It was… late. Far later than it should have been considering Giles was opening the shop in the morning. He liked to get there before Anya, who turned up even on her days off to make sure people were buying enough. To make sure he was selling enough. He hated it, hated her hovering when he was the one who owned the shop, and he tried, very hard, to be there before her so he could avoid those judging eyes when he was there at only 8:35am.
They'd been celebrating something. Spike couldn't remember because he hadn't really cared. All he knew was that Giles had got brandy out, handed him a glass, and told him to shut up. Spike hadn't been talking, really, just muttering about the Slayer and her annoyingly perky hair and muscles so big she probably had to be careful every time she so much as hugged Captain Cardboard. Giles, apparently, had had enough of even this tiny diatribe, of his "incessant whining" as the bugger put it.
Giles was just tired. That's all. Tired and alone and he wanted to pretend, for an evening, that he was back in London, with Ethan and Phillip and Dierdre, though with less demon summoning. He'd loved those long summer days, when they'd lie in someone's bed, smoking rollies, bartering kisses when they ran out of tobacco or skins. Somehow Ethan always got more kisses from Giles than anyone and he didn't want to admit that he missed the bastard but Ethan always knew how to make Giles smile. And it felt like it had been far too long since he'd smiled.
There was only junk on TV. Some stupid romantic trash that neither of them would have watched sober but it was British and they both wanted something from home. Something that reminded them of everything they missed from a place they could never return to. A time they could never return to, in Spike's case. It was trash, which they knew, but they weren't expecting it to be quite so… graphic. Neither of them were a stranger to what it showed but there's a difference between doing it yourself and watching it with someone you barely like.
So they drank. And drank. And drank some more until they stopped feeling uncomfortable and started critiquing the techniques used. If he'd kissed her here instead of there, then she would have done… before long they were comparing notes on what they'd done to whom. What they'd found worked well, and what never worked. On anyone. A little more to drink and they were comparing notes on what they liked personally. After that, they couldn't remember anything. Or said they couldn't, at least. They woke up the next morning in Giles' bed, sheets tangled, hair a ruffled mess from where hands at grabbed wildly, and swore to never speak of it again.
Just like last time.