Six years. It had been six years since Spike had seen his father, yet here he was, sitting on a greyhound bus headed for Sunnydale, California. He folded and unfolded the crumpled letter he clutched between his hands, rereading it for the umpteenth time since it had arrived only three days before.

The letter began Dear William… in loopy, unfamiliar handwriting. My name is Joyce Summers. Spike had searched his mind for a few moments, trying to grasp at old memories locked in the abyss of his mind---old lovers, lost friends, distant relatives all flitted through his memory, when he suddenly remembered why the name sounded so familiar. He was thrust back to a time six years previous; the last time he had seen his father, Rupert Giles. He was 18 at the time, living in a run-down flat in the seedier part of London. He had heard a knock at the door, which was not a shock—people were always coming and going out of that hellhole. The distinctly memorable part was that this particular knock came just before noon. The tweakers and drunks who frequented his old place kept much later hours in general. Still, he had opened the door, expecting to find some desperate addict looking for a fix. When he saw his father, his heart had stopped briefly while he slowly let go of the knife handle which was safely lodged in his back pocket. Better safe than sorry.

"Dad."

"Hello, Will." He shifted uncomfortably and then stepped back from the door.

"Come in." His father nodded, semi-grateful, and stepped into the apartment.

Spike could tell he was actively trying not to insult his son's disgusting living conditions.

"How are you?" Rupert carefully stepped over a pile of trash that lay next to the overflowing wastebasket.

"Fine." Spike folded his arms defensively over his chest, hoping the track marks on his forearms weren't too obvious. As if his father didn't know his only son was an addict.

"I've come to tell you I'm moving to the States…"

"Yeah?" Spike raised an eyebrow, impressed. Rupert had talked dreamily of leaving London for sunnier skies since he was a child. His mother, God rest her soul, had hated the idea. She even hated their yearly vacations to Majorca. London was in her blood, she had claimed.

"I'm getting married, Will." Rupert flashed a smile. Spike felt a dull ache throb in the pit of his stomach. It had been years since his father had smiled in such a way, and rather than causing him joy, it made him enraged. He couldn't imagine grasping such happiness. Ever. Rupert seemed to sense Spike's unwillingness to talk as he moved toward the plaid couch, riddled with tears and cigarette burns. He perched on the edge of it, as if trying to touch as little of the filthy surface as possible. "Her name is Joyce Summers. I met her while on a business trip to Los Angeles last year. She has two children." Rupert fished out his wallet and pulled out a family photo. Spike peered down at the three smiling faces. Joyce Summers sat in the middle of a grassy field, two children flanking either side. A little brunette girl, who looked about 6, had her hand perched on Joyce's knee. Another girl, who was a bit older, 11 or 12 , rested her head on her mother's shoulder, a beaming smile on her face.

"Looks nice." Spike handed Rupert the picture and watched the smile on his face begin to falter.

"I want you to come with me, Spike. " Rupert stood suddenly, wiping his hands on his black trousers, as if filled with a burst of energy. Spike chuckled at his father's attempt to use his nickname. It sounded foreign on his tongue. Rupert had refused to use the name, though Spike had answered primarily to it since he was fifteen.

"I haven't seen you in nearly six months and now you expect me to pack up and move across the pond with you?" He leaned over the coffee table and cleared a dirty needle from its resting spot. The light coming in through the half-closed blinds caught the shiny metal and Rupert's eyes rested on it.

"I didn't ask for it to be this way." His father's eyes fell to the floor as his forehead wrinkled. "You know that."

"Right." Spike was becoming agitated. He pulled a cigarette out from his front pocket and lit it.

"There's only one thing I ask of you."

"I knew it couldn't be this easy." He let out a puff of smoke.

"There's a program near Joyce's home. It comes highly recommended for…people like you."

"People like me? Just say it, dad. Drug. Addict."

"I will pay for you, Will. Just say you'll commit to six months and you can come with me."

"Fine." Spike could feel his skin crawling. It had been nearly two hours since his last fix. It seemed like the highs got shorter each day…especially when he was hard up for cash and was forced to buy the shit stuff.

"Really?" Rupert's eyes had fastened on his son's face, looking as if he was about to cry.

"I said fine, Dad." Rupert leaned forward and gave him a one-armed hug. It wasn't much, but it was apparent that Rupert was overjoyed. This was much more than his usual clap on the shoulder when it came to affection.

"Stop…" Spike moaned. His forehead was becoming drenched in a cold sweat. He licked his lips furiously, thinking about the baggie stashed in his underwear drawer. If only Rupert would just go…

"I've got to tell Joyce the news. She'll be ecstatic."

"Yeah. Great."

As soon as his father had left, Spike had rushed into his bedroom. As he'd inserted the syringe into his forearm, and watched the liquid rush into his vein, he'd let his head fall back into the wall. He was going to California. This would be the last time he'd shoot up.

But it was the last time he saw his father.

Spike refolded the note and stuffed it into his jean pocket. There was no use in rereading, hoping for a different ending. The letter always said the same thing.

Rupert Giles was dead.

The sunlight filtered in through Buffy's picture windows as she sat motionless on the edge of her bed. Her hands were gripped tightly to the bright purple comforter, her eyes focused on the street in front of her home. A little boy on a tricycle rolled by, his mother and father walking briskly behind him, gleaming smiles pasted on their faces. She wanted to scream out the window that they had no right to be happy. They had no right to smile. For all she cared, the sun had no right to shine right now. It was simply making a mockery of the throb within her chest.

"Honey?" Her mother was leaning in her doorframe, a long black dress hanging loosely on her body. Buffy turned her tear-filled eyes to meet her mother's. "You almost ready to go?"

"I guess." She smoothed out her lacy black skirt. No one tells you that shopping for a funeral is one of the hardest things you have to do. She'd agonized for hours, trying to find the perfect outfit….then she'd realized her dad wouldn't get to see it. She'd crouched inside a dressing room at Macy's and cried her heart out, until a saleswoman came to check on her.

"You look beautiful." Joyce smiled thinly at her daughter. Buffy knew she was lying, but she smiled anyway.

"Thanks, mom. You do too." It was true. Joyce Summers had a permanent rosy glow about her, one that couldn't be dampened by even the most acute of pains.

"Come on, let's go get your sister." Joyce stuck out her arms and Buffy stood, allowing her mother to envelope her in a warm, comforting hug. "Things are going to be okay, Buffy."

Buffy didn't speak at the service. She had wanted to, but she couldn't think of what to say. She had loved her father (step-father as she hated to be reminded). He had glued their family together---had made her mother sing in the kitchen again. He'd taught her little sister, Dawn, how to swim. He'd come to every single one of her ballet recitals. He'd taken the family camping every July 4th. She'd always burned her marshmallows over the fire, and Giles would let her eat his without complaint. When her dog, Honey, had died, Giles held a funeral service. He spent twenty-minutes lavishing thoughtful praise on the deceased pup. How could she possibly speak if her words weren't enough to top the ones spoken at a funeral for a Pomeranian?

Instead, she had sat at the front, clutching a beloved photo of she and her father, and cried. She cried when her mother told the crowd how she and Rupert had met. Joyce had been Los Angeles for work when she'd realized her wallet had been stolen when trying to buy lunch at a small eatery. The man at the next table had paid for her meal. He was visiting on business from London, and they'd sat at her table for three hours talking. He was a historian; she worked at an art gallery. They enjoyed reading, loathed computers, and had witty senses of humor. They were married eleven months later.

Her little sister, only twelve, had composed a song on the guitar. The chords were choppy and her voice was hoarse, but the entire room had cried.

Long after the service ended, Buffy remained in her seat . She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She had watched his casket be carried from the church, but she still felt as if her father's spirit was tied to this place. She slumped down in front of the pew, tucking her knees to her chest, and pressed her forehead to her knees.

She could hear footsteps coming up the aisle, slow and steady, and she lifted her head to see who it was. Perhaps it was Dawn, coming to drag her home.

A young man, in his mid-twenties, had walked to the front of the church. He was now standing in front of the table that housed memories of Rupert Giles. She watched his shoulders sag as he knelt closer to examine the photos. One framed photo showed Giles, proudly displaying a newly caught fish. The next was from one of their yearly camping trips. He'd let a then-fifteen year old Buffy ride on the back of his motorcycle. Joyce had captured them riding around, Buffy's arm clutched tightly around his waist.

Suddenly the man crumpled. His whole body folded in on itself as he began to cry---loudly. He ran his hands through his hair, gasping breaths escaping his mouth. From her unnoticed position, Buffy could see tears splashing onto the hardwood floor. She stood up.

"Excuse me…" His hands fell from his hair. He didn't move for a moment, though he became deadly quiet. Finally, he stood and straightened. As if by magic, Buffy could see the desperation on his face harden. "I'm sorry…" she mumbled, wondering who this man was, sobbing over her beloved father.

"Who are you?" He asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.

"I'm Buffy. Giles was…is my father." She stuck out a hand and he stared at it as if she had just offered him a poisoned apple.

"Looks like we have something in common." He ran his hands through his peroxide blonde hair, which was just long enough to touch his ears. His face was covered in a scruff, as if he had not shaved for at least a week.

"What?" Buffy let her outstretched hand fall to her side.

"I'm Spike Giles." Buffy felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. THE Spike Giles? The son who had broken her father's heart? She didn't know very much about him…she'd never even seen a photo, but William (as Giles had called him) had always been a sore spot for Rupert. "I suppose you've grown up, haven't you?" Spike recognized the girl in front of him-- the gray-blue eyes that stared up at him were the same as the little girl he'd seen in that photograph six years ago.

"I should get my mom." Buffy swallowed hard.

"You don't have to do that. I just…wanted to pay my respects, you know?" He shrugged and turned to leave. A large part of Buffy wanted to watch him walk out of the church. She almost did, but then she stared up into his pale blue eyes and saw her dad. For a moment, she wanted to stare into them forever, as if a piece of her father still resided inside this man. Instead, she stuck out a hand, gripped his shoulder gently, and tried to create some semblance of a smile.

"Let me get my mom, please." She looked up at him, long and hard. He remained silent for a moment, and then nodded, defeated.

Spike sat down in a pew as he watched Buffy's retreating back. He couldn't quite reconcile his idea of his father with the man represented during this funeral. His father had always loved him, but he was married to his work. Spike's childhood was spent with nannies, his only true father-son bonding coming on holidays. Yet here he was, looking at photos of Rupert fishing and riding motorcycles. This wasn't the stuffy, disciplined man who had raised him. This was a family man. The kind of dad Spike had always wished for. It was even stranger to see an entire world mourning for his father---an entire world he had never even been part of.

But that was his fault, wasn't it?

"Oh my goodness." Spike turned around to see Buffy coming back up the aisle, her mother and a young girl beside her. Joyce's pallor had brightened to a flushed red, and she was fanning herself. "I can't believe you came, William. "

"Yeah..." Spike stood and shifted his weight nervously. Joyce launched forward and bear-hugged him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"You look just like your father." She mumbled into his chest.

"Lucky me, right?" Spike deadpanned. Joyce pulled away and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. It's…it's like having him here with me."

"I hate to disappoint you, but we have very little in common." Spike shrugged, embarrassed. He hadn't come to sit around a fire and play koom by ya with these people. He'd just wanted to say goodbye to his father, go back to London, and get on with his life.

"Nonsense." She smiled warmly and touched his cheek, a gesture that made Spike recoil. He wasn't used to being touched---not lovingly, at least. "I'm being rude, aren't I? This is Dawn." She gestured toward a tall preteen girl with straight brown hair and wide blue eyes.

"Hi." Dawn said and smiled shyly up at Spike.

"I suppose you've already met my other daughter." Spike nodded. "Will you come over for dinner tonight, William? I know you're probably itching to get back to London….but I'm sure the kids would love it."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Well, I don't want to force you." She focused her eyes up at him and Spike felt his resolve crumble.

"All right, all right. Dinner." Joyce clasped her hands together and gave him a half-smile.

"Wonderful." They began walking from the church, Spike trailing just behind Dawn. Spike smirked….he could barely imagine Rupert Giles parenting a pre-teen girl. He tapped Dawn on the shoulder.

"You're pretty good on that guitar, kid." Dawn turned her head to give Spike a surprised smile.

"Really? My dad just started teaching me about a year ago…" Dawn's voice trailed off, as if she wasn't sure what to say next.

"I started playing at about your age, but I wasn't nearly as good. Slow learner."

"Did your dad teach you?" The way Dawn phrased it made it sound as if the father in question was a different one than she had just mentioned moments earlier. Perhaps he was.

"No….he didn't really have the time, I guess." Dawn didn't say anything to this comment. Instead, she sped up so that she was in line with her sister, who was obviously older, but nearly the same height. Dawn clasped Buffy's hand and squeezed tightly. Spike followed silently until the group reached a red Pontiac GTO hardtop. His mouth dropped in surprise when Joyce opened the driver's side door.

"This is…your…car?" He grinned.

"Yes…well, actually, I was pretty adamant against buying the thing, but Rupert insisted." She rolled her eyes.

"What year is it?"

"Sixty-seven." Dawn piped up as he slid into the backseat. "He let me help him restore it."

"She means he let her play Barbies in the backseat while he did all the work." Buffy mumbled.

"Really?" Spike's eyebrows rose. He thought about reminding this family that Rupert Giles was a work-obsessed businessman who spent his free time reading outdated books and drinking coffee, but decided against it. Apparently, Rupert Giles had changed as much as he had over the last six years.

Buffy stared ahead as her mother drove nearly ten-miles below the speed limit. She'd refused to touch the car since the day her father bought it, but now she seemed addicted to driving it, although it terrified her. Buffy couldn't help but smile at the way her mom gripped the steering wheel, with white-knuckled tension.

"Chill out, mom." She smoothed out her black skirt over her knees and checked her face in the mirror. Red? Check. Puffy? Check. Completely and horrendously disgusting? Check. As her eyes roamed over the rearview mirror, they made contact with the near-stranger who was sitting in the backseat, talking animatedly with her little sister. She couldn't help but dislike his presence. Her home was already broken and she didn't like the idea of another person trying to enter it. It was weak, already. Plus, Buffy was pretty sure that her mother hadn't planned on cooking. They'd been subsisting on pizza for the last four days….when they managed to eat, anyway.

"What's for dinner?" Buffy asked. With regret, she noticed her voice sounded strained and angry.

"I was thinking of picking up sushi." Joyce swallowed, and Buffy could tell she was struggling to keep a brave face. She decided not to argue.

"Sounds great."

Joyce pulled the car into the long driveway of their home. They'd moved into the house just after Joyce and Rupert had married. It had been such a blessing for the Summers women. Until then, Dawn and Buffy had been sharing a bedroom in a cramped apartment across town.

"You kids go inside, I'll be right back with dinner." Joyce handed Buffy her house-keys.

"Thank you, Joyce." Spike followed Dawn up the driveway and onto the porch.

"This is a nice house," Spike said to Buffy as she unlocked the front door. "Much bigger than my flat."

"Your what?"

"Ah, apartment." He winked at her and she turned her eyes away. She couldn't stand him trying to be so…friendly.

"I'm going to go change." She spun around and practically bolted up the staircase in the foyer.

"I don't think goldilocks likes that I'm here." Spike said, removing his leather jacket and hanging it on the coat rack near the door.

"She's uptight. Don't take it personally." Dawn smiled childishly, reminding Will that she couldn't possibly be as old she looked, despite her friendly face and height.

"How old are you, Dawn?"

"Twelve. I know I'm tall. The basketball coaches are always trying to recruit me." Dawn wrinkled her nose, as if the very idea of playing a sport disgusted her. Spike laughed. He couldn't imagine this kid being very graceful on the court, even the way she walked was adorably disjointed. "And ballet." Dawn added, looking down at her long, thin legs. "Guess I look the part."

"But music is more your thing?"

"I like to play the piano, too. You know, my dad, he was always so into music." Spike nodded, but in truth…he didn't know. As a child, Spike couldn't remember ever knowing what kind of music his dad had liked. Whenever they were in the car, Rupert had played radio talk shows. Dawn motioned for Spike to follow her into the home. "You want to watch TV?"

"Sure, bit." Dawn had plopped down on the leather couch in the living room and was fiddling with the remote.

""Do you like Hannah Montana?"

"Hannah what?"

"Um, only the best show ever." She grinned and held up a DVD case emblazoned with a blonde girl wearing way too many sequins..

"Can't say I've ever seen it." He shifted in his combat boots, realizing his probably should've removed them before treading on the perfectly white carpet.

"Oh My God, you're going to love it!" She squealed.

Buffy came down the winding staircase, her black sweatpants dragging on the carpet. She had attempted to find something to wear, but all she wanted to do was curl up in a pair of soft pajamas and go to bed. Instead, she'd settled on her Sunnydale High School sweatpants, a pink tank top, and a pair of blue fuzzy socks. She could hear loud laughter coming from the living room and the obnoxious sounds of Dawn's favorite show. Of course---she never turned that TV off.

"Are you seriously making him watch that with you?" Buffy sat down on the floor next to the couch and crossed her legs.

"Yeah…and he's loving it." Dawn grinned widely up at her older sister.

"That's…interesting." Buffy studied Spike's face, which was staring intently at the television. His face was set in a bemused expression. Though he bore a remarkable resemblance to her father, she could tell they were nothing alike. Rupert was clean-shaven, with closely cropped hair. He wore button-up shirts and trousers. He wore cologne. Lately, she'd been sneaking into her parents' bedroom and stealing spritzes of it to spray onto her pillow. Sometimes when she was half-asleep, she'd roll over and smell him. It was almost like he was next to her in bed, reading to her from one of the Harry Potter books, like he had when she was younger.

Spike shared Rupert's intense blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and wide smile. But his face was covered in scruff and his slightly curly hair was dyed a bright peroxide blonde. From the way he was smiling at Dawn, she could also see he had dimples.

"Does your mother have dimples?" Her hand nearly flew to her mouth as soon as she said it. She hadn't meant to speak out loud, but now she had, and Spike was looking at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Yes. She did." Buffy couldn't help but notice his slight emphasis on the word 'did'.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just wondering…"

"She died when I was about your age." Spike almost added that's when I started shooting heroin. He was glad he didn't, because Joyce came in through the front door at precisely that moment.

"Come on, kids." She looked apologetically at Spike "And William." The three of them ambled over to the kitchen table and sat down.

"I got a little of everything…. California Rolls, Spicy Tuna, Alaskan, Caterpillar…." She was setting little plastic take-out boxes on the table in front of them. "What kind of sushi do you like, Will?"

"Well…I've never actually had it." He was staring down at the food with apprehension.

"I feel terrible. I should have asked before I assumed. It's just so popular with the kids around here…"

"Don't worry about it. I eat whatever's handy." Spike reached out and grabbed one of the rolls with his bare hands.

"Um…you're going to need these." Buffy handed him a pair of chopsticks. Spike grabbed them, perched them between his thumb and forefinger, and attempted to grab a roll. It tumbled onto the table.

"Let me show you." Buffy demonstrated how to hold the chopsticks. Spike tried to imitate, but failed miserably. After a few failed attempts, he got fed-up and stabbed one of the chopsticks through the roll, impaling it.

"There we go." He said proudly. He looked up across the table. Joyce, who hadn't said a word during his lesson, was sitting with her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Mom?" Dawn dropped her chopsticks. Buffy stared down at her plate, wordless.

"I'm sorry…it's just…" Joyce dropped her hand from her mouth and wiped away the tears that were threatening to fall. "Your father took me out for sushi not long after we met. He did the same exact same thing when he got frustrated. I'd mentioned I loved sushi when we first met, and he'd pretended to be a connoisseur. So here we were, in this fancy Japanese-restaurant in downtown LA, and he was eating like a barbarian."

"You never told us that story, Mom." Buffy smiled sadly.

"We used to have sushi Saturdays when we were younger." Dawn added, looking at Spike.

"That was, until you kids got busy on Saturday nights."

"I wish we hadn't." Buffy added. "I shouldn't have spend so much time cheerleading and with my friends. I should've stuck to sushi Saturdays." The table grew silent and Spike could feel the awkwardness collecting around his presence.

"You're a cheerleader?" He said, attempting to break the foot-thick ice.

"Captain."

"Buffy's going to be a senior this year."

"Don't remind me." Spike looked at Joyce questioningly.

"School starts next week." She smiled and shrugged. "Summer goes too fast, right?"

"Right." All Spike really remembered was getting expelled from his private prep school at the age of 16. He'd been caught stealing from the headmaster's office. Then the administration had searched his bag and found drugs. Lots of drugs.

"So, William…what do you do in London?" Joyce passed him a fresh glass of water…he'd downed his in the first few minutes of dinner.

"I play guitar, mostly. And…it's Spike."

"Yes, your father mentioned that. Forgive me. So…Spike, you're in a band?"

"I was. We split up a couple months ago. I've been working odd jobs since them." It could be pretty difficult getting a good job with a record, he'd wanted to explain.

"How nice." Joyce didn't say this in a demeaning way, like he'd expected. Instead, she actually seemed interested in what he had to say.

"Thank you for dinner, Joyce. I really should get back to my motel."

"Where are you staying?"

"Haven Motel."

"I know where that is….that's in a terrible part of town, Spike."

"All I could afford." He shrugged.

"Why don't you stay here with us? I can make up the guest bedroom."

"I don't think so, but thank you."

"When is your flight?"

"I haven't exactly booked one. But I was planning on going tomorrow morning."

"Well then you must stay here. I can drive you to the airport so you don't have to take a bus."

"Well…." Spike really could use the $45 he'd be saving. "Why not?" Joyce smiled.

"Dawn, can you clear the table? And Buffy….why don't you get Spike some linens and show him the room?"

"Fine." Buffy stood.

"I'm so glad you're staying, Spike. You must be exhausted, anyway." Joyce stood and hugged him tightly, smiling. "Your father would be so happy to have you here." Spike knew Joyce was only trying to be kind, but that very proclamation caused an acute pain right in the center of his chest.

"Come on." Buffy nodded toward him.

"Goodnight." Spike smiled at Joyce and Dawn.

"Goodnight!" They said in unison. Spike followed Buffy out of the kitchen and up a flight of stairs. She stopped at a closet in the hallway and loaded her arms with linens.

"This is your room." She nudged a door to her left open with her shoulder. The spare bedroom was nearly the size of Spike's apartment. Buffy set the linens down on the queen-size bed. "Here's the thermostat. Here's the remote for the TV. The bathroom is further down the hall, on your right."

"Thanks."

"Sure." Buffy shrugged and walked past Spike. She paused in the doorframe and spun around slowly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Why are you here?" She tugged at a strand of wavy blonde hair and focused her eyes intently on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you come here? To California. To his funeral."

"Because he's my father. And he died."

"Why didn't you come before that? It's been six years." She propped a hand on her hip, defiant. He was impressed at the amount of rage her innocent looking face could display.

"It's complicated, pet."

"Don't patronize me. I'm not stupid. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me."

"What are you going on about?" Spike could feel himself growing agitated. He steadied himself on the wall. She narrowed those blue-grey eyes at him.

"If you loved him, you wouldn't have waited for him to drop-dead before coming here." Spike didn't have a chance to respond. She turned back around and slammed the door. He could hear her feet stomping on the hardwood floor as she retreated.

He wasn't sure what he would've said even if she'd given him the chance. Maybe she was right. Perhaps he didn't deserve to be here at all.

Buffy flipped her pillow over, and pressed her cheeks to the cool-side. It was a habit she'd been doing since she was a little girl---something she always did whenever she couldn't sleep. She was prone to insomnia, probably the fault of her overactive brain. It was nearly three in the morning, and she hadn't even gotten a minute of quality shut-eye. Her sleep hadn't been good lately, but she had been able to get enough rest to function. She stared at the angry red letters on her alarm clock and rolled her eyes. She stood, fumbling around in the dark for her door. She wandered quietly through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

The kitchen light was on. Spike was leaning over the island, devouring a bowl of cereal. He looked up at her.

"Couldn't sleep." He explained, whispering.

"Hmm." She gave him a dismissive look and wandered over to the cabinet. Cereal was her go-to food whenever she felt crummy…it was a habit stolen from Giles, which he had apparently passed onto Spike as well. She rifled through, looking for her favorite---Frosted Flakes. Then she noticed the Tiger-clad box sitting haphazardly next to Spike's left arm. She snatched it away. "You ate all the Frosted Flakes."

"Sorry." Spike shrugged, his mouth full of her much-needed comfort food.

"Whatever. It's fine. It must be genetic."

"Huh?"

"My dad used to eat all the Frosted Flakes, too."

"Well my dad ate Frosties."

"What?" Buffy grabbed a spoon out of the drawer behind her.

"That's what they call them in England." He smiled, still whispering.

"Oh." She leaned over and scooped some of the cereal out of his bowl.

"Hey! That's mine." She shook her head, chewing.

"My house. My cereal."

"Perhaps we should go give it your mum, because last I heard, it was her house, wasn't it?"

"Obviously." She took another bite of his cereal, leaning over the island. She noticed that Spike was looking at her strangely, concentrating very hard on the area around her…but not directly her, to be exact. It was then that she realized she was only wearing a oversized tee-shirt…long enough to cover her butt, but not much else. She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. "Look…I know I was rude earlier, but I just don't think you have much of a right to be here."

"I probably don't." Spike stood and walked over to the sink.

"Yeah?"

"Look, pet. My dad and I didn't have the best relationship. I'm sure you and your sister were a miracle for him." As he was saying this, Buffy could sense hardness in his voice, but with his back to her, it was hard to tell. He turned around slowly, his lips set in a thin line. Buffy studied him for a moment. He was almost handsome---that was, if he ditched the dirty hobo look and adopted something more clean-cut. The man looked like he hadn't showered in weeks.

"I…"

"Mmmm…." Both Spike and Buffy turned their heads to see Joyce leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh…Mom…"

"What are you two doing?" Joyce rubbed her eyes and let out a yawn.

"Sorry, Mom. I couldn't sleep." Buffy pointed to the empty Frosted Flakes box. Joyce smiled sleepily.

"Well, you two should probably get back to bed. I don't want you waking your sister up."

"Sorry." They mumbled in unison. She looked at Spike, tempted to crack a smile, but she refrained. They both walked out of the kitchen, and started up the stairs with a sleepy ease.

Buffy slept better than she had in a week.