SUMMARY: Canon-compliant; set in Season 4, when Spike's at Giles's flat.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Giles said, and put his feet up on his coffee table, and sipped his Scotch with intentionally maddening smugness.
Spike, currently tied to a chair, growled. “Hospitality, innit? To offer a guest a wee drop?”
“You’re not exactly my guest.” Giles took another, longer drink.
“Well, I’m not bloody here of my own free will.”
“Right. Who showed up at whose front door, with a smoking blanket and a plea for sanctuary?”
“Catch me doing that again,” Spike muttered, and kicked his chair leg.
Giles savored victory. It was so bloody rare on the Hellmouth.