Spike stepped aside to let the younger man into his room, watching as the boy—Xander, Niblet had squealed as she catapulted herself into his arms—crossed the threshold cautiously, like there was some little bit of scariness tucked away under the bed. Spike resisted the urge to smirk. It wasn't like his room exactly screamed inviting to the 'norm' of society. Spike kinda liked his digs a bit darker, bit dimmer, and Joyce didn't mind how he decorated his space, long as he smoked outside.

"S'not much," he said, cataloguing the small, repressed jump that shook the whelp's shoulders. "But its home. 'S your bed, right there." He pointed to the popped up trundle pushed up against the opposite wall from his own bed that had some red sheets and two pillows piled on it. "I work at night," Spike continued, watching as the other gently set down his two duffle bags—which he had snatched up when Buffy hadn't been looking—on the mattress. "Don't mess with the telly. Got my shows set to record an' you won't want to be dealing with Niblet if we miss an episode of Passions."

He nodded, having a seat on the mattress and taking in the room, like a caged animal would its surroundings. Spike wondered if it was such a good idea to have the poor whelp be away from his old watcher for any amount of time. He didn't particularly seem to be capable of much besides staring into space with a kicked-puppy look trapped in his eyes.

"Thanks, man," Xander said, finally, after he had finished looking over Spike's collection of band posters, pamphlets, and flyers.

Spike allowed the smirk to wash over his face. "Oh, so he does speak. Did wonder for a tic." The sharp glare he was gifted with was really a sight for sore eyes. After the initial meet and greet, the boy had seemed to slowly wind down, like someone forgot to twist the key in his back. Unless someone swept their gaze over him, asked him something flippant and hesitantly, all walking on eggshells around him, he just looked tired and a little lost. He didn't seem to have much to do with any emotion.

He supposed it wasn't without good reason. He had been home the day Joyce received a call from that Giles fellow. It had been one of the only times he had ever been allowed to smoke in the house and only because Joyce didn't want any of the Nosey Nelly's that were the neighbors to see her having a fag as well. He knew the other boy's father had nearly beaten the stuffing clean out of him. Still had a cast on his arm, clean save for a small red stain that looked like ketchup.

"Sorry I'm not your regular Chatty Cathy," he snipped, a bit of spark flaring up in him.

Spike liked it, liked the honey color that was suddenly visible in Xander's brown eyes. He pushed a little, always had enjoyed pushing his boundaries. "Wasn't even sure your vocal chords were in right workin' order. Thought we mighta had to revert to one blink 'yes,' two blinks 'no.'"

He rolled his eyes, but Spike could see the irritation warring against amusement, counted it as a win. "Not much to say to a stranger I just met, except bleach was last year's fashion faux pas."

Spike raised his eyebrow, hand running through yet un-gelled locks.

And then something happened. He just shut up and turned back to his duffle, not even opening the damn things but just fingering the zip. "Sorry," he said, not small or meek. Automatic reaction, something ingrained. "Mouth got ahead of me."

The blond snorted. "Hell, Whelp, I've heard worse from Niblet."

A look passing somewhere between incredulity at the idea of Dawn saying anything mean and annoyance at his new nickname crossed his face, but he didn't turn away from his bags, unzipping the first one slowly.

Spike could take a hint. "Well then, I'll leave you to it. Dinner's usually about six-thirty. Loo's two doors to the left of us if you want to powder your nose. Don't touch the telly," he reiterated, pointed his finger at him to get his point across.

"Yeah, no telly-touching. Got it," he agreed, but then shook his head, muttering under his breath. "That sounded so wrong."

Spike suppressed the urge to laugh and left the boy to his unpacking, hopping down the stairs toward the living room where Niblet would probably be watching some mind-numbing something while her sister settled Red into her room. When he arrived at the entrance though, it was that Giles fellow, Whelp's watcher. He stood with the cordless to his ear, speaking quietly without being secretive.

"Yes, I'll make sure of it. Next Friday…yes, Xander will be here, as will I. Of course, I've made arrangements with his psychologist…"

He had been turning in a slow lazy circle as he took in the pictures around the den. Spike made sure to take his leave before he was spotted. He made his way to the kitchen, smiling grandly at Joyce and Niblet. The table had been expanded to accommodate the guests in the house, chairs had been pulled away from the card table that usually hid behind the washer and drying in the garage. He took his place next to the young girl, mussing her hair as he went.

She gave him a mock-glare and huffed, fixing her hair prissily. "Were you nice to Xander?" she asked, with an air of teasing, but he could hear the underlying threat there. Niblet had a soft spot for the Whelp then.

He let a smirk crawl over his features. "Didn't bite him, if that's what you're askin'. Thought about it, but he looks a bit soft. Bit like one o' your stuffed bears."

He could hear Joyce muffle a small giggle, though Dawn didn't even try to. "That's Xander."

"Is he settling in okay?" Joyce asked, stirring something in one of her sauce pans. It's a good thing the Summers' women never had any want to go into the acting business; they were all flops at it. Joyce, trying for flippant, was practically oozing with the urge to go up there and make the boy's bed for him.

Spike nodded resolutely. "He's settlin' fine. Got a bit of spark in 'im, that one does."

From beside him Niblet grinned, happily and switched the topic to Red and Buffy and how they had said something about a mall. Spike listened with half an ear, only joined in when Niblet asked if he wanted to go, too.

Mostly his mind stayed on the young man upstairs.