"Nah, we trade orgasms for blood," he answers with a shrug, finally reaching past Spike to pull a beer mug out of the cupboard. It looks just about deep enough for the flowers. "That's the payment. Dunno who's gettin' paid and who's makin' the payment, but feels like an arrangement t'me."

He's so full of shit and Spike knows he's full of shit. The flowers, the poem in his pocket, the way he's looking at Spike now, openly adoring, like there's not a single other fucking person he gives a shit about in this way. And there isn't. Not in Darrow. Laura's the only one who might've come close in her own twisted way, but she's gone now, and there wasn't ever going to be anything with her like what he has here.

This is everything he wanted without having the slightest fucking idea it was coming for him after all these years.