(Author's Note: This is something a friend and I discussed, but I never wrote. Then she wrote a story called The Therapist (I think), and mentioned what happened here. Then she started bugging me to write it. So I did. Hope you enjoy.)

Spike couldn't have said how long he sat beside her on that step, in silence. It had to have been more than fifteen minutes. She was crying, quietly, and he had no idea how to make her stop, which was making his chest hurt. It almost felt like he was drowning; ridiculous for someone who didn't need to breathe.

The silence was expectant, but he didn't say anything, sensing she needed to speak first.

"Mom's. . . .sick," she said at last. "Or something. She. . .she needs to go into the h-hosptial to get tests done. . . .she's trying to say it's nothing, but I know that look, I know that tone and she's just t-trying to make sure I don't. . .worry."

He nodded, and she went on, "And. . .I mean. . .it's just not right. I just got hit with the fact that I can be killed. And. .. And if I can die. . .doesn't that mean she can too?"

Spike sighed. "Everyone can die, luv," he said quietly. "Even so-called 'immortals' can die."

"But she's my mother!" Buffy almost wailed, turning to look at him. "She's supposed to be this. . .invincible creature, she's supposed to always be there, and. . . .what if someday, she isn't?"

For a moment, Spike stayed silent, thinking. "Then you'll have to carry on, won't you?" he said, leaning back slightly. "Because you couldn't do anything else." He shifted his weight a little. "Besides, you might be worrying for nothing, ducks. The tests might come up clean, right?"

"But what if they don't?"

They lapsed into silence again, then Spike cleared his throat. "Look, you want t'go get a drink? I'm buying."

Buffy hesitated. "I should go back in the house. . ."

"And do what?" Spike interrupted her. "Worry about something you can't change? Look, Slayer, a bit of R&R'll do you good."

It was a mark of how stressed and upset she was that she didn't ask him why the Hell he cared. Which was good, as he wasn't sure he could have answered properly.

"You might be right," she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. "And hey, you're buying, right?" she added, standing up. He rolled his eyes.

"Right. Which is not an invitation for you to drink yourself under the table," he shot back, standing up and reaching for the gun he'd put down behind him.

Oh.

Shit.

The gun.

Buffy stared at him. "Spike. . ." she said, eyeing the firearm, looking puzzled.

"Yeah?" he said, thinking desperately.

"Why do you have a gun?"

"Um. . . ." he said, stalling, and thens said the first thing that came to mind. "Squirrels."

The Slayer blinked, then frowned. "Squirrels?" she asked incredulously. Spike nodded, thinking quickly.

"Yeah, squirrels. I'm testing the boundaries of my damned chip."

"Huh?"

"Well, I'm seeing whether I can still kill lower forms of life. Like squirrels. Y'know, finding the limits."

The blonde girl looked at him for a long moment. "Let's go get that drink," she said, eyeing him like she thought he was cracked.

"Right," he said, starting off in the direction of the nearest bar and seeing her follow out of the corner of his eye.

"Squirrels?" she asked again as they reached the street.

"Yeah, luv. Squirrels."