Sunshine winces. At the time, all the poetry had just been unnerving. It's one thing to begrudgingly take an angel's word for it that you have a damn ex-boyfriend you don't even remember. But her trust in Aziraphale hadn't transmuted into a graceful acceptance of Spike's, uh... artistic endeavors. She still hadn't remembered him, and it had been really goddamn weird. In retrospect, she figures anything before sunset should just be counted a wash. Obviously his rift-given affliction has worn off, too, and it was all just embarrassing, not--not traumatic. Gods, does he really think she's freaking out over that?

There's a mug of tea in her hands, and maybe it should take her back to the first cup of mid-shelf chamomile he brewed for her. Instead, it makes her think of sitting across from Pat and Jesse and Theo, locked into an awkward post-disaster interrogation, fielding questions about things she didn't remember and things she Didn't Remember. Except this time, she remembers everything, and Spike isn't going to help her out by asking the right questions.

She shuffles over to the couch and sinks down onto the cushion farthest from him. The comment about the poetry is discarded; she doesn't have the energy to address what they don't need to discuss. She watches the teabag circle around the mug like a living thing, and wonders where to begin.

"You know," she finally says, not taking her eyes off her mug, "after the--the nightmare. When I asked you why you'd come up, I wasn't asking you to leave."