The adults were still arguing when Dawn had snuck out the room again, going to sleep in what he presumed was her own room. So this was Dawn's house. He must have been in one of the spare rooms, he thought, as he lay back once again, closing his eyes to get some rest, once the sun began to light upon the pane of glass of his window beyond the curtains. He felt exhausted, though he recalled but one wakeful night, it had been a long, and trying one.

  He roused again the following evening, eyes open after the sun had set. He must have still been recovering. Why else would he have slept through the entirety of the day, only to wake again after the sun had set?

  "-it isn’t fair, Buffy! It’s my house too!" Outside the shuttered window, voices drifted up from the yard below. He heard them clearly, as clearly as if they had been there with him in that very room now that the ringing had completely receded. Whatever had been causing it, the ringing in his ears, seemed to have resolved itself - healed on its own. Dawn, sharp, furious, had been speaking from the road.

  Spike moved then, sat on the narrow windowsill, one knee drawn up, arms loose around his knee like he wasn’t quite sure what they were for yet, there he listened. Spike frowned faintly at that name. Buffy. None of it sparked anything. No memory. No snap of recognition. Just a low, hollow quiet in his head. Spike rolled it around in his mind anyway, like a coin with no engraving, no currency, no recognizable worth.

  "Dawn, I’m not saying this is permanent. It’s just until we know it’s safe." He heard Buffy speak. Safe. Safe, from what? He'd barely asked himself the question ere before Dawn had echoed the thought:

  "Safe from what? From him? Spike would never hurt me!" Dawn shot back, defending him - Spike. She'd called him Spike. His chest gave a strange, aching lurch at his own name. Spike. That’s me, then. Funny thing was, it sounded right. Like a jacket that fit even if he couldn’t remember buying it. He had been calling himself that, since last night... when she came in... His fingers curled for a second before he forced himself to relax again, thinking of how she had been both overjoyed and distressed. His jaw clenched, he felt the muscle in his jaw flex as it did, yet he could not help but to listen as Buffy and Dawn argued on. Buffy sighed,

  "Dawn, I’m not saying he would. I’m saying… not everyone’s as sure as you are." Buffy said, but Dawn, girl that she was, had an answer for everything:

  "Well, they’re wrong!" Dawn snapped, not allowing for even a second's time before she went on.

  "He jumped into that portal for me. He closed it. He saved me. He saved everyone." Well, that was news to Spike. There was a portal. He saved people. But none of it meant anything: not to him, not right then. They were just words... He didn't remember saving her, or why,... Yet, he felt pride, right in his ribs, where he still wore bandages, for her. Hollow, and unsure, for he hadn't done anything to earn it, Spike thought.

  "I know what he did. I’m not taking that away from him. But the others are scared. They’re protective of you Dawn. Especially now." Buffy hadn't answered right away, trying to keep her voice level with Dawn by the sounds of things. Spike tilted his head alone in the dark where he sat. Especially now? What was special about now? He listened, not having to wait long for Dawn's response.

  "So, what? That means he gets locked out? Like he’s some kind of monster?" Dawn insisted, but this time, Buffy didn't wait with her rebuttal.

  "What if something like the other day happens again?" Buffy's voice was losing patience, and somehow that made him feel the irritation. Like it was aimed at him, maybe? He wasn't sure, but he ran a thumb over his lower lip anyway; wondering, had he done something to deserve that?

  "That wasn’t his fault." Dawn, her voice, it wavered then just a little. Yeah, maybe he'd done something wrong, and deserved that...

  "You say you know that; but what if someone else panics? What if they think they’re protecting you and they... What if they dust him" Buffy had trailed off, pragmatic, then forced herself to finish. Below, Dawn went very quiet... He listened, in the dark, still leaning on the windowsill with his head rested back against it. When Dawn spoke again, her voice was tight.

  "Fine. Okay.... I’ll go." She conceded, speaking a little quieter, more meekly than before.

  "I’ll stay away, for now." So, she was leaving... He wasn't sure what he'd do, why she'd had to leave, but he was sure they knew best.

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  "But not because I’m scared of him. I’m doing it to protect Spike. Because if someone hurts him - if they kill him - because they’re afraid, I won’t forgive any of you. Ever." Dawn went on fiercely. There was a long pause. Then, finally, Buffy exhaled.

  "It's just temporary." Buffy said again, and the way he heard her voice sound, Spike wondered who she was trying to convince more.

  "I know he wouldn’t hurt me. He saved me. He’d never, ever hurt me." Dawn had said with such conviction. But Buffy handed Dawn over to people Spike didn't know, people Spike didn't recognise, and he hung his head. He moved, then, as silence fell over the yard, back into the dark room that he had woken up in. He still heard all that happened below, even when he'd been away from the window. Footsteps that had retreated. A door opened, then closed. Some kind of vehicle began to move.

  Spike stayed where he was, staring out at nothing, chest tight for reasons he couldn’t explain. He didn’t remember saving anyone. Didn’t remember portals, or bravery. He questioned the parts of him, the ones that had answered that girl’s certainty. Something solid. Loyal. Stubborn. A voice inside of him agreed: Wouldn’t hurt her.

  That much felt true. Whatever else he was; whatever he’d been; from even before the world went blank, that much had been true.

  Spike felt himself pat at his chest, reaching for something that wasn't there. Like he wanted to do something with his hands. Habit. But- bugger. He didn't know what. "I don't remember." He told himself for the nth time, self-mockingly, this time because he had had no idea what it was that he had reached for.

  "Okay.... Alone in the house with amnesiac monster. What could possibly go wrong?" Once she was alone Buffy had told herself, and the sarcasm in her voice had made Spike give an amused scoff, hearing her shuffle about the kitchen after Dawn and the others had left. Spike put a hand over his abs, hungry, and realised with a troubled frown that, he had eaten nothing since waking up the night before. He was about to head down, when instead Buffy came up. She didn't knock, just opened the door and walked in finding him already standing.

  "Spike, you're awake." She pointed out, as she stood in the doorway with a mug in each hand. Something warm, and sweet, for her. Something entirely other for him. He flexed his fingers, hands at his sides - blood. Unmistakable. He moved then, steady but not slow, stepping up beside her, reaching over her shoulder to the wall. She stiffened, as he reached past her - and turned the lights on.

  "... What did you think I would do?" He asked in a flat tone, pulling his arm back again, taking a step back toward the room. He felt, somehow, like he'd done something inappropriate again.

  "I was just sittin' in the dark." He said as he raised his hand up, rubbed the back of his neck, threw his arms out helplessly, then let them drop. He felt like he had had to defend his actions, but he didn't know what to do! She did, Buffy, she knew what to do, she handed him the mug, gave his hands something to hold onto.

  "You should drink that." She said, moving into the room, taking a seat and tucking up her knees, bringing her own mug to her lips. He looked at the contents of the warm mug she handed him. Blood. He frowned at it, at her, uncertain. She stared back at him.

  "You want me to drink-" He cut off, then held the mug with one hand, his other used to point at the blood within it. Buffy watched him, sipped at her own hot drink. Sugar. Cocoa. maybe something else - it was hard to tell as he sniffed the air, like all he could smell was the blood. He growled, she arched a brow, he realised that sound had come from him and was surprised at himself.

  "If you don't, you'll get hungry." She told him.

  "And if you get hungry, you could become dangerous." She went on. He felt himself grit his teeth, more because he was tempted to drink from the mug, than he was frustrated with anyone else.

  "'I would never hurt her." He spoke in a deep tone, Dawn had been so sure. He felt, if she was sure, there must have been good reason.

  "How do you know?" Buffy countered, and that had caught under his skin. He didn't like that, the not knowing. But it had felt true... He took a gulp of the contents of his mug, quick, impulsive, daring - before he could lose the courage to do it. He scowled at the contents, that didn't taste the best. He looked at her, wondering if this was a trick. She acted casual and sipped her own drink. This felt, odd. Not right.

  "I believe you would never hurt her, on purpose." Buffy said, while he'd been scowling at the contents of his mug, his eyes turning to look up at her. Curled up, warm, unafraid. Buffy, she believed he would not intentionally harm Dawn; but she'd still sent her away. He tilted his head, watching her intently.

  "Who is she to you?" He asked, because Buffy had prioritized Dawn's safety above all. Buffy had been pragmatic, when Dawn had reluctantly agreed to leave, Buffy had had to chose between isolating Spike in order to have safety, or risk Dawn's exposure to potential threat. Buffy didn't answer right away, he saw that. He broke her gaze, backed off, and sat on the edge of the bed. There, the two of them had the steam from the cups rise between them, as he waited and watched Buffy for something that might explain to Spike how he was meant to behave.

  "She's my sister." She said it, not simple, not plain, like it hurt. Like that had been something, to Buffy, that she had earned.

  "And, you saved her, so I won't let them harm you." She said, and he opened his mouth to speak, to thank her, but she went on:

  "Not unless you prove to be dangerous." She went on, and he shut his mouth. He looked back down at his mug, scowled at it. It really hadn't tasted right. But with a small scoff he tipped the mug up, draining it the rest of the way.

  "Thank you." He'd said, offering the mug back to her across the empty space, the gap between her, and his bed. She looked startled at that, that he'd thank her - whether for the blood, or for giving him refuge, or for offering to be rid of him if he ever proved to be dangerous - the man had thanked her for that.