"Is all the bread that shape?" He asked, taking a spot at the table, arms folded on the table's surface, chair pushed out far back, his head rested on his arms. Spike hadn't realised how casual he was being about her - not sitting up, not keeping his posture - just resting there like he was with an old friend, rather than the enemy her friends had described Spike as.

  "Bread?" Buffy asked as she was layering cold cuts and pickles in her plate on a slice of bread. Spike simply shifted his one hand to point at her plate, indicating the food she was preparing and, honestly, waiting for her brain to catch up to what her ears had heard and her lips had shaped.

  "Oh. Yeah! Well, I mean, this bread is. There's lots of bread... You don't remember sliced bread?" Buffy asked, waving a slice of it like she was checking if it frightened him. Spike almost smiled at the display.

  "Don't remember much of anything, pet." Spike replied with his chin bobbing off of the back of his folded arms where it rested. He hadn't flinched at the nickname, the slip hadn't seemed to be bothering Buffy, the familiarity with which he spoke hadn't bothered her or the little Bit. Spike thought he must have been very forward with his speech before losing his memories.

  "Right. Well, welcome to the twenty-first century buster. We've got sliced bread." She said as she finished spreading mustard on the slice of bread, then slapping it on top of her tower, ready to conquer it. Spike almost smiled.

  "Happy to be here." He answered, and Buffy paused, but then she rolled her eyes and grinned. She began eating and they chatted, Spike shifting slightly so that he wasn't so drooped over the table, restive, finding himself unable to sit still for too long.

  "How old do I look?" He wondered, Dawn had mentioned a Victorian poet - and, that sounded nice, to him at least - even if Dawn had thought it less intriguing. But Spike must have been alive for a long time according to what Dawn had shined a light on, he wondered if he looked that old.

  "Um, about, twenty-something?" Buffy supplied, trying not to eat too loudly, brushing a small crumb from her lips as she answered Spike.

  "As old as you?" He added, and Buffy sat up a little bit.

  "Hey! I'm only twenty one!" She said, apparently offended, and Spike tried to cover his mirth at her indignant reaction, hand raised over his face momentarily.

  "Right, I shouldn't ask a lady her age, should have known better. Sorry." He offered a mild apology, grinning the whole time, yet his manners had peaked through yet again. Buffy looked appeased, or, was it confused? While Spike saw that expression on her he took the opportunity to ask on, hoping that he'd catch Buffy in better humour.

  "Instead, why don't you tell me how old I am?" Spike asked, sounding hopeful. He'd heard the dreadful, terrible parts from Dawn; Spike hoped that he might hear some of the more human aspects from the woman sitting beside him in the hours before sunrise.

  "Must have a few years behind me, if I had been in China during the nineteen hundreds..." He went on, hopeful, that Buffy could fill in the blanks that still were left, hopeful that Buffy might know his age perhaps.

  "Figured that out did ya?" Buffy asked, taking another bite of her massive sandwich, munching as she thought on the answer.

  "I don't know! About, 128- ish? We think you might have been turned some 128 years ago. You told Willow that two years ago. Mm." She covered her mouth a moment, appearing to be struck by a thought.

  "I guess that makes you older, if you count your alive years, like, 150, ish? I dunno. Math is hard." Buffy said to her sandwich, appearing to be defending herself from its accusation. But Spike was distracted by the previous statement.

  "... Vampires can talk to trees?" He asked, looking at her to try and make sure he hadn't lost his mind, along with his memories.

  "What?" Buffy had not understood Spike's question, so he clarified:

  "Willow?" Spike asked, and his voice had sounded to him about as unsure as he had felt.

  "Willow's not a tree, Willow's a person!" Buffy shouted in offense. Spike felt stupid at the sight of her indignation. He sat back and dragged his hands down the table where he sat, sighing for how easily he confused things.

  "I suppose that's no stranger a name than 'Buffy'." Spike said, not stopping his mouth, putting his foot in it before his brain could make him stop.

  "Hey!" Buffy protested and Spike looked like he'd been set aflame when he finally realised the trouble his quick mouth had gotten him in.

  "Which-! Is a perfectly good name, as any name goes!" He tried to correct himself, eyes wide, spine snapping to attention, not really knowing better. Maybe it was a normal name - Spike certainly didn't know - it could have been a very common name that Spike just hadn't remembered.

  "It comes from Elizabeth and-!" Buffy was about to give SPIKE a mouth full he could tell, so he cut her off abruptly to try and nip the offense that the man had so callously caused.

  "It's a good name! Strong. Sharp. Bit dangerous, even!" He tried to assure her, and it did not take his keen skills of observation to see that his flattery, hasty and insincere, hadn't done anything to appease the woman with the strong, sharp, dangerous eyes.

  "My mother gave me that name!" Buffy protested, indignant at the slip that Spike had very obviously tried to cover up without success. But...

  "Your, mum? ... Right..." Then, there was something. He saw it, that small pout, the way her green eyes that had been fierce a moment ago had turned away, turned to sorrow, instead of gazing back at Spike boldly, or telling the rogue to go walk in the sunlight.

  "Where is your mum?" He asked, slow, careful. Spike stretched one hand across the table, let it linger near her, head ducked as the man tried to catch her eye.

  "I don't wana talk about it." Buffy answered, hugging herself, cradling her own arms as she tried to squash the pain that resurfaced. It was all still so fresh, eyes glassy about the rims. The first thought that popped into his head was, Look what you did!

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  Spike had felt that sight like a slap across the face, feeling his body straighten up in shock at the sight of Buffy, the fierce girl, look so hurt and sorrowful. He had to fix it.

  "Bollocks. Buffy, I didn't mean-" he cut off, because 'I don't remember' was really not an appropriate thing to say right then, so as Spike opted to not shove his foot so far down his throat that he'd gag, he decided a different tact might be called for. So Spike inhaled slowly, then let the breath out through his nose, like he was bracing himself before stepping onto thin ice; like the Victorian man was steadying a horse that had spooked.

  "- I didn’t mean to drag you there." he said, softer. He didn’t pull his hand back from the table—but he didn’t push it closer either. Just… left it there. Available. Giving.

  "Not fair of me. I’ve got a habit of… Saying things without stopping. Been barging into things I don’t understand yet." Spike stopped, he felt like he was making excuses, but he didn't want to walk back what he'd done, even if he'd tried to explain: There was just so much that he didn't know. He didn't remember. He hadn't meant to upset her - hated that he was the one pulling bad memories out for her then - Spike didn't want to see her in pain; he just wanted to make her less miserable. Buffy didn’t answer. She stared down at her plate, fingers curled around the edge of it, shoulders tight like she was holding herself together by sheer will. Spike watched that, and the sight of it made something twist low in his chest. That instinct to be protective rose in the man. Again, different than it had been with Dawn, Buffy drawing a heat in his feelings that right then, Spike could just not quantify, so much so that when tears had spilled he felt like it stabbed him.

  "Sorry." Buffy said as a tear slipped loose despite her obvious efforts. She tried to wipe it away with the heel of her hand, like she was annoyed at herself, like she was ashamed. But Spike shook his head.

  "You don’t owe me tidy emotions. Or explanations. Or… anything." His teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw ticked and again he huffed out through the nose, trying to express the things he felt, and he felt - felt too much.

  "Heavens knows I deserve worse than you've given me. I don't even have a way to repay what you and Dawnie - ... But I can listen." He told her, and Buffy pouted. She'd said she hadn't wanted to talk about it but Spike, he was apparently quite stubborn.

  "If you want to talk, I'll listen. If you want to talk, I'm here." Spike promised her. He paused and when Buffy didn't say anything, he went on. Spike tried for a smile.

  "Bloody hell, I'm good at it. Been listening even when I don't want to, ever since I sodding well woke up in that bedroom. Wished I was a bit more rubbish at listening sometimes!" He joked and that earned him the barest huff of breath from Buffy, not a laugh, but almost. Spike took that tiny victory and ran with it—carefully.

  "I'm sorry." At last, Spike had said; His voice deep and sincere. His dark eyes remained on her as Buffy turned, and finally looked up. Spike knew, losing a mother... Spike knew that it was something that hurt - that resonated. Spike may not have had his memories; and yet, he didn't need them! Right then, for once, the loss of memory hadn't mattered a jot - the pain was universal and Spike could understand it.

  "I mean it. I hate seeing you like this." Spike went on, admitted those words. He was for her if she wanted to be comforted. There, even if she did not, frankly; because right then Spike wasn't sure he'd go, or leave her in pain, even if Buffy had asked him to go - Victorian sensibilities be damned.

  "She’s gone, and everyone keeps tiptoeing around it. Like if they don’t say her name, it won’t hurt." Buffy said, flat and fragile all at once. Spike offered a nod, listening, paying mind, not leaving.

  "Yeah, pet, and if you’re stuck sitting with it at this hour in the morning, it may be good to share it." Spike offered, not asking for anything, he felt a fierce drive to look after her, to protect her, he couldn't understand that feeling and he didn't fight it anyway.

  "You don’t have to do it alone." Spike tried to offer a smile, bearing with the sadness that came with that emptiness, not having the memories to fall back on, but still feeling. Still breathing, still alive in ways that he couldn't ignore, still there after he fought for Dawn. He was there for her.

  "I’m already up. Being nocturnal and all." Spike tried for wit, but it was sincerity that drove him, wishing to be there for her, still.

  "She liked you, you know." She said suddenly. Hearing Buffy's words, confusion struck, Spike blinked.

  "Yeah?" He asked incredulously. He didn't think any of those ghost stories made Spike sound likeable; But the Nibblet liked Spike anyway. Hearing that Buffy's mother had liked Spike made him wonder how the women of this household must have operated very strangely, after all there they were, sheltering a vampire.

  "It drove me crazy, how she was always so nice to you. I mean, she worried about me too. But, I'd catch you two sitting in here, talking like you were a puppy she found and not, big scary vampire guy." She sniffed, Spike wondering at that, because maybe Buffy wasn't entirely unlike her mother in that one aspect since...

  "You're nice to me..." He assured her, and that seemed to catch her off guard. Spike worried he shouldn't have said that, like poor Buffy needed to be any more off guard already... But she didn't shout, Buffy just watched Spike, like she hadn't ever seen him before. That look, those green eyes magnified with sorrow where they lay, nearly bare and full of feeling, it had gone through him. Like being pinned to air, he felt his breath hitch and his chest catch, because Spike didn't know what he said that had made Buffy look like that. He was thinking, Sodding hell, can't say anything right, can you?

  "That is-... You and the little Bit...." He paused, straightened up some, lent back.

  "I promise I am going to try not to keep winging about this; But you and Dawn, you defend me. Niblet doesn’t just trust me, pet, she trusts herself. That she's figured out something I haven't yet." He began, hoping Buffy would not interrupt, that she'd listen, because Spike had a point and her earnest look had made it hard to formulate the words right then.

  "It's, it's fine, Spike." Buffy all but whispered, and of course she'd interrupt him, Spike should have known better. Really.

  "Well I'm certainly not complaining but-" He attempted, the look on her emerald gaze robbing him of eloquence, for it paled in comparison to her sorrow and the poet found it hard to phrase the hurt in ways that were making sense. Yet again, despite this, she had spoken - light and airy - and interrupted him.

  "'Certainly'?" Buffy cut in again. How very ironic, that Buffy would wonder on his vocabulary; while Spike was having such a damnable time finding the right words to speak... Spike huffed. The worst possible time for her to get fixated on his language, and yet there it was.

  "Buffy, please, I'm having a hard enough time stringing sentences together and I think this is worth saying. Could I...?" He asked without mocking, amicable and honest; yet Spike hadn't waited for her to reply, he spoke before Buffy might want to tell him 'it's fine' yet again when it wasn't.

  "You wouldn't get pushed around about it, even when you're worried what might happen, trying to protect you and yours. So you and your little sis are both stubborn as hell - and I reckon that's to do with your mum." He tried, not offering pity, not false sympathy, he'd not recalled more than a week of being conscious - Spike didn't have worldly wisdoms to share, despite being '150 - ish' as Buffy had put it. But he had his undaunted and earnest heart on the matter, steady as he was.

  "I don't remember her... But I see what her being her has done, and she's done a bang-up job of it; if you and the little Bit are any proof of that at all. Something to be proud of." He bit his lip. He didn't know if any of that was right, but Spike had said his thoughts anyway, expressing his feelings.

  The house had gone quiet in that soft, fragile way it only ever did right before dawn; too still, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The kitchen light was the only one on, casting a subtle yellow glow over the counters and the clutter and the two of them sitting there, suspended in a moment that didn’t seem to belong to time at all.

  Buffy hadn’t moved from her spot at the table. Spike from across from her, arms crossed, watching her with that quiet, thoughtful stillness he’d had ever since he woke up waited to see if he'd managed to make things better. Even just a little, even just a touch, feeling the need to see Buffy less miserable, stayed there and waited to see if he'd had success at all.

  "Thank you, Spike." Buffy said at length and Spike felt he could breathe, when she'd said his name. He heard it, that sigh, like maybe she was tired, after a long day of patrol; maybe it was just like coming home.