Spike crashed into the bed, arms spread out to the sides, falling backwards on top of the mattress, legs still touching the floor where he rested. For a moment he just lay there, eyes open.

  Spike didn't move from the bed for some time then, the light playing against the closed curtains as the sun climbed higher, and the girls slept soundly on that lazy Saturday morning. He’d laid back, fully clothed, boots still on, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling until the shadows turned grey, then pale gold.

  The stories Dawn told him hadn’t left. They sat in his chest like stones, weighing him down, sinking down deeper, and the vampire found that for all his strength, he couldn't lift the weight of what he'd done in the past.

  Every time the man closed his eyes he saw flashes that weren’t quite memories: fabrications, his imagination conjuring visages of spectres that had before been without form, without name and without tone. Yet the poet had managed to draw up those ghosts, give them substance and ushered them in to torment him further, as Spike pictured images based purely from what had been revealed by Dawn. Spike imagined railroad spikes slick with rain and blood, a girl’s wide eyes drenched in his own shadow, laughter that sounded like his own but felt borrowed. None of it solid. Just impressions. Echoes. Ghosts. And as he haunted himself, it had been enough to make his skin crawl.

  He still hadn't managed to rest when the house came alive, the dead man laying still as he heard Dawn before Buffy, her quick, light steps down the hall, bathroom door opening and closing, the soft hiss of the tap running. Normal sounds. Living sounds. And the undead man had yet to rest in peace.

  Spike realised, he must have fallen into rest at some point, because the front door of the house was opened and he was instantly alerted, on his feet before he knew it.

  "Thanks for coming today." Buffy said at the door, Spike hearing her yawn.

  "Buffy, this is Tito." Came the reply from outside, and Spike groaned. Xander.

  Well there was no way he was going to get any rest then, not until the whelp left. Spike scowled at the door while the vampire listened to the movement going on downstairs, and on into the house proper... He half expected the door to the room Spike was in to open, and to see Xander appear there with a crossbow, just like on the very first night Spike had awakened in that room.

  Instead, there was mundane chatter about plumbing: pipes, and copper, and drips, and flooding. It was mundane, boring even, but the irksome voice of Xander had kept Spike scowling and awake, unable to rest while Spike knew that someone who would sooner see him dusted was near there. Spike had found that he had been easily roused, those few days the vampire had been conscious of. He was tightly wound, unable to expel the restive energy that coiled within him, and each time the front door opened or a voice had lingered close to the door, he roused.

  "Listen, Xander, about the other night-" Buffy said at the front door, after the man called Tito had explained that the assessment was done and that there was a replacement needed for the pipe work in the basement.

  "Buffy, don't." Came Xander's reply, humourless and low as he cut Buffy off, a sound that had carried up the stairs.

  "You've got a dangerous thing in your house, in Joyce's old room, two doors down from your little sister, and you expect us to be alright with that?" Xander said and Spike was privy to the whole conversation from where he glared at the door of the room he was staying in.

  "He's different now! Spike is... I don't know. He's just different." Buffy said. From upstairs, Spike scoffed to himself.

  "Not much of a glowing endorsement, love. Didn't realise we were rationing complements." Spike grumbled to himself, but internally, he justified her behavior: Not like you've done much to earn it, mate...

  "Different." Xander asked, and Spike held his breath, strained to hear Buffy defending him... But, of course, she did not. Don't know what you were expecting, mate. Parade? Gold star? You don’t get applauded for not being a complete disaster. You just… don’t get kicked for it. It's what you deserve, really. Lukewarm. Careful. Like they’re afraid if they say anything nice it’ll tempt fate, remind the universe who you actually are.

  "Yeah... " Buffy said, Spike heard it, the lack of certainty in her tone as it carried up to where he was hearing the whole conversation. He didn't deserve praise anyway. Didn't deserve trust. Praise and trust was for people, for good people, who didn’t make a mess of everything they touched. They say you were a monster. Say it so sure, like it’s a fact of nature. Fire burns. Vampires kill. Spike destroys everything he touches.

  "Buffy, this is Spike. Vampire. Evil. Has no soul." Xander reminded her. Maybe Buffy needed the reminder, after the two of them had been up talking for hours in the night and early morning; but Spike didn't. Spike knew what he was. Then, after it all had been revealed to him, Spike had been told what he'd done and he was not going to forget about it. It was what he'd asked for; the truth, the knowing. So, he knew. Knew the body count, the wreckage, the way Spike had wanted in protecting Dawn to reach for something decent and left teeth marks instead. Dawn looks at you like you saved the world. Like you’re solid. Safe. Like you won’t turn on her the second she blinks. And that scares you worse than their fear does, because what if she’s wrong? What if you fail her, let her down?

  "He saved Dawn." Buffy said to excuse it. But that was one good thing, one good after a hundred years of murdering: So of course it was muted. Of course it’s thin. Why would Buffy be foolish enough to gush over him? Buffy was trying. He could see it in the way she didn't flinch as much when Spike was near her anymore, in the pauses before she remembered she was supposed to be careful. Like she wants to trust you but is already bracing for the day it all snaps back into place and proves her daft. And the others - they’re just waiting. Watching. Counting the seconds till the monster wakes up. And they’re not wrong. You know, it was what you asked for and now, you know. Know what you’ve done. You know how thin the line is, how easy it would be be to bollocks it all up again. So yeah - best not get ideas. Best not start thinking you’re worth much.

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  "Yeah, when he had the chip! When he couldn't hurt you. Buffy, this is crazy!" Xander said, and Spike told himself not to want it. Wanting approval - wanting to be seen as good. The man didn't have the right to want anything after what the monster had done. He lowered his sorrowful gaze. Maybe whatever you were is still in here, just asleep. Maybe memory’s the only thing holding it back.

  "Why am I even saying all this with you. You're just going to do what you think is best Buff. You wanted a plumber, you got one. Xander mission done." Xander's voice continued to be heard as he spoke with Buffy at the front door of her home. He wished it hadn't. Spike turned on his side, back to the door, like it would hurt less hearing all that, unable to take it back. Better to keep expectations low. Better to take the scraps and pretend they’re enough. If they didn't think much of him, that's fair. He told himself, that's earned. So when the praise comes out thin, careful, like it’s been vetted for safety — you get it. You don’t deserve more. Not when they’re all wondering if this is the calm before the bloody slaughter.

  "Xander. He's trying." Buffy said vaguely: And still - quietly, irritatingly - it stings. Not because he thought he deserved praise… but because some stupid part of him hoped, just once, that he might. Can’t help wishing they’d meant more. Just a bit. Like it mattered.

  "Well the serial killer isn't adding bodies to the pile just yet? Lets throw a parade!" Xander said with that rational sarcasm that Spike hated. Yeah… this is the part he hates admitting, even to himself. Like you mattered.

  "I guess we'll just have to wait and see." Buffy said. It landed heavier than he expected. He told himself he shouldn’t care - that wanting praise was childish, that he was already lucky to get tolerance, let alone approval. Hoping for trust was irrational, praise would be utterly outside the realm of possibility. People didn't look at him and see something worth admiring. They saw damage. History. A cautionary tale. So why would their voice lift when they talked about him? Still, there’s that quiet ache. Still, it would have been nice if one of them looked at him the way Dawn did. Like he wasn't a mistake with a delay on it. Pathetic, that. Wanting to be seen. Wanting someone to look at you and not brace themselves.

  "That's what I'm scared of." Xander agreed. And curled on his side as he was, there was a part of Spike that listened to Buffy and what she might answer. The stupid, hopeful part of him that was listening a little too closely. Waiting. Wondering if maybe this time someone would say he did well, that he mattered, that he wasn’t just less awful than before. He shut that part down fast, almost angrily. Don’t get greedy. Take what you’re given and shut up about it. You don't deserve any better. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.

  "If he goes evil again, I'll deal with it." Buffy said cheerily. Spike closed his eyes. He swallows it and lets the disappointment settle where no one can see. It wasn't what he'd hoped for, set himself for disappointment, when he ought have been prepared for it. Caution. Tells himself this is how it’s supposed to feel. That anything warmer would’ve been a mistake anyway. You just keep your hands visible. Keep your voice low. Keep bein’ good — not because you trust yourself… but because you’re terrified of what happens if you stop.

  "I hope you're right, Buffy... Let me know if you need anything else." Xander said, loathe to leave with a monster up in the bedroom. The two of them exchanged brief farewell before the front door closed again. Buffy, she must have thought that the vampire was resting, because he heard her footsteps turn for the stairs and pause there... before she went into the kitchen and started cooking instead. Spike looked down at his hands. Turned them over, like he expected a revelation in them. Same ritual, same empty palms. He didn't see any blood on them, though everything he'd heard, had told him it was there.

  He tucked his arms to his sides, willed himself to close his deep blue eyes. He hoped for rest, whatever form it bight bring then, even the visions of his past as he imagined it he would welcome then, because the man believed that the killer had deserved it.

  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"