away from you."

Well, there was the hellmouth incineration, and the ghost time, and whatever happened last spring that killed him again. And -- I don't know. Coming to Rome and finding out I was with the Immortal? Deciding I'd never love him like he wanted? "He can't tell me what happened. It's ... difficult. I want to help, but he --"

"He's very sweet," she points out. "And a man who doesn't argue, well, there are benefits."

"Oh, he argues." I can't help but smile. "He just does it with his eyes, and his shoulders. I've been reading his body language for a long time, and I've gotten pretty good at translating."

Fleur sighs that if I were ten years younger sigh. "He does have an expressive face, doesn't he?"

I decide I better change the subject away from his face, which makes way too good an impression on susceptible people, otherwise known as "women". "I don't get it. How did he tell you which plants he wanted?"

"Oh. We went through books and a catalog, and he pointed at the ones he wanted. That's how I knew it was a love garden." She grabs my wrist and pulls me back inside. We wind through the trestles of pots and potting soil and fertilizer, and she stops at the counter. She reaches into a rack of books right by the cash register. "He kept consulting this one. He looked at it so much, I finally gave him a copy."

I take it from her hand and hold the cover up to the light. "The Victorian Language of Flowers." There's a pastel painting of a gold-wire basket filled with flowers. I recognize a few of them-- red roses and white forget-me-nots and yellow buttercups. Slowly I page through. On every page is another flower picture, with a caption underneath-- Acacia-- Elegance.... African Marigold-- Vulgarity....Almond-- Hope.

Fleur is reading over my shoulder. "He points to a flower, see, and if I have it, I find it for him and give him planting instructions. You know, shade or full sun, transplant or keep in a pot. When I realized he could read, I started writing the instructions down in a little notebook. But --" She laughs. "He's not really good at following orders, is he? He's forever finding some flower in there, and I tell him I don't stock it because there's no way it'll grow this far north. But it'll mean something he wants to say, so he'll insist that I order it. And sometimes, I don't know how, he actually gets it to grow."

"You mean he chooses by what the flowers mean? That's how he decides what to plant?"

"Exactly. And most of what he wants to mean is lovey-dovey stuff. You know, fidelity and devotion and passion and beauty." She smiles at me. "That's how I knew he was making this garden for his beloved."

"That's very... symbolic." I recall what the psych professor said. They could have rich inner lives, full of symbols, but just lack the ability to convey them to us. Spike can't speak or write, but he's found this way -- this beautiful way -- to express his feelings. "Can I buy this book?"

Fleur waves her hand. "Oh, keep it. Spike's spent so much money here on your garden. I owe you."

I thank her and take the book out to my car, where I hide it under the front seat. Spike comes out a minute later with a shallow cardboard box, filled with little plastic pots of flowering plants. He sets this carefully on the floor in back, and gets in, and I drive him back to the cemetery. But instead of going to the crypt, he takes the box into the garden, and I trail after him. For an hour, I watch him plant and weed and water. The candlelight flickers over his capable hands as he works. I long to get out the book and check for the meaning of every flower. But I don't want to spook him. So I just wait until he flashes me that smile that says he's all done. And then I take him back home.

We collect Xander and Taylor and go out to the multiplex, arguing all the way about which film to see. Xander (speaking for Spike too, he insists, and Spike looks agreeable) votes for the one with the most explosions in the first reel, while I point at the Jude Law poster, and Taylor and Dawn make their decision based not on the reviews or the stars but on the soundtrack. We eventually compromise on some Jim Carrey comedy, and Spike sits between me and Dawn, holding our hands whenever he isn't hogging the popcorn. I'm a little sad because Dawn is going back to school tomorrow, and Spike still hasn't been able to say her name.

So I get Dawn off back to college, and take my lit test, and finally, mid-afternoon, I sit down on a bench in front of the classroom building and call Willow in Sao Paulo and discuss this Spike thing. Dawn's already told her the basics, and Willow's started the research. She's more open to the curse idea than Giles was; in fact, she has three tales of people hit with a muteness hex. "If Anya were still alive," she says, "I'd suspect her, because it's used sometimes by vengeance demons. You know, if Spike said something really mean to some girl, she might ask a vengeance demon make him mute to get revenge."

"I don't think that's what happened," I say. But at least that's a new avenue to try-- vengeance demons can do pretty much whatever they're asked to do. But as I ring off, I remember what Anya always said, that vengeance demons only act on requests from spurned lovers. Now it's possible that Spike spurned someone in the time we were apart, but -- but he isn't acting like that. He isn't acting like this is his fault, like he deserves it. He's acting like he's been disabled through no fault of his own. I don't know how I know that, but I do.

There's another reason why he can't talk. I know it. And I'm going to find out.

I catch the psych professor as he's just sticking his key into his car door. I must look kind of scary, because he draws back away from me. "You remember--" I soften my tone so I don't sound so much like a crazed obsessive stalker student. "You remember my character who can't speak?"

He looks relieved. "Yes, I do. Fascinating idea."

And then I ask what I should have asked earlier. "What causes this?" I ask. "This inability to communicate?"

He purses his lips thoughtfully. "Well, brain damage comes to mind. If the speech center in the brain has been injured by a blow or a stroke, you might see this sort of impairment."

I don't think that is what's wrong with Spike. Okay, yeah, his brain has been hit a lot, but he's a vampire. He heals. I think of that chip the Initiative implanted-- could that be-- No. That was two deaths ago.

"Let's say I need this not to be brain damage. That I want it to be something psychological. What could cause him to become, you know, psychologically mute this way?"

"Trauma," he replies immediately. "That's the most likely. If he's seen something so terrible that he can't make any sense of it, then he might lose his ability to speak. Or if he's got some secret that he's afraid he might tell. But you don't usually see this in grown men, you know. It's much more common in children who have been abused by someone who threatened to kill them if they tell. Or if the abuser is someone they love. They resort to muteness as an escape from the dilemma of whether to tell." He muses for a moment, then says, "You can see, however, that in any child old enough to write, he also has to lose that ability, or he might tell the secret in a note. He has to subconsciously make certain that he can't tell... because he's so afraid he will tell, if he can."

On second thought, I'd rather have it be a vengeance demon.



I shove the why to the back of my mind. I don't want him to be cursed by a spurned lover. But I don't want him to have been traumatized either. I'd rather puzzle out another, more pleasant mystery now.

I head for the garden and sit there on the bench with the Flower Language book. The day is clear and the sun is high, so I've got no worry that Spike will bound over the wall, trowel in hand. I'm all alone with the flowers.

I start in the corner with the pond. It's painstaking work, checking each flower against the pictures in the book, finding a match, and then jotting down the translation in my notebook. A half hour later, I have a list:

Bluebells-- constancy
American cowslip-- You are my divinity. (Aww.)
Camellia -- perfect loveliness
Daisy -- beauty
Red rosebud -- pure loveliness.
Heliotrope -- devotion
White periwinkle -- pleasures of memory
Pink -- pure love
Lavender -- devotion
Geranium -- I prefer you to all others
Blush Rose -- if you love me, you will know



I do know, I want to tell him. I do know.

Every flower is carefully chosen and placed to send me a message. It's almost breathtaking. My chest hurts as I think about this. He loves me so much. I don't deserve to be loved this much. But he's saying, with his garden, that I do.

I wipe the tears away and rise. Sunset is hours away. Spike's crypt is only 100 yards away. I'll go and wake him up and tell him that I've learned his code--

I turn to pick the book off the bench, and I see the cherry tree and the flowers planted along the back wall. I was facing forward, so these aren't on my list. So I sit down, my back against the arm of the bench, and start to catalog the back of the garden.

I'm expecting more for the same, you know, ardent love, passion, worship, that sort of thing. But I look up cherry first-- because I recognize it without checking the picture– and get this: Cherry tree-- deception

Hmm. Deception hasn't ever really been a feature of our relationship. If anything, we've always been painfully honest with each other. Maybe he's trying to apologize for letting me think he was dead.

Or, more likely, I shouldn't worry about the cherry tree since it was here before he started planting. He didn't choose it.

The next one is harder to identify-- a small flower with white petals and a pale green stalk. It's not a very impressive bloom, and I'm not sure why, given all the much prettier roses and daisy varieties available, he chose these droopy flowers to line the back wall. I finally find a matching picture. Dogsbane! Well, that's probably a magical plant, like wolfsbane, the kind of plant Willow uses, so maybe it's supposed to remind me of her--

Dogsbane -- deceit, falsehood

Whoa. More deceit. And these were planted recently, to judge by the damp soil.

It makes me wonder. Maybe he feels really really guilty about something. Maybe there was some other girl along the way-- I need to tell him it's okay. Water under the bridge. We're starting anew. I won't ask about her if he doesn't ask about the Immortal.

Okay, I might ask about her. Make him squirm a bit. But then I'll forgive him.

There's another plant next to it. I think maybe it's just another dogsbane, except the flowers are kind of a greenish-pink, and the leaves are glossier. I get up and walk closer and see tiny green beads at the base of the flowers. Unripe berries. Hmm. I go back and sit down on the bench and leaf through the book, and finally spy the right picture.

Bilberry-- treachery, treason

Now wait a minute. We had our differences, but neither of us was ever treacherous. I mean, sure, we started out meaning to kill each other, but we were honest about it. And when we allied to defeat Angelus, we both fulfilled our promises. Okay, that whole thing with Adam... but it's not like Spike had made any promises. He kept telling us he hated us and wanted us dead.

And once he decided he loved me, well, he was always on my side.

And maybe I wasn't always good to him-- sometimes I was really bad to him-- but I never made any promises ....

Okay. I suppose he could mean the amulet. You know, the one I took from Angel and gave to him. Angel was probably supposed to wear it, probably supposed to be the one who died. But– but I didn't know that. And anyway, Spike demanded it as his due. He said he was my champion. And he was.

I don't think he thinks that I betrayed him that day. I don't think so.

But the next flower.... it's ugly, for a flower. It's got this sort of hairy stalk, and it look like it would be sort of sticky to the touch, and under the white flower is this hairy tube that looks like a cactus. It doesn't look like anything that would grow in Cleveland-- more like a desert flower. This must be one of those planting choices that made Fleur think Spike was way adventurous. He placed it ten feet from the shade of the tree, in a spot of full sunlight, and it looks to be thriving. Ugly, but thriving.

I finally find it at the very end of the book.

White Catchfly-- betrayal

Treachery. Treason. Betrayal.

He can't be talking about me. About us. I'm the first to admit we didn't always have the healthiest relationship. But-- but we didn't betray each other. I know that. We trust each other. We have for a long time. Before I loved him, I trusted him. Hey, before I even liked him, I trusted him. And he trusts me back. I know it. I know it from the inside of me all the way to the outside of me.

He doesn't mean me. The relief hits me, and I sag against the arm of the bench. He doesn't mean me.

But it's not an accident. He wouldn't have accidentally chosen all these negative flowers and accidentally placed them together in the back of the garden, separated by a flagstone path from all the ardent, loving, passionate flowers. It's a message to me, just like the message of the rest of the garden.

So I stare at the catchfly, willing it to explain. It doesn't.

There's another row against the side wall. For a second I'm relieved, because it looks like crocuses, those early spring flowers, the ones that push up out of the snow up here. Hopeful flowers. Happy flowers. Mirth and youthful gladness flowers, that's what it says-- but the picture doesn't match. The stalks are too tall and the blooms are too shallow for crocuses. I flip back in the book until I find a match.

Cardamine -- paternal error

Paternal– Spike's father has been dead for more than a century. It can't refer to that. And his sire is Drusilla. She never played a paternal role for him. He was the one who took care of her. Then who--

Angel. Angelus. The one who trained Spike in the ways of the vampire. The one who got a soul and left him. The one who spoke of him with great loathing. The one who lost his soul and betrayed him. The victim of his torture. And somehow, finally, his boss.

No. It makes no sense. He and Angel were rivals, maybe. But--

But I don't know. I don't know how their relationship ended up. They came together to Rome to find me, and left together too. What does that mean? What does it mean that Angel gave me that amulet, knowing (I know he knew) that I would give it to Spike? What does it mean that he watched Spike die again in the spring, and Spike hasn't told him he's back?

I get up and pace the flagstone path, to the door and back. No. I don't know what it means. But it doesn't mean--

There's one more flower, just a single plant in a terra cotta pot near the path. I don't know how I missed it. It's a flamboyant flower, a foot or more high, so high that Spike has used a stake to prop up the stalk. Fluted white flowers hang down, three of them, from the stalk. They're closed now, furled up like little umbrellas. Night-blooming, I think.

I squat down on the path and open the book again, turning the pages swiftly, searching for this. Devil's weed-- I remember Fleur mentioned that, mentioned devil's weed tea--

Devil's weed -- murder

Also known as Angel's Trumpet.

Poison.