Part One

Having just moved into Xander's apartment, Spike was trying to spend as much time out and about as possible. A lot of the time he'd cruise bars, or go patrolling, but every so often he found himself in the mall.

As much as he hated himself for what he'd turned into, and as much as he told himself it was pointless, he found himself glancing up and down the aisles of clothes, wondering which items Buffy might like to see him in.

Already changed everything on the inside, might as well change the cover while I'm at it, he thought to himself. He really didn't think it would make a difference, and he knew that he didn't deserve a second chance, but it wasn't in Spike's nature to just let things go.

Frustrated with the choice in the first three stores he tried, he stomped out the back of the building and looked up at the night sky. Cursing his lack of money, his conscience's unwillingness to let him steal shirts, or even steal money from Harris to buy some rightfully, he went as far as cursing himself, and the mess of an existence he was living.

Pathetic, chipped, and living on the mercy of people who had no reason to like him.

Spike was jolted out of self-loathing when he heard a scream from the next alley over and went to investigate. There he found two vamps hassling an old lady. The first he dispatched quickly, but the second was getting the better of him, as his heart wasn't really in the violence, these days.

When he was shoved none too lightly against something metal, and it swung back and hit him hard across the legs and shoulders he found his motivation to end the bloodsucking jerk, however.

The dust of the second vampire floating around him, Spike looked up to see the lady he'd saved had scarpered.

"You're welcome," he snarked at the empty alley, before reaching back and rubbing his sore muscles. After stretching them out a bit he looked around once more, to see what exactly had hit him.

To his right, a large, steel, clothing bank loomed over him, easily six inches taller than he was. He must have been slammed into it, for the door was now on the ground, and the donated clothes were spilling out into the street.

Spike took to shoving them back in when something caught his eye – a jacket like one he'd once seen Captain Cardboard sporting. Dark in color, which was a win, but also more stylish in cut than Spike's duster. It looked new, to boot.

After standing there for a while with the jacket in his hands, Spike cursed himself once more for having to justify taking it, even to himself. He was a big bad – was supposed to live on the dark side, and taking a charity donation probably wasn't all that bad anyway. Whoever owned it clearly didn't want it, and he was in need. Changing tact, the other part of Spike criticized himself for being so easily tempted. That said, the jacket was kind of calling out to him…

"Bugger this!" he exclaimed, throwing the jacket back into the pile, slamming the door awkwardly back onto its hinges and then kicking it for good measure, too.

Once more the door fell at his feet, and he heaved a heavy sigh.

There was one way to solve his problem without the moral dilemma, he realized: he'd let fate decide. If he put on the jacket and it didn't fit then, well, it just wasn't meant to be. If it did fit, however, it would be like direct permission from the powers that be, right?

He slipped it on and instantly felt better about himself. Not too tight, but not too loose, the garment made him wish he had a reflection.

"This will do," he muttered, before heading back in the direction of Xander's.

Spike had gotten bored of just wandering around for one night and, plus, there were three pints of pig's blood waiting for him in the whelp's fridge.

Okay, so pig's blood wasn't exactly appetizing – not compared to the human stuff – but it would do.

He trudged on and, as he got closer to the apartment, he caught a whiff of the most welcome scent – worked up, pissed off, Slayer.

Spike smirked to himself, but the expression died on his face moments later.

You don't deserve her, some part of his brain reminded him, as he pushed open the door.

She was standing with her hands on her hips, looking back at him with a scowl. Looking glorious, he thought.

"Where's Xander?" she asked.

"Don' rightly know," he replied.

Buffy sighed and most of the annoyance on her face seemed to be exhaled with the breath.

"You need him for something?"

"Yeah," Buffy replied, "Wanna beat seven bells outta him for something he said to Dawn."

Spike suddenly looked serious. "What he say?"

"What?" said Buffy, caught off guard by the sudden anger in his voice. He'd always been protective of her family, she recalled. "Oh, nothing that bad. He just… well," she hesitated, looking down at her hands. "Apparently he gave her a little history lesson. About, y'know… us. Our… history."

"Oh," Spike deflated again, and looked away from her, "Sorry. Should I say something? To Niblet, I mean? I don't want her to think bad of you, not that she would but, erm… Buffy?"

While he rambled, Buffy had approached him and reached out to touch the lapel of his jacket.

"Is this new?" she asked.

Guilt flooded through him. Guilt and, was it warmth? It had been a lifetime since she'd been in his personal space.

Suddenly his guilt multiplied, tenfold, as he remembered exactly why he'd lost the privilege of her touch in the first place. He stepped back, but she stepped with him.

He looked at her and realized he hadn't answered the question.

"Yeah, new," he said, before once again questioning, "Buffy?"

"Shh," she replied, pressing her lips to his.

To be continued…