Buffy's sleep was rather fitful that night, filled with tossing and turning and strange dreams about Spike. Strange because he wasn't trying to kill her, and because the sun was always shining brightly down on him. Mostly he just watched her, his head cocked to the side and his eyes filled with a puzzled confusion. Sometimes he would talk to her, but when she woke up she couldn't remember what he had said.

When she finally gave up on any decent rest and dragged herself out of bed, it was already half past ten. Unsure of what time Spike would be showing up, she was frankly surprised he wasn't there already, capitalizing on the time she had allotted him. Trying to shrug away the weirdness that was already clinging to this day, she jumped quickly in and out of the shower before throwing her hair up into a messy topknot. Finding the black two piece she had worn to the beach on the day this whole crazy deal had started, she tugged some jean shorts and a purple t shirt on over top and made her way downstairs, only to find herself wanting to go right back up.

Her mother was dusting.

Of all the chores that keeping a house and a teenage daughter entailed, dusting was the one thing that Joyce absolutely hated and would without fail pass off to Buffy. This meant that it usually only happened on the rare visit of Buffy's grandparents or when an esteemed guest from the gallery was due to drop by. But there she was, her hair tied back under a flowery scarf, dancing around the living room with a feather duster as she hummed along to the Sunday oldies playing on the radio.

"Mom?" Buffy asked incredulously, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, good morning sweetie!" Joyce called over her shoulder as she danced her way to the television and began to wave her feathers around behind it. "I just thought I'd tidy up a bit before Spike arrives. You know he always drops in so unexpectedly I never really have time to prepare."

"Prep… huh?"

"Honestly, I don't know what impression he must have," Joyce replied, moving on to the bookshelf that housed several pieces of pottery.

"Wait, you're worried about what Spike thinks about your housekeeping?" Buffy asked dumbfounded. "Mom, he lives in a crypt!"

"Which is probably nicer than your room at the moment young lady. I hope you don't intend to let him see that mess."

Buffy gagged. "Like I would ever let Spike in my bedroom. And besides, he's a boy. Shouldn't you be threatening me not to even think about it, and, and warning me to keep the doors open at all times?"

Joyce tutted. "Spike's a gentleman Buffy. And you don't seem overly fond of him, so I hardly feel I have to worry. It's too bad really, he is a dear."

Buffy stared bug-eyed at her mother's back, her mouth open in shock and horror. Had her mother just suggested… did she have a crush on… Turning around without another word, Buffy left the living room, shaking her head frantically in an effort to head off her train of thought, and the sudden surge of defensiveness she felt when he mom had praised the vampire. For a moment there she had almost felt… territorial? But that was stupid, because it wasn't like she wanted Spike to herself. Shimmying her shoulders in an exaggerated shudder, she headed for the kitchen and the promise of some peanut butter toast.

Joyce sighed when her daughter came back through the living room, nibbling her breakfast as she went. The sound of the vacuum being lugged out of the hall closet chased her up the stairs, though she couldn't muster the guilt she should feel at dribbling toast crumbs over the hardwood. She could not believe that her mother was playing house for Spike. It was just a little bit ridiculous. Of course… so was the rest of this charade.

She had snagged the cordless phone while she'd been downstairs, and now, safe in her room and toastless, she took a bracing breath and dialed Willow.

"Buffy?!" came the immediate reply, concern coloring the voice which answered.

"Hopefully not your standard greeting," Buffy groaned into the phone.

"Oh no!" Willow whimpered consolingly. "You're still sick!"

"Yeah. I am definitely sick Buffy. Mom says it's one of those twenty-four hour things, so I should be getting better by tomorrow. But for now… life sucks."

"Do you want me to bring you some soup?" Willow asked, "Keep you company?"

"No way Wills," Buffy replied firmly. 'God,' she prayed, 'Just let it go Wills. Just go along with this.' "I do not want you or Xander coming over here and getting what I have. And trust me, you don't either."

"Well, if you're sure…"

"I am. Just gonna spend the day sleeping and hopefully not puking. I'm just… really sorry that I had to bail on you guys." Sincerity wracked Buffy's voice, tightening her throat and making her eyes go dry. "Really. I… I wanted to hand with you guys."

"Relax Buffy," Willow laughed lightly. "We aren't mad or anything. I mean, you sound pretty miserable; it's not like you're just ditching us for your other best friends."

Buffy almost puked for real this time, so great was the wave of guilt that overcame her.

"Just promise you'll stay hydrated ok? Lots of fluids."

"Ermp."

"Bye. Feel better!"

Buffy threw the phone onto her bedspread as though it had turned into a poisonous spider-demon. Letting out an exasperated growl, she gripped fistfuls of hair at her temples, tugging in frustration. What was she doing? Lying to her friends, making deals with Spike… well, that wasn't so unusual, she'd done that before. It was the… personal side of this she was having trouble with. She was doing this to help Spike, because she felt bad for him. The only thing she was getting out of it was less of those bad-feelies, and she wasn't sure that mattered in the grander scheme of things.

Still stewing, she dove into the closet in search of her old picnic quilt; a thread blanket in red, white, and blue that she'd purchase some Fourth of July years ago. Pulling it from beneath a crumpled shoe box, she brought it to her nose and took a deep breath, rubbing the cloth against her cheek. It smelled of flowery fabric softener and sunshine, the fabric worn and soft from months of use and multiple washes. It was a comforting sensation, much in the same way the sun tanning it was used for was. Climbing back out of the closet, she grabbed her sunglasses and shoved them on top of her head, collecting her tanning lotion, battery-powered stereo, and a magazine before heading back downstairs.

Lugging her heavy armload towards the kitchen, she was too busy trying to balance a couple of tape-decks atop the pile to notice the voices that emanated from within. Rounding the corner, she dumped her armload onto the island and got her first look over the top of it. And gulped.

"Spike," she said slowly.

"Slayer."