Spike hasn't been dreaming. It's a phenomenon he discovered after the injury; that when he found the right combination of alcohol and painkillers, it cleared his mind of everything but the deep reaching expanses of space. The experience is enough for him to justify any recent questionable decisions on his part. At least until he starts to feel guilty for what he's attempting to repress and goes off them.

Can't really call it progress, but it keeps him sane while he passes the time in recovery.

When someone else enters the room, he doesn't rouse from the bed, and for a long while it seems he's too far gone to acknowledge them at all. Maybe he is. The silence between them stretches so long that it could almost be considered rude of him not to sense that he has company.

Then without prompting, he opens his eyes and looks over at the man sitting patiently in the chair. Spike doesn't move otherwise, and there is no expected look of surprise on his face. Even his breath is carefully steady.

"What took you?"