"Spike!" Buffy exclaimed upon her arrival, at which point both Spike and Dawn turned up to look at her.

  "Where is your shirt!?" Buffy blinked and demanded, aghast - she stood in the broken doorway staring at the scene before her: Spike and Dawn, with tools in the hands of both, surrounded by splinters, screws, dowels, and one half-spent pot of wood glue that came from who-knows-where that had probably not been reached for in half a decade in the Summers household.

  "It was pulling at my bandages..." Spike protested at the blond woman's indignation, displeased with her high-pitched squeak, then reached for the black cotton shirt anyway. His shirt had been slung over a repaired piece of furniture, Spike pulling and shrugging the shirt on on with more than a little pain at his motions. Though Buffy had been the one to assure the man that it would be fine to be shirtless for her to tend his wounds, Buffy's voice had lead Spike to believe that she was displeased with his state of undress after all.

  "We're fixing the furniture." undaunted, Dawn supplied with joy, hammer in hand, waiting to pass it to Spike, or to pass whatever other tool he might need next for the repair work.

  "Dawn, have you even done your homework?" Buffy asked, Spike turning to Dawn, where Dawn's guilty look had answered that question.

  "March." Buffy said, pointing the way up the stairs, indicating Dawn's room.

  "Still didn't get to do our manicure." Dawn grumbled as she shuffled her way up the stairs to her room, throwing Buffy an accusatory stare; which, left Buffy looking confused. Buffy looked at Spike, as if for explanation, but he gave a shrug - ignoring the pull of his injuries and the way his bandages snagged on the tight tee shirt. He gave Dawn a little nod as she made her way up the stairs. Dawn had wanted to paint his nails, and once they had time, he'd let her.

  "Looks like you guys actually fixed stuff," Buffy said once Dawn was sufficiently up the stairs, Spike's attention back on the blonde. The front room looked better, furniture back where it belonged, a small pile of broken items that appeared beyond hope marked by their place beside the front door, some pieces remained in the middle of the room where Spike and Dawn had been toiling together, but most of the room was back in place.

  "Well... Yeah." Spike said, hand up to run against the base of his neck, some of the wounds there that had yet to heal caught on his t-shirt collar.

  "Had a go at it... Turns out I'm not completely useless at fixing something, once I put my mind to it... Just don't go peaking at the back of the couch, unless you fancy a good laugh at my handiwork. A seamstress, I am not." He said and crossed his arms, hoping it looked more confident than he felt. Had he made repairs when he broke things before? Was Spike ever capable of putting things together, or was he just destroying everything he touched? He didn't know. This, and everything he did since he regained consciousness in that bedroom, was new to him. So Spike tried to look sure of himself when he was anything but.

  "Took Dawn's suggestion to seal the rip through it with the stuff she called, "duct tape". Looks a right state; but should hold well enough." Spike supplied, downplaying his achievements, arm lifting so he rubbed at the back of his head, before he realised he'd uncrossed his arms again. Stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets might save him from repeating the action a third time, he hoped, so Spike did just that.

  "Not bad for a bloke who usually interacts with furniture by putting his boot through it. Or his face." He shrugged, the motion made him wince. Spike tried to school his expression but, he imagined, it was probably too late to hide it. Maybe Buffy would go to poke his wounds like Dawn did if he claimed he was alright. He hoped not. Little bit didn't hold back when she did it, Buffy would be worse, he imagined, when all was said and done, Buffy didn't hold back much herself.

  "Well you did get your crypt to look not awful before. Good enough for me to leave you with Dawn and with..." Buffy trailed off, interrupting Spike's thought. Buffy tried to school her features, to banish the sadness that was there, but he'd caught it pass her features. They'd done the same thing, he thought, We really are alike.

  "You had a tv and everything. You did a good job anyway." Buffy tried to not sound upset, and it made Spike give a harsh sigh, nose flaring as he regarded her. They'd both made an attempt at keeping pain from the other. How long had that been going on? He didn't know, he felt like it might be always - but he couldn't trust his memories, or, the lack thereof.

  "Right... Because I was living in a mausoleum. You did tell me about that." He remembered, but was tilting his head, trying to read what the woman was thinking. His whole perspective was over the course of mere days, the haunted man couldn't trust his feelings, not in good conscience. As if feeling his blue eyes on her, Buffy didn't allow time for Spike to decide might possibly be going through her mind. She was moving, testing the fix.

  "Seems pretty good." Buffy said with a satisfied shrug after moving to the couch, after first having tested its stability with only a touch, a press of her hand, then taking a seat on it, to see if it held weight.

  "Don't look too shocked." Spike, who had seen it repaired at the work of his hands, sat more firmly on his position. Spike took a seat on the couch beside the blond, then he swept a hand at the room, trying to ascertain the state of what things were.

  "Front room's mostly in one piece… mostly. Kitchen's a bit of a horror show, mind. I'd say don’t look, but you’ve already seen worse, I'd wager." Spike scoffed from where he sat beside her. Buffy stared at him, he felt her gaze and Spike turned to find those green eyes fiercely staring at him. It was then, it seemed, his turn to be examined under her gaze instead. He held it, he didn't run from it, however much it weighed on the hurt Spike - he remained.

  "Have I done something?" the man asked, even when her gaze shook him down to the principle of his soul. Not holding in silence, pinned under her gaze, he couldn't banish the thought, Just can't figure out if what I'm doing is wrong.

  "What? No." Buffy abruptly retorted and her gaze broke, the words said with a wrinkle of her nose. Spike felt his lips quirking to a confused smile. The way the lady wrinkled her nose, surprise evident on her features, it left him relieved that it wasn't something he'd said and done, not that time leastwise:

  "I mean- yeah. You have done lots of 'something'... But nothing right now." Buffy clarified, her momentary reaction knee-jerk, until she'd corrected herself before the vampire. Spike almost laughed.

  "Well, that's the crux of it, isn't it?" He let his head drop and pressed his tongue behind his teeth at that, tasting the words before once again looking to her; looking to the woman. Buffy.

  "Done loads, just none of it right this minute... Makes it tough to decide what to do with me." Honestly he had regarded her, that almost-smile on his features. Buffy froze for a second on the couch, her hands curling into the cushions in a way that made Spike think she was hoping to anchor herself there. Spike's words hung in the air between them, honest, blunt, without sarcasm to hide behind or a smirk to deflect with. It was unnerving her, he could tell, although he wasn't doing anything. He was just... sitting there, looking at her like she held the answer to whatever puzzle he'd become. But even that, his gaze - his honesty - seemed too much for her and Buffy's cheeks warmed.

  "You're not feral. Not right now." She swallowed, forcing the words out before she could overthink them. Though Spike felt himself wishing she would, raising his scarred brow at her odd verse.

  "Thanks ever so." He said in lieu of addressing the feral vampire analogy further. The man was fairly certain that whatever she'd meant by that was not going to be helpful.

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  "I-I don't mean that, you're just- You're just... different. And it's weird. Because you're being all-" Still, Buffy answered, despite Spike's attempt at moving on from the insulting way that Buffy seemed to always use when she spoke. She waved a hand vaguely in his direction.

  "-open. Honest. Like, aggressively honest. And I don't know what to do with that either." Buffy informed him, letting Spike stare at her in disbelief. He found himself thinking, Has no one ever been honest with this blonde?

  "Aggressively honest..." He paused, echoed her words, trying to parse them because surely there was a way to interpret what she was saying. But, much like the state of his memories, he was drawing a blank.

  "You lost me. How's being honest, aggressive...?" he wondered. He was rewarded by the sight of the blonde's arms going tense and slamming on the couch cushion she had just been trying to grip for an anchor.

  "Don't play games with me, Spike. You know what I mean." Buffy said and she sounded frustrated, but somehow, Spike had seemed incapable of holding his tongue. He would speak his mind.

  "No bloody point in playing games when you don't even remember the rules." Spike retorted, incredulous, his hands out in question.

  "I can't make heads nor tails of you, love. I haven't a bleeding clue what you're talking about half the time, and the other half I can't tell if I'm going to make you angry or not." He informed her. He'd been so worried that he'd say or do the wrong thing, because he couldn't remember how to act around people. And with Buffy, Spike seemed to always be saying the wrong thing over something.

  "It's just..." Buffy rubbed her palms on her thighs, suddenly looking hyper-aware of their proximity. He felt heartbroken, and it showed, he was sure. He got up, couch creaking under him at the motion. Sturdy, annoyingly so, his handywork competent. He reached for another cigarette as Buffy seemed better at ease with the distance that the Victorian man had offered her.

  "You... you don't remember anything. About me. About... us." Buffy said hesitantly. Spike didn't see her though, pointedly lighting his cigarette with a flick of a lighter.

  "You mean, I don't remember about you and the little Bit?" He wondered and somehow that made Buffy look alarmed. His cigarette lit, he tried to console her, free hand offering her his open palm in truce.

  "Buffy, you know I don't remember a sodding thing. Not about you two, or anyone else, or - bloody hell - I don't even remember myself," Spike said and he hoped it would make her feel better, for Spike not remembering Buffy.

  "No, that- that's not who I-" She cut herself off, jaw tightening. Spike stood by and watched the blonde, watched as the words stuck like glue in her throat. Just watching her with those steely blue eyes, not remembering how they used to affect the woman. Buffy huffed, half-laugh, half-sigh.

  "And there's this part of me that wants to hate that you don't remember. Like, really hate it. Because if you did remember, you'd probably be... I don't know, smirking and making some crude joke about how I secretly like having you around. And I'd punch you. And we'd fight. And it'd be normal." Her voice cracked on the last word.

  "Wait, you're upset, that you're not punching me?" Spike tried, heavens above, he tried to understand what this madwoman was on about.

  "No! It's good, you're not- you're... you don't. And you're being nice. And helpful. And Dawn likes you. And I-" Buffy stopped again, cheeks flaming now. She could feel the heat radiating off her face. Whatever it was she was holding back had seemed impossible for the lady to admit. Each time Buffy came close to saying whatever it was that she thought and felt, she cut herself off. The little blonde was stopping herself. Spike felt compassion for her, giving her time. He breathed in deeply of his cigarette, so his voice came low, and warm, as he encouraged the lady to explain.

  "And you, what, love?" The man's voice came forth, wafting with smoke, spoken carefully.

  "Don't call me that!" she snapped automatically, and he wilted. He searched the ground in front of him, eyes darting across the splintered floor for his mind to try and reveal what the right thing to do was. She said they'd fought, that it was normal, the vampire fought with the vampire slayer... But she'd said she'd trusted him, she'd said it to Giles when she thought he was unconscious to the hours of the sun - he'd heard her, Spike had. There was something - some, bit of memory, that she had of him, that he hadn't of himself. Spike found himself pacing a couple steps, before he caught himself, turning back.

  "I don't know what you want. Don't know what to say." Spike regarded the room, both hands up as he ran them through his tussled hair, regretted it as again his injuries had protested, he looked back at Buffy. She had averted her gaze by then:

  "What do you want me to remember?" He settled on the words, because that was what Buffy was saying to him. Right? She wanted to hate that he doesn't remember.

  "I don't know, okay?" She turned to face him fully, green eyes fierce and a little shiny. He saw her fierce eyes regard him and Spike felt it like he had his own wounds, he regretted his question, it was a foolish one, as was evident from her fierce reaction.

  "But, you said you're mad because I don't remember!" He said and realised his voice had gone slightly higher, but as he caught himself he put a hand to the cigarette at his lips, took a drag. Better that than to lose his temper. Back to pacing the room.

  "I don't know what I feel. It's all mixed up. You used to be this... thing I fought. Then you were this... other thing. And now you're just... here. Fixing my house. Shirtless half the time. Being honest. And it's not fair because I can't even be mad at you anymore." Buffy admitted and it didn't help, didn't make things clear at all.

  "I don't know what you want from me, lo- Buffy." He frowned, pressed his tongue to his teeth. Back to the cigarette, kept himself from talking. That was safer he reckoned.

  "Well I don't know either! You were simpler before, safe." He heard Buffy say, and he scoffed, couldn't help it. Safe, that's what she said.

  "Oh it would be easier for you if I acted more of a monster, is that it?" He said, his eyes narrow, Spike regarded her through the haze. Smoke cleared, and the vampire had his eyes, blue and wild, facing her with a question because what Buffy told the others, and what Buffy told Spike, had not been the same thing.

  "No!" Buffy answered. Perhaps what Buffy told herself, was not the same thing.

  "Make things simpler for you," He went on, pushing the point. He paced closer, acting calm, swaggering; calmer, at least, than the man felt on the inside.

  "Make it easier than having to decide what to do with me. I was simpler before? Right, bet it was. Bet it was real easy: slayer, vampire; slayer fights vampire; slayer dusts vampire, wipes her hands of the whole ruddy matter." He challenged her, closer then, grounding out the last of that cigarette with perhaps too much force, for someone pretending not to care about the matter.

  "Well too bad, love, because so long as I get any say in it that monster you knew is gone." He effected with too much nonchalance for it to be convincing, making Buffy's eyes sharpen in that same sharp green they'd worn when first he had regarded the slayer.

  "You're not gone!" Buffy rose to her feet and in an instant the two of them stood, nose-to-nose. He found himself there, again, with her. Spike and Buffy, chest-to-chest. Eyes warring. Hearts clashing - his in a choking silence, hers beating too loudly - both of them too full with either to ever consider it was an option to back down from the other.

  "Not really. You're still here. The you that I knew." She finally said, like it was a barb, like it had been costly to Buffy for her to admit it. He hated how embittered his voice could sound, his deep blue eyes, eyes that she'd once described as the sea in winter, right then were burned instead, like blue coals in the fire. And Buffy? Buffy stoked that fire, vibrant green eyes feeding it.

  "The one who hunted, and tortured, and murdered, and fed?" He asked incredulously, because How could she want that again?

  "Yes! N-no!" She blinked, confused herself, she had answered too quickly. Spike clenched his jaw and searched the ceiling a moment, muscle jumping, as he tried to make sense of the woman who tormented Spike.

  "Well which is it Buffy? Because haven't you been defending me to every berk who came in here telling you should bloody well stake me and be done with it? But you won't. And the reason you won't is because I'm not whatever monster I was before falling, before getting up again?" Spike pleaded. Had he ascended? Had he risen back up after falling? Was that even possible for a vampire, for a thing like he was? Buffy thought so, Buffy had told anyone who had attacked her choices that Spike was worth offering some chance to.

  "I told them you're different! But not -" She took a deep breath suddenly, almost a gasp, aggression replacing her defensive posture of a moment past.

  "You've been listening in on me?" She turned the conversation so sharply that it made Spike's head spin. He lent his head back and shut his eyes tightly, clenched his teeth and forced a breath - it filled the vampire's senses so completely that it gave the man a moment to collect himself...

  "Look... I'm tryin' here. Don't know who I was before - don't know what I'm supposed to be now - but I don't care. I'm not that vampire Dawn told me about; I'm not." He had decided. He had been a man who had done what he'd done. But since meeting the girls, Spike was changed. He wasn't sure it was recent, either, because he had listened. Along with all the bloody things the vampire had done, Spike had done good. He had promised to look after Dawn, before - and he kept his promise.

  "Don't know what else I am, other than a bloke who knows he doesn't want to hurt the people in this house." Before he could think the words came tumbling forth, backed into a corner, his passion came and his hands moved without permission, finger pressing on something with precision.

  "Including you." Spike said, surprising himself; not because it was not true, but because it was, his oath like poetry half recited and his finger pressing on the heart of the woman, promising he wanted to protect her.