Buffy and Spike stayed up talking long after that. Buffy didn't really talk more about her mum, but Spike found himself almost smiling nevertheless. The night bled into day, light crested the horizon. Spike knew when it was dawn, he felt it, even when sheltered from the light, he had known. Still, he stayed.

  Morning light crept around the edges of the curtains like it was trying to apologize for being there. Buffy was talking about the burden lain upon her for being a Slayer, the concept one that Spike, Slayer of Slayers, had begun to understand. Yet it was that she claimed things had gone back to something of a routine. There was no sign of the hell beast that had been after 'the key' and so it seemed that maybe Dawn was going to be safe. Buffy added that, in no small part, she had Spike to thank for that. Spike himself didn't feel so heroic, averting his eyes, but he would not run. Still, he stayed.

  He listened, while Buffy complained about the various aspects of being called as a Slayer and how her incredible powers came with a mountain of responsibility and how it was hard. He thought she sounded like a spoiled brat, especially when he'd just learned of the most horrible things he could imagine being done by his hands. He raised his palms, turned them over, looking for blood, but he tried to do it when Buffy was talking animatedly enough that he wouldn't distract her with his own worrying. The man didn't even rebuke her for her winging, it seemed to Spike that Buffy might have had no one else to say all her complaints to, he thought, Let her get it out.

  Then, as the tale went on, as amusement lifted one eyebrow higher to observe her, he wondered Doesn't she need to sleep?

  He could see it on her face. The exhaustion in the way her shoulders slumped, in the way her eyes lost focus for half a second at a time. She was running on adrenaline and willpower and whatever stubborn force kept her upright. Slayer stamina, sure - but she was still human. As he stood there, hip rested against the counter, arms crossed against his chest, wrapped in black cotton, he wondered why she hadn't gone to bed. Why hasn't she shipped me back to my quarters or told me to sod off?

  She was in the middle of saying how tired she was, how exhausting it was to live as she lived, but as Spike tried to guess at the hour on that Saturday morning and the light crashed against the curtains in a way that had begged to reach him, set him ablaze, he found that he was staring at Buffy, who hadn't made even a fraction of an attempt to go to bed.

  "Dawn's going to want breakfast. And she's going to want to see that you are still here mister!" Buffy was, in fact, making excuses for Spike to stay right where he was. Making excuses to not go to sleep, 'just a little longer' she had said, 'I'm so tired I couldn't possibly sleep' she had yawned. And still, he stayed.

  "Wouldn't miss it." Spike dawdled, his voice low. He managed a faint, almost-smile, imagining that he saw Buffy's shoulders relax and the tension leave her features when Spike assured, he would be there. So Buffy spoke on, and Spike listened. He wondered if other vampires were foolish enough to sit in a kitchen and talk about nothing for hours with a girl who had given him shelter. Or was he unique on that? Even with the sun so close, Spike had found that he felt comfortable, just happy to be there and not alone with his loud, silent, thoughts for once. The patter of bare feet shuffled in the upstairs hallway, and Spike glanced toward the sound as if he might see through walls to the source, the unmistakable sound of Dawn - operating fully on automatic.

  "Buffy, I'm starving. I didn't eat anything before bed." The teenager said, demanding sustenance. She appeared in the doorway, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, eyes barely open. A groggy, half-feral teenager, who hadn't slept enough and got up out of bed because she got woken up by her stomach. The sight was such that, Spike almost laughed. Something about the normalcy of it hit him sideways: Monsters, Slayers, memory loss, near-death, horror stories, emotional confessions… and then this. A teenage girl wandering into the kitchen looking a right state, demanding food, like the world was still perfectly ordinary and not tipped on its head.

  "Dawn, it’s too late to -" Buffy said, but stopped. Squinted

  "Well, actually it's too early... Anyway you should sleep a bit longer." Buffy said and Spike stared at her. Wait, hadn't she said that the Nibblet would be wanting breakfast? Okay, so then why was Buffy trying to send Dawn back to bed and leave him alone with her in the kitchen again, wasn't the breakfast the plan?

  "I don’t care," Dawn mumbled obstinately.

  "I need food or I will actually die." Dawn went on, stubborn in her mission. Spike glanced at Buffy again, she looked wrecked.

  "Drama queen." Buffy muttered with a huff, leaning her chin on her palm. Spike looked at Buffy then, thought that she looked as tired as Buffy had expressed that she was. He realised then, the girls had yet to fall into any sort of routine, what with their mother's departing being so recent... Spike wanted to help.

  So he moved: Without a word - he didn't know what might be right to say - he uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the counter. The man went to the fridge like it was the most natural thing in the world, moving silently without really letting himself think on it, and sought out something that might be reasonable for a girl Dawn's age to have at that early hour in the morning. Scanning the shelves, finding Milk, he thought that surely must be appropriate and hoped he wasn't making a blunder. But he wasn't letting his fear of making a fool of himself stop him from trying. Protective. Providing. Helpful.

  He pulled it out, closed the fridge, and set it on the table in front of Dawn without a word. Just a simple, quiet action. Buffy blinked, surprised. He thought for sure that he had done something wrong again for a second, but then her surprise melted into something softer, then like it was suddenly her cue, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a box of cereal, sliding it across the table. Dawn stared at the offering like it was a holy ritual.

  "…You’re both amazing." she said solemnly, already grabbing a bowl. Dawn poured cereal. Poured milk. Sat down. Immediate appeasement. Crisis solved. Buffy looked up at him. Their eyes met and she gave him a small, tired smile. He thought, it was not big, not dramatic, but he thought it looked dangerously close to gratitude. Maybe, appreciation. Thank you. He didn’t say anything; Didn’t need to. So he crossed his arms again and looked smug, leaning against the counter again, feeling well satisfied with himself.

  Spike watched them. The familiarity. The rhythm. The way Buffy’s irritation had zero heat in it. The way Dawn moved like she owned the place. It felt… Homey, even - alive. Breakfast was more quiet than the night somehow, odd, that the girls were not more boisterous when the sun was out. Last Spike had checked, he was the one who was meant to be nocturnal. Once Dawn had gotten a few spoonfuls of her breakfast, she angled her head to look at him. Spike looked back.

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  "You’re still here" Dawn said, mid-munch of her cereal. Spike felt his own expression sharpen at her words. It took him a moment before he could respond, his thoughts troubled at that, Was that why she came down so early, she worried I'd leave?

  "Where else would I go?" Spike asked a question in response, voice so low it neared more the sense of a growl than a whisper. He was more annoyed at the insinuation that he'd abandon her - abandon both of the girls - just because she'd been brave and told him all of the stories that he had been asking about since the moment of his waking!

  "Thought you'd get scared, and run away." Dawn said and her voice, then, had taken on a teasing depth to it. He scoffed. It amused Spike, but he tried to sound annoyed with her, even when Spike found Dawn's ridiculous behaviour amusing.

  "I don't scare that easily Bit. And don't talk with your mouth full!" He admonished, and he wasn't sure where that last part had come from, but blazes if she wasn't lady-like. Buffy and Dawn both had a laugh at that, the girls turning to each other and giggling over Spike speaking of manners. He arched a brow. Spike wondered, had he not had any manners before? It was the only conclusion the man could have guessed at, when his words had made both Buffy and Dawn laugh...

  "Oi, laugh all you want. Some of us were raised with manners. Terrifying, I know. And that's even after hearing all that stuff that I did." Spike said, mock-offended, sighing dramatically. He had desired to keep the playful, comfortable moment around the table, enjoying the warmth that the two ladies had lent the undead thing.

  "You don't remember being raised!" Dawn countered and was still smiling, Buffy looking scandalised that Dawnie would make such a joke at Spike's expense.

  "Dawn!" Buffy exclaimed, turning to Dawn wide-eyed, and for a moment it looked like Dawn's smile was faltering. But Spike just went on talking:

  "Yeah but, just because I’m undead and don't remember being alive, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate basic table etiquette. Savage rumours, that..." He said, enjoying the amicable exchange. Spike pointed two fingers from over where his hands had been crossed on his chest, pinning the cheeky little Bit with faux warning.

  "You laugh while you can, because next I’ll be insisting on napkins and indoor voices." Spike said, setting a new fit of giggles from Dawn, who went back to eating her breakfast. He was clearly not offended. Settling back he looked to Buffy with a small smile faintly sharpening his lips. She saw that he was fine, clearly, and so the green-eyed woman had been appeased.

  "Alright, now that the cereal's been demolished," When the laughter had died down and Dawn had finished eating, Buffy had spoken once again.

  "- I think it's a good idea that we all go and get some more sleep. Or, any sleep." She realised with a frown, as Buffy and Spike had yet to sleep since the night before. Dawn didn't fight it. Fed, seeing Spike still there, she shrugged and put her bowl in the sink, before turning to go back up to her room again.

  "Works for me. Good night." She said, Dawn out the kitchen with an equal lack of ceremony as her entrance less than an hour before.

  "It's morning already." Spike called mildly after her, but he wasn't sure if the Nibblet had heard him, or of the girl had already been returning to the automatic mode where she would get some more rest, before the day would begin in earnest for her. He turned, Spike giving a questioning look to Buffy. He didn't actually ask, but there was the wondering thought of Spike, You want me to stay?

  "Get some rest," Buffy began to say, a droop of her eyes and a languid stretch coming in answer to the unspoken question, and he saw that perhaps, Buffy was feeling more prepared to have a restful sleep.

  "Or whatever vampires do instead." Buffy added, heading for the stairs in order to head upstairs herself. Spike's brows lifted momentarily, because hell if he knew what it was that vampires do, or do not do, but he had been in a jovial mood, and there was no stopping his wit or humour when he had been in a mood then.

  Brood dramatically, apparently. Dawn tells me it’s tradition." He answered the question of what vampires do to rest, making Buffy snort, almost a laugh. He was proud, somehow, that Spike had managed to make both his living companions smile and almost laugh...

  "Goodnight, Spike." Buffy said, and he inclined his head.

  "And to yourself too, Buffy." Spike said, returning to the bedroom, closing the door behind him, as he heard the rooms of the house sigh and the sounds around him as Buffy and Dawn went to sleep, settle. And for the first time since waking up after the tower, when he followed her out and headed back to the room, he didn’t feel like he was walking into a cage. He felt like he had found something worth staying for.

  Spike hadn’t moved from the bed since Buffy left him sometime after three. He’d lain 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—cold, heavy, impossible to swallow or spit out. Every time he closed his eyes he saw flashes that weren’t quite memories: railroad ties slick with rain and blood, a girl’s wide eyes in a burning alley, laughter that sounded like his own but felt borrowed. None of it solid. Just impressions. Echoes. Enough to make his skin crawl.

  He heard Dawn before Buffy—quick, light steps down the hall, bathroom door opening and closing, the soft hiss of the shower starting. Normal sounds. Human sounds. Things that should have felt foreign but didn’t.

  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"