Spike lay himself down, delicately, on top of the stone coffin in his crypt. His bed would have been more comfortable, but he hurt too much to climb down to it. Besides, he could barely see, his eyes were so swollen up. He’d probably miss the ladder entirely and fall down the hole, and wind up with even more bruises. Spike already felt like he was half-purple. Any more and he might as well call himself a dinosaur and get himself a kiddie show. He sniggered, thinking of how horrified Buffy would be at him spending hours with a dozen sweet, impressionable, succulent children. He’d just tell her that it was her fault in the first place. After all, she’s the one who made him that colour.