Spike had begun repairing some of the furniture, not the things that were destroyed, not the porcelain that had been smashed, but he was able to start, somewhere. Small, a chair that had lost a leg, he was able to repair that, it was barely even a repair, really: just had to replace the screws in the chair leg and make sure it didn't wobble. There now, that wasn't so bad. He could fix it, bit by bit. Start small, work his way up, prove that he was good to keep around, that he could be a part of that - that what - that family?

  "Ow!" He'd been distracted by that thought and managed to grab a big shard of glass with his bare hand and burry it in his fingers.

  "Spike?" Buffy called out from the kitchen door leading to the porch, poking her head back in from where she was hauling big trash bags full of broken things that had no repair hopes.

  "It's nothing!" He said more harshly than he had meant to, embarrassed by himself. Buffy shrugged and went about what she was doing before she'd heard Spike call out.

  "Bloody stupidity is more dangerous to my health than demons apparently." He grumbled to himself, as he sorted through the objects that could potentially be salvageable, and the things that certainly were not. That was it for the night of the attack, Buffy yawning loudly by the time the sorting was finished, heading up for sleep. Spike had been about to start cleaning right there and then, when Buffy put her foot down.

  "Oh no you don't, mister- he of a thousand papercuts!" She said, being bossy, and Spike could not begin to guess what it was that he had done this time.

  "What?" He said and rose, looing around himself, not sure what Buffy had her knickers in a twist about that time - other than, the wanton destruction of her home that is - other than that.

  "I did not just spend forever picking what used to be an entire set of dishware out of your back, for you to to just- pass out in here and wait for the sun to come up." Buffy said with a tone that, he imagined, was her default when not knowing how to express herself proper. It made something in him want to verbally spar, an unwise decision perhaps, but there was something in Spike that came forward whenever Buffy was getting bossy, some version of the man he was that made the rebel want to push against her and see how things went from then.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Pretty sure vampires don't pass out, love. I have no memories, and even I know that." He said, fronting, because he actually was not sure at all. But he was willing to bet, though he didn't know if he was a betting man, he realised that it was fun to lean back and watch Buffy, trying to find ways to verbalize what it was that she was feeling. She went through about five different facial expressions. Spike felt his mouth twitch at the corners, a slow, almost smile formed as he watched her. As her expression changed to exasperated, he realised, Oh, so THAT was the mouth thing she didn't like!

  "Just-! Go to bed!" Buffy demanded and pointed up to the room Spike was to use, which made him have to fight a chuckle that begged to be let loose. He'd just torn though the house, fought a monster and gotten the basement flooded, little Bit was probably scared out of her wits and Buffy didn't know how she was going to pay for the repairs; and there she was, worrying about some cuts and bruises on the vampire. So Spike gave her a very formal bow, that was entirely out of place, and didn't bother to explain to Buffy that Spike realised he wasn't meant to be bowing to her, not that time at least. She didn't seem to mind.

  "Good night Buffy." He said after Buffy went to check one last time on Dawn, before Buffy went to her own room, lingering at the door, before deciding the best course of action was to simply offer Spike a nod. Spike perked his ears up before he moved: Nibblet still asleep, Buffy moving about her room calmly, the man felt that the family was settled for the night and so retreated to his own room.

  It was odd, how through all that chaos, the girls could just go to bed and rest. Spike was irrationally proud of both Buffy and Dawn for it, how they handled the mess. He had hours yet until sunrise, so he picked up one of the art books that had been in that room and kept reading. He'd work on fixing things, come sunset. He'd protect that home, that family, that he'd found himself without memories in, because his gut instinct demanded it... Not just your gut.

  He told himself, pausing on the page he'd been on and thinking to himself. His instinct had been all that could drive him when he'd been in the middle of the fight, certainly. He'd had a gut reaction when he heard the door burst open, he'd rushed down the stairs and tore into the front room, feet moving before his head could catch up with them, certainly... But when he saw the little Bit cry, when he'd heard Xander guilting Buffy, it wasn't his gut that Spike had been thinking with... It's the other bits that are working you, mate.

  He told himself as he went back to reading, found that he quite enjoyed reading, even if the books themselves hadn't fully captured his interest - at least art was a creative topic, and it was similar enough to the Victorian man's own forgotten interests, so that he had found solace in them. The part of Spike that was working to keep that house safe and fix that family's home was long-dead, ought not have been working then, it was like his heart forgot it had been dead...