"Spike, I'm back!" Buffy called out as she entered the mansion arms loaded with more food for herself and blood for Spike.

Blood that he hadn't been drinking nearly enough of, Buffy could tell. But she was just glad that he had started to drink any of it at all. The first few days after Drusilla's self immolation had been rough to say the least. Spike had fought Buffy every time she tried to get him to drink and he had started to look scarily like the corpse that he actually was.

And his lack of feeding habits hadn't even been the worst of it. Buffy couldn't even count how many times she had caught Spike trying to follow his lover's lead and dust himself. She never let him out of her sight during daylight hours. And to be safe she took the liberty of removing any and all pointy wooden objects from the mansion and anything sharp enough to decapitate someone.

And then there were the nightmares...

Buffy would hear Spike letting out horrible raging cries in the night that would rip her out of her own not so pleasant dreams about killing Angel. She would climb into Spike's bed with him and hold him. At first he would resist, thrashing in her arms, but after a while he would still, settling into Buffy’s embrace, his screams turning to whimpers. Then eventually he would fall to sleep. Buffy was comforted by the contact as well, she never once had any nightmare’s of the night she killed her lover when she was next to Spike.

Though they both appreciated them, they never talked about those nights. Buffy would always wake up before Spike and slip out of the room and they would go about everything as if it never happened. In fact, when he wasn’t upset from night terrors, Spike would mostly flinch away from any physical contact with Buffy. Which she thought was odd, but she never asked him about it, she just tried to respect it and kept her hands to herself.

Eventually those nights of screaming and crying turned into to talking. Whenever one, or both of them had a hard time sleeping they would trek down the hall to the other’s room and tap lightly on the door. They always let each other in no questions asked. They would talk about anything and everything, as long as the subjects of Angel, Drusilla and Spike’s crimes were avoided. They had shared a lot with each other over the last five weeks. Like Buffy learned that Spike played in a punk band back in the seventies; he sang and played guitar. Buffy had told him about her love a figure skating and how she use to compete when she was little; her dream had been to go to the Olympics, be the next Dorothy Hamill. But then fate stepped in.

In those conversations Buffy had seen Spike come back to life. He would be animated and laugh, call her love and pet. They really made her think that he was getting better. It was this seeming improvement that had made Buffy feel comfortable enough to extend her excursion and drop by the laundromat today. She had hesitated until now, but she really needed to go; she was running out of underwear. Spike had insisted that it was fine, that he would be fine. And Buffy had trusted him, but what if he had just been placating her.

"Spike?" Buffy called out again, a growing sense of panic building in her chest.

What if he had been planning this? He could have just been showing Buffy what she wanted to see, telling her what she wanted to hear. Pretending to get better, biding his time until she was comfortable enough to leave him alone. Alone so that he could...

Oh God what if he...

Buffy dropped the bags from her hands and raced toward the bedroom to find the vampire.

"Spike!" she called running through the place. "Spike, where are-"

"I'm here." The sound of the Spike's voice sent of wave of relief over her. She turned around to find him sitting in a dark corner.

Buffy sighed seeing him. "Thank god," she said, breathlessly. "You scared me. Why didn't you answer when I called to you? And don't say you didn't hear me, 'cause you know I'm not gonna buy that. You're a vampire, you could have heard me from down the block."

The vampire wearily shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry," Spike muttered, "didn't mean to upset you." He looked away, trying to discreetly sniff back tears.

Buffy looked away and pretended not to notice. "Uh, it's okay," she said. "I just got a little worried when you didn't answer I thought..." She shook her head. "Well, never mind what I thought. I got more blood," she segued. “You should try to take some."

"I don't really have that much of an appetite."

"So I've noticed," Buffy dryly commented. "But you haven't had any since yesterday and that wasn't much. Will you try at least, just a little?" she cajoled.

Spike sighed and nodded, putting his hands against the wall to brace himself so he could get to his feet. Buffy wanted to help him with the task, but knew he wouldn’t be welcoming to the aid not when it involved touching.. So she curled her hands into fist and put them behind her back, to avoid temptation. She took a step back and watched as the weakened vampire struggled to stand. Buffy let out a silent sigh when Spike finally managed to get to his feet. She gave him a small smile and turned to go retrieve the blood she had dropped earlier. Spike followed.

Buffy was surprised the first time she entered the kitchen and found it was fully equipped with all the creature comforts a human would need: stove, fridge, microwave, even a toaster and coffee maker. She wasn’t sure that there would be any of these the in a vampire’s lair. Angel’s apartment had been fairly spartan; he only had a refrigerator to keep blood. She had assumed the place must’ve come furnished. But later learned that it was Spike who had insisted on the amenities; he enjoyed real food. After learning this Buffy had told him he was welcome to any of the groceries he wanted. He’d yet to take her up on the offer though.

Buffy filled up a mug with blood and popped it in the microwave to warm. In the mean time she started putting the rest of the blood to the fridge.

"Why are you doing this?" Spike asked her while she was shelving the Styrofoam containers.

"Because otherwise the blood would spoil," she glibly replied.

"I didn't mean that," he said, a small smirk twitching his lips. "I mean, why are you helping me? You've never given me a real explanation." It was a question that had been weighing on his mind since that first moment when the Slayer had tried to comfort him right after he got his soul. It never made sense to him why she would go out of her way like this for him. Spike had wanted to ask her before, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Or to upset her, make her want to leave, because the last thing he wanted was for her to leave. Spike knew he didn't deserve Buffy’s kindness, but he still wanted it anyway.

The microwave timer beeped. Buffy closed the refrigerator door and went to retrieve the mug. She carefully carried it over to Spike, using the time it allotted her to try and formulate her response. “Careful, it’s hot,” she cautioned, setting the steaming mug down in front of the vampire.

“Thanks,” he murmured, then raised his eyebrow at her expectantly, still waiting for an answer.

Buffy sighed, "I'm helping you because you're in bad shape and you need help. It would be wrong of me to turn my back on you. I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do, that’s kinda the Slayer’s job, to do what’s right, so...” She finished with a shrug.

Spike wrapped his hands around the warm mug and leaned forward. He scrutinized Buffy, who was looking down at her hands splayed on the countertop. He didn’t doubt her words, but he got a feeling there was something more to it than just that, something she obviously didn’t feel like sharing just yet. So Spike didn’t press the issue.

"All right, that's fair enough," he conceded. "And believe me Slayer I appreciate all you've done for me. But I don't need a constant babysitter anymore. I promise I won't try to top myself if you leave me alone for more than an hour," he assured. "I mean when was the last time you went home? Other than the once to get some clothes, I'm sure you mum's worried out of her mind. And what about school, isn’t that going to be starting up soon?"

"I got kicked out," Buffy told him, her voice quiet. "Of school and my house. So I have no where else I need to be."

"What do you mean you got kicked out of your house?" Spike inquired, brow knitted. He couldn’t imagine Buffy’s mum throwing the girl out, it didn’t reconcile with the woman he had met. He had a phantom headache remembering his first encounter with the eldest Summers lady which proved to him how much she loved her child. “When did that happen?”

Buffy shifted uneasily, "The night we fought Angel,” she informed. “The night my mom found out who-what I was, that I was the slayer, she freaked out. She couldn't understand it, couldn’t handle it. I tried to explain, but she didn't get it. We had a sort of fight about me going to take on Angel and she told me if I left not to bother to come back so..."

Spike let a silent moment tick by before saying anything. "I'm sure she didn't mean it," he offered. "And I bet she feels just terrible about it now. Mum's say things sometimes, do things they don't really mean. Even the good ones. Which yours is by the way. My time with her might have been limited, but even in that little bit I could tell you were her world. She's gotta be worried sick. Does she even know where you are?"

"I left a note," Buffy answered evasively.

"Right, okay,” Spike drawled.”And did you happen to mention where you were going to be in this note?"

"No," Buffy grudgingly admitted. She sighed, "Look, I know I'm going to have to eventually face my mother and everyone, and I will, but not right now. I just I can't. I'm not ready."

Spike nodded. "I understand. You gotta do this in your own time. Sorry if I was a bit pushy."

"You weren't," she assured. "Well , you kinda were." The pair shared a smile. “But it’s okay. And thanks," she added.

"For what?" Spike wondered.

"For what you said, about my mom, my being her world and all."

He shrugged. "Just call it like I see it, pet." He lifted the mug to Buffy as if in solute, then brought it to his lips and drank.

Buffy smiled watching him down the whole thing in record time then readily got up when he asked for a refill.

~*~*~*~

“All right, Slayer,” said Spike, “do your worst.”

“Uh, shouldn’t you be wanting me to do my best?” Buffy asked, standing over him with the bottle of hair dye in her gloved hand.

Spike looked up at her with a wry expression, “I’m just trying not to get my hopes up.” he said. Buffy rolled her eyes. “I still don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” he said, not for the first time, “is it really necessary?”

“Yes!” Buffy adamantly contended. “ You can’t see yourself so you don’t understand the direness of your hair situation, trust me, this needs to be done. So lean back,” she ordered.

Spike dutifully leaned his head back against the sink and Buffy tried to secure the towel, that kept slipping, over his shirt. “Ugh!” she cried out, frustrated, “Why won’t this damn thing stay up?”

Spike couldn’t help crack a grin.

“We’ll see how much you’re smiling when you’re shirt gets ruined from peroxide stains.”

Spike shrugged, his popping up. “Simple way to fix that,” he said, “I’ll just take it off.”

Buffy froze, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. “Take it off?” she practically squeaked. “Take your shirt off?”

“That’s what I had in mind, yeah.” He tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing her through narrowed eyes, left brow cocked, “Unless that makes you uncomfortable.”

“Pfft, why should that make me uncomfortable?” Buffy replied with airy indifference, “Go ahead, take it off, I don’t care.”

“All right then.” Spike leaned up and pulled the black tee over his head. He rolled it up and tossed it aside.

Buffy was careful to keep her eyes up, “Better?”

“Yep.”

“Good, then lean back. I still have to get to the butcher’s before closing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting her. Buffy rolled her eyes and shook the little plastic bottle of hair dye.

“Ready?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Buffy leaned over him and began spurting the dye along his root line, massaging it with her gloved hands.

“Mmm.” A small moan escaped from Spike. “That feels good.” He cracked open his eyes and looked up at Buffy. “You’re good with your hands.”

The huskiness of his voice induced a shiver in the pit of Buffy’s stomach, and looking into his eyes was having the usual disconcerting effect. She’d never seen such pure blue.

She cleared her throat, shaking herself. “Thanks,” Buffy muttered. “Now close your eyes; you don’t want any of this dripping in them.”

Spike did as he was told. Buffy closed her eyes too, taking a deep breath. She was still trying to steady herself. She resumed applying the hair dye for a few minutes without comment and had recovered from the effect Spike had had on her and was starting to feel complacent. But then she went and let her eyes slip from the safe spot that was the top of Spike’s head down to his placid face; He looked relaxed and beautiful, completely at ease with Buffy’s hands on him. Buffy remembered how skittish he had been just a short time ago, it was a testament to just how far he had come that he was allowing her to do this. Thinking about how much trust they had built with each other made Buffy smile.

But then she suddenly became uncomfortable with the level of emotion that hit her, and had to look away from his face. Everything would have been fine if she had just looked up instead of down. Now Buffy’s eyes were locked on the chiseled perfection that was Spike’s chest. Her mouth was dry again, she licked her lips. Her breathing started to go shallow. She knew she should look away, but she was mesmerized by the sheer beauty of his marble cut torso. It looked like one of those Greek statues; artistically sculpted and flawless.

Buffy wondered if it felt as hard and smooth as it looked. She imagined running her hand along his chest, his abs, then maybe a little lower... she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

“Uh, pet?” Spike prodded, trying to get the Slayer’s attention. It didn’t quite work. “Buffy!” he tried again, a bit louder, and managed to snap her out of her daze.

“Hmm?” she said, then pulled her eyes to see that she was slathering Spike’s forehead. “Oh god, sorry.” She snatched up the towel off the counter and started wiped off the mess she made on his head. Once he was all clean Buffy stammered, “Uh, so you’re all done, you just have to let it set for fifteen minutes, then rinse.” She peeled off her gloves and chucked them in the trash. “I’m going to go have a quick shower,” she told him, turning and hastening from the room.

Buffy wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible before Spike figured out why she had flaked. She knew all about vampires enhanced sense of smell; they could tell when someone was aroused by scent. Buffy hadn’t gone into full fledged fantasy mode, but she didn’t want to take the chance she was giving off anything.

I better go ahead and make that a cold shower.

Spike stared after the girl a look of astonishment of his face. He couldn’t believe what had just happened, but he could swear that the vibes he had just been getting off the Slayer were the extra- friendly kind. But that couldn’t be, he must’ve been imagining. But what if he wasn’t. The idea brought a slow smile across his face.

~*~

Buffy gasped, jumping when she heard a loud yelp, that sounded like someone in pain, and there was only one someone in the mansion other than her. Worry and panic propelled her to jump out of the shower. She only just remembered to grab a towel to wrap around herself before bolting out of the bathroom, running toward where she thought the cry had come from. She found Spike in the kitchen, he was bent over the sink spraying his head with the detachable hose.

“What?” she asked frantically, “What’s the matter?”

“My head’s on fire that’s what!” Spike yelled. “You must not of done it right. I swear if I end up bald, soul or not, I’m gonna bite you.”

After Buffy came down from her initial panic, she was able to appreciate the humour of the situation. She started giggling uncontrollably.

“You think this is funny, do you?” Spike asked incensed, whipping his head up from the sink and turning to look at her. As soon as he saw her his jaw dropped, any traces of anger or annoyance left his face.

Seeing the way he was staring at her sobered Buffy as she realised she was only in a towel. Suddenly feeling exposed she wrapped her arms about herself tightly.

Perhaps it was the peroxide; maybe it had leached through his skull and ate away at his brain. Or maybe the fumes killed off a few of his brain cells. But most likely it ha d something to do with the girl standing before him practically naked and dripping wet, that had Spike at a loss for words. He felt his eyes gloss over as he looked at Buffy, nothing but a piece of cotton keeping him from getting a look at her beautiful ripe body. Now his head was really on fire.

“Y-you haven’t got any clothes on,” Spike brilliantly pointed out.

“Yeah, well I didn’t exactly have time to get dressed. When I heard you screaming like a girl I was worried it was an emergency. If I had known it was just you being a big baby because of your hair, I wouldn’t have bothered getting out of the shower.”

Buffy’s snarkyness snapped Spike from his lust induced daze and reminded him that he was angry,“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shower. Here let me make it up to you.” He took up the hose again. He took aim at her and squeezed the trigger.

“Spike!” Buffy squealed, “stop it!”

“Make me,” he taunted, then sprayed her again.

Buffy shrieked and darted out of the line of fire, but the spray just followed her. She made it to the refrigerator and yanked the door open, then ducked down to use it as cover. “You are so dead,” She warned him, “–er,” she added, “dead–er.” She heard him laugh and her already simmering blood began to boil. She saw the carton of eggs sitting on the shelf and smiled wickedly. She grabbed two, then quickly popped up from her protective barrier and lobbed them at him, hitting him in the chest. “Ha!” she cried triumphantly before ducking back down.

“Hey!” Spike shouted. “That’s not cool.”

“What?” Buffy countered, “You started it!”

“Well, yeah okay, I did. But I only got you with water, which doesn’t really count since you were already wet.”

“That’s some pretty fuzzy logic you’re using there.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Spike said, “you’re right I was out of line. I shouldn’t have sprayed you. How about a truce? You put down the eggs, I’ll put down the hose."

Buffy thought this over for a beat. “Okay,” she agreed. “But you first. Put down the hose.”

“Okay.”

She waited until she heard the zipping noise of the hose retracting, then carefully rose from her crouched position. “Now take a step back,” she ordered. He did.

“Now you, let me see your hands,” Spike countered.

“Okay,” Buffy brightly complied. She lifted up her hands, one was free the other holding a little white oval. She smiled.

“He– ” Spike didn’t even have time to get out the small word before he was pelted with another egg.

Before she even knew if she had hit her target, Buffy had whirled around and bolted from the room.

Spike swiped away the yolk on his chest, his jaw clenching. “All right, then, that’s it. No more Mr. Nice vampire,” he muttered before making chase after the Slayer.