The glasses clink melodically as he carries the tray back downstairs, pausing in the living room as the phone rings, and he picks it up automatically.

He blinks with the live phone in his hand, pondering why he answered when he could've let it go to voicemail.

Bollocks. Getting too comfortable here…

Too late now...

"Summer's House," he mutters and waits to see what kind of trouble he's caused.

There's a few seconds of silence on the line before Giles' frigidly polite voice answers. "Spike," he says, with a distinct lack of surprise. "When did you…?"

Spike curses silently, clears his throat, and deposits the tray of empty glassware on Joyce's old bureau. "Last night."

He waits as there's another pause from what he assumes is Giles mulling over the implications of this, and it feels like Spike's being stretched out under a microscope, being searched for bad intentions.

"How is she?" Giles asks eventually, and Spike lets go of a little apprehension at the apparent lack of hostility in his tone.

"Bad." He sighs. They both were. All those memories rushing back in… It was so exhausting, wading through them like debris after a tidal wave… kept bumping into some of the nastier ones like bodies floating in the water. "But she did say she hates me so there's hope."

He can almost hear Giles' ironic smile from the other end of the crackling line. "Whilst I'm sure you undoubtedly deserved it, what was the trespass this time?"

Spike smiles to himself. "Made her drink one of Tara's smoothies."

"Oh and here I was believing you'd been reformed," Giles chides with a hint of good humor lurking in the wings.

The awkwardness lingers but Spike manages a smirk. "Yeah well. Still got a reputation an' all. Can't let it go completely down the tubes." He pats his pockets for a cigarette before remembering he's still wearing Buffy's pajamas. "Get you the Slayer? She's having a kip but I can wake her up."

He regrets saying it immediately—one night's sleep hardly being enough to make up for the week-long nightmare-ridden bout of insomnia she'd suffered—and so is more than relieved when Giles declines.

"No-actually, I was calling to talk to Tara, but considering the circumstances it might, on this very rare occasion, be better to ask this favor of you."

"Well, that's a first," Spike says, settling against the edge of the desk. "Do tell."

"I need some books from my collection overnighted," Giles says, static on the line blowing over his words. "I will, of course, reimburse the cost."

"Magic ones?" Spike asks, deciding for once against milking the watcher for every cent he's worth and opting to play ball.

"Exactly," Giles confirms. "Rare—and I don't think I need to emphasize—irreplaceable."

"Yeah, yeah." Spike takes the watermelon gel pen out of his pocket and finds a blank envelope amongst the heap of bills and stationery. "What titles and where to?"

He jots down the list, along with the Devon coven's address. "Do what I can," he says as he folds the list and tucks it into his pocket. "How's the witch doing? Gone cold turkey, has she?"

There's an uncomfortable pause on the other end and a shuffling noise that Spike imagines is the watcher removing his glasses for cleaning as he holds the phone between shoulder and ear. "For all intents and purposes, yes. There have been some… issues with doing so. Though it's too soon to tell whether… uh…" he trails off awkwardly, and Spike cocks his head closer to the phone in case the connection has started to dwindle before Giles clears his throat. "But please pass on to Tara that I have it in hand."

Spike's eyes narrow suspiciously. For a moment it seemed like the old watcher was going to say something more, but then thought better of it…

Red's probably suffering some mystic side-effect bullshit. Said there were always consequences…

"Will do," he confirms, and surprisingly Giles thanks him before they end the call. Spike huffs out a sigh of relief. That went better than he'd expected.

He takes the list back out of his pocket and inspects it again, narrowing his eyes at the selection.

Interesting…

He shrugs and tucks the paper into the inner pocket of his duster still hanging over the banister.


Spike blows on the still wet nails of his right hand, his left splayed out over her knee as she paints in with black, his fingers held gently in hers so she can keep them still as they sit side by side in opposite directions on the fresh sheets of her bed. Knees touching in casually reinstated nonchalance.

"What was the worst bit for you?" Buffy asks.

Spike adjusts his position so he can look at her without it seeming like he's staring.

Her face still looks gaunt— dark purple circles still highlight the sockets of her eyes, and her lips are still too anemically pale— but a shower, more sleep, and a couple of bowls of oatmeal seem to have been enough to revive her back into herself a little. Not quite square one.

More like one and a half.

He'd added smoked fish and parsley to the shopping list in the kitchen before Tara left for food supplies. His girl needs protein, and a few more bowls of kedgeree would probably do it. It'd do them both some good probably.

The shower seems to have done the most to revive her complexion, ridding the grease from her hair and bringing a bit of color into her slightly hollowed cheeks. He'd showered after her —taking a moment to stand in the green tea-scented steam she'd left behind— and brushed his teeth with a spare toothbrush to rid his mouth of a week of cigarettes and booze. His jeans and shirt were tossed into the laundry downstairs and he lounges now in her clothes again.

White sheep jump over a picket fence on the sky-blue background of the pajama bottoms she'd unearthed.

"I'm really going to murder you one day," he'd said when she produced them. But every time she looks at his legs a mocking grin attempts to blossom on her face. Paired with a Sunnydale High School t-shirt in dark red and gold, the ensemble is distinctly unthreatening. Though even if he eventually ends up wearing her dresses he doesn't think he'll honestly care.

He blinks, realizing she's been waiting for an answer.

"Of what?" he asks, stretching his legs out of the crossed sitting position he was in, relaxing back onto the elbow of his free arm.

She re-coats the nail-polish brush, finishing his thumb and moving onto his index finger.

"Of the whole memory-not-having bonanza," she clarifies without looking up.

Spike's quiet for a moment, filtering out some of the guilt that still has his heart locked uncomfortably tight. He already has the answer on the tip of his tongue. It's not the truth but he's pretty sure it'll get a laugh.

"Being called Riley," he huffs as Buffy snorts back a chuckle. "It's not funny, Slayer."

"You're right," she says, reapplying polish to the brush, "but I think we've gotta laugh about it. If I don't laugh..." she shrugs, and doesn't finish the sentence. It doesn't need to be finished.

He nods in agreement, savoring the feeling of his hand in hers.

Buffy's eyes dart up to his just for a second before dipping back to the hand draped limply in hers. "…So not the… me blaming you and punching you in the face… part?"

He levels a withering stare at her. "I'm sure I'll get over it seeing as it's never ever happened before."

She laughs, and a sudden desperate urge to kiss her takes hold of him. To try and wipe away all the horror and manipulation and trauma with just the two of them pressed together, so much so that he nearly does. Nearly closes that gap and crashes against her unthinkingly.

Easy… he gentles himself. Easy…

The kisses they'd shared, he counts them in his head.

First one under a spell. That hurts. Like prodding at a bruise. First kisses were supposed to be… special. Not part of a spell gone wrong. He lets a small firework of anger have space before he shakes the memory away like an etch-a-sketch.

Second was out of pity. Some gratitude too. His gaze dips down to the red and gold t-shirt he's wearing, thinking of the scars underneath. They'll fade eventually, but the thought of that kiss never will. It still stings. It still burns.

Third one while drunk. High on Willow's smokey magic and too much booze.

And the fourth one was Charlie and Sunny's. Not theirs.

The fifth one will be the one that matters, he thinks. Setting his heart on it and pretending he hasn't.

He decides against asking her for the worst moment of the spell on her part. It's too tangled up in grief for her.

Besides, she's smiling. Why put a dent in that?

"Always makes me feel a bit wrecked coming out of one of Red's spells," he says conversationally. "They propper pack a punch."

"Yup." Buffy starts on his ring finger, the chunky silver ring resting at the knuckle catching her eye, spurring on her next thought. "Took ages to get over the engagement spell one."

"Heartbroke were you?" He grins.

"Oh yeah, desperately," she mutters sarcastically as she fills in his little finger. She smirks, recapping the nail polish. "What was the worst bit of that one for you?"

Her face falls into seriousness when she sees his.

He swallows and breaks their eye contact. "Coming out of it."

"…Really?" she asks when she thinks her voice won't crack. Maybe she should've known his answer would be something along those lines but to actually hear the words is still a shock.

He shrugs, still not meeting her eyes. "Felt like a break-up you know?" He inspects his nails to have somewhere to put his gaze, curling them around into his palm. "Laid me out flat for a while."

"Was that-" Buffy bites her lip, "-was that when you… for me-?"

He chuckles, seeing where she's heading without needing all the words to accompany him there. "No, I still thought you were a pain in the arse."

Buffy snorts, and they share an easy smile before the eye contact becomes too much. Spike nods to the cookie tin of nail paint.

"Pick your color, then."

Buffy rakes through the pinks and nudes. Some reds. A purple mixed in for good measure.

The black they'd harvested from Dawn's room.

She ignores the darker colors and digs out a soft pink. He takes it, gives the bottle a couple of shakes, and brings her hand onto his knee.

"What was the worst bit of that spell for you?" he asks and Buffy rolls her eyes as if too many to count.

"Trying to explain to Riley that I wasn't engaged to a man called Spike," she says, feeling queasy at the memory. Ugh. "So embarrassing."

"Rude."

"It was."

"Whoops," he purposely slips the brush onto her finger leaving a pink smear and she kicks him in the side.

"Ass!"

He grins and pulls her hand back into position over his leg. Buffy swallows, watching intently as he paints in her thumb, keeping her fingers rigidly still. His knee under her hand feels torturously intimate.

"Sunny and Charlie got a bit too close, huh?" she asks, not being able to stop herself, relieved when he doesn't glance up from his task. She's not sure why she's bringing it up, their chaotic amnesia fumbling and very near… well…

Only that it feels like a conversation they need to have, even if she doesn't know the direction it'll take.

Maybe he'll apologize, but she hopes he won't. It wasn't his fault and she can tell he's already holding in a lot of guilt over it.

Maybe he'll flirt. And they'll laugh about it. She's been finding his obnoxious unshakeable self-confidence so soothing lately.

"Yeah," he chuckles, apparently oblivious to her inner tension, as he recoats the brush. "Thank God Dawn's incapable of keeping her gob shut."

Buffy blinks, confused. Whatever she'd expected it wasn't that...

"That's not what I'd thought you'd say," she says, shuffling awkwardly. Her hand in his is making her throat close up.

Spike shrugs as he finishes her little finger, and pauses to look at her. All the oxygen in the room migrates somewhere else leaving Buffy lightheaded under his piercing blue stare. "There's something here Buffy," he says, and she feels a weight in her chest as if her heart has stopped beating and is now just a heavy lump of muscle crushing the air from her lungs. "We both know it. But I don't want that bridge crossed just because Salem's Reject fucked another spell up."

Buffy manages a snort, albeit slightly breathless. "Too soon."

"Then why are you laughing?" he smirks back.

"I'm not laughing!" she laughs, as he takes her other hand up. They share companionable silence as he finishes her nails, and she blows on the still-drying polish of her other hand.

"It's a while before sunset," Buffy notes, casting a glance at the sky behind the blinds. It's been well over a week since she patrolled. Or at least made an attempt to look like she was patrolling even if in reality she was just wandering around in a half-daze. She finds herself so keen for it today. "What dyou wanna do until then?"

"Something hands-free," he replies, a wicked leer creeping around his face.

"I'm not even gonna ask what that look means," she says as she tidies away the nail polish back into the tin.

She blinks rapidly when he straddles her lap, a knee on either side of her hip, and she holds her breath as his face nears hers, but he's off her again almost immediately as if he was simply climbing over her to get off the bed.

"Telly?" He smirks as he departs her room, leaving her contemplating on what assumptions she'd nearly jumped to, butterflies still roiling in her gut.