Spike's hand stays over his eyes, long enough that he may appear to have fallen asleep again if it weren't for the way his jaw tightens when she speaks. Nauseous. Head splitting. As kind as she's been to resist taking him to the clinic, he doesn't think her hospitality will continue to carry him if he suddenly asks for the bucket. He can't remember the last time he's gotten more wasted, but he can't remember much of this time either.

It's more troubling when he accounts for what he does remember. Flashes of revelation that inspired... this. Brilliant idea.

Water drips from his nose, and he can barely suppress a shudder as the air settles over him. Holding in a breath, he rolls up to a near sitting position, finally dropping the hand. When it brushes past his cheek, he gets distracted from her valid question. "My face is sore."