Dawn pulls open the door to the crypt with a teeth-gritting screech of rusted iron on iron. Daylight still illuminates her outline as she steps down into the gloom. Slayer sister or not, no chance would she risk walking through Restfield at night.

It takes a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, white-blue spots of light still swarming in her eyes from the blinding Sunnydale sunset bursting across the sky outside.

Spike's beat-up old TV is droning in front of his chair, where he's passed out in a sprawl, one foot up on the footstool.

Dawn takes a minute or two to look him over.

Like a twin of her sister's, his face is gaunt and miserable even in sleep. Eight days have passed since Willow's catastrophic good intentions, and clearly he'd spent every one of them in front of the TV in his armchair, probably torturing himself by resisting even the modicum of comfort his bed would provide.

Exhaustion has etched itself underneath his eyes in blotchy pink-purple bruises, the blue veins over his neck looking like they're tattooed onto tracing paper.

She wonders if he's eating. She'd be willing to bet he'd only recently passed out in his chair.

Fresh gashes decorate his knuckles and she winces at the ragged torn skin over the bone. Dawn sneers at them, anger making her throat feel tight.

Fuck you, Willow. Fuck you.

"Spike-" she shakes him gently by the shoulder, but he's more dead to the world than usual, a frown pulling his lips down even in unconsciousness. "Spike?" A harder shake and his eyelids flutter. A shard of guilt stabs her at having to rouse him out of such hard-won sleep.

"Spike?" she says with a last hard shake and he gasps awake, instinctively shielding his eyes from the sunshine still pouring in from the door. It doesn't touch his skin but he nearly backhands her motioning for her to close it as he mouths "door" with rasping breaths.

Dawn shoves the door shut and turns wincing as Spike groans so loudly it echoes from the stone walls.

"God-fucking-dammit, Jesus Christ- Dawn!" He growls with a voice like sandpaper, harshened by what smells like a million cigarettes lingering in the crypt's stale air. He coughs, hacking, and reaches for a half-empty wine bottle next to his chair. Downs a gulp of it. "Isn't there one single Summer's woman that knows how to bleeding knock first?"

"Sorry," Dawn mutters leaning against the entrance alcove as Spike takes a swig from the bottle.

"Sorry." He parrots sarcastically with a bitter sigh, rubbing his chest where the shock had pierced him and leveling himself out of the armchair towards the pack of cigarettes on the TV.

Dawn waits to see if he'll berate her further, but instead he lights a cigarette, takes a drag and slumps over the TV with it dangling in his hand, letting go a heartbreaking moan. He looks like a marionette doll with the strings broken.

"You look really bad," she says, scraping the crypt's dusty floor with the side of her shoe.

"Thanks ever so," Spike mumbles without raising his head from the crook of his arm.

Dawn sighs before stepping down away from the door, shutting the TV off on her way over. She takes the cigarette out of his limp fingers and grinds it out under her shoe before draping herself over his back in a hug. Begrudgingly he deflates a little, letting her arms wind underneath his head. His hand finds her forearm and squeezes it gratefully.

"Thanks," he says, barely a whisper, his voice cracked and sore. She nods against his back.

"You really do look awful," she says quietly and he smirks, just a hitch of his breath inwards.

"I feel awful."

He straightens up and digs his thumbs into his eyes. "Why're you here, Bit? Didn't miss a book report did I?" He mutters ironically.

Dawn shakes her head as she crosses her arms over her stomach, worried it'll sound stupid, what she has to say. Sometimes the worst things do…

"Buffy hasn't gotten out of bed since the whole… Willow… thing." She ends lamely, trying not to cry at the thought that her sister is at home wasting slowly away.

"What?" Spike asks, his bloodshot eyes honing on her in the dark for the first time since she got here, "that was nearly a week ago."

"Over a week ago," Dawn agrees, meeting his gaze, trying to pour as much concern into her expression as possible so that they can just skip over the whole persuasion business.

"Is she eating?" He asks, dreading the answer. Knowing it already.

"Not really. I tried but… she's just…" she shrugs, indicating things just seem to be going from bad to worse.

"She's just sleeping?" He finishes but Dawn shakes her head.

"I don't think so, and she won't turn her light off."

The cut of her stance makes it clear that once again she's been abandoned. "I don't think the gang really gets what's going on with her. Xander… and Tara… they're trying but-" she trails off. A piece of skin tears under her teeth as she bites her lip. "Can you please come back?-" Spike takes a breath in, clearly about to answer with doubts that he'd even be wanted, or welcome, but Dawn cuts him off, "I know you guys had- whatever you had- but I really really don't think you could make it worse at this point. I think this is as worse as it gets. This is the 'worse', you know?" She pleads.

"Dawn-"

"Look, the sun's setting so you gotta walk me home anyway," Dawn demands, straightening her back and raising her eyebrows in defiance.

Spike pulls his hands down his face and runs them through his hair to try and dispel some of the tangles he can feel knotting at the back of his head from sleeping in the armchair so many nights in a row.

Giles' warning for distance has had him by the balls the whole week —shit had it really been a week— and Spike hates it but he feels like Giles had been right. Keeping a distance wasn't just for Buffy. It was for him too.

He's edging out into frantically desperate territory over her all over again. Robot girls and creepy shrines and terrible stupid decisions don't feel like such a bad idea when the pain of it all is throbbing in every vein.

But if she needs me…

Why is he even pretending he'd be able to say no?

"Alright." He pulls his coat on stiffly, the leather cold from being abandoned over a sarcophagus. Streetlights start turning themselves on as they reach Revello Drive, the gold in the windows of the houses casting long shadows in front. A couple of bats whirl through the air above them as Spike casts a wary glance at Dawn.

"You stopped keeping your diary, huh?" he says after a while, chewing the inside of his cheek pensively.

Dawn doesn't look his way, just nods like she was waiting for the question from someone, and isn't surprised it would eventually come from him.

"Wasn't a lot I wanted to remember. It's vivid enough, you know?" she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Not exactly likely to forget it."

"Guess not," he agrees, digging his thumbs in his eye sockets trying to get his vision to play ball. Everything seems painfully out of focus and swimmy. "You're a good writer, you know? You shouldn't… you should keep it up, and such."

Dawn cocks an eyebrow at him. "With another diary you mean?"

"Sure," he shrugs, wincing at the stiffness there, "who knows what kind of mystic memory crap the future holds. Your teenage babble could save us all."

They smile at each other; a hard-earned tired smile.

"Try and paint me in a better light next time though," he says as Dawn rolls her eyes. "Could do without the bruised face."

She smirks as they trip up the porch steps. The house is dark when they unlock the door, and Spike steps into a living room that's littered with take-out boxes and rubbish. He levels a glare at Dawn, who crosses her arms defensively.

"What? I can't do everything."

"Did you do anything?"

"Yeah, my English homework, studied for my physics test, and made Buffy drink a whole glass of water. And got you." She sticks her tongue out at him and he flicks her hard in the center of her forehead.

"Clean this place up, Dawn. I didn't come over to be your maid."

He shrugs out of his duster and leaves it hanging over the banister as he climbs the stairs.

Buffy's door is slightly ajar, but he knocks anyway before pushing it open.

The room is warmly lit, the outline of Buffy underneath the covers a shadowy lump on the bed. From the looks of it, she's tucked herself up in a fetal position, only just the top of her head visible.

He shuts the door quietly behind him and kneels down next to the bed, slipping his hand between her head and the duvet until he's excavated her face. Red, watery eyes stare back at him.

"Hey, gorgeous," he whispers, and is met by nothing but a dead stare, "anyone home in there?" He taps her forehead lightly with his fingertips and she blinks slowly.

He rests his head on his arms next to hers on the mattress, rubbing the back of his forefinger along her temple.

"Talk to me?" He whispers, and her eyes slide away from him. "Please just talk to me."

She shakes her head slowly, not even really a shake but just a reburying of her face into the mattress.

"Buffy, please." He tugs at her forearm to try and get her out again. "Just… if you hate-" he cuts off, trying to squash down the memories he'd attempted to bury underneath booze and cigarettes all week. Her in his arms. His tongue in her mouth. Neither of them understanding. Or consenting knowingly. She probably loathes him. It went too far and now…

"- Please don't hate me. Please."

The sobbing starts as just a shrugging lurch of her shoulders. As though she's trying to keep hold of it all in her mouth but it's fighting its way out regardless. Hiccuping uncontrollable spasms underneath his hand.

"...Buffy?"

A sob finally escapes her wetly, gasping like she's drowning. "I don't hate you," she chokes out, "I think- God-" She strangles off again as tears pour out of her, her hand fisting in the bedsheets. Her skin is hot under his hand, clammy and near feverish from days underneath a duvet.

"I think I love-," Buffy's tears soak the sheet beneath her. Spike stiffens at the word still hanging in the air as she shifts in the bed.

Did she just… nearly say-?

She brings her knees up underneath her until her face is buried in the pillow whilst she's hunched over like she's heaving, rocking back and forth. She looks in so much pain that the words she says don't reach past his need to try and undo whatever fresh agony has sunk its claws in.

"God it's not fair," she moans, her voice clogged and thick. "It's not fair, why does everything… everytime we… why is every time some magic curse, or… or…" She grips her hair in her fists, looking like she's about to pull it out at the roots. "Every time anything happens between us it's just a… mind rape."

Spike tugs at her wrists gently, trying to loosen her hands out of her hair. "Not every time, Buffy. Not… every time, please stop, luv, please."

He manages to pull her hands into his, folding them inside his palms to stop her from hurting herself more as her sobs turn to worn down low endless crying interspersed with sucked-in pitiful gasps. He grips her hands tight to stop his own from shaking as his static-filled exhausted mind tries to land on the words she'd said. Almost said. There doesn't seem to be enough room in his head for them, they're too slippery to find purchase on.

You gotta get her out of it mate, no point getting all giddy about words she hasn't even said if she's about to cry herself to death…

"Just breathe, Buffy," he murmurs, releasing one of her hands to rub her back, trying to ease the hiccuping lurches that are juddering her entire frame.

Eventually the gulping breaths start to outweigh the crying until she's silent again.

She's quiet for a long long time, nothing but the sounds of Dawn cleaning up downstairs to interrupt the silence. He stays by her bedside, gently clenching her hand in his, watching the duvet rise and fall as she breathes steadily.

"What're you thinking?" he asks as her eyes start to glaze over again, new tears shining in the wings.

After what feels like an eternity she pulls her lip into her mouth to wet it. He notices as she does the skin there is cracked and sore looking, dehydration killing her slowly.

"I can't go back," she croaks, and Spike cocks his head, leaning closer in case she says more.

"Back where?" he prompts when she doesn't.

"Heaven," she says bluntly, her voice raspy and dry. "I think…" she turns her gaze away from him, burying her face in her pillow. "I think you only get one chance and that was mine."

Tears sting his own eyes and he pinches them shut for a moment.

"That's bollocks, sweetheart." He finds her hand underneath the duvet and squeezes it hard. "You've saved this rotten little world a thousand different ways, if anyone's got a standing invitation to the better side, it's you."

She looks broken, too exhausted for words. "You can't know that."

"No… Pretty sure of it though." He wipes a wet streak of hair off her face. "Besides, coming back is like putting in overtime. You'll probably get upgraded to first class. Valhalla or something."

She tries to smile but it turns into a wince. She turns her head away from him, but he tugs her back by the arm.

"You'll be back in the warm, cozy place when it's time. You will."

"Can it be today?" She croaks and his heart breaks further.

"No, luv," he pleads, ice filling his already cold blood. "Not yet, ok?"

She nods weakly, not really agreeing.

"...And until then?"

"Until then we make this a warm, cozy place, right? We can do that can't we?" He gets up, picking up the pajama bottoms that haven't been moved from the bottom of the bed. "Just focus on the ridiculousness of your arch-enemy tucking you in wearing Charlie-sodding-Brown comfies."

Buffy sighs. Her tears seem to finally be dwindling, replaced by just a flatness to her voice. Exhaustion distilled into shock. "You were never my arch-enemy. I'm not really an enemy-monogamy kind of girl."

Spike levels a dark glower at her over his shoulder.

"You know, considering the amount of effort I put in, that cuts me deeply." He undoes his jeans and slips out of them. "What am I then? Slayer's cuddle-monster on a leash?"

He kneels back by the side of the bed, with a ta-da flourish towards his legs. She smirks in response but tired tears still slip down her cheeks.

She looks calm enough that he thinks he can maybe push her out of her misery just a little more. Edge her further away from the brink of despair...

"Come on, pet. I can't give up until I get at least an eye roll. What's it going to take?"

Her face doesn't change but he thinks, desperately desperately hopes, he spies a malicious twinkle in the back of her eyes.

"...Put on the matching shirt."

He huffs with deep exaggeration.

"Bloody hell, the nonsense I put up with from you." He finds it in her cupboard, pulls his shirt off over his head, and dons it. Despite how ridiculous he probably looks it's nice not to be wearing the clothes he's been festering in for a week.

He motions for her to move over and she does obligingly, winding her arms around his middle as he settles in.

"You look really stupid," she whispers and he smiles, tucking his arm beneath her.

"Give a shit."

She squeezes him, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Her bed is so warm and so soft, and it pulls the being-asleep-in-an-armchair-for-a-week aches out of his shoulders as he settles in around her, naturally fitting into the curve of her body as if they'd done this every day for years.

"Can we be friends again?" she says. Her words sound slurred, and he comes to the conclusion she must be nearly delirious from self-inflicted insomnia. Her eyes are almost closed as he tucks her in tighter to his side.

"I think I'd rather be friends with Sunny and her kicky yellow shorts," he smirks, his fingers swirling across her hot skin, leaving sweet cold trails behind.

"They… weren't kinky?" Buffy murmurs as muscles start to relax, just enough energy to furrow her eyebrows. He snorts.

"No, 'kicky', pet. Spunky."

"Gross." Her hand finds his hip and he instinctively shifts further into her as she starts to breathe a little deeper, a lingering smile infusing her exhausted face as she nuzzles into the crook of his neck.

"You're a good man, Charlie Brown."