AN: Possibly, I need my head examined for starting myself another universe here but. Silly fluff caught me and wouldn't let me go. And it is - silly and fluffy and I totally apologize.

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Of course he still likes her. It's not like that just went away when she said no. But Spike's also aware that like, her reason for not dating him is pretty definitive and he doesn't want to fuck up what little bit of their friendship they've got left so he resolutely forces himself to treat her the exact same as he always has.

It's hard.

Harder still when stuff comes up the way it has tonight, Leah's birthday and people who weren't on the graveyard shift milling around the bar. Winnie's in jeans which – fine, he's seen her in jeans before, that, he can deal with. But the top she's got on with the little straps is showing far too much skin than he's used to and like every time she laughs or leans over-

Well, the point is, he's doing his very fucking best acting (that one UC stint he got himself into at Fifty-Two coming back to haunt him) and he's got a beer on hand so he can have something to do if he can't answer a question.

It's just, Winnie's fucking right there, right next to him, has been seeking him out all night and she's a little tipsy, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the bar, laughing at all the things he's saying and like, okay, if he needed proof of the fact that life's not fucking fair, this would be it.

Ed and Sarge took off a couple hours ago, Sam and Jules looking like they'll be next and Leah's totally fucking smashed, sitting in the middle of a bunch of guys she used to work with. Spike almost wishes he was over there instead but he's across the way at another table and Winnie's sitting next to him so he doesn't quite wish for that at all.

"I should get going," Winnie says and he thinks she almost sounds regretful.

He clears his throat, downs the rest of his beer so that he doesn't ask her something completely inappropriate. "Yeah me too. Want me to walk you home?"

It's not just because it's her. It's also the fact that a) his Ma would kill him if she knew he let a girl walk home alone in the dark and b) he's a cop and he knows the stats on girls walking home alone from bars at night.

But she gazes at him and looks all grateful and he swallows because she's looking right into him and her eyes are all friendly and fucking Christ, how does he get himself into these things?

So they settle up, say goodnight to Leah and her buddies and head outside.

Spike has no fucking clue how it happens. One second they're standing on the street and she's laughing at something he's just said and he's grinning at her because she's got a great laugh and the next he's got her backed up right into the brick of her building and is kissing her hard on the mouth, hands sliding over her waist and she's kissing him right back, tongues and teeth and it's just – bad idea.

He pulls away first, apologies all over his mouth but she clears her throat and says, "You wanna come up? Um. I can make you coffee. Kinda cold out here."

And like, yes, of course he does but also, she doesn't date cops and he doesn't understand exactly what-

He's going to have to blame the alcohol, he really is, because even though it's a bad idea, it kind of sounds like a really good idea. Just say no, Spike. Just say no.

She gives him that smile, the one that makes him think she must have just gotten her way with every single boyfriend she's ever had and he hears himself agreeing. So they go up in the elevator and he doesn't touch her.

They get to her apartment door and he has to hold his breath because she's walking in front of him and every time she turns to look at him, he smells her hair and her perfume and that combined with all he's had to drink is turning this into a really dangerous prospect (actually, coming up here at all was probably not exactly a good idea).

He thinks it might be smart to just deposit her at her door, turn around and leave. Seems like a good plan. Yeah. That's what he's going to do.

Except then, she drops her stuff on the floor and pulls him towards her and they're kissing again, he's sliding her coat off her shoulders, running his fingers up her bare arms, barely skimming over those breasts and like, this is a bad idea, a really really bad idea but he bends to kiss her neck and she makes this noise and yeah, so he's pretty much fucked over here.

They stumble their way past her couch, lights still off and she pushes him lightly against the wall, whips her shirt up and over her head and he just stares at her, the way the light from outside the window is catching her skin and she lets out this low throaty laugh and then presses herself against him, hands on his chest, kisses him some more, pulls away only to whisper, "Take this off," against his mouth while pulling at his shirt and like, he is pretty much a hundred percent sure that they're going to regret this in the morning but her skin is sixty different kinds of soft and she kisses exactly the way he imagined she might.

So. Regret? Yeah. Doesn't really care so much about that right now.

Of course, when he wakes up squinting the next morning (blinds are definitely still open and trust it to be the sunniest day Toronto's ever had) with what feels like the grandmother of all hangovers pressing into the base of his skull and the pit of his stomach, he rethinks all that stuff about regret.

Winnie's lying on his shoulder, hair all over his skin and face so smooth and beautiful in sleep, he just doesn't even know how to-

He can't tell if the nausea in his stomach is because of how much he drank the night before or if it's because he can see how he's about to lose her, the friendship they have, how she always laughs at his jokes. It's just not going to end well.

He also wonders, slightly hysterically, if he can slide out from under her head without her waking up, gather up his stuff and run out the door without her ever knowing. She drank quite a bit too, if he remembers correctly, maybe she's one of those blackout drinkers.

Except then she shifts and he has to think about whether he's going to pretend to be sleeping or not.

Her eyes flicker open and she looks at him, looks around the room. "Hey."

He lets out a huff of incredulous laughter. "Uh. Hi."

She stretches and okay, even though he knows that he shouldn't look, he does. He totally does. Winces a little when he sees the hickies on her. Is going to go ahead and blame it on being drunk and on the fact that you know, he ended up in bed with the girl he's been literally dreaming about. That would make any guy lose it. Clears his throat. She rolls onto the other pillow and looks at him with interest. "I need coffee. You want?"

"Uh. Never say no to coffee." What is he even saying? He says no to coffee all the time.

She nods, pushes herself up and like, okay, he feels like guilty or something looking at her (it's just – she's naked, is the thing but also at the same time, she's like incredibly beautiful naked so he also can't look away). She glances at him over her shoulder as she slides on underwear and these shorts that are so short he has no idea why she's even bothering. Pulls on a t-shirt that's too small and too tight and if she's trying to make him stop thinking about what she looks like naked, she's doing a really bad job.

He waits until she leaves the room before getting up himself and daring to take a cautious look around the room. And apparently, they had a really fun time last night because it's a disaster. As in. Clothes all over the place and stuff knocked off her dresser (he has this very vague memory of their second time, the dresser, Winnie knocking over all these bottles and then just giggling and turning around – okay so he's not going to look at the dresser anymore).

Spike has no idea where his shirt is but considers it a victory when he has on his underwear and jeans (finds his belt half under the bed and only one sock but you know, small triumphs), ducks into the bathroom and uses Winnie's mouthwash before splashing water on his face and thinking he looks like he spent all night drinking too much and then went home with the girl he's half in love with and slept with her. So. There's that.

Winnie's sitting at the table, two mugs of coffee in front of her and the paper spread open. His shirt's lying on the ground in front of the couch.

He shuffles in the doorway to her bedroom for a second before telling himself to stop being a stupid little wuss and to start acting his age. Picks up his shirt and pulls it on. Clears his throat as he slides into the seat across from her. She pushes one of the mugs towards him without looking up.

"Uh. Thanks."

It's too hot but he drinks it just to have something to do with his hands. (Like. He doesn't have anything to do with his hands. It shouldn't be a thing that makes him feel this total wave of anguish but it totally does.) He's really glad when it doesn't immediately come right back up, to be totally honest, hopes it stays down where it's supposed to be.

"You okay?" she asks, turns the page.

"Uh. Think I should probably be asking you that." He has this distinct memory of Winnie slamming her elbow into the doorframe. Not to say anything about the marks all over her skin. He can't actually remember being rough like that. Like. Ever. He should probably avoid drunken sex forever.

She smiles. "Oh, I'm good. Thanks."

And it sounds – it kind of sounds like she's flirting with him which makes absolutely no sense at all. He takes another sip of coffee.

"So what are you up to today?"

She asks it casually, like they're standing at the dispatcher desk and talking about what they're going to do on their days off. Spike stares at her. "Uh. Groceries I guess. You?" And the best he can come up with is groceries. He's sounding like a real ball of excitement over here.

"Need to clean up." She shoots him this sly look that he can't for the life of him figure out. It's just – she said no, no cops and now it's just like that conversation never took place or something. "Chill out. Relax."

He clears his throat and opens his mouth to say God knows what, closes it and clears his throat again. Fiddles with his mug.

"You hungry?"

"Uh. Not really." Nope. This hangover is so bad that no amount of greasy food is going to help it. As in. If he eats anything, he's going to puke. Really would like to avoid doing that in front of her.

She gives him that sly little look again and okay, if he has stepped into a parallel universe, it would just be really great for someone to tell him. "More coffee?"

And he accepts just so he can stay a little bit longer – which probably means that the first thing he should do when he gets home is find himself a shrink.