Spike looked incredulous. This was not adding up. At all. Not that he wasn't overwhelmed to see her, he was. Heart-stoppingly so, if his heart weren't already permanently stopped, that is. But this was just not adding up. Last time he'd seen her she'd been been standing there with ripped clothes and tears, exclaiming that this (fuck, that word, he couldn't even think that one, a century of torture and murder and mayhem and then one crime that to him was worse than the whole sodding lot mashed together) was why she could never love him. I don't hurt you, he'd claimed once. There was a bloody laugh.
But now she was here, every inch Buffy-in-action-mode, and she was worried about him. He wasn't imagining it. At least, he was pretty sure. His head was pretty fucked just at the moment, old-Spike and souled-Spike still screaming at each other. He opened his mouth to try and speak, and completely failed to find any words at all.