"Oh, darling, you say the sweetest things," Spike said, brow arching even higher as he pushed to his feet, looking up at his lover— his husband with a barely contained smirk.

"What's the occasion, then?" He asked, playing coy as he reached out and took the bouquet. It looked a bit bruised, perhaps by Sweeney's meaty paw wrapped around their stems, and Spike suspected he'd bought them impulsively on his way home. Dru used to love roses, especially to let them whither and die, their sickly sweet smell filling the rooms of whatever darkened liar they inhabited. Months after she'd left him, he found a dried petal tucked away in one of his books, and hadn't been able to bring himself to throw it away.

But he didn't recall anyone ever giving him flowers before. They were silly and soppily romantic, and he found himself inexplicably charmed by the scowl on Sweeney's face and the roses in their crinkled paper, gripped a bit too tightly.