Angel'll understand, at least. Maybe he has some extra hair gel somewhere else, or he can run off to the store for him or something. There's no way he's going out to the market; hell, he doesn't even know where the market is. Yeah, he can convince Angel to do it, he decides as he heads out to the hall.

"Angel?" he calls out, looking both ways. "Peaches, you around?"

The upstairs level of the Hyperion, however, appears to be pretty much empty, except for a couple stacks of boxes stashed outside the doorways of the rooms. Figures. The one damn time he actually needs something, and no one's even around. Sighing, Spike heads for the staircase. Maybe someone's lurking about down there. He's standing at the top of the stairs when he sees it.

It's Buffy.

The sight of her takes his breath away, metaphorically speaking, and the empty bottle in his hand clatters to the floor carelessly. She stands at the bottom of the staircase, a long figure in the empty lobby, two bags in hand. Her long yellow hair frames her face like a bright halo and cascades to her shoulder in soft waves. It's grown longer since he's last seen her, bleached blonde with natural golden highlights by the sun. She's as beautiful as ever, gazing up at him, watching his slow descent with wide green eyes full of wonder and awe as he practically stumbles his way downwards.

Once he's at the bottom, he stands perfectly still, staring at her in amazement. Drinking in her presence, and she seems to be doing the same. For a long time he can't seem to quarry speech, but finally he realizes she is waiting for him to talk, so he tries.

"Buffy?" Just her name, and it's more of a question than anything, because he still can't believe his eyes. He's been fucked up enough in his lifetime to know that sometimes his mind will see things that aren't really there, that appearances can be deceiving, that she could even not be real at all, just some kind of mirage, or a dream of some sort—

"It's me." A small smile reaches Buffy's lips, and Spike knows. It's her. It's really, really her. "So you're really here. I mean, Angel told me that you were—that you were back, but I didn't—I guess part of me didn't really believe it until I saw—"

Buffy starts to rush forward in his direction, dropping her luggage to the ground. But as soon as she moves, she notices him take a step back, wary. She stops in her tracks, and a long, awkward pause ensues, both of them just taking each other in. Neither of them have even the slightest idea of what to say now that they're actually face to face.

"Your hair," she blurts out clumsily. "It's…different."

Spike instinctively lifts a hand to pat down his disheveled mop of curls. "Yeah, haven't really taken the time yet to dye it." He blinks and tilts his head slightly, eyeing the boquet of flowers dangling in one of her hands. "What are those for?"

"Oh!" Buffy's eyes dart quickly down to the rumpled boquet she's clutching. "These are for you. From Dawn. There's a note, too, I think." She slowly comes forward, stops a few feet away and holds them outward, handing them to him. For a brief second there is contact, hands touching, skin brushing, eyes locking. They stay that way, gazing into each other's eyes intently. She feels her breath hitch in her throat, and times seems to freeze, the world just falling away.

"Buffy? Is that you?"

Angel's voice instantly shatters the moment, and Spike jerks back, hastily looks away.

Buffy turns to face Angel, forcing a small smile. "Yup. In the flesh."

He smiles back, coming forward and enveloping her into a warm hug. She's a little surprised at the gesture, but puts her arms back around him in return. It feels nice to have him holding her again, and she closes her eyes, pressing her face against his crinkly coat and breathing him in. After a few moments, he pulls back and holds her out at arm's length.

"I didn't realize you would be coming this late," he says, eyes searching her face. "If I'd have known, I would've sent someone to pick you up from the airport. That's what I was planning on doing--"

"It's okay," she assures him with a smile. "I just took a cab. I wanted to get here as soon as I could."

"I'm glad you're here." Angel squeezes one bowed shoulder tenderly, and Buffy gazes up at him, her smile widening.

"Me too," she tells him sincerely. She turns, bends down and picks up both of her suitcases. "So, where should I put this? Just point me where to go and I'm there."

"There's a place upstairs—" Angel starts, but Spike cuts him off.

"You invited her to stay?" He breaks his silence, staring over at his grandsire.

"For awhile, yeah," Angel explains, almost sheepishly. "I thought she could help us figure things out, you know, about what's going to happen, and—"

"Right." Spike nods curtly. "Well. Far be it from me to get in the way."

He turns for the staircase, and Buffy starts to follow, anxious.

"Spike!" she says worriedly. "You're not in the way—"

"Don't worry," he responds nonchalantly. "I'm fine. Tired, is all. Think I'm going to go turn in for the night."

As he begins to hurry back up the stairs, she tries to pursue him again, but Angel catches her by the arm and stops her.

"Let him go," he tells her quietly, and she sighs, watching Spike's retreating back disappear around the corner.

**

Buffy knows as soon as she lays down that the idea of sleep is ridiculous, because it's never going to happen.

She tosses and turns, beating her pillow practically to a pulp and kicking down the sheets, trying to fight her way into finding a comfortable position. Sleep evades her, however, and finally she gives up, knowing that it's no use. She lies there, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of how warped and miraculous it is that just a few doors down the hall, Spike is laying in bed, alive and whole and here.

Closing her eyes, she stills her body completely and concentrating as hard as she can. She tries to focus hard enough so that she can sense him, somehow, maybe sense his presence. As hard as she tries, she can't feel him. With a sigh, Buffy finally rolls out of bed and tiptoes her way down the stairs. Just as she's entering the kitchen, she hears a voice.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Buffy jumps, whirls around and sees Angel, sitting at the table. He looks up at her with dark eyes, and she bites down on her lower lip, a little embarrassed at how jumpy she is. She's not sure why. Usually she can sense people before she sees them; part of the whole Slayer package and all. She sighs loudly.

"Yeah," she replies with a nod. "Same to you?" A pause, and he sends her a pointed look. She realizes suddenly, face blushing, flustered. "Oh! Right. You got the whole nocturnal creature of the night thing going on. Forgot about that for a second."

"Sit down." Angel gestures to the seat across from him, rising to his feet. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee, cocoa?"

Buffy pulls the chair back from the table, the legs scratching across the floor, and flops down. "Water would be nice."

He stands, goes to the cabinet and rummages to find a spare glass. "How do you like your ice, cubed or crushed?"

"Either is fine." She glances around the room and notices how bare and empty it is, except for some scattered half-filled cardboard cartons. "Hey, I never asked you—what's up with all the boxes?"

"Oh. That." Angel hesitated for a second as he poured water into the glass. "We're moving to new offices. Across town. Actually, we were in the middle of getting this place ready to sell when Spike came back. It was kind of a shock, to say the least, so we've been putting off the move until we can get things…worked out."

"Understandable," she replies, taking the cup from him and sipping it quietly. "So…how has he been? Since he's been back?"

"He's been okay," Angel says slowly as he sits down across from her. "At least, I think so. There are times when he's kind of, well, twitchy. Startled easily. And he's a lot more…quiet. I mean, we're talking Spike here—usually he's all about the rude comments and sarcasm. But now he doesn't argue, doesn't put up a fight about anything. It's strange."

"Well, you don't know him anymore," Buffy replies a little too sharply, almost edging on defensive. "When he got his soul—everything changed. He changed."

"I know." He bows his head and stares at the table. "I guess I'm just not used to it."

"I was around him all year and I'm barely used to it." She sighs, sets the glass down and looks at him. "So he's still soulled vamp guy, right? I mean, he's not—"