The first thing on Xander's agenda, once he was well and sure Spike was downstairs, was to run over to the television and run his hands all over it with an admittedly child-like smugness and internal mantra of, 'I'm touching the T.V., nah nah nana nah!' However, when that impulse had been quenched, he was a little at a loss. The entire summer would be spent at Buffy's house in L.A. and Joyce had said that she had space for their things, so no one would be living out of a bag for the entire two months they would be there.

She didn't lie, either. At the end of his bed was a little chest of drawers where his clothes could go in, but for some reason he didn't want to actually put his clothes there. He made a long drawn out process, nearly thirty minutes worth, of putting his clothes into the chest, moving things around, deciding if he wanted his boxers and socks in the top or bottom drawer, before he pressed them all back into his bag. Instead of his clothing, he instead organized his comics into the first drawer, toiletries into the second, and in the bottom he put two of the Star Wars figurines he had somehow managed to squirrel away.

Han and Lando stared up at him with blank painted eyes as he shut the drawer.

His duffle bags he put under the trundle and when he made the bed he made sure to have the loose-fitting sheet drag the ground, just in case Joyce, or Buffy, hell, Willow came snooping around. He didn't want them to think…whatever it was they would think. Womanly and over-protective. They'd probably think he was making to hit the road in Giles' beat up piece of junk.

Dinner was done about the time he was finally finished making his bed, and by making his bed, he meant fluffing his pillows repeatedly to have a few more moments, and a few more, and a few more, where the girls weren't fawning all over him.

The call for dinner was like the final time he could press the snooze button, bittersweet and damning. If he missed this call, it would warrant a visit from Giles. Any other time it wouldn't really be a problem. He didn't really mind Giles' guidance, but here…he wasn't ready for that fragility yet, at all if he could get away with it, please.

So he went downstairs, stirring up the part of himself that really was happy to be here, because he really was. The only place left open would naturally be between Willow and Buffy. There was laughter and conversation as Xander took his seat and Joyce handed him a plate of spaghetti, but thankfully left him to gather his own sauce. He was half-way through his second scoop when he felt the stare, and strangely it wasn't from any of the women, or even his guardian.

He glanced up surreptitiously to find Spike, every bit the bleached menace that Buffy had said in their phone calls, staring at him with a quirked, scarred brow.

He wondered if perhaps he was breaching some unwritten British code by having more than one scoop of sauce, but after a covert glance and the blonde's plate, it seemed rather apparent that there was no such rule. He brought his brows up in question as he tried to return Spike's stare, but when he had reached eye level, the prick was deeply entrenched with Dawn about some show or another.

After dinner, he had been enticed into watching a movie—older, black and white, desperately romantic—with the girls. In that silent time, it was almost like it used to be before March. Buffy sat on the floor and they had parted her hair down the center, taking a half for either of them and braiding it. Xander was mildly pleased to note that his French braid looked more passable than Willow's, even with a cast on his left arm, but that also could have been because both she and Buffy were engrossed in the movie.

Xander pretended he didn't notice, but Spike also was in the living room, having some sort of poking war with Dawn, which he eventually won when he pinched her under her arm. It was all fun, but Xander couldn't help watch carefully.

It was almost to the end of the film, all lovey-dovey and beyond sweet, when the blond stood. "Well, time for work," he proclaimed, stretching his arms above his head, still annoyingly in his leather duster.

Dawn made a sad face, pulling on the end of his duster as if to make him stay, like a three-year-old latching onto an older brother's pant leg. Buffy made some sort of disinterested face, from what he could see of her, and Willow smiled ever so politely. Xander made his effort by lifting his hand in his own good-bye.

Spike detached himself from Dawn's grasp, telling her to listen to her 'mum' when she was told to go to bed. Xander definitely sensed the eye-rollage from the Buffster.

Then with a flap of his coat, he left the room. Xander refrained from rolling his own eyes at the dramatics, and in the end succeeded.

In the hallway he heard a muted conversation, barely audible.

"You have your key?" Joyce asked.

"S'in my pocket," Spike answered. "Lock up safe."

Some part of him relaxed at that, despite the fact that he still thought the man was a pain. He obviously looked out for the girls, even if they proclaimed they didn't need it, what with Buffy being a jujitsu-ballerina-gymnast and Dawn being an acrobat herself.

The door opened and closed with a soft thump and the rest of the movie passed in peace, though Dawn hopped up from the loveseat and deposited herself nice and comfy beside Xander. Next they watched a cheesy, old, action flick—"May as well build up Xander's testosterone levels again…"—which was funny and had bad one-liners that Xander filed away for use later.

Dawn fell asleep against the couch's arm halfway through it, and the girl's and he made idle chit-chat about the dialogue, the weather, some school things that most strayed away from them talking about March, or the cast on his arm. His last two months with Giles had been his life forever, if he ignored the worried glances, the almost-talk about fathers, and random things that he no longer had because his father had trashed most of his belongings after the cops came. If he ignored stiff muscles, helpful drink-getting, and cautious movements meant to put him at ease, yet only serving to make him tense.

When Xander went to bed, he was glad—nearly blessing the fact—that the room was void of the other man, unsure if he would be able to sleep with a stranger in the room. He pulled out his walkman and headset pressing play.

Trace Adkins tonight… that would serve him well enough.