He heard her before he saw her, soft tread on the stairs, deliberate, familiar in all the wash of confounding lack of foundation where he'd been drowning. He straightened instantly and lowered his hands. Shoulders back. Chin up. No weakness, he hadn't wanted to appear as confused as he'd felt. Not now. Not when the summit about him had just happened naught but a few feet from where he'd been kept. When the door opened without a knock - as usual - Buffy saw Spike where he'd been seated on the bed, duster crumpled beside him.

  "Wow creepy much? Do you just never turn on the lights?" Buffy asked and Spike frowned at the attitude. She was, annoyed? Buffy came in carrying two mugs again, chamomile tea for her this time, and - unmistakably - blood for him. He watched her as she put the mugs down so that she could hit the lights.

  "Something got you frazzled?" He asked as she turned back, Buffy bringing the light in, that soft smell of flowers in the form of her tea, Human comfort in heat and in light and a scent of tea from that ceramic cup. She didn’t speak at first. Just handed him the blood, sat in the chair across from the bed, cradled her own mug like it was armor.

  "Alright... Don't talk." He took the blood, fingers careful not to brush hers, then diverted his eyes to the contents. Spike tilted his mug, and tilted his head with it. He wrinkled his nose at it. It hadn't tasted good, not right, and the first time Spike had assumed that was because, well, it was blood. But he took a gulp of it all the same. She watched him. He watched her back. Spike hadn't known he was a vampire the first time she'd brought blood to him, hadn't known it when Dawn had shown up in the room with a soup bowl full of blood and got startled to find that Spike had been awake. Then, however, as he drank from the mug and Buffy sat there, pouting lip, eyes unreadable, Spike realised why it hadn't tasted right. Because Buffy had given him her blood; and this stuff in a mug wasn't it.

  "I just, thought you might be hungry." Buffy said at last, held her mug up to take a sip, but watched him over the rim. Steam was curling up from his mug still, fresh, warm - nowhere near as good as hers had been. He didn't tell Buffy that of course, the man felt too guilty to admit how the vampire had instantly known the difference.

  "Thank you." He said. She didn’t leave. He drank. Slow. Mechanical. Staring at the blood with a sigh, eyeing the mug and tilting it this way and that, not rushing to finish it then that Spike had known what the point had been. Vampires eat people.

  Spike thought, knowing stories of monsters even without the memory, some knowledge of his forgotten life had told him. Need the stuff to survive, I suppose... Tastes awful, not like her... No wonder they're all barking mad over me being here...

  "You’re brooding." Buffy said after a minute, and Spike looked up being abruptly interrupted from his brooding thoughts.

  "What? Am not." Spike said and he was upset to find out that his voice had not sounded as convincing as Spike would have liked, despite the best intentions.

  "You’re doing the thing with your eyebrows." Buffy said, and he glared at her over the rim of the mug.

  "There’s a thing?" He asked and took another drink of the awful blood.

  "There’s always been a thing." Buffy supplied and he scoffed, another 'I don't remember' was winding up on his tongue, not to mention the fact that she herself had come up into the room in a strop, but never mind all that, his eyebrows were doing a thing! He willed himself not to snap at her, it wasn't her fault how frustrated he was, he passed his hand over the leather duster at his side instead, more for something to do.

  "You found your duster?" She asked, and it was distracting. Spike looked up at her, looking to try and figure out what she was feeling. He didn't find derision, and it quieted his soul a little.

  "I, yeah... This was all mine?" He asked looking at the duster. He didn't recognise it, Spike did not even recognise his own hand as it went over the leather, it was so bizarre. Somehow, Spike felt less enthused to speak on the matter of how he remembered nothing of his own being, than he was about the mood he was in. That, at least, he could quantify, and chose speaking on the matter as a lesser beast:

  "I don't like being shut up here like some big, bad, rabid dog." He explained, eyes sharp, he glanced the blue glaciers to Buffy where she sat. He saw her shiver, and hug the warm chamomile close, springtime warmth shielding her from the night's cold...

  "You're not rabid." She said, so he offered an unconvinced nod, finished his mug of blood, as if that was proof enough.

  "You're... just adjusting." Buffy said, and she sounded a little more certain then. Spike licked a blob of blood from the corner of his lips, thought he caught Buffy staring, he averted his gaze.

  "Adjusting." He agreed, paused. With silence, he placed the mug on the nightstand and held it there, hand lingering a moment before he released, making sure it was steady. Then, when he was sure of himself, feeling the urge to scream and refusing it, he told himself to be a gentleman and spoke with a voice that was controlled, almost even:

  "To being a corpse that walks, to having people debate whether I ought be staked while I am in the next room." He said and managed not to scoff. He considered that a victory.

  "To this-" He gestured to his own chest, beneath the tight black cotton.

  "-this empty bloody thing, where memories ought to be. Where there is not even a heartbeat." Okay, his voice was raising slightly, he shut his eyes and tilted back his head.

  "... You're angry." Said Buffy.

  "Brilliant observation." He bit back. Buffy watched him. Quiet. Patient. In a way that made him want to throw something. Instead he picked the mug back up and stood, intent on offering it back.

  "Look I'm, I'm sorry. From all you and your mates have said, I probably deserve worse than to be shut up here with you bringing me food. Drink? Blood." He frowned, that hadn't been a particularly poetic apology. I hate how stupid that sounds.

  "Never mind, it is nothing." He held the mug out to her again. If she left, then he couldn't lose his temper like an idiot, or at least, he could lose his temper by himself, then suffer alone.

  "You saved my sister. You fell thirty feet. You were out for twelve days. You woke up with nothing in your head and you still didn't hurt her." Buffy did not make any move to take the mug. She did not get up out of the chair, she sat in it with the tea she'd held for herself, kept her holding on to it, despite the lack of warmth. Like she hoped it might lend comfort. Like she was looking at something familiar, Buffy staring back at Spike as she gave her answer.

  "You stood between her and danger. again. That's not nothing." Buffy said, green eyes watching him, intense, powerful eyes that he imagined held a different light than when he'd first arisen. It was hard to look at. Spike told himself he imagined it, looked away with his jaw tight.

  "It was instinct." He told himself despite how adamant he was with Xander but hours ago. No fooling Buffy though. She wasn't buying it, he tried again.

  "I don't know who I was." He said quieter, eyes on the clothes that had been dropped on the bed. He squeezed the mug between both his hands, saying the words making him feel like something shifted a fracture, some tiny crack.

  "But I know I don’t want to be the bloke who makes that kid cry again. Or the one who makes your mates summit about me like I'm a ticking time bomb." He said and glanced at her, teeth closed, muscle jumping in his jaw as he waited for an answer from her, maybe what she'd expected.

  "Heard all that, did you...?" Buffy asked her tea cup.

  "Some of it..." He admitted, eyebrows flickering into a frown, he felt like he'd done something wrong somehow.

  "Tried not to..." He huffed. Rubbed a hand over his face. Spike didn't know what the right thing to do was so he sat back down on the edge of the bed, the mug in one hand hung between his knees. Buffy had been defending him, the only one who had been defending him, beside Dawn, and it was because of some sense of debt. A debt, that Spike didn't even remember going through!

  She moved then. He thought she got up to go, but Buffy came. She sat on the very edge of the bed beside him. He looked up, and he was sure the surprise he'd felt must have been writ across his features. Buffy was there. Just, there. Not touching. Present. Far enough that he couldn't feel her warmth, a respectable distance between them. He bit his lip, Spike had appreciated the gesture.

  "Buffy." He said, she looked to him, offering her presence. Spike felt like he ought do something, but he knew only how to offer his words:

  "I'm trying." He swore, with every fiber of his being, he was trying. Buffy, she smiled.

  "I know." Her expression softened completely then, raw and unguarded, his steady eyes on her as she croaked the words and that bright utter unsurprised expression was writ across her face. Quiet settled between them, not silence, not uncomfortable. He heard her heart beating, steady and warm, he felt her breathing, with each shift on the bed, and found that he too was breathing although, he'd found out, he hadn't needed the air... After a minute he spoke again, he wanted to know more.

  "How do I look?" He wondered. It was, apparently, not the right thing to say; because Buffy behaved as though that had been unexpected.

  "What?" She asked with a shake of her head, making her blonde hair wave about her sending little ripples of sun and flowers into the air around him, the perfume of her tea clinging to her delightfully and subtly, but it was a scent he'd caught with his senses. It was a benefit of his state, Spike had felt.

  "I- Well, if I can't remember - for now I mean - then..." He shrugged.

  "Maybe, you could remember; for me." That sounded daft. He told himself. If he wouldn't remember, maybe Buffy would be able to remember, for him. Like he could hear her heart beating instead of the one in his chest, helping Spike, steadying him. He thumbed the mug, stupid mug, that he still held for some reason, feeling like it would be distracting to try and put it back down after he'd picked it up to hand to her. He'd thought for a long second that Buffy was going to laugh, then she spoke.

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  "Right, you never remember seeing yourself and-" Buffy said after a pause. He looked sideways at her, brows raised, hopeful. Buffy realised he was waiting, apparently, then blurted out the safest thing she could have possibly said.

  "You're, um, tall-ish?" She began lamely, Spike looked at her as if trying to figure out if she was making fun of him or not. So Buffy wrung her fingers and turned. She was looking into the mirror, rather than at Spike, as if it would make the answer less awkward.

  "You bleach your hair, really bleach it, super radioactive blond. Pale skin, oh, but, you can probably see your hands - right. Um. Not in bad shape... Blue eyes." She said and he saw her turning back at him, as if expecting a reaction out of Spike.

  "... So, my hair is blond, I'm pale, and my eyes are blue." He was trying, really, really trying, not to be sarcastic. Buffy huffed, then clamped down on it like it had betrayed her.

  "I’m doing my best here." Buffy said, a little too quickly, Spike thinking she sounded - what? Defensive? Or something.

  "Yeah, I can tell," he began in reply, arching a brow.

  "You look like I’ve asked you to describe advanced calculus. Or, I dunno—someone you’re definitely not staring at." He said. Whops, there goes the sarcasm. Bugger... He'd tried alright?

  "I’m not staring." Buffy said, suddenly sharp and vicious, Spike just put his hands up in mock-surrender - and realised he was still holding that stupid cup.

  "Didn’t say you were." Spike said smoothly.

  "Just, observing. There were a lot of pauses. Lot of ‘um.’" Buffy glowered at him, but Spike - not for the first time - found that he was really very awful at shutting his mouth. He spoke, almost impulsively.

  "Either I’m hideous or you’re holding back." He tried to catch her eye before she turned away, too fast, her green eyes definitely not staring, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

  "Spike!" Buffy said his name like a warning. He was so confused by her reactions, didn't want to hazard a guess, Spike didn't know how good or bad he was at reading people. He pressed his fingers to his brow a moment, before pulling back again.

  "Look," He said, quieter but still wry, softened, just a fraction - but the sarcasm stayed, like a reflex he couldn’t quite unlearn, even without the memories.

  "It's fine. I'm not looking for poetry. Just wanted to know if I’m walking around looking like a right idiot... Be a shame to wake up with no memories and terrible taste." He'd said, and that actually got a laugh out of her. He relaxed, like that sound had the power to pull all tension out of him. He was glad, his wit had finally earned a positive reaction. Maybe, that was why he kept doing that, Spike thought?

  "No, you don't look like an idiot." Buffy finally met his eyes.

  "I mean, you do... In a, hot sort of way." He searched her face, like he might catch something she hadn’t meant to say. When he didn’t, he nodded once. He was going to move on, but Buffy, she let out a slow breath, like she was bracing herself for impact. Buffy swallowed, cheeks heating just a shade, and exhaled again, faster that time; like she was trying to hold back an apology she never wanted to give.

  "Okay," she said, clearly having resigned herself to this, as Spike turned and looked at her again.

  "Your *face*." She began and Buffy had been, Spike thought, determined to hold his gaze that time.

  "It’s… sharp. Not pointy-sharp, just... you know. Defined." She looked away again, straightening where she sat on the edge of the bed, looking at not-him, again. Spike’s mouth twitched.

  "Defined how?" He pushed, voice low, a hint of that mischief he felt rumbling through his tone. Buffy rewarded him with a warning look, as her head whipped back round to face him so fast her golden locks fanned out, smell of flowers bouncing off of her softly even as she glared at him with those green eyes fiercely.

  "Don’t you start." Buffy warned him in a clipped voice. Somehow, Spike managed to not chuckle. He instead held up a hand, smirk firmly in place.

  "Mum’s the word." He promised and Buffy sighed, annoyed, perhaps, flustered, Spike thought. But he was happy when Buffy decided to carry on with her description. Her words came a little faster then, like if she didn’t pause she wouldn’t overthink it.

  "You’ve got really high cheekbones. Like, unfairly high. Your jaw's..." Buffy's expression frowned. She stopped, couldn't find the right words, it seemed to him, because the descriptor Buffy had decided on came forth in the form of:

  "Your jaw is stupid." When she said that he didn't know what to make of it, reeling a moment, before turning back to her in question. Spike didn't fight the hint of a smile that was on his face.

  "Stupid good or just stupid?" he asked mildly. Buffy ignored that. She just went on.

  "Your jawline’s defined. Very defined. Like you *choose* to look angular." Buffy clasped her hands together to keep them still.

  "Square. Strong. Like you could cut glass with it. Which! Is not a compliment!" she added quickly.

  "Just… an observation." She nodded to herself at that, as if it was a very good and reasonable thing she had to say. Spike had asked her for a description, and he saw that Buffy was really trying for him - why, heavens knew was beyond him.

  "And, you’ve got this scar over your eyebrow." she went on, cheeks warming. Spike stilled as Buffy shifted again, eyes flicking briefly to his face, then held there. It was like she had to stare it seemed to him, despite herself, if she was trying to properly describe his sharp eyes.

  "And those eyes... bright. Blue." Buffy told him and Spike, he stared back at her, finding her gaze unreadable in that moment of memory-loss vulnerability, and Buffy plowed on before she had a chance to think too much about answering.

  "Not like… baby-blue." she said, almost defensively, like he might thank her if she got it over with faster.

  "Like, crazy blue. More like cold ocean in winter. Kind of piercing. You look like you’re sizing someone up even when you’re not. And it’s exhausting to watch." she added, like it was purely informational. But Spike blinked. Buffy could be grateful for the blind spot his lack of memory gave her, kept going, ignoring the flinch he thought she might’ve made.

  "Annoyingly blue. They don’t match the rest of you at all! Which, I guess, is the point." Her voice softened despite her best efforts.

  "They’re very expressive. Even when you’re pretending they’re not." Spike lent in at that, just slightly.

  "And your lips-" She stopped dead, grimacing. It seemed abruptly to Spike, that Buffy had come to the end of her willingness to put herself through her description of him.

  "Nope. Skipping that." She said and he lent in properly.

  "Oh no, please," Hand on the sheets, pressed between them, Spike pleaded genuinely and he didn't care how that might've sounded.

  "Sounded promising." He breathed, looking to her desperately. Though he hadn't wanted her to feel flustered, this was the best vision he'd had of himself ere since he'd stirred with a blank and empty hollow where his image of himself ought to have been. Reflected in her eyes. It seemed those - apparently, very annoyingly blue - eyes of his had done their job, for Buffy groaned and gave in. She went on:

  "They’re just fine! Normal. Human-lips, that do too much talking - lips!" Buffy indicated at the air vaguely, and Spike sighed in relief. He smiled then, slow and crooked, like he couldn’t help it. It somehow made Buffy react like he'd insulted her!

  "That smile!" She added immediately, pointing at him, accusatory in fact!

  "That is the problem! Not a good look. So... smug! Like, like you know something everyone else doesn’t." Buffy complained at him. Spike backed off just a fraction, sitting back, though his hand lingered between them, on the bed.

  "Do I?" He wondered quietly, unable to remember whether or not his expression had ever meant what Buffy had accused of it. Buffy, she met his gaze again, and for half a second forgot she was trying not to give anything away.

  "Sometimes." She admitted, pouting a little, like admitting it was hurtful to Buffy. Spike lifted a hand. His thumb ran over his bottom lip, then his brow, seeking out the scar she'd mentioned, fingers running down from there over his cheek. Feel like I'm mapping a stranger. He thought to himself, But somehow - what. Warmer? He looked at her then, hand lingering right at the cusp of his face, fingers just grazing his jaw, Yeah, warmer, somewhat. Not as cold. He'd thought, as Spike looked at Buffy trying to decode her. Was she insulting him? Complimenting him? Threatening him with a detailed survey of his bone structure? She must have noticed, because Buffy spoke, then with renewed confidence.

  "Don't think too hard about it." Buffy had advised him as she lent back, whipping her blonde hair over her shoulders, as she stretched her arms back and supported herself on the bed.

  "It's a face. A very punchable, but also, somehow, distinctive face." She told Spike, giving herself a nod once again at the assessment, waiting to hear what Spike thought of her very thorough description of him. Spike let out a slow breath, a deadpan tilt of the head and a gravelly half-smirk creeping in - the one that Buffy had accused him of being the problem not one minute earlier.

  "Brilliant. Just let me know when I'm ever back to being terrifying again." He said and with a quick swipe of his hand over his brow, Spike found that he was still wearing a very human face, the man had been relieved at that. And then, just a moment later, he added with that signature self-aware sarcasm that somehow made her shoulders relax a fraction:

  "Ocean-blue eyes, scary chiseled cheekbones, face that's punchable. Got it" he said at last, attitude slipping back into place like a familiar jacket, that he hadn't remembered having made. But Buffy didn't seem mad that time.

  "That right strop you were in seems gone." He told her, but she smiled.

  "I don't know, what you are tlaking about." She annunciated, Spike gave Buffy a knowing look, but said nothing. They just sat there a moment, Buffy, leaning back against the bed, Spike, rolling that stupid mug between his hands idly, black nail polish chipped at the end of his pale fingers. He was not quite smiling, but the dour mood he had been in lifted. Finally, Buffy broke the quiet.

  "Dawn wants to come home tomorrow." Buffy told him. Spike set the mug down carefully.

  "And?" He asked, hopeful, worried.

  "And, I told her no. Not yet." Buffy replied... He didn't answer right away... How was it, that he was able to simultaneously feel disappointed, and also relieved, both at the same time?

  "Smart." Spike said when he spoke at last, nodded once. Slow.

  "She hates it." Buffy’s opened up a bit, voice soft; Spike thought, almost tired.

  "She thinks I don’t trust you." Buffy told the monster and Spike, his initial thought was to agree, she shouldn't. Instead, what came out his mouth was not what his brain had instructed of him:

  "Do you?" Spike asked Buffy, honest, earnest, raw. He wondered, if Buffy had trusted him, if she had ever trusted him, and despite the chance that she might answer, he wanted to know.

  "Do I trust you? Now?" Buffy looked straight at him. No flinch. No evasion.

  "The you that’s sitting here right now. The one who hasn’t tried to bite anyone. The one who keeps asking questions instead of making threats." She stopped. Took a breath.

  "The one who’s trying so hard not to be weak that he’s shaking from the effort." She said, noticed that, had she? He glanced down. His hands were steady. Mostly. And she had noticed anyway.

  "Yeah." Buffy told him.

  "I do, I trust you." And then, almost as though she felt she had to undercut the admission Buffy went on.

  "I just wish you wouldn't be all, stupid, sarcasm-guy all the time." She told him, and it got a huff out of him. Almost a laugh.

  "Habit." The man said, not looking up from his hands.

  "Bad one." She announced to him in that girly way that had been her way, it seemed.

  "Only one I’ve got left, pet." Spike told her, lifting his eyes again to Buffy when a ghost of a smile touched her mouth. Vanished quick. Bloody hell, you let it slip again. He realised, and he'd been doing so well not using the familiar little pet names that night! But, the surprise was, that Buffy hadn't flinched. She didn't seem to mind. Spike tilted his head, as if looking for that little reaction, the one that said he had caused offense. But if it had been felt, Buffy did a good job of hiding her feelings.

  "I got the stuff you asked for." She said instead, standing up, clapping her hands together idly, before giving a stretch.

  "I'll bring them up, then I'm going out on patrol." She said and turned to take their mugs.

  "You?" Buffy said, looked at Spike as she stood, empty mugs each held in one hand.

  "Stay." Buffy told Spike, going for funny, he assumed, though it made him want to bite back for it.

  "Don't worry dear lady, I shall breathlessly await your return." Spike said giving a mock-bow, one that had come easily, like he'd done it countless times and the act had simply been peeking through. Judging from the way Buffy's green eyes blinked, it seemed to Spike that she hadn't expected the gesture from him. Alright, so he still couldn't figure out how to act correctly. He'd not been happy about it, being confined to that house, that room, but Buffy was leaving him unguarded and it was nightfall, that meant something, right?

  "Right. Um. I'll... Bring your grocery bag." She turned for the door. Stopped. Turned back to face Spike in the room.

  "I-" The woman began, Buffy lent against the door, then shook her head.

  "Just- stay here!" She said instead. Turned. Headed out the room, rushing out, actually. Spike stayed where he was. It seemed, he thought, that even when things had begun to make a little sense, everything just went right back to being confusing again, he could not guess at what that reaction had been all about, but he was happy. Buffy seemed nice, and talking with her, it had made all the frustrated confusion go away and things had felt clarified just for a time.