She hesitated at the threshold for a moment, fighting the strong urge within her to flee. Buffy gave two, soft knocks, and opened the crypt door with gentleness and finesse that she was not aware was even possible when it came to dealing with him.

“Spike?” she called out softly in spite of her thumping heart, stepping inside.

“Slayer? What are you… what are you doin’ here in this neck of the woods?” he slurred out. He was leaning by the fridge, looking more bruised and battered than he had the day before, if it was possible.

“I figured… you couldn’t get around and that you, ya know, needed some blood?” She pulled out a blue thermos from the grocery bag in her hand.

“Ninety-eight point six, is it?” He gave her a crooked grin. The comment invoked in her several memories, making her blush. She mentally shook the images away.

“I bought you some Wheatabix for it. For texture, right?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, watching her as she walked further into the crypt, heading towards the sarcophagus.

“And some cigarettes, cause I wasn’t sure if you ran out of those. I know how you like to smoke like a chimney. And of course—”

“Buffy,” he called out, making her pause in her ramblings. She placed the bag slowly atop the sarcophagus before turning to him.

“Why are you… What is this?” She picked up the thermos and walked over to him. Unscrewing the cap, she handed it to him.

“I need you well, Spike. You’re the best fighter I have. And I figured if I’m gonna play nursemaid, well… might as well attempt to go the full nine yards, right?” Buffy hoped she didn’t sound nervous. She watched him as he sniffed at the blood, brow crinkled, putting it to his lips slowly.

“It’s fresh. And human. I know it would help you heal all that much faster if—”

“Bloody hell!” he rasped, looking at her in shock. “What did you—”

“I was at the hospital. I know that you need—”

“But this is… Buffy,” he whispered. He felt beyond speechless, already knowing to an extent what she had done. She pulled back her sleeve, showing him the band aid atop a piece of cotton on the juncture of her upper and forearm.

“Human blood works faster than animal blood, and Slayer blood works best of all.” He just looked at her with his one good eye in a cross between awe and confusion. “I… donated some blood, and just swiped it afterwards. It was mine, after all,” she added hastily.

“Right,” he croaked out.

“Right,” she repeated, not looking at him. “I’ll go get that Wheatabix.” She turned away, heading to his sarcophagus. He hobbled after her.

They sat in silence atop the sarcophagus, Spike crumbling the crackers into the blood, sipping it slow as she watched, swinging her legs back and forth, her boots clanking against the stone on each impact.

“I’ll stop by the butcher’s tomorrow. Bring you some more.”

“Ok,” he said softly after a huge gulp.

“Spike?” His head shot up, looking at her intently.

“Yeah, luv?”

“Why do you… why do you even care?”

“Besides the fact I care for the Niblet and Joyce? Sorry, by the way. I didn’t get the chance to—”

“I know. Willow told me you stopped by.”

“Oh. Well… you know why, Slayer.”

“Yeah, but how? I mean, once upon a time, you hated me.”

“Things change. And I never hated hated you. You were my opponent. ‘S nothin’ personal.”

“Nothing personal?” she asked sardonically.

“I never brought the fight to your family and your mates, did I? ‘S not like I didn’t know where you lived—I made it my business to know all there was to know about you. But at home, you aren’t the Slayer. I didn’t have any interest in fighting some girl worried ‘bout her mum and bratty kid sis.” Buffy tried not to think about how that was the exact opposite of what Angelus had done. “And yeah, it pissed me off when you consistently foiled my plans…”

“But… how is love possible? After everything that we’ve…”

“What can I say, Summers? My love is blind. It doesn’t care what you are or what I am. It just is.”

“Just is,” she muttered softly. “Oh.” She reached into the bag, pulling out a plastic bottle and some cotton balls.

“Is that—”

“That chipped, black polish has been bugging me for ages. You should really stop using it. Your hands look better without it. I mean, they should be used for playing the piano, or strumming a guitar, fighting…” she said in a light conversational tone, pouring the polish remover onto a cotton ball, grasping one of his hands. “Or back massages,” she said as an afterthought, pausing when she realized she had said it aloud. She began scrubbing furiously around his cuticles after that.

“You just… shouldn’t use it in my opinion.” He turned his head, hiding a smile from her.

“Yeah, alright.”

“And all that black and the—”

“Hey now. The clothes and the hair are staying.”

Shortly after she left, Spike limped (an improvement from his former hobbling) over to his counter, reaching down and grasping the little black bottle in his warmed hand—warmed from her blood and her body heat as she held it within her own, scrubbing off the polish.

He looked at the little bottle of Black Opal, shaking his head as he tossed it into the trash with a sigh.

“Made a promise to a lady, didn’t I?”