The door slams and Spike is frozen, staring at the closed door in confusion. How can she even say that she never stopped caring? After his dream, she'd blamed him for what happened- she flinched away from his touch like he might try to attack her for real. How can she say that she cared about him then?

"Which one?" Spike asks, then heads towards his bedroom not expecting an answer. Instead, he continues, explaining "I'm putting on clothes."

Apparently he's been passed out on the floor in his underwear for days, so some clean clothes seem in order. He comes back in t-shirt, jeans and socks, grabs the bottle of wine and slumps down onto the couch. It seems Aziraphale hasn't seen fit to give him a glass, so he takes a swig directly from the bottle. He coughs a little when he does. He hadn't realized how dry his throat was. He takes another sip, easier this time, and it feels good.