The applause is deafening; setting the stool in the middle of the stage and returning the microphone to its rightful place, Spike leaves the glaring spotlight.

He wishes the pillocks from his frilly cuffs and collars days could see him now...

Briefly smiles at the sense memory of railroad spikes and flesh coming together...

Kinda feels like a rockstar and wouldn't mind a pair of freshly soiled panties flying in his direction...

And is completely surprised this audience knows what the word 'effulgent' means.

He makes his way through the crowd getting pats on the back and the proverbial "You rocked, man" comments. Loves the feeling of validation that's coursing through him; he's a bleached, two-eared Van Goh – like all great artists, he should've known his work wouldn't be appreciated until after he was dead.

"Effulgent?"

He stops just a few feet short of the exit and his head curiously tilts to the side while a smile curls on his pouty lips. Fighting the urge to do something terribly unmanly like squeal for joy or hell even burst into tears Spike instead casts a look over his shoulder in the direction of the playfully mocking voice and the tiny blonde it belongs to.

"Thanks a lot for ending that poem on a word I'm gonna have to look up later." She smiles.

He's facing her now mouth opening and closing like a fish. "How did you…?"

"Two sips of Zima makes Andrew really chatty," Buffy chuckles as she heads towards him. "Finding you here wasn't a part of my amazing perceptive abilities," she pauses, "I stopped in to get a drink or two, or five – to prepare myself for the seeing you."

Spike nods, smiling warmly. "Always had a feeling you were a lush, Summers."

"Takes one to know one," she shoots back with a smirk. "So…you busy?"

"I got time."

"Oi! Did you get a good look at these mini-bar prices?! There's gotta be five sodding peanuts in this bag and suddenly they're worth seven bucks cause some chubby girl in a hairnet dipped 'em in chocolate?! Bloody rip off…"

Amused, Buffy watches as Spike continues to comb the hotel room's mini-fridge – moving on from peanuts to the outrages-ness of a five-dollar bottle of water and a bag of Ruffles.

"You eat it, you pay for it," she says absently while clearing stray suitcases off of the bed.

"What?" Spike snorts. "Immortal's not picking up the tab? Figured you'd be flashing Sugardaddy's gold card around town."

Looking up, Buffy sends him a withering glance. "We're not serious."

"'S not how Andrew put it."

"Andrew would have me betrothed to the mailman if I so much as smiled at the guy," she sighs. "He's a storyteller – big with the fevered imagination. It goes hand in hand with his serious lack of social skills."

Spike chuckles at that, grabbing a tiny bottle of bourbon from the inside pocket of the refrigerator.

"That's ten dollars," Buffy informs him.

"Put it on my tab," is his sardonic reply.

Silence builds between the two. Buffy sits down on the bed, fiddles with the TV remote at her side and takes a deep breath before she speaks again.

"You could've told me, you know? A phone call would've been nice, maybe a 'Guess what? I'm not as dead as you thought' bouquet from 1800-Flowers."

"No, I…" Spike begins, shaking his head with a sigh. "Couldn't just walk back into your life, pet, no grand re-entrance I made could possibly top the exit."

Buffy raises a brow. "Wow – that is without a doubt, the lamest excuse I've ever heard." A beat, "Well, guess I won't go out and die any more cause the first two times were such show-stoppers…"

"You know what I mean," he says awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah." A nod. "The fear of rejection is a powerful thing…"

"Too powerful."

"But you had nothing to worry about," Buffy says softly.

Their eyes meet briefly and she grins,

"I don't bite."

Catching her meaning, Spike crawls further onto the bed and stretches out beside her. The Vampire's tongue curls under his front teeth in a lascivious smile:

"Beg to differ, luv."

He savors the deep crimson in her cheeks but the reverie is short lived; the clock on the nightstand is flashing 7:30 and Spike knows this last day is almost over. He's made up his mind, he won't tell her about the fight ahead. This is one apocalypse Buffy Summers will not be a part of, if anything he feels he owes her that much.

"So, Mr. Poetry-Slam," she begins teasingly, "got any more iambic pentameter to share with me?"

Eyes closing in a sign of deep concentration, his hand covering her own, Spike recites the first thing that comes to mind. "I dreamed that I died. That I felt the cold close to me; and all that was left of my life was contained in your presence. Your mouth was the daylight and dark of my world, your skin, the republic I shaped for myself with my kisses…"

Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, Buffy lays her head on his shoulder,

"Straightway, the books of the world were ended, all friendships, all treasures restlessly cramming the vaults, the diaphanous house that we built for a lifetime together – all ceased to exist, till nothing remained but your eyes. So long as we live, or as long as lifetime's vexation, love is a breaker thrown on the breaker's successions; but when death in its time chooses to pummel the doors – Ay, there is only your face to fill up the vacancy, only your clarity pressing back on the whole of non-being, only your love where the dark world closes in."

"That's beautiful," she says.

"Yeah, wish I wrote it."

Once again silent, Spike lets the simple action of tracing his thumb over the back of her hand do all of the talking:

His eyes are on the clock regretfully watching time pass them by.