Spike leaned his elbows on the railing of the balcony, or what passed for one in Oz's apartment building. A foot wide if it was an inch, and rattling disturbingly when it took weight, it was good enough for Spike to stand on, smoking in the pre-dawn mist.

He doubted Oz would mind him smoking inside, smelled enough like smoke of all different kinds, but didn't seem right just yet. Didn't seem proper to make himself that much at home, put his scent mark on the place.

Spike snorted. *Scent mark. Sodding hell, sounds like I want to piss in his bedding, not smoke in his parlor.*

Drawing down the last of the tobacco, Spike flicked the butt off the balcony and watched the cherry fall, then wink out in a puddle three stories below.

"I'd join you out there, but I really don't think it'd take my weight too," Oz said behind him.

Spike didn't turn. Didn't jump. He hadn't heard Oz creep up on him, but then: a bloke didn't.

"Tested that out then, have you?"

"Nah. But he did." Oz pointed up and to their left, and Spike saw that a balcony two floors up had been ripped off the wall. "That apartment's available, by the way."

Spike tapped another cigarette out of his pack, sticking it between his lips, and lighting it, more for something to do than the need for nicotine. "I'll keep that in mind, then." He'd been there a week. A week solid of waking up to Oz coming home, and coming home to Oz waking up, or a few times the other way around which had made more sense when Spike was still half asleep.

A few times, they'd done the waking up and coming home thing together at the same time, and hadn't the wolf boy picked up a few tricks in his travels.

But neither of them had spoken the words yet.

Which words, Spike couldn't say.

The words. Words that would give this a name. That would make this a "this".

Spike knew what the words weren't. They weren't about the chip. Oz had asked him that with an air of vague curiosity; it didn't matter to him. Spike could have hurt him even with the chip; it went with the wolf territory.

Spike hadn't had an answer at the time, but he did now.

No chip.

Or at least not a working chip.

And hadn't that been a lark to find out while treading on an old woman's toes?

*William the Bloody's back, and he's got heavy boots!* It wasn't much as a rallying cry.

Anticlimactic. That was a good word. Didn't rhyme with much though. Spike snorted. He'd bet there was a poofter back in Sunnydale who could come up with a rhyme or twelve for it if Spike would call.

But he didn't. Hadn't the words to say. 'Hello, mate. Just thought you should know it worked. Whatever the fuck it was. Blood's back on tap.' Nah. It just didn't bear saying out loud. Lots of things didn't.

It'd been quiet. He'd been quiet.

Might've been something about the gray and the fog. Might've been the company. Might've been not having the bloody words to bloody say.

Or it might've been that Spike was still waiting for the words. The right ones.

"Hey, Spike?"

"Yeah?" Spike tensed, wondering if they'd be the words he wanted, words he needed. The words to get him out of this weird not-thing.

"There's a good jazz trio playing about five blocks over. Want to go?"

Spike looked at the glowing ember on the end of his cigarette, considering the words. They weren't the words.

But for now, they'd do. He flicked the cigarette over the railing and stretched. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"I'll get my coat."