"Buffy!" The voice of Giles had Spike at the door of his bedroom before he even realised what time it was. Broad daylight, too soon to be moving, vampire that Spike was, and already at the door with his hand on the door handle. He blinked his blue eyes, forcing himself to release. Bit's not home, Buffy is safe, and he needed to figure out how not to jump every time someone was at the front door. Spike growled.

  "What in the world happened here?!" The voice of the old man asked as he moved through the ruined front door, one working hinge giving protest as he did so.

  "Hi, Giles..." Buffy's voice returned lamely. She must have moved the door back in place to make it look like it was not broken, because Spike heard the front door close again, from where he was up in the bedroom still. Spike ran his hand over his face.

  "I happened, mate." Spike said to himself, falling back on the bed again. Boots off, ankles crossed, shirtless and bandaged up by Buffy, he picked up his book again. This one was about the history of watercolor. By the 17th century, Dutch artists expanded watercolor’s potential through landscape painting. The British popularized watercolor toward the end of the 18th century, using it to document the “Grand Tour” of Europe—from the ruins of Italy to the Alpine vistas. Initially, watercolor served mainly as light tints over pen drawings, but it evolved into a more expressive medium through early innovators such as Thomas Girtin (1775–1802) and Francis Towne (1740–1816). Honestly the whole thing was a fairly bland topic - all puns intended - but Spike had to do something while he was sitting around waiting for the sun to set, and the practice of reading was one that he had already discovered that the man quite enjoyed. Never mind that the actual subject of the books that so happened to be in that room was not one that held much more than passing interest. It was better than tracing the cracks on the ceiling, for the nth time.

  "Buffy-" Giles cut himself off, Spike heard it of course. Vampire hearing. But he tried to tune it out, he didn't actually mean to hear the conversation... And, if Spike was being honest with himself, he did not suspect that it would be flattering to hear what was to be said. The house was a wreck because Spike had fought a demon, after all.

  "This is- Are you alright? Is Dawn alright?" Giles managed to put some priority in order by the sound of things, asking Buffy if everything was alright. And Buffy, she didn't stammer, her reply came healthy and with a tone that was tired, but unwavering.

  "We're fine, Dawn's fine." Buffy told Giles, Spike hearing the conversation from upstairs, where he lay on the bed.

  "Spike fought a demon." Buffy said, Spike huffed, Here it comes.

  "A-" Giles began, but whatever he was going to say Spike didn't hear it, because Buffy cut him off:

  "It was looking for me, Spike protected Dawn." Buffy told Giles. Spike paused, forgot where he was up to in his book. The vampire wasn't sure his ears had caught that right. Apparently, Giles was also unsure what Buffy had just said, judging by the silence. There was a long pause downstairs. The kind that felt heavy.

  "…He did?" Giles' voice, when he finally spoke, was incredulous. Spike rubbed a hand over his mouth, stunned. Spike couldn't help but agree in his mind. Yeah, you and me both, mate!

  "Spike did?" Giles asked carefully. Spike gave up on the book with a scoff and sat up proper. He reached for his cigarettes, a habit since before his memories that had remained, and one that now closed on actual cigarettes since Buffy had gotten Spike the pack that he'd been savouring for a while. He was smiling around the cigarette by the time he lit it, because - although protecting Dawn had come as easy as breathing, something that he didn't need to do, but Spike would always do anyway on instinct - he was surprised that Buffy was defending Spike to Giles, even when she had nothing to gain, even when she'd been careful, even when she thought Spike wasn't listening... Even when he had told himself it was what a monster like Spike deserved. But Buffy wasn't being lukewarm, or careful, when she spoke:

  "Yes." Buffy answered Giles and Spike moved to sit at the edge of the bed, smoking away and doing nothing to banish the smug grin that had been plastered onto his face. Buffy's voice hadn't carried with any fear that saying something nice about Spike might remind the universe of what a danger Spike was. Not like she was tempting fate.

  "The demon came through the front door, looking for me, and it went straight for Dawn. Spike got there first. Buffy said without hesitating. Spike wasn't going to the window to smoke, what with the fact that it was broad daylight and that would burn him to a crisp, he felt his fingers twitching for something to do, but the watercolour landscapes just weren't holding his attention. He couldn't even pretend to pay attention, because he was just spending all his focus on listening in on the conversation between Buffy and Giles where they were in the house. By heavens, he should feel ashamed of listening in on someone else's conversation, but he wanted to make sure that he could believe his ears, that he was actually interpreting what he was hearing, and not just suffering some brain damage from the memory loss!

  "He intercepted it?" Giles pressed, his voice was so doubtful! Spike had in the short time he'd been there, heard Giles on multiple occasions say with utter certainty, that Spike was a monster. Giles and others had said it so sure, like it was a fact of nature. Fire burns. Vampires kill. Spike destroys everything he touches. Buffy was not having it.

  "He didn’t hesitate," Buffy said. Spike's hearing sharpened, he didn't even try to tune them out, book laying in his lap where he sat at the edge of the bed with his cigarette in his mouth.

  "Not for a second. Dawn told me the whole thing." Buffy insisted, believing her own eyes it seemed, believing Dawn. Dawn who looked at him like he saved the world. Like Spike was solid. Safe. Dawn had always looked at Spike like he would never turn on her, and he wouldn't. Spike hadn't failed Dawn. He showed her, she wasn't wrong. Buffy saw, he hadn't let her down.

  "I see. And... for those of us, who were not privy to the destruction that is so obviously scattered across your home now, what precisely transpired?" Giles murmured and Spike lent forward where he sat, as if that would help him hear better. What the vampire's hearing caught was the faint sound of glasses being fiddled with, barely audible as the sound of Giles and Buffy walking through the house to a different room was heard by the vampire listening in on their conversation. Giles clearly didn't trust Spike, bracing for the day everything snapped back into place and proved Buffy daft.

  "Spike kept the demon away from her. The whole time." Buffy said and Spike couldn't help thinking that that sounded like - Buffy trusted him. Spike huffed, smoke pluming about his sharp features and his blue eyes remained alight.

  "And Dawn?" Giles asked as cupboards were opened in the kitchen downstairs, looking for some glass that had not been shattered, good luck. They had all been waiting. Watching. Counting the seconds until the monster woke up. And Spike, he'd not thought they were wrong!

  "Not a scratch." Buffy said with conviction, and another silence stretched, longer than the one previous. Because she knew! Like Dawn, Buffy knew! She knew what Spike was, what he'd done, how thin the line was, how easy it would be for him to bollocks it all up again. And that had left Spike thinking it was best not to get ideas. Best not to start thinking he was worth much.

  "Dawn said they tore through the living room, the kitchen, and Spike got the demon to the basement, away from her." Buffy said, and even knowing all that Spike was... Spike imagined that she was talking with trust in his voice.

  "Well..." Giles began, voice cautious, because Maybe whatever Spike was is still in there, just asleep. Maybe the memories were the only thing holding it back. That's what the Slayer's watcher was going to tell her, right? That was what Giles would advise the Slayer, right?

  "That is... Commendable." Giles said and Spike blinked at the book that he was not reading. Commendable?

  "Yes. Yes it is." Buffy replied with cheer. Praise, praising him. Without it being thin, or careful. Without vetting it for safety. And Spike didn't get it. He didn't deserve it, not when they all were wondering if this had all been the calm before the bloody slaughter. He must have been hearing her wrong, because there were the Slayer and her Watcher, calling the Vampire commendable. That was mad; Right?

  "He stayed with her after. He wouldn't leave her room - He didn't even pull the glass from his back!" Buffy gushed about Spike as if he had deserved praise, and he felt a lightness go through his dead chest, her words meaning so much to him, like what he'd done mattered. Like He mattered.

  "Glass?" Giles asked, tone sharpened. But that quiet ache that Spike had felt had been gone. It was like, Buffy was seeing Spike the way Dawn did, he thought. Like Spike wasn't a mistake with a delay on it.

  "He was bleeding all over my kitchen and didn't say a word, Giles!" Buffy, she saw that. Spike, he realised, even when she hadn't said it in the night she saw him. With one hand resting the book in his lap, the other reached up and reached for his shoulder, where she'd looked after him... Buffy... When she'd been looking at Spike, without bracing herself....

  "By the time I got back, he was just sitting guard. Even with the demon gone, I had to practically order him downstairs. He even growled at me when I tried to move him he was so worried about Dawn." Buffy said, rambling without a care in the world.

  "Oh, love." Spike mused from where he sat in the room, that grin that she probably would have told him off for plastered across his sculpted features, even as he pinched the cigarette between his lips and took another drag. He did do that, didn't he? Growling like some beastie when he'd been fully planning on sitting there until the sun came up to watch out for the little Bit. Yet Buffy was saying that this time, he did well. That he mattered.

  "Growled." Giles said and even while Spike caught the coldness of the old Watcher's tone and Spike was telling himself to not get greedy. To take what he was given and shut up about it, that he didn't deserve any better, Buffy cut in quickly.

  "Reflex." Buffy corrected quickly. Her tone had sounded a little bit defensive to Spike, as he listened from upstairs. She talked faster and her tone went up in pitch.

  "He stopped. Immediately. He- he felt bad about it!" Buffy, she said it warmly, said it like the praise hadn't been a mistake. Spike was practically chuckling to himself, Giles hummed not convinced, and Spike imagined the look that must have been in Buffy's green eyes as she was told that she was wrong. Spike was only listening in on the conversation, but he could practically feel that look on her, as he finished his cigarette.

  "Buffy... I do not question that he defended Dawn. The immediate threat required action. However, we must be cautious about assigning motive." The watcher warned her carefully. Keep watching Spike. But Spike had kept his hands visible, kept his voice low, kept being good. Even when no one trusted the monster, even when Spike himself was terrified what would happen if he stopped.

  "Giles." Buffy's tone had been cold steel. It was heavy enough to pull Spike forward out of his self-reflection. Dangerous, that, when you couldn't see what you are.

  "The demon came in and threatened Dawn. She said he called her breakable. Spike got angry. Not hungry. Not greedy. Not even happy to fight. Angry." Buffy said, and he could practically hear her gritting her teeth, Spike himself feeling his own jaw grind and the muscle in his jaw tick. He needed someone to reflect him, when he is what he is; needed Buffy, to reflect off of...

  "It wasn't about me." Buffy's voice softened, but only slightly.

  "It wasn't about proving anything. He just did the right thing." Buffy said, Spike blinked. Book forgotten on his lap, blue eyes looking out toward the direction of the sound of Buffy, like he could somehow check through walls if she was serious. And she was, because there was the sound of Giles clearing his thoughts, trying to reign in the Slayer who was saying the vampire had done the right thing. Had done something good.

  "Even so, we cannot ignore that he remains a vampire. Soulless-" Giles began, and Spike was sort of, nodding, holding the filter of his spent cigarette in one hand and his blue eyes squinted, like he was urging the conversation that he was not a part of to go on!

  "He doesn't remember any of that! Doesn't remember being a vampire, I told you before, he didn't know why he doesn't have a reflection in mirrors." Buffy had cut in, and Spike was on the edge of his seat on the bed trying to catch the next words before they'd come.

  "That does not alter what he is," said the watcher, wizened, old, cautious. But Buffy and Giles were cutting each other off, each of them stacking what understanding each had of what vampires were, one word on top of the other, until it made the head of the blank slate that was Spike positively spin.

  "He's choosing to do good, Giles! Vampire or not, he's not doing anything wrong!" Buffy said and that snap, Spike felt it wind him, all the air leaving his lungs like a huff. His mind eventually managed thoughts, Didn't know she felt that way.

  "He's changed. Not just the memories or whatever, not the chip. He's - He's more, careful? Sort of, gentle." Buffy said, voice going even quieter, so that Spike had to toss his cigarette butt into the ash tray and hold the book to his lap as he lent in, eager to hear what else Buffy had to say about the man she saw.

  "He was worried about being inappropriate, Giles." Buffy said, did Spike hear her giggle? She definitely stifled a giggle.

  "…Inappropriate?" Giles asked, he sounded confused.

  "That glass I mentioned? He didn’t want me patching him up because he thought it might be improper." Buffy said and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter escaped her. Spike could almost see her roll her eyes. Spike couldn't wipe the smug grin from off his lips.

  "The old Spike would’ve flirted with the first aid kit." Buffy teased. Spike felt like she was teasing him. Little minx, Spike laughed, felt the urge to tease her right back. Giles made a sound like he'd been startled; suppressed a cough.

  "And you're erm, certain this is not... performance? Some sort of... subconscious attempt to secure his place?" Giles asked quietly, once he had recovered.

  "Last night? He did the right thing. No annoying talking, no big plan. He just - did it." Buffy said, a sound like someone's arms dropping too abruptly faintly made its way up to the vampire's sensitive hearing. Giles did not answer immediately.

  "Spike protected Dawn," Giles repeated carefully, as though testing the shape of it all. Spike held still without meaning to.

  "Yes." Buffy replied to Giles, the steel back in her tone.

  "The demon is-" Giles began to say, but Buffy cut him off once more.

  "-Very dead," she said and Spike listened as the two of them were talking over each other.

  "-and Spike... dispatched it alone?" Giles asked the Slayer. When Buffy answered, Spike heard some frustration in her tone.

  "You sound surprised," Buffy said, not quite in question, more - what was it - annoyance? Frustration? Defensiveness? Spike wasn't certain. Bellow, Giles exhaled slowly. Upstairs, Spike stared at the same sentence in his art history book without seeing a word of it. Thomas Girtin-...

  "Buffy, I must ask the obvious question." Giles began, and this time, Spike was sure that Buffy had sounded irritated:

  "I know what you’re going to ask." Buffy snarked, but Giles went on anyway.

  "Do you? Because I’m not certain you know what you’re risking." The Watcher warned, Giles speaking gently.

  "He hasn't done anything wrong! Or evil, or- or anything. Not since he woke up!" Buffy said, her voice sharpened, raising as she defended Spike, Spike's jaw tightened.

  "That may be precisely what troubles me." Giles said.

  "Oh, come on!" Buffy got up sharply, judging by the sound of a chair scraping back abruptly.

  "Buffy, we are discussing a vampire. One who, only days ago, could not remember his own name. One who has a long and extraordinarily violent history. You cannot expect me to take it on faith that he has-" Giles pressed. Buffy cut in.

  "Exactly! He doesn't remember, and he still knew what to do." Buffy told Giles with evident frustration.

  "Instinct. Vampiric instinct can be... complicated." Giles spoke, always, with that measured tone. There was that word again, complicated, but Buffy didn't agree, not this time.

  "His instinct was to protect Dawn. The door came down and he was downstairs before I could have been, when I should have been here. I told you that Dawn said, he didn't even hesitate." Buffy hadn't wavered. Spike rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, went very still. Buffy was arguing, for him. Spike closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose. Something eased, a tension, that Spike hadn't realised he'd been holding onto, eased and his chest felt lighter and the undead thing was breathing easier, as if Spike was alive again and needed air to function.

  "Dawn was shaking and he just- told her she did good, he helped her to calm down." Buffy's tone changed, less defensive then. More certain:

  "I trust him." Spike's eyes opened. Buffy, she trusted him? ... Giles was quiet for several heartbeats. She trusted Spike?

  "... That level of trust... Is precisely why I feel we must be cautious," Giles had said at last.

  "Oh. My gosh. Giles! I was cautious! I am cautious, I am a cautio-thon, I have been watching him since he woke up." Buffy huffed out, confident, certain in her judgement.

  "And? What have you seen, as you have watched?" Giles urged calmly.

  "And, you didn't see Dawn's face when I got home! She wasn't scared of him. And Spike, he wasn't forcing himself to be there, he was proud of her, that's all he's done ever since - since forever! Since before Glory, and the portal - that isn't temporary!" Buffy reasoned. Spike let his hand rest on his heart, he swore it was beating, even though that was obviously not possible. It seemed the ghost of his heart was there with him, too, and if he'd been helping Buffy and protecting the little Bit for a while now, well what did that mean?

  "You, and Xander, and- and everybody are telling me to be more careful - but you're not the one that has to be here, you haven't seen him. I have." Buffy told her watcher in a tone that certainly did not suggest the Slayer would listen to his sound caution...

  "Buffy... I am not questioning that he acted bravely, I am questioning whether bravery in a moment, negates a century of-" Giles said carefully, attempting to negotiate with the headstrong young blonde, who was not having it, not one iota.

  "He doesn't even remember any of that! And besides, I'm not dealing with what happened a century ago, I'm dealing with what's right here. And that vampire? He could have run." Buffy spoke with conviction. There was the faint clink of porcelain—probably a cup being set down too hard.

  "He could have left, Giles, Spike didn't have to risk himself for Dawn. Heck, he didn't even have to do that at the tower, which is why he's even here now in this mess. He's been around for a while - but now, he's staying! How can you be mad at that?" Buffy asked Giles. Giles did not immediately answer. In the quiet, hearing the soft clink of mugs downstairs, hearing his own breathing, Spike flexed his fingers and let them loose once more. He frowned in concentration once Giles finally made a faint, thoughtful sound.

  "He's been fixing the furniture, Giles. Started as soon as I finished pulling like, a million pieces of glass and porcelain out of his back and shoulders." Buffy said, and Spike frowned faintly, blue eyes looking at the ceiling once more, despite Spike's recent attempt to break that tradition and turn to books. Least I could do, pet... I did crash through it all, after all.

  "Spike was worried I'd blame myself for Dawn being in danger - which, okay, kinda my fault - but he was worried about Dawn and me," Buffy told her watcher, and Spike looked at the ceiling like it might open up for him. She noticed that?

  "When he realised that we couldn't find out more about the demon because Spike killed it, he actually looked guilty." Buffy said her voice dipping softer still, Giles sighed.

  "And Spike?" Giles asked at last. There was a beat, one where Spike was glad he wasn't the one being fixed with a glare by those green eyes, as he supposed Buffy must have been fixing Giles with.

  "He's healing." Buffy said, intentionally perky and sweet, but Giles sighed into whatever cup he was drinking out of, because his breath sounded to spike to echo off of porcelain, like the old fellow had been half-lifting a mug to his mouth when that reply had come sickly-sweet at him.

  "That, was... not precisely my question..." Giles lamented, Buffy's words beginning to wear on him; but to his credit, Giles persisted too.

  "I must admit... it seems that something has shifted... That behavioural shift is, intriguing." Giles said and he must have been frustrated, because that poncy Watcher sipped loudly at his drink, and he had been quite careful not to be uncouth until that moment in the discussion.

  "That's Watcher for ‘weird but not evil,’ right?" Buffy asked, put at ease, apparently, as her Watcher gave a reluctant exhale.

  "As you've repeatedly said... a vampire has no reason to do what Spike has done... But we must remain vigilant." Giles said, put down his cup, the clink of porcelain sounding loudly enough that the faint sound was picked up all the way upstairs by the vampire. Spike almost chuckled at the hesitant acquiesce of the watcher. Spike thought with amusement to himself, as Giles insisted he would be vigilant, Almost had me thinking you had gone soft, gramps.

  "You're waiting for whatever shifted to do its switchy thing, and shift back." Buffy said after only a short pause. The Slayer, she knew her Watcher well enough.

  "I am preparing for the possibility." Giles agreed with Buffy's observations of him, but it had seemed, that both the Slayer and her Watcher had been appeased.

  "But, very well, Buffy. So be it. For now, we continue to observe. We d not lower our guard." Giles told her.

  "We weren't going to," Buffy said in that same tone that said, I'm not listening to you and my snark will make sure you know about it! Spike had heard that tone, but he hadn't known what it had meant at the time. It was easier to read when Buffy wasn't aiming that at the confused amnesiac, but rather at her wizened Watcher instead of him. Upstairs, Spike let out a breath, as the conversation seemed to shift, and ease off between Buffy and Giles. There was a scrape of a chair downstairs, as Buffy and Giles talked about bills, research, repairs.

  Spike picked up the book he'd been reading again. In 1781, the first ‘paint cakes’ were developed in London, allowing an artist to obtain a palette of pre-prepared colours. ... Spike's lips were twitching into a smile, even as he was reading about colour permanence and pigment and dyes. They had called him commendable. Brave. Buffy had said he had done the right thing. Knew what to do. Spike had Protected Dawn. Defended Dawn. Guarded Dawn... He stayed. His hand smoothed the black cotton shirt over his heart. Buffy had told Giles, she trusts Spike.

  He had expected suspicion, or blame, or some combination and all of the blame and accusation that Spike had listened through for several days past. He hadn't expected- Spike hardly recognised the bloke they had been talking about! ... Well, the words felt foreign, and yet, they were true, he thought, The words belonged to me though, didn't they?

  Spike had been trusted by Dawn, she had been the only one not to look at him like he was about to go wild, and then? Then Buffy, she had seen Spike the way Dawn had, and then she had defended Spike, to her Watcher of all people. Not reluctantly. Not strategically. But in earnest. With praise... As the conversation downstairs had petered out, Spike looked up past his book, at the hand holding the paperback open, at the bandages. He let the book rest on the bed.

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  "Knew how to do the right thing, did I?" Spike asked, as if to Buffy, as those expressive eyes looked up at the bandages upon his hands. Turned them over, like he was expecting to see something in them. Same ritual, same empty palms. He let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, could hardly recognise the back of his own hands, cut up though they were and bruised, with only clean bandages thereon.

  He waited in that room, finished another chapter in the art history book, then he went to the door. Spike got up, got on his own two feet, and opened the door.

  Spike started moving around the house freely, the Summers girls are used to him being there, trying food, listening quietly, sometime even smiling. Spike would disappear back to Dawn's old room whenever anyone else came to Buffy's house - had decided it himself, Buffy hadn't needed to ask - it was better this way, the others didn't trust him. They didn't trust him around Dawn, he thought, they were all very protective of Dawn. So he'd go back to the room. He'd sit. He'd wait. He'd try to remember, but hoped he wouldn't remember all the same.

  The house began to feel less like a prison and more like a place where someone lived.

  Spike moved through it carefully at first—slow steps down the stairs, pausing at every creak like he expected the floorboards to shout intruder. But no one shouted. No one staked him. After a few days the Summers girls simply got used to him being there, the way you get used to a stray cat that keeps coming back for scraps.

  Mornings were quiet. Dawn would shuffle into the kitchen in oversized pajamas, hair a tangled mess, and find Spike already at the table—mug of warmed blood in front of him, pretending to read the back of a cereal box he’d never finish. She’d slide a bowl of sugary cereal in his direction anyway.

  “Try it,” she’d say, grinning. “You might like it. Human food’s not poison.”

  He’d lift one eyebrow. “I’m dead, Bit. My taste buds are on permanent holiday.”

  “Still.” She pushed the bowl closer. “One bite. For science.”

  He’d sigh—dramatic, theatrical—then take the tiniest spoonful. Chew slowly. Make a face like he’d bitten into a lemon dipped in regret. Dawn would laugh every single time, bright and unforced, and something in his chest would loosen a little more.

  Buffy watched from the doorway most mornings. Coffee in hand. Shoulder against the frame. She never interrupted. Just watched the two of them: Dawn teasing, Spike pretending to be annoyed, the kitchen filling with normal sounds. Sometimes—only sometimes—his mouth would twitch into something that might have been a smile. Small. Reluctant. Real.

  Afternoons were lazier. Dawn would sprawl on the couch with homework, feet kicked up on the coffee table. Spike would sit in the armchair across from her—silent, listening. She’d talk about school, about stupid teachers, about friends who didn’t understand why she kept disappearing at night. He never interrupted. Just nodded when she looked up, murmured “Sounds rough” or “Kids are idiots” in that low, gravelly voice. Once she asked him to help with algebra. He stared at the equations like they’d personally offended him, then muttered something about “bloody numbers” and solved the whole worksheet in ten minutes anyway.

  Buffy caught him doing it. She leaned in the doorway again, arms crossed, a soft almost-smile on her face. He met her eyes over Dawn’s head. Neither of them spoke. She just nodded once—thank you—and went back to the kitchen.

  Evenings were when the house changed.

  The doorbell would ring. Or the front door would open without warning. Xander’s voice, Willow’s soft laugh, Giles clearing his throat. And Spike would vanish.

  He decided it himself. Buffy never had to ask.

  The moment he heard footsteps that weren’t theirs, he’d rise—quiet as smoke—slip up the stairs, and disappear into Dawn’s old room. Door closed. Light off. He’d sit on the edge of the bed or lean against the wall, listening through the floorboards to the voices below.

  They didn’t trust him. Not really. Not yet.

  He understood. They were protective of Dawn—fiercely, bone-deep protective. He didn’t blame them. Every time he heard Xander’s voice sharpen when Dawn mentioned “the vampire upstairs,” every time Giles asked Buffy in that careful tone if “the situation” was still under control, Spike felt the truth settle heavier in his gut.

  They were right to be cautious.

  He was right to stay out of sight.

  So he waited. Sat in the dark. Stared at the wall. Tried to remember.

  He wanted the fog to lift—just a little. Just enough to know who he’d been, what had made him change. But every time he pushed, the same shadows rose: blood on cobblestones, screams that sounded like music, laughter that wasn’t kind. And he’d flinch. Pull back. Hope the memories stayed buried a little longer.

  Because if they came back all at once—if the monster in Dawn’s stories looked out of his eyes again—he didn’t trust himself to keep choosing the quiet kitchen mornings, the algebra worksheets, the small reluctant smiles.

  Downstairs the voices rose and fell. Laughter. Argument. Plans for patrols, research, the next apocalypse. Normal Scooby life.

  Upstairs Spike sat alone. Listening.

  Waiting.

  Hoping the others never came upstairs.

  Hoping Dawn never stopped asking him to try human food.

  Hoping Buffy never stopped looking at him like he might—just might—be worth keeping around.

  And sometimes, in the quiet between heartbeats he didn’t have, he let himself hope that maybe, one day, he could walk down those stairs and stay.

  Not hide.

  Just… stay.

  Chapter 16: "Sixteen"

  Same style. Routine. Buffy and Spike were making breakfast together, when Dawn walked in. Spike greets her, Nibblet, she was too sleepy to give him trouble for it in the morning - too early for her, waking up for school, too late in the night for him, ready to go sleep the daylight hours off. As they cook, Buffy asks him to pass her something, which he does, but he brushes her hand. Slow, lingering, and she didn't shrink away. ... Dawn stares at them, Spike realises what he's doing, and he pulls away. Where did that come from? He gets awkward after that, but they finish the morning prep anyway. Dawn is smiling knowingly after that, sitting in that way that the clever little sister always did. Buffy didn't talk about it. Spike tells her to eat her food. And he goes back upstairs after Dawn leaves for school and Buffy leaves for work... He stares at his hands, and this time, he isn't looking for blood. He lies on the bed and groans, mortified, what had that been?! He doesn't understand.

  The kitchen smelled of coffee and slightly burnt toast—ordinary, human, grounding.

  Spike stood at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping eggs that were probably going to end up rubbery anyway. He’d volunteered for breakfast duty because sitting still made the daylight hours feel longer, and because Buffy had looked at him like she expected him to disappear again the second anyone else showed up. He hadn’t. Not yet.

  Buffy moved around him like they’d done this a hundred times. She hadn’t. But the rhythm felt familiar anyway—her reaching for the salt, him sliding the pan aside so she could grab the butter. Quiet. Easy. No words needed.

  Dawn’s footsteps thumped down the stairs—slow, dragging, the sound of a teenager who’d rather be anywhere but awake.

  Spike glanced over his shoulder. “Morning, Nibblet.”

  Dawn groaned, rubbing one eye with the heel of her hand. “Too early for nicknames. Too early for anything.”

  He smirked, but it was soft around the edges. “Coffee’s fresh. Eggs are almost edible. Sit before you fall over.”

  She shuffled to the table without argument—too sleepy to give him grief for the old pet name. Too early for her. Too late for him. The sun was already climbing; he could feel it pressing against the curtains like a warning. Soon he’d have to retreat upstairs, let the house belong to the living again.

  Buffy cracked another egg into the pan. “Pass me the pepper?”

  Spike reached for the shaker without looking. His fingers brushed hers—slow, deliberate, lingering just a second too long. Skin against skin. Cool meeting warm. Neither of them pulled away immediately.

  He felt the hitch in her breath more than heard it.

  Dawn froze mid-yawn, eyes suddenly wide and awake.

  Spike realized—too late—what his hand was doing. The way it had stayed. The way his thumb had almost, almost, traced the edge of her wrist.

  He jerked back like he’d been burned. The pepper shaker clattered onto the counter.

  Buffy didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. Just picked it up, shook it over the eggs, and kept cooking like nothing had happened.

  Spike stared at the stove. Jaw tight. Heart that didn’t beat hammering anyway.

  Where the bloody hell had that come from?

  The rest of breakfast prep happened in awkward silence—spatula scrapes, toast popping, coffee poured. Dawn slid into her chair, watching them both with that clever-little-sister smile she’d perfected years ago. The one that said she’d seen everything and was going to remember it forever.

  Buffy set plates down without a word. Eggs. Toast. A glass of juice for Dawn. Blood reheated for Spike, though he barely touched it now.

  Dawn poked at her food, still grinning.

  Spike glared at her. “Eat your food, Bit.”

  She took a bite of toast, chewing slowly, eyes dancing. “Yes, sir.”

  Buffy sat across from her. Didn’t look at Spike. Didn’t say anything about the hand-brush. Just ate like it was any other morning.

  When Dawn finally grabbed her backpack and headed for the door—still smirking, still knowing—Spike felt the air change again.

  Buffy left for work ten minutes later. Quick goodbye. Quick glance that lingered just long enough to make his stomach twist. Door closed. House empty.

  He climbed the stairs. Closed the door to Dawn’s old room behind him.

  Stood there.

  Stared at his hands.

  This time he wasn’t looking for blood.

  He wasn’t looking for anything.

  He just… stared.

  Then he dropped onto the bed. Face-first into the pillow. Groaned—long, low, mortified.

  What the hell had that been?

  A brush of fingers. A second too long. A feeling that had come out of nowhere and settled somewhere deep. Somewhere he didn’t have a name for yet.

  He rolled onto his back. Threw an arm over his eyes.

  He didn’t understand.

  Didn’t understand why his hand had wanted to stay.

  Didn’t understand why her not pulling away had felt like permission.

  Didn’t understand why the monster in the stories hadn’t stirred at all—just quiet, patient, waiting.

  He groaned again. Louder this time.

  The daylight pressed against the curtains.

  He lay there in the dark room, hands curled into fists, trying to make sense of a feeling he didn’t remember ever having.

  And failing.

  Completely.

  Chapter 17: "Seventeen"

  That night one spoke about the way Spike and Buffy's hands had brushed - much to Dawn's irritation - and the nights went on like before. Spike would spend time with the two Summers sisters, more carefully than before now, hands crossed over his chest, or shoved in the back pockets of his jeans, or hooked in his belt loops, and stealing glances at Buffy. He didn't understand why he'd longed for that touch again, distracted, yearning. He questioned his every action. He wondered, why he had stayed in that house so long, had told himself it was because he didn't remember anything, he wondered, why he would stay when Dawn had told him the monster he had been, he questioned why he had promised to protect Dawn, Dawnie, if he had been such a terrible, soulless, evil, thing before... He didn't understand.

  That night Dawn wouldn’t let it go.

  They were in the living room after dinner—plates cleared, TV murmuring low in the background, some mindless sitcom no one was really watching. Dawn sprawled across the couch, feet in Buffy’s lap, while Spike sat in the armchair, knees wide, elbows on them, trying to look like he belonged there and not like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Dawn’s eyes flicked between them. Then she grinned—slow, wicked, the grin of a little sister who’d found fresh ammunition.

  “So,” she said, drawing the word out, “about that hand-brush this morning.”

  Buffy’s head snapped up. “Dawn.”

  “What? It happened. I saw it. It was very… lingering.”

  Spike’s arms crossed tighter over his chest. Fingers dug into his biceps. He stared at the TV like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the universe.

  Buffy’s voice was dangerously even. “We’re not talking about this.”

  “Why not? It’s cute. You guys are cute. Like, weirdly domestic cute. Eggs and hand-brushes and—”

  “Dawn.”

  Dawn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine. I’ll drop it. For now.” She shot Spike a look that said clearly: but I’m not forgetting.

  Buffy exhaled through her nose. Turned the volume up a notch.

  The subject died—for the moment.

  But the nights went on like before. And after that morning, something had shifted. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… careful.

  Spike moved through the house like he was walking on glass now. Hands crossed over his chest when he sat. Shoved deep in the back pockets of his jeans when he stood. Hooked in his belt loops when he leaned against the kitchen counter watching Buffy pour coffee. Every position a deliberate barrier. Every glance stolen—quick, guilty, hungry.

  He didn’t understand it.

  He caught himself watching the line of her neck when she tilted her head to listen to Dawn. Watched the way her fingers curled around her mug. Watched the soft fall of her hair when she laughed at something Dawn said. And every time the urge rose—the quiet, aching want to reach out again, to brush that same wrist, to feel warmth against cold—he stopped himself. Hard.

  Hands stayed where they were. Safe. Separate.

  He didn’t trust them anymore.

  Nights stretched long. Dawn would eventually wander off to bed, muttering about homework and early alarms. Buffy would linger—sometimes on the couch, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes just standing in the doorway looking at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

  He’d wait until she went upstairs. Then he’d climb the stairs himself. Close the door to Dawn’s old room. Sit on the edge of the bed.

  And question.

  Why was he still here?

  He’d told himself, at first, it was because he didn’t remember anything. Nowhere to go. No one to be. No past to run back to. That made sense.

  Then Dawn had told him the stories. The real ones. The railroad spikes. The Slayers. The laughter. The blood. The joy in it. And still he stayed. Still he sat at the breakfast table. Still he listened to Dawn ramble about algebra and boys and the latest apocalypse rumor.

  Why?

  He’d promised to protect Dawn—Dawnie—without knowing why. The promise had lived in his bones before the words ever reached his mouth. Even knowing what he’d been—soulless, evil, terrible—still the promise held. Still he stepped between her and crossbows. Still he flinched at the thought of her tears.

  Why?

  He didn’t understand.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. Tugged hard. Ground his teeth.

  The wanting—the quiet, stupid yearning for Buffy’s touch—made even less sense. He had no right to it. No claim. Whatever they’d been before, whatever history lay buried under the fog, he wasn’t that man anymore. Or maybe he was exactly that man, and the monster was just waiting for the right moment to surface.

  He groaned low in his throat. Dropped back onto the bed. Stared at the ceiling.

  The house settled around him. Creaks and sighs. Dawn’s soft breathing down the hall. Buffy’s heartbeat—steady, strong—two doors away.

  He closed his eyes.

  Tried not to think about hands brushing.

  Tried not to think about why he stayed.

  Tried not to hope that tomorrow morning he’d be allowed to make eggs again.

  And failed.

  Completely.

  Chapter 18: "Eighteen"

  But that night, after Dawn had gone to bed, Buffy came up to his room. Alone.

  "Everythin' alright?" He asked, he'd been about to read, just some book that he'd found in the house and picked up on a whim, and taken to while everyone else was asleep and Spike was left with the night by himself. He'd half gotten up, thinking there was trouble, but buffy stopped him with a word:

  "Everything's fine." She said, lingered by the door.

  "Dawn's asleep." She went on. Then, why...? He wondered, why Buffy had come to him, he tilted his head, considering her. If something was wrong, why would she come to him anyway? He had that instinct, to get up, to help, but he hadn't remembered where the feeling had even come from. He didn't remember, where the feeling for her hand in his, had come from. He lowered his eyes in shame. She stepped forward.

  "I think... It's about time I told you a story, too." Buffy said, sitting at the other edge of the bed, giving him space, but with him, in each other's presence. Buffy, then, would tell Spike what was between them, before... Before he forgot his memory... The twisted, messed up, obsessive, violent relationship Buffy and Spike had had had been like.

  The door closed behind her with the softest click.

  Spike had been half out of the chair—book forgotten in his lap, instincts already curling him toward action—when her voice stopped him cold.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  He froze. Slowly sank back down. The book slid to the floor with a muted thump.

  Dawn’s heartbeat had evened out down the hall minutes ago. The house was quiet except for the faint tick of the downstairs clock and the low hum of the fridge. And now Buffy, standing just inside the doorway, arms loose at her sides, eyes on him like she was deciding how close she could come without breaking something fragile.

  He tilted his head. “Then why…?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Just stepped forward—slow, measured—until she reached the other edge of the bed. She sat. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that the mattress dipped slightly under her weight. Space between them, but shared. Deliberate.

  “I think…” She exhaled, soft and unsteady. “It’s about time I told you a story, too.”

  Spike’s throat tightened. He didn’t speak. Just waited.

  Buffy looked down at her hands. Turned them over once, like she was checking for scars that weren’t there anymore.

  “You asked Dawn for the worst parts,” she said quietly. “The blood. The spikes. The Slayers. The laughing.” She lifted her eyes to his. “But there’s another part. The part that happened after the chip. After you couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. The part that happened… with me.”

  He felt the air change. Thicker. Heavier.

  She swallowed. “We hated each other. For a long time. Really hated. You tried to kill me. I tried to kill you. Then the chip happened, and you couldn’t. And somewhere in all that hate… something else started.”

  Spike didn’t move. Didn’t breathe—though he didn’t need to. Just listened.

  “It wasn’t soft,” she continued. “It wasn’t sweet. It was… twisted. Obsessive. Violent.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “We fought. All the time. Words. Fists. Sometimes more. You’d push. I’d push back. Harder. We’d hurt each other because it was the only way we knew how to feel anything. And then we’d… we’d end up together anyway. Kissing. Touching. More. Like we couldn’t stop. Like the hate was just fuel.”

  She paused. Looked at him—really looked. Searching for something. Recognition. Horror. Anything.

  “You were in love with me,” she said. Flat. Honest. “You told me. Over and over. I didn’t believe you. I told you it was obsession. Possession. That you didn’t have a soul so you couldn’t really love. I used that against you. Threw it in your face. And you still… you still kept coming back.”

  Spike’s hands had curled into fists on his thighs. He forced them open again. Forced himself to keep looking at her.

  “I used you,” she whispered. “After… after I came back. After I was pulled out of heaven. I was numb. Empty. And you were there. And you made me feel something. Anything. So I took it. Took you. And I hated myself for it. And I hated you for letting me.”

  The room was so quiet he could hear the faint creak of the house settling.

  “Then you got your soul,” she said. “For me. Because of me. You went through hell—literal hell—to get it. And when you came back… you were different. You were trying so hard to be good. To be worthy. And I… I couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t forgive myself. Couldn’t forgive you. Not yet.”

  She looked away. Jaw tight.

  “You protected Dawn anyway. You stood on that tower. You fell. For her. Not for me. For her. And when you woke up… you didn’t remember any of it. The hate. The sex. The soul. The pain. None of it. Just… blank.”

  She met his eyes again. Steady now. Raw.

  “That’s the story I didn’t want to tell you,” she said. “Because it’s ugly. Because it makes me look like a monster too. But you deserve to know. You deserve to know why I keep watching you like I’m waiting for something to break. Why I let you stay. Why I’m scared every time I leave the house that you’ll remember and hate me for what we did to each other.”

  Spike stared at her.

  The silence stretched. Long. Painful.

  Then he spoke. Voice rough. Barely above a whisper.

  “Did I… did I ever hurt you? After the chip? When we…?”

  Buffy’s mouth twisted. “Not like that. Not the way you used to hurt people. But we hurt each other. A lot. In ways that leave marks you can’t see.”

  He nodded once. Slow.

  Then he looked down at his hands again. The same hands that had brushed hers that morning. The same hands that had wanted to stay.

  “I don’t remember any of it,” he said. Quiet. “But I feel… something. When you’re near. When you look at me. Like an ache I can’t place. Like I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

  Buffy’s breath hitched.

  He lifted his eyes. Met hers.

  “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s leftover from before. Or if it’s new. Or if it’s just… me, now. But I’m not running from it. Not yet.”

  She exhaled. Shaky.

  “Neither am I,” she whispered.

  Neither of them moved closer.

  Neither of them moved away.

  They just sat there—on opposite edges of the same bed, in the same shadowed room—with the weight of everything that had been and everything that might still be between them.

  And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel like waiting for disaster.

  It felt like waiting for forgiveness.

  Maybe even for something more.

  Spike had been left with all that Buffy had said that night, and then, she left. Just, left. She went to her room, and shut the door, and went to bed.

  ... Spike looked at the book he had been about to read, brushed his hand over it. He didn't pick it back up. Instead, he stood up again, he went to the dresser and opened the drawer, looking through it, searching the stuff that had been left in there, of no value, that no one would have bothered to move. A pencil, a pen, that was all he'd needed. He sat down then, without really questioning his actions to himself - after what Buffy had dropped in his lap, he wanted a way to let it all out. He wrote it out, how he felt, what he thought, how it all affected him. The house slept, his chest was dead, but his heart ached all the same, and he poured it all through the pen.

  The next morning, when the Summers women came down the stairs for breakfast, Spike felt that it was easier to breathe, not that he needed air, but it was nice to do all the same. Dawn noticed - of course, and she shot Buffy a knowing look over breakfast. When Dawn left for school Riot stopped Buffy.

  "I don't know who I was before, what things were like between us. You told me things, and I feel like I was bein' caught out of me skivvies I was so bloody uncomfortable. But, if you want to..." He reached out then, firm, manly, hands on her biceps drawing her close, cradling her, feeling the warmth that he'd been thinking of since the moment he'd brushed her hand with his own.

  "I'd like to figure it out. How you and I might be like, together. Now..." He told her.

  Chapter 18: "Eighteen"

  Buffy left as quietly as she’d come.

  The door clicked shut behind her. Footsteps padded down the hall. Another door closed—hers. Then silence. Just the house breathing around him, the faint creak of settling wood, the distant tick of the clock downstairs.

  Spike sat there a long time. Staring at the empty space where she’d been.

  The book he’d been about to read lay abandoned on the floor. He reached for it, brushed his fingers over the worn spine—some dog-eared paperback mystery someone had left behind years ago. He didn’t pick it up.

  Instead he stood.

  Crossed to the dresser.

  Opened the top drawer.

  Inside: odds and ends no one had bothered to clear out. A half-used pencil, a blue ballpoint pen, a few bent paperclips, a crumpled receipt from 2002. Nothing of value. Nothing that mattered.

  He took the pen. Closed the drawer.

  Sat at the small desk in the corner—Dawn’s old homework station, now just a surface for dust and forgotten things.

  He didn’t think about it. Didn’t question why his hand was already moving. After everything Buffy had laid at his feet—hate, obsession, violence, souls earned in hell, hearts broken in bedrooms—he just needed to get it out. All the ache. All the confusion. All the things that twisted in his dead chest like they were still alive.

  The pen scratched across the back of an old envelope he found in the drawer.

  Words came fast. Messy. No paragraphs. Just feeling poured onto paper.

  I don’t know who that man was. The one who hurt you. The one who loved you so hard it turned into something ugly. I feel him sometimes—like a shadow moving under my skin—but he doesn’t feel like me. Not now. Not here.

  You said we were twisted. Violent. That we used each other like weapons. I believe you. I feel the echo of it. But I also feel this—whatever this is—when you’re near. When you look at me like I might be worth saving. When your hand brushes mine and I want to stay there forever.

  I’m terrified of remembering. Terrified I’ll wake up one day and look at you the way that monster did. Or worse—look at Dawn and see prey instead of family.

  But I’m more terrified of leaving. Of walking out that door and never knowing if I could’ve been something different. Something better.

  I don’t have a soul. I don’t know if I ever really did. But I have this. This ache. This want to be good enough for the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.

  I don’t know what we were.

  I don’t know what we could be.

  But I want to find out.

  He stopped. Pen hovering. Chest tight even though it didn’t need to rise or fall.

  He folded the envelope in half. Tucked it under the corner of the desk blotter. Not hidden. Just… there. If she ever looked.

  Then he turned off the lamp.

  Lay back on the bed.

  And for the first time in weeks, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

  Morning came soft.

  Dawn stumbled down first—hair wild, eyes half-shut, already complaining about trigonometry.

  Spike was already in the kitchen. Eggs sizzling. Toast browning. Coffee brewing. He felt… lighter. Not that he needed to breathe, but the air moved easier anyway.

  Dawn noticed immediately.

  She stopped in the doorway. Tilted her head. Shot Buffy—who’d just come down behind her—a slow, knowing smirk.

  Buffy ignored it. Poured coffee. Handed Dawn a mug. Pretended everything was normal.

  Breakfast passed quiet. Normal. Eggs. Toast. Dawn teasing Spike about burning the edges again. Spike rolling his eyes. Buffy watching them both with that careful softness she’d started wearing lately.

  When Dawn grabbed her backpack and headed out—“Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone!”—the front door clicked shut.

  Silence settled.

  Spike turned to Buffy.

  She was rinsing plates at the sink. Back to him. Shoulders tense like she knew what was coming.

  He stepped closer.

  “Buffy.”

  She turned off the water. Dried her hands. Turned.

  He looked at her. Really looked.

  “I don’t know who I was before,” he said. Voice low. Rough. “What things were like between us. You told me things last night and I felt like I was caught out of me skivvies—so bloody uncomfortable I could barely breathe. But…”

  He reached out.

  Firm. Manly. Hands closing gently but surely around her biceps. Drawing her in. Close enough to feel the warmth of her. Close enough to smell coffee and shampoo and the faint copper of Slayer under her skin.

  He cradled her there. Not trapping. Just holding.

  “If you want to…” His voice dropped softer. “I’d like to figure it out. How you and I might be. Together. Now.”

  Buffy’s eyes searched his. Wide. Wary. Wondering.

  She didn’t pull away.

  She didn’t speak right away.

  Then she lifted one hand. Placed it over his heart—right where it should have been beating.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  A small, shaky breath escaped her.

  “Okay.”

  Neither of them moved for a long moment.

  Just standing there.

  Hands on arms. Hand on chest.

  Warmth bleeding into cold.

  The house quiet around them.

  And for the first time since the tower—since the fall, since the blank slate—Spike felt like maybe, just maybe, the past didn’t have to be the only story they got to tell.

  ch 21

  Someone was at the front door, Spike sat up and his eyes became vicious, his one hand out protectively in front of Dawn

  "Buffy?" Dawn called out, and the door opened - no smashing. Not like when the monster had come looking for trouble and found Dawn, before Spike found the monster.

  "Oh. Yep, it's me, and I brought dinner. Deep fried chicken parts. Hope you're hungry!" Buffy was the one that walked into the foyer of the Summers house, night. The front door opens and Buffy comes in, holding a paper bucket under her arm. She tosses her keys on the side table.

  Then Buffy.

  She didn’t knock this time either. Just opened the door quietly and stepped inside, carrying two mugs. One blood. One coffee. She looked like she hadn’t slept much more than he had—hair pulled back in a messy knot, shadows under her eyes, but her shoulders were set in that familiar stubborn line.

  She set the mugs on the nightstand without a word. Sat on the very edge of the mattress, facing him.

  “That’s all I’m asking.”

  She reached out then. Slow. Gave him time to pull away.

  He didn’t.

  Something broke in his chest. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet snap. Like a lock finally giving way.

  He turned his face into her hand. Just a fraction. Enough to feel the warmth of her palm.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  He waited.

  They sat on the edge of the bed—side by side, not touching, but close enough that the space between them felt alive.

  Outside, the night kept moving.

  Inside, for the first time in weeks, the silence didn’t feel like waiting for disaster.

  It felt like waiting for dawn.

  The door closed behind her.

  He sat there in the dark for a long time after.

  Fingers touching the place her hand had been.

  Not quite a memory.

  But close.

  Closer than anything else had been since the tower.

  "You promised her. And you kept it. Even when keeping it meant falling.”

  He looked away. Jaw working.

  “I don’t remember the promise,” he muttered. “Just the falling. The pain. The… need to get her down.”

  Then, quieter: "You used to call me Slayer. Like it was an insult. Like it was a challenge."

  "I don't remember anything!" The shout burst out before he could cage it. Dawn flinched. He hated himself for it instantly. He dragged both hands through his hair, hard enough to hurt. He took a step back. Another. Until his shoulders hit the wall. He slid down it slowly, knees finally giving out, but he kept his chin up. Wouldn't let them see him broken. Not completely. Each step deliberate. No stagger. No weakness.

  Spike stayed upstairs. Paced the small bedroom like a caged animal who’d forgotten why the bars mattered. Five steps wall to wall. Turn. Five back. The carpet muffled his boots, but every creak of the floorboards felt like a confession.

  "Alright, you try it. You tell me this is palatable, go on." He dared, half in jest, recognising that the girls were not about to try and drink pig's blood.

  "Well, you used to put stuff in it. Said it would make it better."

  "Oh?" Spike looks at his cup again, wonders what could mask the taste somewhat. Hrn, maybe that would work... ?

  When he fights, Spike realises, it turns out there's more he retains than just a habit of smoking and sarcasm, he discovers that while he has no memory of his past, the knowledge of how to perform these actions remains intact. This small continuity amidst his amnesia brings him a sense of reassurance and curiosity about what else he retains. Spike can fight!

  "Whose room is this?"

  "It was, my mom's"