Clem was sitting alone, as usual, in Spike's crypt. The red burgundy chair he had chosen for seating purposes was as musty as it ever had been, the television's reception as poor as it always was. Still, you could almost make out Sally Jessie Raphael and the whiny delinquents seated next to her.

The atmosphere in the crypt was calm, almost deadly quiet. When the metal door flung open, Clem's wrinkly composure was nearly given an overhaul he jumped so high in his chair. A blanketed figure stumbled in, not nearly as steamy as it should have been for the middle of the day.

The creature fell to the ground once within the safety of his 'home'. Clem in the meantime stood up, realising who must have been under the blanket.

"Spike?" He tested quietly, almost shyly, his hands clasped apprehensively in front of him.

Arms flung out from beneath the material, shoving the blanket away. A dirty, sweat-slicked man was lying on the floor. His bleached hair was fading and looked almost woolly it hadn't been washed in so long. A complete mess. Wounds were still slightly prominent on the vampire's otherwise perfect skin.

"Yeah". It didn't even sound like Spike. His voice, instead of the strong, masculine tone, was a crackling whisper, as if flames were rolling in his throat, and actual speech would simply fuel them more. It hadn't been long since his last 'meal', but still his throat was parched.

Clem rushed forward to close the door, seeing beams of sunlight dancing precariously close to the fallen vampire. After slamming the metal structure shut, he went to help up the slightly quivering figure. Spike, however, flinched at the demon's touch, his head swivelling so their eyes met slightly before dropping his sight again. "You can go home now".

It was a request and an order in the same motion. Spike needed to be alone right now. He needed to go downstairs and simply… be. There were so many thoughts he hadn't wanted to think without the comfort of his crypt. So many things he was too ashamed to think of without knowing he was somewhere that things could be thrown and hurled without causing too much damage.

That was a soul for you, causing compassion sometimes for the strangest, most invaluable settings and objects.

"Well, I'll be around if you need me, Spike" Clem said in his usually cheerful tone, going to pat Spike on the shoulder, but figuring it was best not to touch the flinching figure.

Spike heard the door close once again, and finally worked up the strength to at least look around the room that had once been so familiar to him. Everything was almost exactly as he had left it. Clem hadn't even moved any of the furniture.

There were a few candy bar wrappers here and there; some soda cups, and the television had a new aerial on it. Looking forward and slightly to his right, Spike saw the trap door he had built into the crypt almost two years ago, if not longer. That door meant safety.

It took more than Spike could have imagined to work up the energy needed to pull himself to the trap door. Opening it, a flood of scents came rushing toward him, filling his mind with old memories he wasn't quite ready to dive into, but surely couldn't ignore anymore. Still, he pushed them away as best he could, slipping into the welcoming void only a ladder's length away.

Downstairs, it was dark, damp, and cool. The air seemed to be much fresher than he would have expected after a month or two. Then again, he had lost track of time as to how long he had been gone, so who knows? Maybe he was only gone two weeks. Buffy probably didn't care, either.

Spike didn't realise that he had just thought of her. To be able to pass over the Slayer like that was a blessing for the peroxide vampire. Allowing his mind to even linger on that subject was usually a deadly poison, one he took far too often.

Lighting a lamp from one of the many shelves placed strategically within his crypt, Spike looked around at his setting, finding that this had obviously gone untouched like the rest of his home. The bed still looked slept in, the candles seemed as if they hadn't been burned past the height they had been when he left; things just seemed static in this basement apartment.

Relaxation began to set in once again. But Spike didn't want to be relaxed. Relaxed meant sleep, and sleep meant nightmares of the victims he had tortured. Part of him didn't care about the people he'd maimed. Part of him knew it was because he was an animal, and bloody hell, he still was… in some ways at least. But part of him, his soul, told him that all of those screaming faces had died for a virtually needless cause.

Even then, there were reasons to justify his feeding on humans. To not do so would mean death, and therefore he would have been unable to meet the one person he actually cared for in the world. And for a moment, Spike forced himself to think again of why he went through the torture he did in order to win back his soul…

Blonde hair that could go at any length and still frame a perfectly sculpted face. Green eyes that dug miles through his heart, never stopping for a breath, never pausing to regain energy. A nose; not the most beautiful part on the human body, but one that seemed to fit her petite features, and just add to what drove Spike crazy over her. And finally, that smile. One he hadn't seen or even caused too often, but nonetheless a smile that could light up even the darkest of worlds. Glistening pearls for teeth, and crimson creases for lips. That was just the beginning, too.

Buffy. Of course Buffy. Who else would he go to the other side of the world for? What other human would he risk his mind and body for? Only her. Only the Slayer. The being designed to protect the world from creatures like Spike, yet the only girl he desired. Perhaps the greatest case of irony ever conjured.

The simple mental mention of her name was enough to ignite a small realisation within Spike. Buffy might have been a bringer of heartfelt pain, but perhaps she could be his comfort. Perhaps she could protect him from the faces and souls lurking around every corner, just waiting for Spike to drift into sleep.

Striding in a slightly staggered manner toward one of his many dressers, Spike opened a smaller drawer. Revealed to him were a few pieces of women's clothing. A black laced bra, two white bras; a pinkish tank top dyed fashionably with powder blue, as well as a skirt Buffy had left behind one night. Spike couldn't remember how she had gotten home while still fully clothed.

Pulling out the black bra, the top, and the skirt, Spike turned toward his still unmade bed. Lovingly, he laid out Buffy's clothing in a rather unconventional manner. He could actually make positions with the clothing now, so there was no need to simply lay it flat. This was something he had had practise doing, having turned it into an occasional habit since Buffy's leaving him. Too bad he hadn't taken her clothing with him to Africa.

Once Spike had the perfect positioning, he continued to move mechanically throughout the crypt, making his way around to the other side of the bed, placing his lantern on the nightstand. Not bothering to undress at all, having gotten used to sleeping in his jeans, Spike climbed into the bed. He pulled the comforter over himself and 'Buffy' before turning to blow out the lamp.

The crypt was once more washed with darkness, and Spike was glad he had closed the trap door. Curling up onto his right side to face the mock-Buffy, Spike settled in, relishing in the fact that her clothing had not yet lost its trademark Slayer scent, one he would be inhaling all night. Closing his eyes, the vampire prepared himself for what he hoped to be a pleasant sleep, if not a dreamless one.