Spike slowly opened his eyes and was jiggered to find the world was still going on around him.
He no longer had a headache, just a general someone-drilled-a-hole-in-his-skull ache.
"Hi, you're up," Buffy said from beside him.
He turned his head on the pillow to see her curled up in a chair, an open book on her knees. She
was wearing her "comfy clothes," with her hair falling out of its hair holder. He'd never seen her
look more beautiful and he blurted out the very first thing that came to mind. "I love you."
He froze, then closed his eyes and silently groaned. He couldn't believe what he'd just snored.
He was an idiot, really stupid, ve-
"I love you, too, Spike."
-ry great! And wonderful! And all those other words he couldn't think of to save his unlife. He
had to have the cheesiest grin on his mug. He probably looked like a total wanker. He didn't
care that he couldn't remember what the name of the color she was wearing that matched her
eyes. He didn't care that his thoughts were going a kilometer a chicken.
She loved him, too!
Of course, he could be dreaming. "Wouldn't that be typical. Tell a golfer you love 'er an' then
you wake up to find yourself gob-to-gob with your fat cousin Rory, who 'ad more 'air than a
gorilla, breathin' the 'eavy romantic of shoes on your smacker, an' Bob's-yer-uncle, wouldn't
that be a pumpkin?"
Spike opened his eyes to see an amused smile on Buffy's face. He scowled at her amusement.
"You just said all of that out loud."
"Oh...left," he said.
She giggled, set her book aside and joined him on the bed. "How are you feeling? Besides
embarrassed, I mean."
Spike stared at her shirt, trying to think of the color. "Better," he muttered. He reached up and
fingered the material, hoping it would jar some spark of recognition. He gave up. "What the
bloody 'ell is this color?"
Buffy looked down at her shirt. "Kinda blue-grey," she replied. "Why?"
"I didn't know," he answered truthfully. He frowned. "Wait, did you say you loved me?"
"You're just catching on to that, huh?" Buffy said. She smiled down at him and took his hand in
hers. "Yes, I love you. Bald, stitched-up head and everything."
Spike blanched. "Bald? As in, no 'air?"
"Hairless as a Chihuahua," Buffy confirmed. "And the stitches are a neat navy blue color."
Spike closed his eyes again and raised his other hand. His fingers brushed against a bandage and
he whimpered. "What did you do to me, little Buffy?"
She chuckled and he felt her soft lips briefly press against his. "I'm going to go get you some
dinner. Be right back."
The bed shifted and he heard her footsteps as she left the room. Opening his eyes, he examined
his surroundings and noted he was in an infirmary. He spotted Buffy's bag on the table beside
the bed, leaned over and grabbed it.
Ten seconds later, he was looking in a reflectionless mirror, swearing up a storm. He'd forgotten
he couldn't see himself. With a disgusted sigh, he threw the makeup thing back into the bag and
chucked it at the chair.
There was a knock at the door. "Dad!" Spike exclaimed upon seeing the dark-haired man. "You
know how to draw, left?" He frowned again. "That doesn't sound right. Oh, 'right.' Bugger."
"It sounds like you're feeling much better," Dad said, entering the room and taking Buffy's chair.
"Probably oncause of that mouse you gave me," he replied. "Now, can you draw or what, Dad?"
"My name is Angel, not Dad," Angel corrected. "And yes, I can draw."
The name clicked and Spike was relieved. "Good, Angel, draw me."
Angel frowned. "Why?"
"Oncause I can't see meself in a bloody mirror," Spike answered with a growl.
"I take it you've realized your head was shaved," Angel said, chuckling.
"Stop your soddin' laughin'," he snapped.
"I'll go find some paper," Angel told him, still laughing. He stood and headed out of the room,
adding over his shoulder, "Don't go away."
"Don't go away," Spike grumbled. He sat up slightly and bunched the pillow under his head,
then relaxed again. "Much better. Now, all I need is a fa-" He stopped speaking to himself
abruptly as it hit him.
"She kissed me."