Spike stared resolutely at his hands where they lay on the chipped Formica table, lifting his eyes only to look pointedly at Oz's dinner when it was served.

"What?" Oz asked around a bite of fried fish.

Spike pointed with an empty fork. "Said we were going to a seafood place, not a diner."

Oz looked down at his plate of fish and chips. "Pretty sure this didn't come from a cow, Spike."

Spike snorted and looked out the darkened window so that Oz couldn't see the expression on his face. Times like this, Spike didn't miss his reflection.

"So are you going to tell me what the Sh'kuk told you?"

"You know how to recognize a Sh'kuk demon?"

Oz gestured to his forehead with his fork before stabbing a french fry. "The lava lamp type purple horn is hard to miss." He bit into the fry and chewed thoughtfully. "And then there's that second set of teeth if you look close enough."

"Yeah, but usually, when a bloke's looked close enough, he's had a bite taken out of him."

"Werewolf," Oz said, and it made a sort of sense. As a demon with bite himself, Spike could respect respecting another demon's bite of-

He lost his train of thought and hopped onto the nearest track. "Become a part of the local demon community, have you?"

Oz shrugged noncommittally. "Haven't avoided it."

"You know what they do then?"

"In theory." Oz shook a packet of sweetener into his soda, and watched it dissolve. "They read the electrical impulses of the brain like it was a hard drive. Kinda fitting for the demonic who's-who of Seattle," Oz added after some thought. "They're pretty good with computers."

Spike nodded. Tersely.

"What did they find out?"

"Bugger all." Spike's fingers curled around the handle of the bread knife in a way more threatening than the basket of bread rolls and butter deserved.

"You were in there for a long time for bugger all."

Spike shrugged, and he watched the knife slide into the white flesh of a roll in a way that might have been disturbing to the other patrons. "Had to be polite, didn't I?"

Oz raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, all right, I was trying to find out who's been helpin' the Initiative escapees around here."

"And?"

Spike watched Oz's hand close around his soda, followed it to his mouth, because it seemed like something to do. "Wouldn't tell me."

"Why not?"

"Protecting the git from Initiative spies. Do I look like a spy for the fucking Initiative to you?"

"No. You pretty much look like a pissed off vampire." Oz took his time pouring ketchup onto his plate, ignoring Spike's snort of disgust, then dipped a piece of fish in. "You can order your own plate."

"Yeah." Spike looked out the window again, laying the knife and bits of roll on the bread plate and pushing them away.

"On me."

"Yeah, sure," Spike said, relenting at the offer of free crunchy fried food, and let Oz order another for him, wondering what had brought him out here since the wait staff seemed to know him as well as he knew how to find this diner.

Spike felt Oz watching him as he fiddled the malt vinegar out from behind bottles of ketchup and tartar sauce, and poured.

"Where does it go?"

"Huh?"

"When a vampire eats human food. Do you regurgitate or something?"

"I am tryin' to eat here, y'know."

"You've never wondered?"

Spike stabbed into his fish with a fork. "Angelus tried to find out once."

"But he didn't find out?"

"Oh, no. He found out." Spike glared at the fish as if it had the answers before popping it in his mouth. Proper cod. Not bad.

"What was the answer?"

Spike swallowed, but the fish seemed to take forever to go down past the lump in his throat and the sick feeling in his belly. "Don't know, do I? I can't sodding remember."

"So when you said your memory has holes in it...?"

The plate of fish and chips stared back at Spike. Mocked him. Because that, he could remember, his first visit to the Fish and Chips shop in London. The grease, the crunch, the nearly buttery taste. He stabbed up another piece of fish and chewed, resenting it for being a pale imitation of the memory. "It's like I've sprung a slow leak, mate." Spike tapped his head. "Up here." He fumbled for his smokes before remembering again that they were gone, and let his hands drop into his lap. "A hundred and fifty bloody years of memories."

And no way of knowing how long it'd be until he ran out.

The trip back across the Sound was silent, but when Oz had lain a hand on the small of Spike's back, Spike hadn't pulled away, just dropped his head between his shoulders and stared at the water going by, some part of him wondering if his memories were dripping into the water as they passed, diffusing and dissolving in the dark wavelets.

Could be. He shivered, the contrast of Oz's body heat to his enough to make him feel the cold. But he was grateful when Oz didn't comment about Spike heading back indoors on the ferry, just disappeared for a few minutes, and came back with two steaming cups of coffee, passing one to Spike.

By the time they pulled up to the dock, both cups were empty. Spike had a momentary thought of smashing in the concessions window and helping himself to a few packets of cigarettes, but for the first time in years, it seemed like just too much bloody energy to care about needing smokes.

And by the time he'd thought through that, Oz was already sliding into a cab and holding the door open for him. "Too cold to walk," he explained when Spike really focused on him. "Here."

Spike looked down to find Oz holding a packet of Kamel reds, and looked up at Oz.

A shrug. "I bought them with the coffee."

"Ta." Spike pocketed them, only half thinking on the implications and stared out the window as the cab began the long climb up from downtown. That was something he did remember. Making that drive with Drusilla in the DeSoto, the feeling of power in that engine as they climbed, windows down, all storm and sea scent, and she'd said-

Said-

The door handle crumpled under Spike's grip as he drew in a shaky breath, closing his eyes as if he could force the memory back to the surface. "She said-" he shook his head, and maybe there was Oz's hand on his wrist, and he could feel the memory. Feel the words almost there. Remembered the creak of the seats. The way the wheel felt under his grip, the dampness to the air. "God! She said the streets would flood with numbers!" The words came in a rush of relief, a tide that left Spike's chest aching, and he realized that he'd been breathing, and let out the last of the air with a shudder before he could do or say anything that could embarrass him more, and curled around the memory like something precious. *She said the streets would run with numbers, and I thought she meant the town would strike it rich. Guess it did, but god. She was right. Telling me to buy apples.*

"Is he all right?"

"He will be. It's been a long night. Here. Thanks." Oz handed the fare over the back of the seat, then opened his door, Spike's door handle too mangled to push open, and pulled Spike out onto the sidewalk beneath his building.

"Hasn't been a long night." Spike mumbled, then remembered to breathe before trying to speak again. "Been a long bloody year."

But he let Oz lead him up to the apartment without complaint, even when a small, sturdy steadying arm slipped around his waist in the elevator as Spike ran through the memories one by one like a miser counting coins. *Said to buy apples. I bought her apples, but she called me silly. Said it was to be rainbow apples and Daddy would be jealous. And she was wearing - wearing - god! -*

He followed Oz blindly into the apartment, unseeing, and stood in the entry way, vaguely aware of the scents of smoke, and incense, pop tarts and tequila and lime wrapping comfortingly around him, and his hand shot out, catching Oz as he padded by barefoot, aware but unable to care that Oz winced at the tightness of his grasp. "She was wearin' blue that night. She didn't like blue, but it was so bloody soft, she had to have it. Fur."

Oz watched Spike's eyes skitter their way up to his hairline where he had two fresh blue streaks in the faded out purple, then reached out, easing his coat off his shoulders and hanging it up and wrapping an arm around Spike's waist again. "Dru?"

"Yeah." Spike shook with the effort to hold onto the memory, make sure it couldn't get away with the others that'd slipped out when he wasn't looking. "Made her skin look all sickly, but her eyes, mate, it made her eyes glow." He was distantly aware of Oz settling onto the couch, and pulling Spike with him, vaguely conscious of being made to lie down, and the firmness of Oz's thighs under his head. "But she was cold underneath. Always cold." Spike burrowed his fingertips under Oz's leg, feeling the pinpricks of warmth spread through cold flesh. "Liked it. Never did understand why I wanted to be warm." Like Oz's fingers were warm in his hair combing along his scalp, over the sensitive place where something must have been done to the chip. Even though he didn't know.

"Why did you? Want to be warm."

Spike shivered, and closed his eyes, the effort of holding onto so many slippery memories so tightly already wearing him down. "Don't remember," he finally said. But he thought it might have something to do with the feeling of warm fingers carding through his hair, the warmth of a leg beneath his head, and the soft humming of old songs.

He liked it when Oz sang.