Sunnydale has a British Sweetshop. It's new, in the mall, way overpriced.
Spike hates the mall, it's got muzak and the lights are too bright and the people are all just bloody *annoying*. The only thing good about it is that the people are jammed in so tightly together it's dead easy to take wallets and watches and half-watched bags.
But the fifty dollars in his pocket he earned, and he's in the fucking sweetshop and he goes to the back, where the tins are, and pulls one down. It's a tea assortment, all buttery biscuits and sweet cream sandwiches. A tin of thirty cookies costs fifteen dollars.
He buys two tins, and a bag of assorted sweets as well.
He hands his cash over to the fat man behind the counter and doesn't think about how salty-sweet the smell of him is, how easy it'd be to snap his neck and just take the fucking lot. Because you don't go to a lady's house with stolen cookies.
She's still got the bandage on, but she's home. She's drinking tea at her kitchen counter again, he's seen that, checking up on them. And he wants to drink tea with her, and eat bloody *fucking* butter cookies and talk about what she missed on Passions and just hang out.
The Slayer thinks it's all about her, but it isn't. It's about Joyce, and about the fact that if Spike were still William, he thinks maybe he could show his poems to Joyce over tea and she'd say the sorts of things mothers would say and mean them as only mothers can.
So he pays for the fucking cookies and even pays a bit more to get them wrapped in pretty striped paper and he leaves the fat, ripe shopkeeper alone.
He nicks two wallets on his way out of the mall to make himself feel a little better, then heads for a warm kitchen where there'll be tea and something almost like understanding.