[Spike's arm drapes over his chest, embracing John from behind and pulling him in against his chest. He doesn't give him the choice of where to lay or how to do it. He takes that from him by tucking him in against his front, blanketed foot hooking around John's ankle.]

Relax, for Christ's sake. No one's going to attack us in the bloody hospital. And if someone's daft enough to try, we can both tear them limb from limb.

[And he felt good in saying that. In being able to. In being competent to take care of himself for once.]

Yours or mine, mm?