Spike sighed. It had been four hours, and he'd explained everything to Buffy. Almost. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that she wasn't the slayer anymore. He had sympathy for her, he really did. But listening to her blame all of it on him was too much.
"Listen, Summers," he said sharply, trying not to lose it completely, "I'm trying really hard to be patient with you, I am. But it's not my bloody fault! I loved Joyce, and it killed me when she died! I know it's hard. Believe me, I do." He added the last bit softly.
"I just…sixteen years? I almost wish I'd died," Buffy said.
"Don't you dare say that," Spike said, "Your mum would haunt me for life if I let you say that."
Buffy let out an undignified half snort, half sob.
"Listen, Buffy," Spike said gently, "It's Thanksgiving, and everyone's at my place in New Orleans. Let's see what we can do about getting you the hell out of here, and off to see your friends, yeah?" Buffy nodded and Spike stood to find a nurse to find out about getting Buffy discharged.