"Blech," she says by way of explanation, but before she can elaborate on that salient point, she's distracted by the welcome return of sunlight on her skin. It's a testament to how wiped she is that the pleasure of being in full sunshine outweighs the unpleasant stickiness of the blood on her dress (and legs, and hands) to such an extent that she hardly notices it anymore as Spike deposits her onto a lawn chair.

The feeling of his fingers in her hair ranks below the sunlight, too, but well above the blood, and she turns her face into his touch with a little hum. But then he pulls away, and she slits her eyes open (damn, how long did she have them closed?) and peers at him as he arranges himself on a lawn chair beside hers. Under an umbrella, like they're on vacation at the beach. Ludicrous. He's not within easy arm's reach, and while some distant part of her realizes that's probably for the best, it's still hard to suppress a pout. What if he needs her? He sounds like he needs her.

"Hey," she says, turning onto her side so she can frown at him properly. She should probably say something intelligent sounding about how she is uniquely qualified to lend assistance, here - or she would be if she wasn't so exhausted, and she will be in a little while, once she's had some time to recharge - but she's so tired that what comes out is a cranky, "You'd better not be dying."