Lyrics reverberated in Spike's head, transmitting from some repressed concert, a forgotten radio broadcast, possibly an unrecalled dive bar jukebox. Could've been from anywhere. I feel your undercurrent flowing, submission going down, down.

With detached interest, he watched as streams of warm, muddy water trailed down his body, leaving narrow tracks of ivory skin behind. The ducts in the crypt shower growled the way a Ghora demon might, gulping down the swirling muck through its cavernous drain-mouth. He'd been standing underneath the pounding spray for a while, probably longer than Charlie wanted him to, but he refused to move until every trace of Bleakgrave's offenses were wiped from his flesh. His memories might be gone, and his injuries might take time to heal, but the rest of the physical evidence could be destroyed. Effective immediately.

Drizzling the remainder of an almost-empty bottle of amber body wash on his shoulders, Spike began sloughing off the rest of the dried grime that was clinging to him like lichen on a dead sapling. As he scrubbed ruthlessly with pink bath pouf, he didn't even notice how much the soap smelled like Charlie until the scent completely enveloped him, dense as a hot jungle mist. Cursing, he leaned back against the side of the shower and stared up at the corroded, rough-hewn pipes above, willing the stirring hardness between his legs to abate before she came looking to pull him out of the shower. The wash-up had been her idea anyway. No running water wherever they were going.

"Hey, Aquaman?" Charlie called from the doorway, as though she'd been summoned by his thoughts. "I don't mean to rush you, but seriously… two minutes and you need to be out. Bleakgrave doesn't seem like the type to hold off on the slaughter so you can lather, rinse, and repeat."

"Yeah, gettin' to it," he called back, seriously considering a quick, impassioned rendezvous with the remaining trickle of soapsuds and his left hand.

But haste seemed to be the catchword of the evening, and with a sigh, Spike twisted the knob all the way to the right and doused his hair in the glacial temperatures of the Sunnydale water supply. It didn't do much much for his stimulated condition, but once he'd shut off the faucet and stepped out of the shower, he managed to somewhat conceal his arousal with a wide knot in the scruffy towel she'd provided him with. Spike wasn't sure why exactly he was taking so much care to avoid displaying himself anyway. His physique was lean and well muscled, and there was tension of the sexual variety between them, wasn't there? He made the knot a little smaller and padded into the bedroom.

Charlie rose from the seat she'd made on the ladder rung, and Spike noticed that the duffle beside her was so full it wouldn't even zip closed. "Huh," she said.

He stopped in the center of the bedroom, water dripping a dark halo on the carpet around his feet. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "That all I get?"

"No, I mean... your hair… it's really light. It was kinda brown before," she said, coming closer and squinting at the top of his head. Her eyes traveled downward, over the low slung terrycloth that hardly left anything to the imagination, and suddenly she was on the other side of the room and frantically rummaging through the fourth drawer of the dresser. "And pants… oh my god, pants."

Spike got the feeling that if she could blush, she would be. He watched with open amusement as she fumbled through the contents of the drawer.

"Hope you're not into a colorful wardrobe," she babbled in a rush, "I think the previous owner of all this stuff dove the Hot Topic dumpster every time they got new inventory. There's like one red button down, and everything else is assorted shades of charcoal with safety pin accents."

"Don't much care what it is, so long as it's in better shape than the togs I came in with."

"Ah, here… pants, shirt, belt." The stack of clothing was offered to him clutched in one hand, and Charlie's eyes were completely fixed on the exit opening in the ceiling.

"No need to act so puritan, luv," Spike purred, ignoring the attire she was holding. "Saw those looks you were shootin' me on the way over."

That earned him an indignant glance.

"Those looks? You mean the ones where I was making sure you weren't preparing to ingest the pedestrians?"

"Wasn't!" he protested.

"Good," she said simply, dumping the clothing into his arms. "Get dressed. We need to get out of here." With that, she heaved the bulky duffel over one shoulder and scurried up the ladder, giving him some privacy to get dressed.

Spike balled up the wet towel, flung it onto the mattress, and began examining the garb she'd left him with. Everything was soft and timeworn, as though it'd been in someone's wardrobe for years, if not decades. With a tired scowl, he shimmied the frayed, black jeans up his legs, zipped the fly, and buckled the belt.

Perfect fit.

Too perfect, Spike thought, noticing that the belt notch he was using was the only one that showed any signs of wear. That, and the worn away sections of the knees of the jeans seemed to mold to the exact dimensions of his kneecaps. The fit of the black t-shirt was uncanny, and when he laced up the dirty pair of Docs he'd found sticking out from under the bed like monster feet, he no longer deemed it a coincidence. The clothing was his.

Had he lived here? Intuition screamed yes, but wanting to be sure, Spike began to poke around. He wasn't positive what he was looking for, but perhaps a photograph. Or a name scribbled onto a fluttering scrap of paper. A letter that began with If you're reading this, it's too late you sod, Memory Lane got paved into an empty parking lot. Anything.

But aside from piles of salvaged household items and tools, eclectic novels and poetry texts, and a rather large compilation of punk rock LPs, there wasn't any concrete evidence to prove that Spike had ever resided in the crypt. He could hear Charlie beginning to pace anxiously above him, and with one last hurried scouring of the nightstand, he gave up the search.

He was about to head up the ladder, when on an impulse, he dug through the pockets of the discarded remains of his suit. Nothing in the pants, but the jacket held two metallic clues; a thin, silver key and a vintage zippo lighter. Spike pocketed the items and snatched a black leather duster that was hanging off a wall sconce before making his way topside.

Charlie refused to take sewers, grumbling something about onesies and snake skeletons, so instead, they stuck to dark side streets and back alleys. After twenty minutes of walking, just as the sky was just beginning to tinge a pale purple, she came to a halt in the middle of Crawford Street and nodded at their destination.

Spike stared at the building for a moment before directing his dubious glance at his chaperone. "This is the discreet little hidey hole that nobody's gonna look thrice at?"

"What's wrong with it?"

Spike scrutinized it again, and ticked off the reasons in his head; the Big, Unsung Zero himself had roosted there, for starters. It had the capacity and prominence of a football stadium. Most of the drapes inside weren't large enough to cover the rows of school-bus-sized windows, and there was that ridiculous interior garden… of course, he couldn't get into any of the specifics without receiving the narrowed-eyes-and-third-degree treatment.

So instead, Spike merely squinted at the monstrous, cement cube structure. "Looks like a shrine to the game of Tetris, for fuck's sake. Who bloody built it, the Russians?"

"No idea." Charlie wrinkled her nose at the mansion, "It's not my Barbie Dream House either, but it was this or sharing walls with Guinevere and Laments-alot. I'd rather take a permanent nap in a tanning bed. And besides… this has a garden. On the inside."

"Oh, goodie, a room without a roof. Nice massive windows, too. Was hopin' there'd be multiple options for self-destruction."

"Alright, Mr. Magoo, I think it's past your bedtime. Entrance is up here," she said, beginning the hike up the steep driveway.

As it turned out, the word entrance was used rather broadly… the doors were all locked tight, and every smashed window appeared to have been boarded up ages ago. Spike assumed that a low-profile break-and-enter would be easier said than done, but since Charlie had previously settled inside, there was a single unlatched window on the right side of the mansion that she'd left a few inches ajar. The window jambs caterwauled as she forced the sash above her head, allowing them entry into the living area. Spike stiffly climbed over the sill after her, and she shoved the window closed behind him. "This way," she said, readjusting her cumbersome bag and heading into the immense space.

The interior was recognizable, if not a touch shabbier than Spike had presumed. As expected, the ceiling seemed to tower for miles above, bolstered by crumbling walls that looked as though they'd been built with giant sized toddler block sets. He followed Charlie as she led him deeper into the shadows and echoing hallways of the mansion, unsettled by the almost nostalgic reaction he was having. Dark velvet drapes hung like bat wings from the windows and doorways, almost as numerous as the veneer of cobwebs that dangled from the unlit light fixtures.

They passed by the open French doors leading to what he knew was the garden, and Spike inhaled. Night-blooming jasmine. The cloying scent both frolicked and soured in his nostrils, and the leather of his coat creaked beneath his fingers as he tightened his grip on the cuffs. Irrational fury. Confused the hell out of him. Not an emotion he'd think to pair up with such a sweet, floral smell.

Crunching over shattered green pottery pieces (definitely Angel's doing), they turned down a short hall, and Charlie thrust aside some tattered drapery and entered a miniaturized version of the foyer. A deco-style bed frame and dusty dresser comprised the entirety of the furnishings in the space, which reeked of pot, paint fumes, and hormonal teenage miscreants. Various containers of food and drink, some filled, some not, were stacked by the foot of the bed, and Spike observed that the only redeeming feature was the presence of a mattress that had been wrapped in a clean-looking tangle of sheets.

"And this is the delightful spot where you've been hangin' your bonnet," he drawled.

"There's nothing I can hang that'll make up for this room's lack of charm, but yeah, I've spent most of the last few days here."

"Oh, don't scrub your hands of it yet, luv," Spike replied sarcastically. "Just needs some basic trappings. A shag carpet… lounge chair. A nice potpourri to get the aroma of piss out from the corner..."

"Sure," she said archly, pulling an armful of pillar candles out of her bag and methodically assembling them on top of the dresser. She struck a match against the cement wall, and began lighting the wicks. "I'll just mug a few townies and head on down to Bed Bath and Beyond My Means for a day of domestic goods shopping."

"Willy still bein' a wanker 'bout the job, then?" Spike asked without thinking.

Charlie froze long enough that the match burned down to her fingertips. With a curse, she shook out the flame, and dropped the stick to the floor. "Who told you about Willy's?"

Spike shrugged evasively, chastising himself for such a careless remark. "Someone must've. Know about it, don't I?"

"I guess." Silhouetted against the glow of the candlelight, she looked conflicted. "Anyway, let's get this other business out of the way. You, on your back, on the bed."

He didn't say anything, but there was no power in the universe that could have stopped the suggestive grin that spread over Spike's face.

"That was not- I'm talking about bandages… ergh, just do it!" she commanded, hauling the bag back over her shoulder.

Complying with her demands, Spike toed off his boots and slid on top of the nest of unkempt sheets. He pushed himself up on his elbows, tracking her movements as she made her way towards him. "Thought you might be that kinda girl, all into the domineerin' roleplay bit," he grinned. "Any notions for what my safeword should be?"

"Imsorrydontstakeme has a nice ring to it."

"That all depends on where you plan on puttin' that stake, luv." Spike watched her face shift from slightly amused to definitely annoyed, and it was too late to rewind and start over.

Mayday, mayday, mayday.

"You know what… you're right," she said, dropping the duffle on the bed with a force that shook the innersprings like an earthquake. "I just love games. Wanna play one right now?"

Spike was fairly sure it was a trick question, but he was far too curious to heed the warning in her voice. "Depends. What'd you have in mind?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, uprooting a length of gauze from a medical kit and wrapping around her right hand as though it was piano wire, destined for his throat. "How 'bout I'll be the doctor, and you can be my dashing, injured patient."

Her words were exactly what he wanted to hear, her tone… not nearly. Still, there was something there, something in her eyes behind the exasperation, something that spoke of sex and need, burning like embers. "And what… exactly… would General Hospital: Doc Charlie entail?" Spike asked, licking his lips, and going for broke.

Her face became a cool mask, painted with a smile that bordered on icy. "So glad you asked. You're going to give me your address so I can send you a huge, unitemized bill, and then I'm gonna go to Willy's and find someone to play the part of Brad, the second year medical student who'll be taking care of you. Brad's still learning and no doubt a little drunk by now, but he's gotten so much better at inserting catheters. I'll come back to check on you when it's all over."

Spike decided to tone down his advances before did actually get himself staked, probably through the chest wound. "Right," he said, clearing his throat and laying flat on his back. "Maybe just a patch job, then. Give Brad the night off."

"A wise choice," she declared, busying herself with laying out bandages, adhesive, and a tin container with some sort of balm, as Spike gingerly lifted his shirt over his head.

Despite Charlie's clear annoyance at his advances, her hands were gentle, delicately cleansing off what little ash remained on his skin, and Spike did his best not to moan with contentment. He was glad Red's spell still seemed to be intact, blunting the sharpest portions of his pain but still letting him enjoy the pressure of Charlie's fingertips.

He noticed that she shivered every once in while, nostrils flaring, as she painted soothing ointment onto bits of his tender flesh. Her eyes avoided the bloodiest parts of him, and he wondered how long it'd been since she'd eaten. One of Harris's earlier comments had reminded Spike that she fed on demons, and he supposed that handling an entree on an empty stomach wasn't the easiest of tasks.

Much as he loved the idea of lying low with her, he had a brief flash of worry that he'd been hasty, jumping on the Charlie bandwagon without thinking of the repercussions ahead of time. But his senses told him that he could inherently trust her. And besides, he told himself, she showed every sign of having it under control- no vamping, no staring at his neck thirstily, no look of bloodlust in her eyes. If she wasn't dropping the reins with a full color menu laid out before her, he had nothing to fear. She wouldn't bite him.

"Thought vamps aren't so inclined to germs and the like," Spike said, after too much time had slipped away in silence. It wasn't really a question or a statement, as his brain was already fully versed in vampire biology, a detail which left him with more questions than answers. But he didn't want to pass up the opportunity for more conversation.

"True, we're not prone to infections," she replied. "But keeping your wound clean will help it mend faster, and there'll be less pain when the spell wears off. More blood will help too."

Spike looked down at the angry gash, and it seemed to glare back at him with malice. "Just want the mark gone."

She stopped her ministrations, wiping her fingers on a section of gauze and looking at him with genuine sympathy. "I know. Probably better than anyone. He hurt me too, before I died." She held his gaze for a moment, and then averted her eyes and began digging around for something in the medical kit. After a moment, she removed a fresh set of bandages and began adhering them to Spike's chest with a well-used roll of medical tape.

Drippy world. Cabin. Cold blue knife. "What'd Bleaks do to you?" Spike asked, despite already having the subconscious cliff notes.

Hesitantly, she lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing a thin, silvery pink line that slashed down the right side of her abdomen. "Slice and dice," she said in explanation. Spike's eyes drifted from the scar to her navel, and then to the hazy ghosts of the tattoos that covered her flesh. Almost unconsciously, he reached out a hand and splayed it across her bare midsection.

The sensual shock of his hand against her skin was instantaneous, and Spike watched Charlie's eyes flutter at the sensation, her lips parting enticingly as she leaned into his touch. And then without warning, a heavy draft blew through the cracks in one of the boarded up windows, and the house creaked in loud, ornery protest. The noise startled Charlie out of whatever dreamy rapture she'd been in, and the moment was over as quickly as it had begun. She shifted away from him, tugging her shirt back down, and gathered up all of her supplies as though she hadn't felt a thing.

"I'll grab you some more blood in the morning, but you're starting to heal already," she said, refusing to meet Spike's perceptive gaze. "In the meantime, sleep. You need it."

"And what about you, luv? Looks like you've been missin' all your winks for a fortnight."

"I'm okay. I'll read or something."

"Oh, pull the other one, kitten," he said, as he watched her yawn into her fist.

"Fine, I'm tired," she admitted. "But someone should keep watch, and you need to rest more than I do. I'll just caffeinate now and power nap in the afternoon or something."

"Right," Spike said, blandly eyeballing a stale to-go cup of coffee that was dwelling on the floor beside her. He was sure that at least part of her determination to pull an all-nighter was to keep an eye on him. Rupert had probably been the one to warn her against dozing off without making sure that the hungry, hungry vampire was secure in the room. She couldn't really be all that worried about Bleakgrave finding their hideout; the mansion looked deserted on the outside, and condemned on the inside. It was unlikely anyone would be looking for them a dilapidated art deco nightmare.

"Well… g'night, then." Spike slipped under the covers and buried his face in one of the pillows. He let out a half groan, and rolled onto his back. Everything bloody smelled like her, and he wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.

Beside him, Charlie pulled a book out from under the bed and settled her back against the headboard. "Goodnight," she replied softly.

It was as clear as the empty bottle of wine that Spike had been staring at for a half hour.

He would not be nodding off any time soon.

There had been hundreds of tallied sheep, precisely sixty-three cracks that split the wall in front of him, and the unthinking, delightful riffs of the Clash playing in Spike's head, and yet, at every cusp of blissful slumber, there was a dead-eyed magician piercing his body with skewers and laughing hysterically at his agony. Or perhaps the bigger problem was that he'd already spent the better part of the last week being unconscious. Either way, his brain just wasn't having it.

"You know, generally, one needs to do that eye-shutting thing if they're trying to sleep…" Charlie said, and Spike was a little startled to find her watching him.

"Can't," he sighed.

She put the battered copy of Neverwhere she was reading facedown in her lap. "Do you want to talk about it? As the founding vampire of the Undead Against Bleakgrave club, I can hook you up with the pamphlets and complementary ballpoint pen if you'd like. I'm thinking of going with Our Acronym Sucks and So Do We as our rallying cry."

"Don't need any namby-pamby support group, and I don't need a bloody shrink, luv. Last thing I want to dredge up is how Bleaks made me feel, since I plan on savin' all those sentiments for when I'm rippin' his soddin' head off."

"That's fine. I just figured since you're already in the reclining position, we could just take this bond we share one step further." The double meaning of her words struck her and she shut her eyes in consternation. "Therapy. I meant therapy. I will pay you to forget I just said that."

He smiled at her accidental insinuation, but the corners of his mouth didn't reach very high. "This what it's always like, bein' undead?" he asked.

"What, awful?" she proposed. "I don't know. It didn't seem so bad when I first got turned. Something felt off, but it was kind of like someone played a bad note during a piano piece and it sounded terrible for a second but it got better. But the last few days…" she paused, her eyes going cloudy and frown lines reappearing, "it feels like the whole song's being played in the wrong key and I just never noticed until now."

She looked up at him, and seemed to regain some of her composure. "It's not all bad… I mean the dying part blows, but the vamp part's sort of like getting a job promotion." She frowned again. "-that you didn't ask for. Or want. It's kind of empowering, terrifying, and no one seems to looks at you the same way once you've made the switch. But the good part is that the extra power can come in really handy."

"So you like it, then?"

"Let's not go crazy. I'm not so much liking as dealing. It creeps me out how good blood tastes, and I'd kinda like to know if my hair looks as lackluster as I think it might."

"Your locks are gorgeous," he said, stifling the urge to thread his fingers through it. "Least you remember how you were, prolly filed away a couple snapshots. Can't even call to mind what my reflection looked like."

One of her eyebrows rose up in amusement. "You have almost fatal levels of confidence and self assurance. Any visual evidence to back it up, and I think you might spontaneously combust."

Spike's lips curved into a slow smile. "That so, pet?"

"Yeah, I'll be cleaning globs of you off the ceiling… what?" she asked, as Spike's grin grew wider.

"Find me dishy then, do you?"

"What? No! I meant…" Charlie cringed with embarrassment. "Shit. Fine… maybe. But just a little, don't let it go to your head. Anyways, maybe one of the Scoobies can take a photo of you tomorrow. Or Willow can enchant something shiny… "

"Could just describe me, you know, in lieu of polaroids and gleamin' magical doorknobs."

"Describe you?" Her gaze wandered all over him for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face. "What, like on a rap sheet? Average height, lean build, use caution when approaching?"

"Maybe more like… in a novel. Hero type."

"I dunno. Never seen a hero with the words Punk's Not Dead tattooed across their forehead…"

"I bloody do not!" Spike declared, his hand flying to his forehead anyway. His fingers mapped along the lines of his brow and temples, searching for raised edges and evidence of permanent markings.

"Oh, don't worry! It looks fine. Great, even. It's very tasteful." Unable to keep a straight face, Charlie finally grinned. "Sorry, couldn't help it. You have a nice, un-inked forehead."

Spike mock-glared at her and dropped his hand back to his lap. "So, come on then, paint me a picture without the funny business, Charlie Girl. Bloke's gotta know what he's workin' with, doesn't he?"

Giving in to his request, she rotated herself so she was facing him, narrowing her eyes like she was critiquing a museum masterpiece. "Alright," she said, crossing her arms, "you have short hair… kind of curly, super blonde, almost white really, but it's not your natural color because your roots are growing in darker."

"You accusin' the carpet of clashin' with the drapes, luv?"

A twinkle of mischief lit up her face. "Something tells me that vinyl flooring and wide open blinds so the neighbors can see is more your style."

"Can't say I've given it as much thought as you seem to have," he observed with a grin.

"Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?"

"Vamps tend to go for the neck, don't they? But if you're feelin' adventurous..." he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. For a moment, he wondered what the fuck he was doing, ruthlessly hitting on the girl who was his only lifeline, but it seemed almost instinctual. He decided to dial back the innuendo before he ended up chained to the wall, and not in a fun way. "Keep on with the descriptives, don't leave me high and dry," he said, before she had a chance to respond to his flirtation.

"Okay. You have dark, heavy brows, and there's a y-shaped scar on your left, just at the arch. And um… blue eyes," she said, fidgeting with her shirtsleeves as she locked her gaze onto his own.

"Lake blue? Sky blue? Lotsa blues on the color wheel, luv."

"No, brighter. More like… like the blue part of a gas flame." She bit her lip, and Spike was certain that it was her tell, the sign when she was having lusty thoughts roaming around in her head. "And you have high cheekbones…. knifeblade sharp. A broad nose, pointed chin…"

"And my mouth?" he asked, one corner rising up in a smirk.

Her eyes rested on his lips. "Yeah, you have one."

"What does it look like?" he clarified, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Um…" she said softly, leaning in a little. She blinked twice and then pulled herself back. "It's fine. It's a normal, everyday mouth. Probably great for talking, and eating, and… look, it's getting late. You really should try to sleep again. We're supposed to go to that meeting in a few hours."

"Supposed to?"

"I have half a mind to blow it off. I think I was better off on my own, and I'm not exactly a helpless mortal anymore."

Spike forced out a breath of air. He should've known. Nothing like a bit of tension in the ranks to have her thinking about… what? Heading off to deal with Bleakgrave by herself? It was bloody impulsive, stupid, suicidal, and it sounded exactly like something she'd do.

"You need them, luv," he said emphatically. "As much as they need you. Slayer has this nasty little streak of always winnin', doesn't she? Add in her team of Doddering Do-Rights and it's the best formula you've got for fryin' Bleaks like one of those battered onion things."

Charlie was deathly quiet while she took in his declaration. "There's just one tiny problem with your Essential Kitchen Wisdom, Julia," she finally said.

"What's that?" Spike asked.

"Nobody told you that Buffy's the slayer."

A/N: Lookit me, posting sooner than I have in a while! RKF wins the novelty mug by default (don't worry, Giles won't miss it), thanks to BarbyChan for reviewing, and a big, excited hello to all you favs and follows!