Spike tried, he really did, but he could come up with no plausible excuse for Meret’s presence. After Giles’ silence, and his own, stretched out for a truly uncomfortable amount of time, he fell back on his most trusted line of defense: sarcasm.

“What’s wrong Rupes? Never seen a pet snake before?” he forced out past cracked lips.

“Actually I have, but I believe that this takes the term ‘exotic pets’ a bit far, don’t you?” Giles asked mildly.

Spike paused for a moment; the lack of accusations or interrogations was unexpected to say the least.

“How long was I out?” he finally asked, voice weak.

“Long enough for Tara and myself to get you in the shower and hose the worst of the sewage, blood, and burned fabric off of you. Believe me when I say that you should be thankful that you were not conscious when we cleaned out your wounds,” Giles raised the cup of tea he was holding and took a sip.

Spike turned his head slightly towards where the watcher stood in the doorway. His battered coat hung from a hook on the wall and a pile of black, the remains of his other clothes and the charred pillowcase, had been tossed in the far corner. He was surprised to see his jeans there as well, because he knew he was wearing pants. The fabric was rubbing his skin, irritating the wounds. He glanced down and stared in horror at his attire.

“Tell me those aren’t what I think they are,” he begged the watcher.

“What? Oh, the trousers. Yes I believe those were Riley’s. I don’t want to know how they came to be in my flat, but I believed they would be more comfortable than tweed and I was not about to subject Tara to your prolonged nudity.”

Bleeding Christ, he’s dressin’ me up in Cardboard’s fatigues!

The watcher’s tone had been bland, but there was a wickedly amused glint to his eyes that told Spike that Giles knew exactly what he had done.

Meret’s mental touch a balm over his embarrassment and indignation, Spike simply let his head fall back and closed his eyes again. He wanted to growl. He wanted to shout. He wanted to shake the watcher by the throat and shred the offending pants, but he was simply too tired and injured to put forth the effort.

His lack of an outburst must have unsettled Giles more than a little, because when the watcher spoke again, his voice was tinged with concern. “Spike, I understand that you must be in significant pain, but I must ask you a few questions.”

The vampire nodded his head ever so slightly, but did not open his eyes. He could feel Meret curl into the side of his neck that had escaped the worst of the burns.

“First of all, what did this to you and should we be worried about it making an appearance?”

“I’m not sure. There were seven of them to begin with. Two followed Meret, but she lost them over near Old Gray. I killed four in the sewers." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "They were ugly bastards; pasty white skin, no faces. Disgustin.’ The last one did this to me, their leader, a human. I think I lost him in the sewers, assumin’ that he ever tried to follow me at all,” Spike hated the admission, but there it was. Running from any fight galled him to the core.

“I’m sorry, did you say the demons were following a human?” Giles asked, disbelieving.

“Got the fried brain to prove it. What’s wrong Rupes, can’t believe anythin’ ill of a fellow pulser?” Spike asked in disgust. The vampire, whose entire existence revolved around the world’s many shades of gray, found those who only saw black and white to be pathetically naïve. He had always hoped for more from the man who had once been called Ripper.

He could hear Giles clear his throat at the unspoken rebuke. The watcher was never one to take criticism well, especially from a member of the undead. “Do you know why they attacked you?” he asked at length.

“Either they were after the pretty you’ve got wrapped with my kit over there or Meret here. I’m guessing the latter because the two that went after her had nets, but that doesn’t explain why five followed me after we split up.” Spike was honestly perplexed.

The vampire could hear a rustle of fabric and a soft gasp. The contents of the blackened pillowcase must have been forgotten in the rush to tend to his injuries. “Spike, do you know what this is?” the watcher breathed.

“If you’re holding the big cross I managed to lug all the way here, then yes. It’s the Sangre de Cristo ruby set in a fair chunk of gold with some other jewels for garnish. The soon to be Mrs. Whelp is going to hate you for makin’ her pay me finder’s fees after I bring that beauty in,” Spike allowed a hint of pride to sneak into his voice. The Sangre de Cristo ruby had been thought lost for hundreds of years. The irony that such a powerful relic would be restored to the slayer line by a vampire was not lost on Spike. “Tell the Council ‘you’re welcome’ for me and ask that they pay the demon bird in small, unmarked bills. She’ll like that.” Spike’s laugh sounded more like a wheeze, but the point had been made.

“I… Yes, well…” Giles foundered for a moment before switching gears entirely. “By ‘Meret’ I assume you mean the creature on your shoulder that has been terrorizing me for the past couple hours. How exactly did you get your hands on a coatl hatchling? Tara seems inclined to think that you’ve had it for some time.”

“Meret’s a ‘she.’” The correction took on a weary edge.

“Well, technically…,” Giles’ voice slipped into his lecturing tone.

Spike interrupted him before he got the chance to launch into an overly stuffy diatribe. “You can’t hear her Rupert. Believe me, she’s as ‘she’ as they come.”

“That doesn’t answer my question…” Giles pressed.

“Where's Glinda?” Spike asked in an empty attempt at avoidance.

“Getting blood and a certain book that you apparently never returned to her from your crypt. I believe she is also picking up some medical supplies. It wouldn’t do to have you bleeding all over my flat and leaving stains on the furniture. You’ve already introduced some of the most interesting odors into my foyer I have ever had the misfortune of smelling. Now answer the question, please,” Giles returned briskly.

“I won her egg in a poker game. She hatched and thinks I’m her mum.”

Silence.

“I can appreciate your humor at times Spike, but now is not one of them. I’m sure it wouldn’t kill you to be serious for a moment,” Giles snapped, irritation lacing his tones.

Spike’s dry laughter echoes in the small bathroom. He opened one eye wide enough to take stock of the fuming watcher before dissolving even further into his amusement. The laughter tore at his charred chest, but it warmed his unbeating heart as well, especially when Meret added little puffs of her own to his scratchy guffaws.

His eyes were leaking tears, both from the pain and his mirth, while the watcher glowered in impotent fury, when Tara finally returned. Spike’s laughter had weakened into dry, rasping wheezes so he could hear every word when Giles questioned the witch about Meret in the hallway. The witch’s responses returned the watcher to Spike’s side with a chagrined expression on his face.

“I’ll be in the den, reading. Tara is warming you some blood and will be along shortly.” Spike knew that was as close to an apology as he could ever expect from the watcher.

Tara did arrive moments later, bearing a huge glass, the kind that only come with special promotion deals at movie theaters and fast food joints, and a stuffed satchel. When he attempted to reach for the blood himself, Tara gently but firmly pushed his burned digits away before dropping a ridiculous accordion straw into the blood and offering it to him with a quiet smile. After their shared evenings in his crypt, the silence was comfortable, even to the typically garrulous vampire.

Spike drank the blood in long pulls, its rich texture soothing his burned throat. He could feel his body starting to use the blood to mend his many wounds. After finishing the entire glass, Spike struggled into a seated position to watch the witch. The motion sent sparks along his singed nerves and he tried to ignore the smudges of black and red he left behind on the enameled bathtub, but he wanted to rebuild at least some of his suffering dignity. Meret coiled around the shower fixtures and watched the two intently.

Tara set aside the bloody glass before digging into the cloth bag. She extracted a large plastic bowl, into which she emptied four bottles of a bright blue gel and a handful of herbs before proceeding to knead strips of gauze in the vile looking concoction. She whispered a few words under her breath and the bright blue ooze seemed to glow.

Looks like essence of smurf.

Spike would have liked to protest when Tara started wrapping one of his hands, but when the first strip touched his charred flesh, his arguments quickly faded.

“Magic?” he asked, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Not entirely,” was Tara’s soft reply. “The magic only keeps the gel wet and cold, kind of like an ice pack. The aloe, tea tree extract, some healing herbs, they do the rest.”

Spike took the opportunity to really look at his wounds. His torso and arms were blackened and cracking, blood trickling from the worst of the burned fissures. In retrospect, trying to block a fireball with his arms had not been the most well thought through action Spike had ever undertaken. His chest had still taken the brunt of the attack, but his arms were in equally bad shape, and his hands were little more than charred claws. Had he been human, the injuries would surely have killed him. The burns were significantly less severe below his waist where the baggy pants exposed his hips, and if the level of pain was an accurate measure, his neck and face had escaped the worst of the fire as well.

Tara wrapped him in soothing blue gauze from waist to chin before sitting back to study her handiwork. Considering the amount of gel slathered on each strip, it would take hours for it all to soak into his burned skin. Another whispered word of magic hardened the bandages slightly, sealing the healing balm inside. Seemingly satisfied, she wiped the worst of the gel off on a towel and pulled one last item from her bag. “It was hanging on the clearance rack when I went to buy the aloe. I knew you would hate what Mr. Giles had. I hope these fit.” The shy witch held up a cheap pair of black, rayon pajama pants.

Spike did not know what to say. The gentleness with which Tara had tended his wounds and thoughtfulness of the gift were so foreign to him that he could force no words past the lump in his throat. After being crushed and burned under a church organ, Drusilla had done little to help him recover beyond stealing a wheelchair and bringing him the occasional pet to eat, even though his injuries had been earned while curing the mad vampiress. With one hand, Spike accepted the pants before capturing the tips of Tara’s fingers in his own bandaged mitt and bringing them to his lips. The witch froze before turning a dusky red. Even though the contact hurt more than a little, Spike persisted.

“If you ever need anything, want anything of me, you have only to ask,” he whispered fervently. In this, one of his most unguarded moments, the softer tones of his human persona came to the fore. Tara smiled tremulously and gave his hand the barest squeeze in understanding before letting go and packing things away in her bag.

It was then that Spike realized that Tara had somehow added her name to his short list of true friends. The thought made him smile in return.

“There’s a little more gel in the bowl. I thought you might want to spread it over the worst of your other burns. I’ll go try to distract Mr. Giles for a bit with what I know about Meret. That should give you enough time to change,” she murmured. On the way out, she offered Spike another soft smile before closing the door behind her.

*****

It had taken a great deal of pain, a fair amount of cursing, and a little luck for Spike to get out of the fatigues and into the loose, slick pants that Tara had purchased for him. The rest of the gel made its way onto his face, stomach, and legs. It felt sticky and waxy, but the cool wetness soothed the stinging burns, which more than made up for the balm’s strange texture. After ripping a gaping hole in the seat of the camouflage pants and “accidentally” dropping them into the toilet, Spike decided he felt up to facing the watcher again.

His steps were slow and careful as he emerged from the bathroom so as to not jostle his injuries. Meret winged lazily along behind him. He found both watcher and witch sitting on the couch. Tara was recounting one of her many visits to his crypt over the last month. Much to Spike’s surprise, she admitted that she had started feeling echoes from the little serpent. Dawn had spent the better part of an afternoon playing with Meret a few days before and had claimed that she could feel something when she was around the coatl. Spike had looked on indulgently and wondered at the time, but if Tara, who was so much more experienced in magic and psychic occurrences, was feeling the same thing, maybe Dawn’s claims had not been empty.

Giles protested quietly, probably assuming that Spike was still in the bathroom and therefore could not hear him, “Tara, you know that while Spike may act… fondly towards some of us, demon’s lack the ability to truly feel the kind of emotions necessary for a coatl’s link to expand. I’m sure that these… sensations are your own.”

The fact that the watcher sounded like he was trying to convince himself of his own words did not make them hurt any less. Spike had allowed himself to believe, again, that he had made some progress with the Englishman. He should have known better. As with all the times before, Spike had his hopes shot down in flames. He was back at square one. No, “back” implied some forward motion. He had come full circle around the perimeter of square one.

Tara’s wide eyes must have alerted Giles to the vampire’s presence, because the watcher whirled around to face the hallway. Alarm and something else the vampire could not identify passed across Giles’ face.

The room was quiet enough that the rapid rhythm of the watcher’s heart and the slower echo from the witch seemed deafening. The final glow of the setting sun colored the windows of the living room. Without a word, Spike returned to the bathroom, back even stiffer than before. He pulled his coat off its hook and spread it on the floor. Inside, he put the gold cross and the two pieces of jewelry, now badly mangled from their trials, on the leather and wrapped them up into a loose bundle. After struggling to his feet, he tried to situate the roll of leather so that it would chafe his burns as little as possible and walked back out of the room and down the hall. Meret had perched on his shoulder and the pressure stung quite a bit. When he reached the den though, her long hiss and the waves of defensiveness radiating from the coatl more than made up for any discomfort.

He had almost made it to the door when the watcher’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Back to my crypt,” Spike answered, still facing the door.

“That warlock might still be waiting for you there and I haven’t finished questioning…”

“I’ll take my chances. At least I know where I stand with the mage and his chums.” That answer effectively silenced the watcher, so Spike continued out into the night.

The walk took longer than usual, each shuffled step causing him pain, but Spike made it to his crypt without incident. He found his sanctuary blessedly empty and apparently untouched. Exhausted from his trials and the lack of any real sleep, Spike went straight downstairs. He gingerly lay down on his back, orienting his body so as few of his burns touched the silky sheets as possible. Instead of her usual bed, Meret came to rest on the pillow next to the vampire’s ear. He was soon asleep and not even unneeded breaths disturbed his death-like repose.

He dreamed of red feathers and blood.