She wasn't used to arriving too late, to feeling extraneous.

The LA Apocalypse had all gone down without her. Other slayers, nearer to hand, had caught wind of what was up, had ridden in at the zero moment to rescue the world, and incidentally save Angel, who was at the heart of the debacle. Buffy heard about it the next day, via email. An email not even written solely to her, but one sent to the Council headquarters by one of the attending slayers, and forwarded around.

It felt like quite a come-down, missing an apocalypse. But then everything since the end of Sunnydale was an unexpected downer. Closing the hellmouth and sharing her power and being free of the whole weight of the world was supposed to be a marvelous gift. So her disappointment in everything since made her feel furtive and guilty. It was like when they brought her back from her grave: she was supposed to be grateful, carefree and happy and eager to get on with her bright new life. That it wasn't like that this time felt like a personal failing.

She didn't talk about it. The only one of them she'd ever been able to tell that kind of stuff to, her old enemy, was dead and gone.

She felt guilty about that too. That she'd let Spike make that sacrifice (though what else could they have done?), that she'd waited until it was too late to tell him her heart, and that none of them mourned him properly. She missed him in secret. It wasn't enough.

Nothing was enough anymore.

She took two more days to dicker with herself about going to LA. There was no good reason to. The battle was over, the rent in space-time closed up, the demon hordes dead and gone. No one had summoned her. They didn't need her leadership, or her muscle. Clean-up was never part of what she specialized in. To show up would only be to call attention to her out-of-the-loopness.

But she couldn't go on with what she'd been doing before that email. Having learned of Angel's close call, she had to just lay eyes on him again, even though every time she did, nothing came of it but the same old wash of indecision, regret, and a strange sickening nostalgia. Her old feelings for Angel would never come to fresh fruition. Nor would they die entirely. They were nothing but futile, which was just her state of being these days. Out of sorts, out of place, and in danger of being out of her mind soon, if something didn't change.

She needed a change of scene, even if it ended up being humiliating.

In that mood, Buffy flew from Rome to LA.

The light was different in LA. There was nothing like Italian light, of course—Buffy had learned that along with much else in the last year. LA was sunny too, but the light here lacked that astonishing quality that made Italian things so subtly glow. The celestial light in Rome, the way it reflected off all that ancient stone, had fooled her at first, into thinking that at last she was all clear. Happy and carefree and young. It took a while, to understand how stuck she was. The stupid thing with The Immortal was the culmination of six months of flailing around—and she'd gone on seeing him way longer than she really wanted to, as she tried to convince herself that he could make her feel more alive.

In Los Angeles, the arrested apocalypse had left a grit, a tinge on everything. Buffy thought she could see it from the plane as it made its descent. In the cab from the airport, she thought she perceived, smelled, a brown undercurrent to everything, like a film between her and the palm trees, the candy colors, the glitter of glass highrises.

The taxi left her off in a marginal neighborhood, in front of a huge half-derelict art deco pile of a decommissioned hotel.

The Hyperion. Angel's headquarters, before he gave it up to take over the LA branch of Big Evil, Inc. She didn't know what the story was there; of course he hadn't told her, when he came to Sunnydale a year ago, and the info in the email was sketchy. Sketchy info, withheld secrets, these were a big theme of her life. The opposite of TMI. She was as addicted to withholding as any of the rest of them, so she couldn't exactly squawk.

From the sidewalk the place seemed deserted, but as she approached the entrance, the door swung open and a slender young man with lank floppy hair came out, talking to someone over his shoulder.

Someone who turned out to be Faith.

Buffy blinked at her. She looked sleek, radiating well-being, power, her hair all shiny, lipstick perfect. No evidence of that cloud that used to hover over her, when she was always in the wrong, and felt herself inferior to the rest of them.

Seeing her, Faith frowned her old defiance for a moment before her face relaxed, became smug.

"Here to check my work, B?"

Her work. Oh.

"Wouldn't let anythin' happen to Angel, not while I've got strength in my good right arm," Faith said. It wasn't quite a boast, but Buffy heard the undercurrent: what Faith had with Angel was better than being lovers. Stronger, more important. So: nyah.

"How did you know what was going on here?"

"Connor tracked me down in Cleveland."

A flicker of smile lit the young man's eyes. He was looking at Faith sidelong, like he was all crushed out on her. Next to her, even though he was a little taller, he looked like a puppy.

Buffy was about to ask, when Faith smiled too. Faith's smiles were never just about humor or happiness; seeing her break into a grin made Buffy cringe inside. "You don't know about Connor, do you? Angel's son."

Angel's son. Okay, Buffy thought. Somewhere along the line Angel had rescued this kid from some big nasty thing, and started calling him his son. Which was ... affecting. Sweet.

Not like the Angel she knew at all, who was always the opposite of Mr Touchy-Feely. But: nice.

She put out her hand. "Connor. I'm Buffy."

"I've heard of you." His handshake was firm but a little damp. Buffy guessed the dampness was about Faith, and felt a twinge of sorry for the young man. He wasn't in Faith's league. He didn't even look like her idea of Use 'Em And Lose 'em material.

"You've come to see my Dad?"

That felt like a bit of a stretch. One thing to refer to someone as your son, the 'honorary' implied, but the 'Dad' thing started to sound like one of those junior high school games where a pack of girls pretended to be each other's cousins and aunts and called themselves accordingly. Anneoying. Buffy repressed it. "Your Dad."

"Angel's inside," Faith said. "He's kinda banged up but better than yesterday."

She wanted to get the whole story out of Faith, but even more she just wanted to see Angel, to assure herself he was still whole. There would be those few minutes of getting to feel her feelings about him, before they'd both have to clamp the lid down again. Like that night after her mother's funeral.

Anyway, Faith and Connor were on their way out somewhere. They were already walking away.

She pushed inside. After the glare outside, she had to blink before she could see anything in the vast dark lobby. There was no one there. Buffy whispered, "Angel?" Then heard herself, and cleared her throat. Louder, called out, "Angel?"

No answer. She went to the desk. Recent evidence that someone was around—the kind of detritus slayers left: pizza boxes and crumpled napkins, one cold slice remaining, half curled. Empty cans of diet coke. A twisted tee shirt, blood-stained. The offices behind the desk were unpeopled. Buffy went to the stairs, climbed up to the second level. Called out again, and listened. This time a door opened at the end, a young woman came out, carrying a backpack. "Who are you?"

"I'm Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Who're you?"

"Marisol the Vampire Slayer." She came closer, a short chunky girl, maybe seventeen, her black hair severely bound back. "Huh, you're real. I mean, I know you're real, but I never thought I'd see you. The source."

"The source?"

"We all got the power from you, right?"

"Sort of. But I'm not—"

"You're inspiring. I always think, when I'm fighting, what would Buffy do?"

Buffy found herself gripped in a sudden hug, that caught her off-balance. She never knew what to say when the new slayers treated her this way. She wasn't a rock star, or a star athlete, and she couldn't, as Faith did, preen.

"Was the—"

Marisol didn't seem to hear. "Angel's in his room, top floor. All the others are up there too. They didn't seem to want us girls to stick around, except for Faith, they knew her before. And most of us have gone home already. I'm leaving now too."

Buffy didn't ask who the 'all' were. Angel's people. Good news then, that they weren't dead. Marisol pointed her to the elevator, and walked off, just as if she'd clocked out and was done with work for the day. Buffy waited, watching her descend the stairs and cross the dusty marble lobby to the exit. Her exit, and the ensuing quiet, left Buffy with a foreboding uncertainty. Maybe she shouldn't see Angel. After all, once she'd seen him, then what? There was nothing for her to do here.

Suddenly she felt like a fool.

That's when the elevator doors opened, and The First Evil stepped out.

The affront of this apparition, coming now of all times, the form of it, blew her up into a white rage. That was supposed to be over. She refused to get back on the I See Dead People Tilt-a-Whirl. And there was nothing in the email to indicate that the First Evil was part of this latest apocalypse.

"What is this? I thought I was through with you! You're just gonna keep coming at me, so I can keep on beating you down? Doesn't that get old, even for you?"

"Wasn't me summoned you here, Slayer. Wasn't anybody, far as I know. Can toddle back off to La Dolce Vita anytime you like." The First Evil twiddled a hand in the air, in a just-you-turn-around-and-march-on-out motion.

"You'd like that. What are you doing here? Gathering intelligence for round three?"

"Uh ... was gonna fetch some blood for The Brow, but come to think of it, why should I wait on that wanker, 'specially now you're here? He's your honey, you look after him. I'm off." The First Evil yanked its leather collar up, gave itself a shake, and barrelled towards the stairs.

The First Evil jostled her as it passed, the displaced air of its passage cool against her bare arm.

Buffy shuddered. The First had some new power—The First had changed the rules. She took off after it, when the truth slammed down.

Oh God.

"Spike!"

He'd sprinted down the stairs, across the lobby, and plunged out the door.

She caught him under the overhang, just as he was about to pitch out into the sunlight.

"Don't burn!" She yanked him back.

"Christ! Thought it was night."

"Sorry to spoil your suave exit."

He pulled away. "Don't burn. Bit of a laugh there. Could've said it sooner."

"I ... I did." She blinked, would've rubbed her eyes except for not wanting to ruin her make-up. This was like a dream. As illogical as a dream. Because when she'd allowed herself to fantasize about somehow seeing Spike again ... well, those woozy late-night fantasies were never this. "Don't you remember? I wanted you to follow me out of the hellmouth, but you insisted."

"That I did." He shrugged. "Had to be the way it was."

"So ... uh."

"Go back inside."

"Why? Can't I even talk to you?"

"Just made it bloody clear you want me out of your face."

"No! No no no!" When his eyebrow quirked up, she grabbed and shook him. "Spike!—when I saw you just now, I thought you were The First!"

"You thought—"

"—you were dead! Why haven't you told me you weren't dead!"

"Had my reasons, didn't I?" Again he pulled loose, shaking out the duster in a way that showed he really didn't want to be touched. But she had touched and smelled the faint odor of tobacco and hair gel and leather that was him. More than enough to be certain.

And with that certainty came a hot flush of confusion, and chagrin.

She fell back, raised her hands to show she wasn't going to grab him again. "Because it would've spoiled that suave exit?"

"Pretty much, yeah." He folded his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched.

"And the rest," Buffy finished for him, "is commentary."

He nodded.

"Right. So ... here you are. You were in on the apocalypse? With Angel."

"Fightin' the good fight. Which we would've lost if Faith hadn't beamed down with a posse of girls in the nick of time." He sounded, Buffy thought, not particularly glad to have been rescued. Had he wanted to die—again? And why hadn't he died in the first place?

"Look," Spike said, "Himself's in bed upstairs. He'll have heard you hollering inside, knows you're here. Better go to him."

"Where are you going?" She glanced at the sunny walkway to the street. The day was relentlessly sun-drenched, and hot.

"Not suicidal. Just ... you startled me, is all. Didn't think."

"You said Angel needs blood—?"

"Said I wasn't gonna be his errand boy, didn't I?"

"Well, you drink blood too, don't you? And I could use a sandwich. They don't feed you on planes anymore, and I've had a long trip."

"Sure, Slayer. S'why I survived the hellmouth. To fetch you snacks."

That strong feeling, that she should never have come, was hot upon her again, making her cheeks burn. Spike had been going to get blood for Angel, before she turned up; he'd been working with him, they clearly were, strange to think, a team. Only enter the Slayer, and already it was turning into a mess. Spike with hackles up, ready to bail.

She might've been the one to bring out the best in him, but it didn't work that way when Angel was there too. Put them all together, they devolved lickety-split.

"Attitude much? Fine, you're right, I'm here to see Angel, and I can take care of myself, and him too. I don't even know what your status is anymore."

"No, you sure don't. Might be I'm evil again. Might eat you where you stand." He shrugged again, as if he wanted to shrink into his duster, and then did one of those flash-forwards he saved for special occasions, disappearing back through the door in the space of an eye-blink. When Buffy followed, the lobby was deserted once more, and she couldn't feel his presence anywhere.

She took the elevator to the top floor without encountering anyone else, and found Angel's door easily enough; she was aware of his presence as soon as she stepped out of the car. There was that tingle in the base of her skull she always felt around vampires, but with Angel there was something extra, a connection she didn't like to analyze.

She knocked. "It's me. May I come in?"

The door was opened by a blue woman with the huge abstract eyes of an insect. She seemed to take Buffy in whole, without reaction, like a camera, then glanced over her shoulder towards the bed, where, in the darkened room, Buffy could only make out the shape of a man, but none of the details.

"Another of the females," she announced. "I had thought they were all gone."

"It's Buffy. Let her in."

Angel's voice was a croak. Buffy forced herself to cross the room at a measured pace, though part of her wanted to break into a run and fling herself at him.

She turned on the bedside lamp. Angel blinked and shrank.

"You're all crispy." The sight of him filled her with a momentary terror. He was bandaged, he was burned.

"There was a dragon."

"It's times like this I wish there was such a thing as a hospital for demons. You really—"

"—should've seen me before Faith opened a vein."

"Oh. She—"

"Faith and Connor both. I was pretty out of it, or else I wouldn't have let them—"

"You were nearly dead." The oh God went unverbalized, though it shot through her like an arrow. Buffy's knees were suddenly watery; she sank down on the side of the bed. Awash in sadness, and futility. Wanted to take Angel's hand, but was afraid that would hurt him. His fingers were blackened, emerging from dressings that wrapped all the way up both arms. But he took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and hung on.

"I would've been here if I'd known," Buffy said. "You should've called me."

"Tried Giles, but he wasn't buying."

"He didn't tell me." The rage roiled up again—at Giles, at Angel, at Spike, at herself. What was this? How was it that they'd fallen into this state of mutual idiocy?

"Not surprised," Angel said. "He was pretty sure he was talking to Angelus, or the next worst thing." Though his fingers were entwined with hers, he wasn't looking at her. He seemed tired, more tired than any vampire ought to be, despite his meal of slayer blood.

"And you didn't call me," Buffy said, on a sigh. "Because?"

"Wasn't your fight."

"Not mine specifically. Because clearly you thought it was a fight that could use some back-up slayers."

"Buffy—"

"No, I know. We've said it all before. I really shouldn't have come." She drew her hand away, got up. Her knees were her own again. She could get out of here.

"Buffy, wait."

She waited, half-turned away, her legs itching to move. On the other side of the room, the blue woman stood facing the corner, preternaturally still, as if someone had shut her off.

"Buffy, Wes is dead."

From Angel's inflection, he might have been talking about a lover. She stiffened. "I'm sorry."

"I ruined his life. I got him killed. All of them. My ... friends. They're all dead."

"Angel—"

"Because they trusted me. I screwed up. I lost them all."

"But you're not alone. Faith's nearby. And here's your colleague with the ... the indigo carapace. And that kid who calls you Dad, which I personally find way creepy but then no one asked me. And—" Spike.

There was a pause, then Angel's voice was a whisper. "I shouldn't," he said. "But now you're here, I wish you'd stick around a while."

A little while later, when she walked out of Angel's suite, Buffy almost tripped over the brown bag on the floor outside the door.

Inside was a quart container of blood, a ham and cheese on rye, some pickle slices wrapped in waxed paper, and a can of Diet Coke, getting warm.

Buffy knocked on all the other doors down the corridor, but there was no answer at any of them. No sign of Spike.

She brought the blood in to Angel, and sat down in one of the armchairs to eat the sandwich. Conversation was scanty; she dozed, she wasn't sure how long, but when she stirred again, Angel was still lying there, staring at his failures, and the blue demon on time-out in the corner hadn't moved.

Buffy rubbed her eyes. "What's her story?"

"That's Illyria. She's probably trying to heal herself. She wasn't so quiet and still before. Or else the fight ... broke her too."

"Sounds like you don't know her that well?"

"She ... it's a long story. She used to be our Fred."

"Your fred. ... What's a fred?" Buffy wished she could just ask for a crib-sheet. A Power-Point presentation. Flashcards. Something to bring her up to speed. Angel's world and her world weren't the same anymore. Having to ask these questions made her feel dopey, and half-deaf, and like a pest.

Behind her, the door opened. "Winifred Burkle, girl genius. An' the sweet heart of the operation. 'Til the blue meanie here killed her when she took over her body. Enjoy your sandwich?"

Though his voice made her break out in goose-flesh, Buffy ignored Spike, kept her eyes on Angel. "And this murderous Illyria, you keep her around why?"

Spike closed the door behind him, and trod none-too-lightly towards the bed. "What do you want him to tell you, pet? He kept her around because she was too strong to get rid of, and he had other problems in train, and when the chips were down, she helped our side. Executive decision. You know what that's like." To Angel he said, "You're lookin' a bit less well-done. Your visitor's pipped you up a bit, I see. Now get moving. Extra-crispy an' prostrated never won fair maiden."

Spike grabbed Angel's wrist, and hauled him to a sitting position. Angel cried out, and Buffy started up, thinking to swat him off, but Spike wouldn't let him go. He threw her a look that clearly told her to stay out of it. The vampires eyed each other for a moment, challenge in their gazes, then Spike yanked again, and Angel was on his feet. He tottered; Buffy restrained the urge to jump up and grab him. Spike steadied him with a hand on his waist, then turned him loose. "Well look at you. Up on your hind legs—can you bark like a seal?"

"Shut up, Spike."

"Oh go on—talk dirty to me, baby."

Angel growled, and his eyes flashed gold.

Spike laughed. "There ya go. That's our Angel." He sketched a bow at Buffy. "Milady, your swain."

"Spike, stop it. That's not how ... this isn't ...."

The eyes he turned on her now were of ice. "No? What did you have in mind, Slayer? Tell us, do, so we can hop to it. Why're you here?"

"I—I did come to see Angel." She was blushing, confused in front of them as she couldn't easily recall being before. Spike's unexplained presence overwhelmed her. She wanted to haul off and punch him, she wanted to drag him into another room and interrogate him alone, undistracted.

She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him and tell him she had meant it, she had, she did.

All she managed was a beseeching glance at him that bounced off Spike like nothing.

He prodded Angel's shoulder. "An' here he is. All intact, right down to the handy curse."

"Spike—!" Buffy stamped her foot. "Don't do this! I didn't know you were alive! You didn't want me to know, so how is that my fault? I didn't know what was going on here! As soon as I found out, I—"

"Buffy, Spike, don't. Not here." In his mummy wrappings, Angel had sunk back onto the side of the bed. The visible skin had healed a bit even since she'd first entered the room, but he seemed spent in a way that had nothing to do with the burns. Spent and sick and much much too tired.

She wondered why he seemed bigger than she remembered him; usually revisiting the things of one's youth and innocence revealed them to be smaller, less than. But even afflicted, Angel was huge, huge as the feelings he still stirred up in her gut, and her chest, and her head and her groin.

And Spike was more beautiful than she recalled, and his sneer cut through her like never before, and she wanted him to give her that soft gaze he used to have only for her, that made her feel so wholly known even as it tore her up inside.

Don't, Angel had said.

Don't, don't, don't.

That used to be her mantra, around both of them. Not that it ever kept her out of trouble. With them, it was never anything but trouble.

"I didn't come here to make things difficult. I just ... I wanted to help. I wanted to be with ... " the man I love. Her heart shook within. Both of them. A sob rose up in her throat, contracting it into a painful knot she had to grimace to swallow. She didn't want to get emotional, not in front of them.

Three points of a triangle, they faced her, and she faced them. The air was thick with everything she was supposed to have lived down, everything she'd felt and never said.

Why was it that the worst agonies she had to suffer, were in the presence of those she cared about the most?

In her corner, Illyria moved, abrupt and fluid. "The female consumed the entire sandwich. But the brined vegetation leaves an unacceptable odor." She crossed the room in a movement like a ripple in a pond, snatched up the bag with the remains of the lunch, and was gone.

They all blinked at the slammed door.

Then Spike chuckled. "She's quite a girl, that blue. Never can tell what'll set her off."

"Is she your—"

"What? My bit of skirt?" His saucy grin mocked her, as if he'd never loved her, never heard her confidences or told her she was The One. She wanted to scream why are you doing this to me?, but all she could do was open her mouth like a fish.

"... I'm only trying to understand."

"Would be like tryin' to fuck a particle accelerator, I expect," Spike said, shrugging. "A blue one."

"I thought I told you to shut up."

"Yeah, well, your days of dishin' orders to me are done, mate. In fact, now Slayer's here, think I'll be off altogether. Got nothin' to stick around LA for anymore. An' I've got no taste for listenin' to you two go through yet another performance of your tired little play of Oh How Forbidden Is Our Endless Love."

This time when he sped to the door, Buffy managed to get there first. "Spike, no."

"Get out of my way."

"This isn't right! You can't let me think you're dead for a whole year, and then treat me like I stood you up! You may not love me anymore, and that's—that's—that's your prerogative. But I don't deserve this! And I know Angel doesn't either. Whatever you feel about me, don't take it out on him."

"Oh, so I'm to be nice to Himself? Like it's gonna make any difference? Like you're gonna take me in your arms an' kiss me an' say you want me? You never wanted me, an' you've no more need of me, and that's why I didn't tell you where I was. You came here for him. Leave me out of it."

"You don't know. You don't know what I'd do ... you haven't given me a chance."

"Yeah, well, I know you, Buffy. No one knows you like Spike knows you."

Her skin flushed hot. " ... that's ... that's true. Don't you think I know that? And I've missed you, like ... I've missed you ..."

"What you said, when I was burnin' up ... you'd only ever say a thing like that when it was too late to have to stick to it. Since I got better, I won't hold you to it. But not interested in listenin' to your hems an' haws."

His words, his face, sent her into a fury. She wanted to slam him, but a tear slipped free, and she had instead to force herself back under control. She fought her sobs, at the same time waiting for Spike to gather her in. To tell her that it was really all right, that he believed her and still loved her and this misunderstanding was done with.

But he didn't touch her. She wanted to look at him, but she couldn't bring herself to raise her head, and her eyes were awash. And behind her, Angel was silent. She couldn't imagine what he was thinking. Couldn't remember when he'd ever been so passive. She wanted to go to him too, but it had been such a long time since she could go to him for anything.

That made another sob bubble up.

Spike was so still. Had he always been like that, able to just stand still and watch her and do nothing? It seemed strange, but she couldn't remember, and he'd been gone from her for so long that he'd taken on a sort of imaginary character in her mind. Since his death, she talked to him more than she talked to anyone. More than to Angel. In her mind she made love to Spike, and lay with him afterwards, and talked to him, about everything, about her whole life. Much much more than to Angel. Her love for Angel was like something suspended in amber, precious and real and intact but ... apart. Untouchable. She carried it with her always, but didn't get much use out of it. Whereas Spike ....

Sensing that Spike was ready again to walk out, she placed herself more firmly against the door. Forced herself to look up, to meet his observant eye. And then to glance back at Angel. "This is all wrong. Why does it have to be this way? I mean, we've known each other forever, right? We should be able to just sit together and talk. The three of us. Shouldn't we? Can't we?"

It turned out they could sit together, but the talk didn't come. After ten minutes of excruciating silence, Spike grabbed the remote.

They watched the last twenty minutes of Passions. Angel back in his big bed, propped on pillows, Spike sprawled at the foot, and Buffy curled in her armchair. Spike talked back to the commercials like he was alone. Angel was quiet, and Buffy wasn't sure if he was awake or not, except that sometimes he'd meet her searching gaze, with a look she didn't know how to interpret.

When the show was over, and Spike began to channel surf, she sprang up, antsy and dissatisfied. "I'm still hungry. Are you two hungry? I think we're all hungry. Is there more blood in the house?"

Without taking his eyes from the TV, Spike nodded. "Downstairs."

A sensation flashed through her, so sudden and tangible that it was like a gut-blow, of how it would feel to have them both sunk into her throat, tight up against her, one on each side, her body surging as they pressed her between them, sucking her down. She'd lie entwined with them, they'd hold her and feed, and she'd curl a hand into each one's hair, thrilling as she felt them burgeon against her, grow warm and well, and when it was over Angel's burns would be all healed, and Spike would understand what she wanted him to understand, and she too would be fine, somehow fed by the act, made stronger.

They would know all that was in her heart, and everything would be all right.

All at once she was aglow, and throbbing between her legs. "Then I'll get some more blood. I'll bring it up in a little while. Wait for me." She hoped they couldn't smell what she was thinking, hoped they wouldn't notice anything unusual as she went to the door, forcing herself not to run.

She took the stairs, gasping, not knowing herself. In all the years, she'd never fantasized such a thing. Never wanted— But it bloomed and bloomed again in her head, suffusing her, so she headed not for the kitchen but for a bathroom.

On the toilet she strummed at her taut clit, and came at once in a series of long deep shudders, biting her other hand to keep from making a noise. Then pulled off her shirt and splashed herself all over with cold water. Stood over the sink until her breathing, her pulse, were back to normal. Until she dared to look at herself in the glass, and try to smooth her hair.

Nothing here was what she'd anticipated. Least of all herself.

" ... give her a chance."

Spike glanced around sharply. Angel looked at him through slitted eyes.

"Chance to do what? Run me through the grater few more times? You weren't there, Peaches, you don't know what—"

"Give her a chance to show how she's changed."

"You think she has."

"I know it." Angel paused. "And I know you haven't. Not towards her. Not really."

"No." Spike stared at the TV. The strobing colors made his eyes sting. He blinked. Demons don't change. Oh he'd changed and changed and changed and what good had it done, and yeah some things never shifted, no matter how much you ... Christ.

"We weren't going to see her again. We agreed."

"She came to us."

"She came to you."

"Okay. Point is, this whole thing isn't about you, so quit being such a diva."

"Never said it was. Why I should take off now. My reasons for sticking close have expired."

"Have they? Spike—what will you do, if you leave here?"

"Dunno. I'll find something."

"What's that going to be? Stay, and we'll fight together."

"Oh, we'll fight together if I stay, all right."

"Well, you like that too."

"Couldn't lick your weight in feather dusters now," Spike said, and yawned at him.

"I had a hundred years of being souled with nothing to do and no one to do it with, so believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I don't recommend it. You need the mission. The fight isn't really over. It never is. You're a good fighter. And we ... what we have in common, means ... we should work together."

Spike laughed. "Where's a voice recorder when you need one? Could play that back to myself on lonely nights."

"Yeah, fuck you too."

Spike was quiet then. He hit the mute button, and drummed the remote against the coverlet. "Talk about lonely nights. There's your problem. You've lost your friends, an' you're scared. Want me to keep you company, ain't that right? Because you may not like me. But you know me."

"If you leave," Angel said, "you'll only get bored and end up drifting back."

"What about Buffy?"

"What about her?"

"You gonna get with her at last?"

"You know I can't." Another pause. "Not even sure I'd want—"

"Oh, don't kid yourself."

"Where's that blood?"

Spike sprang up. "I'll get it. But you're gonna owe me for all these times I've mopped your brow, you lazy shite."

She found the fridge. The young man, Connor, was in front of its open door, gulping orange juice from the quart container. He crushed the empty as she came up. "Hope you didn't want any."

"Is there more?"

He shook his head. "Faith's on the grocery run. So there will be."

"You didn't go with her?" Because you sure looked like you were stuck to her like glue.

"They're gonna deliver. We're sort of carless now. And she had another stop to make."

"So you ... you live here too?"

"I used to. But not anymore. I go to Stanford."

"So you came down for—"

"The Apocalypse. I had to help."

"You."

"I'm a fighter."

"You don't look—"

"Neither do you," he said, pointedly. "Angel is my father."

"... you said."

Connor cocked his head. "I thought you and Angel were close. He never told you about me?"

Buffy didn't like this. Any of this. It was trying to put together one of those jigsaw puzzles with two thousand pieces that were all sky.

And she hated having to admit she didn't know anything.

"Well, I guess you and he have had to keep apart, right? Because of the curse."

"Right." She hated it that this stranger was up in her business.

But he looked like a nice guy, Buffy thought, clear-eyed, giving off an air of openness and confidence. Well-adjusted.

Not the kind of person she associated with Angel at all. Not to mention that he didn't look like him at all. Where Angel was big and wide, the kid was compact and wiry. You could cast him as an elf if Orlando Bloom was unavailable.

"I guess I came about because of the curse. In a way. Apparently my mother was trying to break it. She couldn't, but she ended up with me."

"Your mother. Who's your mother?"

"I never knew her. Her name was Darla."

"Darla. Darla? She's a vampire. They're both vampires."

The kid nodded. "It was a big thing."

"A big secret thing." How much else has he never told me? "So you must've been born long before I ever met Angel."

"No. I was born in 2001. Though that's not what it says on my driver's license."

"—but Angel slew Darla—when I was in high school—I—

Connor shrugged. "Guess it didn't stick. But she's dead now, and I don't think she's ever coming back. I grew up in a hell dimension, which is why I'm like this."

Like what? He looked all wholesome, like a Mormon. This wasn't just a world of weird, it was a whole solar system of it. Everywhere she turned in this place, there was something to pierce her.

"I need blood."

He started, his gaze going sharp. "You're not a vampire."

"Neither are you. Which I don't get. I mean, if vampires breed, which they don't, shouldn't they breed little vampires? Especially when they send them to be raised in a hell dimension? Is that like military school? What'd you do to deserve that? Discipline problems?"

"Angel didn't send me there. I was taken. When I was small."

There was a whole story here, and suddenly she didn't want to hear it.

"Angel and Spike are waiting for their afternoon tea. That's T for tepid." She reached around him to take the blood from the fridge. "Where's the microwave? Need to warm this up."

"Are you going to be visiting here long?"

"Huh?"

When she glanced up, Connor's expression was much less disingenuous elfin Mormon, and a lot more brooding penetrating stare.

Whoa. She saw the resemblance now. To Angel and Darla both.

"My Dad's had a tough time. I mean, tough is an understatement. If you're going to make things worse—"

"I'm not here to make things worse! I keep saying that and no one believes me."

"Slayer doesn't mean to bring the pain. Girl can't help it." Spike was leaning in the kitchen doorway. "Do us a favor, boyo. Leave us be. Want to chat with the lady."

The microwave dinged. Connor gave Spike a look Buffy couldn't interpret—and how long had Spike known about this mysterious son?

"I'll bring that up to my father."

"Good lad."

They waited, gazing off in different directions, as Connor poured the blood ino a thermos, grabbed a mug, and left the room. Waited until they heard him cross the lobby and get into the elevator.

"Buffy, listen—"

"No—you listen—" She went to him, grabbed him by the lapels, and dragged him down to her mouth. She intended her kiss to be deep and warm and speaking, but Spike's mouth didn't open against hers, and after a terrible hanging moment, he drew back.

In a tone she'd seldom heard, he murmured, "Know that about you. S'nothin' new there."

"What?"

"That I get you hot. Desire doesn't solve anything. So just ... please don't."

"You're determined to misunderstand me."

"Don't think you understand yourself."

"I didn't expect to ever see you again!"

He was silent.

"Okay! Okay! If you'll just say—just say it! Say you don't love me anymore, unequivocally, so I'll know that—"

"Buffy. You have your life, on the other side of the world. Go back to it, an' leave Angel an' me to ours. That's how it's been the last year, an' how it's got to be."

"If you'd just say—"

His eyes as he gazed at her now were full of a gentleness that verged on pity. "Said it. All right? Said what I came down here to say. You wanted to see if Angel was alive, I get that. You've seen. Now go home, love."

"No! What are you trying to do? This isn't—"

"Tell your sis I said hello. Hope her hard feelin's have worn away by now."

"Spike, I am not letting you boot me out of here and then carrying messages to my sister! What is this?!"

"This, is our life. Our set-up, our mission. This ought to be remedial, Slayer. You know all this. You an' Angel—can't mix, and we have to do what we have to do. Without you gettin' involved."

She gasped. "Are you—have you two—are you involved?"

"Involved?"

"You're a couple now. You know, I always sort of suspected there was—"

"Bloody hell! We are not!"

"Then why are you trying so hard to get rid of me?"

He didn't answer. Buffy threw up her hands. "I know! Yes, I know! I shouldn't have come. But I love him. I shouldn't have to tell you, that there's times it's impossible to stay away from someone you love, even when ... even if it would be better ... and Spike, I love you. I do. It wasn't a lie."

"Never said it was."

"I wanted—"

"What you're too much of a hero to ever take."

It occurred to her, for the first time, that this might have happened sooner. That if she'd told him her love back in Sunnydale when there was still time to do something about it, he might've rejected her as he was rejecting her now. Maybe he couldn't bear it, the idea that she might love him back. Maybe the mere suggestion tainted her in his eyes.

That would be the kind of exquisite irony she'd be caught up in, like a sticky spider web.

The thought made her feel sick. She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

She wanted to be back home. Be with her sister, no one but her forever, because Dawn was the only one who wasn't dangerous, wasn't difficult. They were just sisters and that was that.

"Sometimes I still hate you." Buffy shoved past him, and left the hotel.

"You should get back to campus."

"I'll go when I'm ready." Connor's grip on his elbow tightened. They were walking together, slowly, across the room. Angel gritted his teeth. It wasn't the pain, so much, as the intense itching: he wanted to rip off all the bandages, he wanted to scratch away at least two layers of skin. He wanted to scratch away the last year, so that Wesley would be back, and Gunn, and Fred, and he would go easier on all of them, he would forgive and ask to be forgiven, he wouldn't take away their memories, hi-jack their lives.

They were all gone.

But he had his son. His son who came to him now, freely, and with so much affection.

Affection Angel didn't much feel worthy of.

"Tell me more about Faith," Conor prompted.

"Don't get excited about Faith. She's not for you," Angel said. He clenched his hands into fists to restrain the urge to scratch, but Connor frowned.

"Or what? You'll deck me?"

"No! I—"

"What is it with you? I don't mean to give you a hard time, Dad, but ... why do you have to give me a hard time? I just like a girl. It's allowed."

"Not her."

"Why? I've seen her fight. I've heard her talk. I've seen how she is with you. We have stuff in common."

Right, you're both killers. But I got you out of that, free, in a way Faith will never be.

"I like her strength," Connor said.

"Lots of women are strong. Women, in general, are a hell of a lot stronger than we give them credit for." Angel huffed, and dropped into a chair. "Men are idiots, usually, where women are concerned."

"I guess here's where I say something like 'takes one to know one'. What are you going to do about Buffy?"

Angel repressed an urge to growl. "Nothing. There's nothing I can or will or should do about Buffy. She's here on a visit. She'll be leaving soon."

"Will she?"

Angel peeled back some of the wrapping on his left hand. The revealed skin was new—not exactly pink and healthy, but fresh. Suddenly he was pulling at all the bandages. He half-expected Connor to stop him, but the boy only watched, his lips pursed.

"Dad—"

"You don't need my permission with Faith. You take up with her at your own risk, all right? But don't meddle with me, son. Not now."

Why must people want things from him? Couldn't he be allowed just a few days to acknowledge the dead while the living took care of themselves?

Connor shook his head. Quietly, he asked, "Would you like me to get her to go? Buffy, I mean."

"... no. Leave her alone. She'll know what's ... what's appropriate. Anyway, it's not just up to me. She's also Spike's—"

"Spike's?"

"His friend. She's Spike's friend too."

Connor looked doubtful. But all he said was that Angel should wait for him to get the scissors, so they could get the bandages off properly.

When he left the room, Angel fell back in the chair, closed his eyes, clenched his fists. The itch raced over him, up and down, like fire. He'd been on fire, and it felt like this in the first moments, a strange licking sensation that was curious, almost pleasant, until you realized what it was. All at once he remembered Nina. Did it feel like that for her, those first moments of changing, as the features shifted, the hair sprouted?

And what would she do this month, when her time came? Where would she go, if not to him? She didn't know where he was. He should call her. But if he did, she'd think he meant to go on with—

—and why not? Why shouldn't he go on with her?

Angel couldn't think of the last time he'd made love to any woman more than once.

With Buffy ... it was twice. The second time on that night that was forever erased.

Otherwise, it was only with Darla. And he'd fallen out of the habit of thinking of Darla as a woman. Or what he'd ever done with her in bed as making love.

Connor returned then, with the scissors. Angel thought again how handsome he'd turned out, how like his sharp-faced, clever, bright-eyed mother. And now he was a normal young man, with clean hands. Except he had the strength of a champion, and the champion's inherent—was it inherent?—attraction to the strong and dangerous and glamorous. Faith was all of that.

Angel loved Faith with a strong, credible love, not with desire, but with pride, like an uncle, a brother. He'd helped rescue her, and she'd met his challenge. He wanted her to be loved by someone who could match her, understand her. But he didn't want to give Connor to her. He didn't think Faith was anywhere close to being able to be good to a man, not like he wanted someone to be good to Connor.

As Connor pulled the bandages away, he decided not to contact Nina. A clean break was best there—she knew what she was now, and could take care of herself.

As for Connor—getting him back to school, and Faith back to Cleveland, should cure that problem.

"You shouldn't be in such a hurry to make everybody go," Connor said.

Angel started. Since when did the boy read minds?

But he was just continuing the conversation from before.

"You're mourning. You should have company. People who know you. Better than I do."

"I—" He couldn't tell the boy that all these people around didn't constitute company so much as they constituted a series of problems he was supposed to solve, when all he felt capable of doing was sleeping and staring. He hadn't even had a chance to shed his tears yet. He couldn't break down, couldn't release all he contained, with Connor there, or Spike, or Faith, and least of all in front of Buffy.

The people I want aren't here. The ones who are here ... aren't who I want.

Angel thought of funerals. There should be funerals. For Wes, and Gunn. For Cordelia. For Fred.

Too many, too many. Who would take care of all that?

Connor tugged away the last of the dressings. "How's that feel?"

"Better." It didn't, but there was no point saying so. He was tired again, and couldn't see any way out of that, any way forward. What he'd said to Spike a little while ago, about the mission, going on with the struggle, it felt like nonsense now. Stupid nonsense.

He was a stupid failure and he just wanted to sleep.

Suddenly Spike was there. He didn't say anything, but began not ungently to haul Angel up. With Connor's help they guided him back to bed. Spike murmured something to his son, and then they were alone.

"Drink a bit more of this."

"Go away."

"Will do, soon's you drink. Got to keep your strength up."

"Where's Buffy?"

"Stepped out. You don't want her now. Can barely hold your eyes open."

Angel drank. It was just animal blood this time, without the exciting guilty frisson of Faith's. " ... maybe ... maybe from now on, you could run things. When I make the decisions, it's no good."

"Oh yeah. You'd go for that, when you're one hunnerd percent. Ought to make you sign an affidavit now, you'd say anything, wouldn't you?"

"Spike—"

"Shut up an' sleep, old man. Only reason I'm bein' kind to you now's 'cause you're unlikely to remember it when you wake up."

"Have another beer. Jeez, you're allowed. Are you still all with the low-fat yogurt with the scruples on top, B?"

"I thought you'd reformed."

"I work it every day. But you've still gotta enjoy life, or else you might as well just kill yourself."

"Somehow, I don't really want to listen to your life advice, Faith."

"Fine. I don't care what you do."

The bar they sat in was loud, the music pounding. It was music like they'd danced to together, those years ago. Buffy couldn't help responding to the beat, though she didn't want to show it. Didn't want Faith to be aware of how it danced through her, made her want to get up and move.

Faith leaned towards her again. She had to talk right into Buffy's ear to be heard. Her breath was beery. They'd been together for a few hours now, ever since Buffy ran into her as she was leaving—storming out of—The Hyperion. Talking slayer stuff, and managing not to say much of anything. Buffy got the story of the apocalypse, but the Faith's-eye-view starred Faith and wasn't all that informative on the bigger picture.

"Why don't you just do what you feel?"

"Huh?"

"Take what you want, B!"

"Smash and grab? Because that worked so well for us before." She took a long swallow of beer. Was this her fourth mug, or her fifth? She tried to recall how many times she'd gone to pee since they got here, but things were a bit muzzy.

"No smash. No grab. That's not what's called for here."

"What then?" Buffy wasn't even sure what Faith was talking about.

Beer bad.

"You're so hung up between the two of them you're paralyzed—why don't you just have them both?"

The suggestion, so casual, so smirky, shocked Buffy to her marrow. She couldn't believe Faith had the nerve to say this. It was obscene. She flushed all over, her skin crawling.

"You have a dirty mind." Resolutely, Buffy resisted the visual—lots of visuals—that were popping and flashing in her head. That was just like Faith, to turn things that were big and serious and deeply personal and ... unpossible, into a filthy three-way orgy. "Are you sleeping with that Connor?"

Faith's eyes widened. She still looked like she was sparring, like this whole conversation was a game. Buffy loathed her in that moment—Faith should have too much on her conscience to grin like that, to look so goddamn saucy ever again. Who did she think she was? How dare she talk about the people she knew as if they were characters on a soap opera?

Buffy wanted to punch her. The relentless beat was beginning to give her a headache.

Faith took another long pull of her beer. "Not yet. Not sure I want to go there. Only because of Angel."

There was another, smaller shock in this admission. Faith being thoughtful. Faith considering the consequences of something she might do.

"I don't get how he's Angel's son. I don't get how he's Darla's."

"You'd have to ask him."

Faith meant Angel. Buffy didn't think she could ask Angel about that. Even at the best of times, she couldn't listen to him tell about his past, his crimes, without feeling sick and ashamed of herself and so unsure.

She remembered telling him she didn't know if she wanted children of her own—that she couldn't even keep a goldfish. And how he'd cautioned her, more than once, that he'd never be able to give her a family.

And yet somehow he had a son, and she had ... nothing with him. The way still blocked off, same as ever.

Why couldn't she stop wanting to get over that wall?

"Anyway, Connor doesn't look like your type," Buffy said. "Breakable isn't that enticing for you in the end, is it really?"

"He's no more breakable than we are, B."

"He's a twig."

"Nah. He's, like, a boy slayer. Strong as us. You should see him throw down." She smiled lasciviously. "See that, you'd wanna throw down on him, yourself."

"Must everything out of your mouth be so crass?"

"Apparently, yeah. Must everything out of yours be so fuckin' prissy?" Faith stuck her tongue out. "You need to get laid. How long's it been? For real, B, they'd both go for it. They need it much as you."

"Stop it." She bit back an urge to bark We're not friends! She didn't want herself in Faith's imagination like this. And she no longer subscribed to the idea that sex was the fast-track out of feeling bad.

"Anyway, you think those two've never done that before? Had a girl together? Had each other? Hell B, they're vamps. They've done it all."

Buffy slid off her stool. She couldn't listen to any more—the impulse to hit out, to pound Faith 'til she begged—was almost irresistible. How dare she talk about them like that? How dare she tell her anything? Did Faith think those last couple weeks in Sunnydale erased everything between them from before?

Shoving her way out to the street, Buffy took off running, but slowed when she saw a cop car crawl slowly by. People didn't run so fast on city streets, not if they didn't want to attract suspicion.

The dizziness from the alcohol hit her when she stopped; for a moment she could've sunk down to lie on the pavement. She forced herself to walk, languid and stretchy.

What she wanted, needed, was a good slay. But Faith had already told her that LA was now curiously devoid of vamps and demons; those who weren't involved in the apocalyptic battle seemed to have fled or were lying so low as to be out of play. Won't last, she'd said, but for now there's nuthin' to do but dance and drink, and ... you know ... hootchy coo. The way she'd eyed her, Buffy wasn't sure for a moment whether Faith wasn't coming on to her.

Faith would come on to pretty much anyone, though.

She was just that gross.

Walking, taking deep gulps of fresher air, Buffy tried to parse her next move. Going back to see Angel again ... to see Spike ... would accomplish ... what? Nothing.

She should just head out to the airport, go home.

She'd left her bag at The Hyperion, though. Would have to swing by and get it. And probably there were no more flights tonight, so she'd have to call the airline, get a room somewhere, wait.

She could do that. That would be better. Best of all would've been not to come at all. That way she wouldn't have known about Spike, and wouldn't have had to see how much, though Angel clearly needed someone, he didn't need her.

He'd asked her to stay around, but Buffy was pretty sure, knowing him, that he wished he'd kept his mouth shut, and would prefer she not take him at his word.

She hoped she'd be able to sneak into the old hotel, grab her stuff, and make a quick getaway, but of course Spike was sitting on the pouf in the lobby, smoking a cigarette, when she walked in. Why he was hanging around down here, rather than upstairs where there was a television, was a mystery.

"I'm heading out," she announced, loud and bald and uncontradictable. "Back to Rome."

"Good. Since you hate me so much."

"Spike! That's what I mean! When you talk like that—!"

"Why shouldn't I? What're you gonna do, Slayer? Notice you haven't told me anything new, shown me anything new. You're not gonna be my sweet mistress now any more than you ever were, an' short of that, I prefer not havin' you dangled in front of me. Think I've earned that much peace at least."

That angry flush bloomed in her again, making her heart into a hammer. Spike regarded his cigarette.

"Angel doesn't need your teasin' presence either. Just a torment to him at the best of times. Which this isn't, not for him. You came, you saw, now go home."

She could go without her bag. There was nothing in there—a couple of outfits, some make-up, an iPod—she couldn't easily replace.

He'd never talked to her like this before, not since he'd fallen for her. Spike had his stones back. All the way and more.

She really needed to just turn around and go.

She stalked closer. "When I kissed you earlier, you pushed me away."

"Was same old. Not the way you'd treat a fellow you really cared about." He rose. "Now on, want all or nothing at all. Don't need to please you anymore, Slayer, so it doesn't matter if I speak my mind."

A hundred intricate explanations filled her, but all she could manage to say was, "You confuse me."

"I always have." He began to walk away.

"If I'd known! If you'd called me, come to me! But I come here—I get blindsided by you—and now you—"

He wheeled around. "Slayer. If it was me you really wanted, you'd have flown into my arms by now. We both know it's still Angel, only you can't fly at him, 'cause you both think it'll be Angelus who'll catch you." His shoulders slumped. "Fucking hell. Why do we have to go over this again? Leave a fellow alone. Go home."

"What would you do? Say I flew into your arms. What would happen? Would you be the sweet lover I know you can be? Or would you think less of me, because I loved you? What about that?"

He'd started to walk away. He stopped. His back was still turned. He wasn't wearing the duster; she could see how his shoulders climbed towards his ears, how he forced them down.

Her mouth felt full of sand, the backs of her eyes burned. "Admit it Spike. You're not sure you want me to love you. Because you believe that taints me, is that it? If you really cared for me, as a woman and not just a hero, you wouldn't have hid out here, you'd have told me you were alive. How do you think that makes me feel?"

Those last minutes in the hellmouth flared up again—grabbing his hand, telling him her truth, knowing it was too late. Having to leave him. And then missing him. All alone, missing him. None of the others talked about him, even those few times she let his name slip. They just let it lie there. Abandoned her with her unfinished grief the way she'd abandoned him.

And all this time he'd been alive, and concealing himself from her.

Infuriating vampire!

"This isn't only about me not being able to choose. You have a choice too, and you ... you chose not to come to me. You chose not to give me a chance to show you ... show you something new."

"Maybe it's a bit like you say. But what I chose, Slayer, was to stay with Angel, an' do some good. Got a powerful desire for that, an obligation, just like he does. Long as I last, that'll never be over. Got to stay here an' stick at it."

Spike always fought dirty. Even as she hated it, Buffy had to admire this tactic; it was nasty, and effective. She felt skewered. And he didn't even know that for the past year she'd stepped aside from the mission, tried to live like the normal girl she'd never really been and didn't even want to be anymore.

And his message was clear: Angel and I fight here. Your fight's in Europe.

Faith's remark popped back into her head. You think those two've never done that before? Had each other? Spike had denied that they were involved, but that didn't mean Spike didn't wish they were. Hard to imagine Spike committing himself to a cause that didn't have at least some connection to an object of his erotic fixation.

As all this flashed through her head, Spike was already climbing the stairs to the hotel mezzanine.

Before she realized what she was doing, Buffy was shouting. "Did you lie to me before, when you said you weren't lovers? If it's Angel you want, why don't you do something about it?"

Spike stopped, stared at her. "You're mighty interested in that all of a sudden. New kink? Want to watch, that it?"

"I want— I want you— not to be—bitter ... and ... alone."  Like me.

She ran a few steps closer. Her head was buzzing; she could barely breathe, and wanted to cry; that's how she knew she'd hit upon the real truth in this tangle at last.

"Spike, I didn't come to take over, to stomp all over everything. I wanted to see how things were here. I wanted to help. And I want you to have what you need. Even if it's Angel."

Her heart trembled in her chest. Spike cocked his head, but otherwise didn't move. His eyes for once were unreadable.

She was focused so intently on him that she didn't notice they weren't alone. Not until the voice announced his presence.

"It isn't me. Is it, Spike? If it was, you wouldn't be shy about letting me know." Angel leaned over a little, so the dark of the mezzinine no longer concealed him where he leaned against the rail. He was immense and calm and very pale.

A panicky surge went through her: how much had he heard?

Spike started too; his eyes flashed gold. "You're supposed to be sleepin'."

"I woke up. I'm hungry." He sounded, Buffy thought, almost plaintive. Angel moved towards the head of the stairs. He was dressed, in a shirt and trousers. The collar done up high, probably to conceal the burn scabs, which also dotted his neck and face. Spike stood his ground, watched him traverse the mezzinine, start down until they stood, not on the same step, but eye to eye.

They looked at each other for a long silent moment. Angel grasped Spike's biceps. "Valiant words just now, about the mission."

"You know I mean it."

"So you'll be going with her."

"No. Why're you trying to get rid of me? Haven't I proved my right to be your pain-in-the-ass lieutenant? And it's not like you've got anyone else left at your command."

"Her oven timer seems to have gone off," Angel said. "Cookies are baked."

Buffy winced. She was surprised Angel remembered her dumb metaphor, which sounded even dumber, brought out again like this.

Spike said, "What the fuck?"

Angel gave his arm a little shake. "She wants you. She just said so."

"Didn't hear that. An' it's you she's in love with, same as forever. Though she's got a funny way of showin' it, trying to shove me into your bed."

Angel sneered. "Does she make you more stupid than you naturally are, Willie? Wouldn't be abandoning the mission, to go with her."

Spike never took his eyes off Angel's. "She hasn't asked me. Not really. And like I said, I'm good here."

"Hey!" Buffy said. "Stop saying she like that. Standing right here. And I didn't ask either of you to have a verbal shoving match with me as the booby prize."

"You didn't ask either of us to be your man, either," Spike said. "Same old, same old."

Buffy's mind whirled, shaking out snippets of memory, strong feelings that put her off-balance. This wasn't fair, the way they were treating her! They seemed to meld, then separate, then meld again as she watched them; she blinked, trying to clear her vision. The time zones she'd crossed crunched up and slammed her. She was tired. So tired, and lonely. Tired of this impasse the three of them were caught in.

Angel sagged. "I need more blood," he told Spike. His tone had changed from combative to confiding. Except where his skin was burned black, he was pale as a newly-peeled potato. Suddenly it wasn't clear to Buffy if he clasped Spike's arm in fellowship or to keep himself from toppling down the stairs. "I was on my way to get some, when—"

"Got a ways to go yet, healing," Spike said. "But you look a bit better."

Angel nodded. He dropped Spike's arm; they came down the stairs.

They might not be sleeping together, but how like a couple they were, a couple of long standing, at ease together, casually looking after each other. Buffy yearned towards that; it had been so long since she'd had anyone who treated her that way.

She didn't know how she was going to get it from either of them, since they were closing ranks against her before her very eyes.

They paused as they came abreast of her. Politely, Angel said, "Do you want anything, Buffy?"

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Spike had jeered at her that she had nothing new to say. Well, she'd surprise him now. "Yes, I want something. If you'd both just hear it. I want to love. To be loved. I want to not be expected to choose."

Spike jerked his head up. His gaze pierced her with an intensity sharp as a bite.

"I don't mean choose between loving and being loved. Because I want both. I'm ready for both."

Angel's gaze abruptly dropped away.

"I may be a little bit drunk," Buffy said.

"No shit," Spike muttered. "Go sleep it off."

"No! It's true! Why do I have to choose? That's what has us all so stuck! Why can't I just stay here with you?"

"With me?" Spike barked it, a challenge.

"Both of you. I want both of you. You both want me. We could make it work if we tried."

Spike gestured in disgust. "You really shouldn't drink, Slayer. Not any better at holdin' your liquor than you ever were. Turns you into a babblin' idiot. Go to bed." He strode off towards the kitchen without waiting for a response.

Angel hastened to follow, but she caught his arm.

"Would you listen! I don't want to be pushed back to the other side of the world by myself. Not now I've seen you again, not now I've seen Spike. Can't we work something out?"

Her face was burning with blushes, she couldn't believe she'd spoken any of this out loud.

Angel said, "Spike's right. You've had a lot to drink, and you're ... saying things you shouldn't say. Things you obviously don't mean." She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him so embarrassed. His bewilderment made him appear improbably young.

"I'm saying, let's try something new." She tried to engage Angel's eyes, but he wouldn't look right at her.

He shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Angel. Why should we all be apart and alone? We should be together, all of us."

"You really should go sleep it off. We opened up a room for you. 401. Across from Faith's. She aired it out earlier, made up the bed for you." He broke from her then, moving swiftly towards the kitchen. The swinging doors flapped hard as he passed through to the hotel's service corridor.

She wanted to take off after them, but to do what? Plead her case some more? Try to take it all back?

The way Spike had looked at her made her shudder.

The way Angel refused to look.

She held herself still for as long as it took to get behind the closed door of 401, and then the tears came down.

In the kitchen there was no sign of Spike, but the travel mug with the warmed blood in it was on the counter.

Grateful, Angel scooped it up and headed for the elevator. He was bone weary. Sick. And wanting to be sick. Sick and unconscious, and by himself. Without these mortifying distractions. He would take a handful of the sleeping tablets Connor had brought in, and fall back into oblivion.

There was nothing else to do, because he sure didn't want to review what just happened. He really could've gone the rest of his unlife without hearing Buffy refer to Spike as the sweet lover I know you can be. It was one thing knowing, intellectually, that Spike had had her. Bad enough when Buffy admitted, a year ago, that Spike was in her heart. But that was enough of a euphemism he could shunt it off into an alcove of his mind and not let it change how he thought of her. Buffy's heart was large and could contain multitudes, including puppies and pretty flowers and french fries and maybe Josh Hartnett and also Spike. It didn't mean anything, him being in her heart.

But to hear Buffy talk to Spike the way she'd talked out there in the lobby. Challenging his love, as if it really mattered. That was just too hard.

It would've been bad at any time, but now, when he'd just sent his friends to their deaths, and had no idea if the Powers were still guiding him or if they'd abandoned him when he signed away the Shanshu, it felt unbearable. He'd never expected to have Buffy in his life again, but he'd compartmentalized her, and his love for her, and he was dealing with the fact that she'd never be his. Part of that deal involved her never being Spike's, either.

To hear her say she wanted to be with both of them, threatened to shatter his last shred of dignity.

That proposal was obscene. More. It wasn't Buffy. It simply was not.

He'd shared Drusilla's attentions with Spike. Often, in the old days. Darla's sometimes, too, with Spike and plenty of other men. And not just theirs. He'd debauched plenty of women with plenty of other fellows, every which way that was possible.

But he'd never loved those women. They were fellow vampires, fellow demons, or whores and victims on their way to providing him with a good sup.

Buffy was different. Special. She was absolutely not in that category at all.

Reaching his room, he stumbled forward into the dark, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand. He'd get into bed, swallow the sleeping pills down with the warm blood, and then Hello Nothingness.

"Slayer's off her rocker."

The drapery at one window shifted, admitting some ambient light, showing Spike standing there, blowing cigarette smoke out into the night air.

"We're not talking about it. Get out."

"I've seen a lot more of her when she's out of her mind than you have. I know the signs."

"She was drunk. Everyone gets sentimental and says weird things they don't mean when they're drunk." Angel was determined to make that the crux of it. Buffy would never ever have spoken such stuff sober.

"It's not true."

"She reeked of beer."

"Not disputing she's drunk. It's not true what she said, about me thinkin' less of her for loving me. I wouldn't do that. It's moot anyway, because I'm not the one she loves. An' then she suspects you an' me are fucking. Girl's all mixed up."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of that going around. Why are you still here?" Angel shucked his clothes, reeled towards the bed, grabbed up the pill bottle.

"Dunno why she had to come here now anyway. Could've used her help a few days ago when we had our wrinklies in a vise, but now that's done with, she's got nothing to do here but tease. Which she bloody loves to do."

"Spike. Get the fuck out."

"I'm not leaving. You're not the one true champion anymore, and you're not getting rid of me. Got to regroup an' go on. You need me, you wanker."

"Out of this room. Leave me alone."

"You think I won't go to her? Gonna go find the slayer right now, and when I'm done with her she'll remember she can love you all she wants, but I'm the only one can fuck her full of bliss and still be all right in the morning."

Angel roared. Spike's cigarette tip flared, then disappeared; he dropped the drape, and it was dark again. Then the door slammed.

Gone.

Angel swallowed the pills, and was quickly gone too.

With the bottle he'd retrieved from his room, Spike headed up to the Hyperion roof. Needed some fresh air to get drunk in. Some stars to ponder, in order to put some perspective on the general madness. Everything was arse-over-tit, himself most of all, and Angel wasn't the only one wondering what it meant that he hadn't fallen in battle when better warriors, better people, were gone.

Wondering what his purpose was supposed to be from now on, and where to look for it.

He opened the tequila on the stairs, and took a deep swig before opening the door that led out onto the roof.

He'd see which side had the nicest view, the farthest view, and sit there. He had a good few hours before the dawn would drive him indoors. And with any luck Buffy would make good on her promise to leave LA, and be gone first thing to make a 6:00 a.m. flight.

Except that she was already sitting on the western parapet, her head silhouetted against the almost-full moon, gazing out towards the distant ocean.

He tried to slip silently back into the stairwell, but she'd already turned.

"Spike."

"Leave you in possession of the field."

"I don't want possession of the field." She leapt up, came towards him. "Please stay."

Her hair was mussed, face tear-stained.

Her bright eyes still had all their the power to pierce him to the quick.

"Thought you were goin' to bed."

"What's in that bottle?" She was flushed, heart racing. Smelled like beer and jet planes and insomnia. Eyelids fluttering with chagrin.

"Tequila." He held it out to her. "Not that you need to be any more out of your mind."

She grabbed the bottle, and before he could grab it back, hurtled it to shatter in a corner of the parapet.

"I was gonna drink that!"

"Don't want you to. We need to talk."

"We do not. Got nothing else to say to you, Slayer."

"I know you're angry at me."

He wasn't going to lie to her and deny it.

"See, I knew it. Because I'm angry at me. I should've planned it better. What I'd say. And when I'd say it. Except it wasn't something I planned. It was more like a bolt."

"A bolt."

"From the blue. You know. A brainstorm."

In her hesitant stance, Spike saw for a split-second the little girl in the Summers' family albums, all unaware of her future, that Dawn once showed him.

"I shouldn't have come to LA now. And I really shouldn't have started with you two about ... about us. My timing sucks. I—I am going to leave in the morning, go back to Rome. If you and Angel ... if anything changes ... you can just let me know. Okay?"

He could imagine himself agreeing, and her turning away, and being gone. And tomorrow Angel wouldn't bring it up, and he wouldn't bring it up, and the nights would go by, and the weeks and the months. And that would be so easy in a way, because the agony of keeping up love in thin air was so familiar. As known and well-fitting as his old duster, the one he no longer had.

She was a terrible, profoundly aggravating girl. No one could torment him like Buffy.

"Go to bed then, Slayer. S'late. Nothin else we need to chat about now."

She dropped her gaze, and he could feel he'd shamed her. But there was no frisson to it.

"I just really wanted you to believe me."

Her eyes glittered with beseeching.

"Pet, I did. When I was about to die, you loved me."

She wore that stunned expression she sometimes took on, that made him willing to stake himself if it would ease her.

Except this time, it just pissed him off.

He itched to punch her, but went for the door instead.

Her blow caught him in the back of the head. He stumbled, and she slammed him back against the stairwell door, pinning his hands against the metal. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks ruddy like the cheeks of girls in 18th century portraits. For a long moment she just took him in, as a slow warm grin tugged at her mouth.

"Wasn't that just like old times?"

"Slayer—"

"You are not going to push me away, or explain me away, anymore. I am your girl, and you are going to stand still and shut up and let me kiss you."

"Am I?"

"Oh yes."

They kissed. She ran it, her mouth hot and wet and eager, tasting of beer and the crying she'd done, and of herself, a flavor that excited him like nothing else ever had. Every time he tried to free his hands, or surge against her, she pressed him back, reminding him who was, if not bigger, than definitely just that much stronger.

He liked it. Liked being bullied, when it was accompanied by the slow thorough probing of her tongue, and her warm belly rubbing against his.

She kissed him for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. His whole body was on fire for her, but she was merciless, keeping him pinned. Her aroma changed, deepened, as her own excitement ratcheted up, but she kept it slow, purposeful. Excruciatingly intense. All the nerve-endings in his body seemed centered in his face. He was grunting now, low pleading noises that she answered with sighs and groans as she licked her wordless story into his mouth. Fucked him with her tongue.

At last she paused to draw a long breath. "Do you understand me now?"

"Comprehension's dawning, yeah."

"You're an excellent kisser. I know I never told you that. But I always thought so."

Before he could answer, she began again. He understood many things now—that this wasn't merely a return to Help Me Feel. She was serious, imparting her fervor with total concentration, kissing it into him. Her hands pinning his wrists to the door were a sort of promise too. That she would never abandon him again, that she was ready to take charge of him in the way he needed her to. She acknowledged his surrender with a tender force she'd never shown him before.

When she squirmed against his groin, he knew she felt his erection, wanted it, but she was patient. For once in their dealings, she was in no rush.

He shut his eyes, the better to experience this, to drink her in with his other senses.

"The rubbing of the tongues. I see this human behavior everywhere. It is on the television. What does it signify?"

Illyria had materialized right beside them, her face with its unblinking eyes inches from theirs. Buffy started. But she didn't let go of his wrists.

"We're mating."

"You exchange genetic materials through your oral cavities. Where then do you carry the immature young?"

"We're not exchanging genetic material. We're exciting each other. In a little while—behind a locked door—we'll exchange. Kissing is sometimes public—but the exchange, that's private."

He was astonished at Buffy's politeness. He himself was inclined to pitch Illyria off the roof.

"This stimulation of the tongue causes the half-caste to become fertile?"

"You know," Buffy said, "I really hope it does not. I don't think it does, but since I've been here I've heard a pretty freaky story about two vampires having a kid. So we might have to be careful. Thanks for the heads up. We're going to go indoors now. You can stay here if you want."

Seemingly satisfied with this conversation, Illyria nodded and stepped back to give them room to open the stairwell door. It was only when they passed through that Spike realized the blue god couldn't have come to the roof that way. Had she scaled the building? He glanced back. She was standing on the parapet, staring up at the moon.

Buffy glanced too. "Y'know, I'm just sort of taking Angel's unspoken word for it that I'm not supposed to slay her."

"Probably wouldn't do to try. You'd only get hurt. She's sort of a fact of life round here now."

"Apparently. My room, or yours?"

"Yours is closer."

Awe.

Buffy had experienced it before. Many times. The first time she slayed a vampire, seeing it shiver into dust that held its human shape for one terrible moment before giving way to the air. Watching Angel undress for her, on the only night they had together. The night she struggled out of the grave to find herself plunged into what felt like hell. The sight of the huge sinkhole where Sunnydale had stood.

She didn't expect to feel awe when, having scrambled down from the hotel roof with him, invited him inside and carefully locked the suite door, she turned back to Spike.

He stood in the middle of the room, but at the same time she perceived him as floating, ephemeral. She'd just now stopped kissing him, touching and talking to him, so why all of a sudden was she caught in this strange bubble, where he embodied everything she'd ever irretrievably lost?

It came to her that she was still drunk, possibly drunker even than before, because kissing Spike again a year after his completely permanent death was such an unlooked-for, wild, enthralling surprise.

She wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to stand upright. Her brain and belly were swaying inside, her senses reeling. That was a cliche, about the reeling, but it was true. She could feel them, her senses, whipping around.

Spike was keeping quiet, letting her look at him. She moved closer. Another thing about being drunk is that she was somehow very clear about what she was feeling. The barrier between thought and speech, always so staunch with her, was getting trampled.

"I want you to know that this past year, not a day went by when I didn't think about you." Not a night. Not an hour. There was a tremor in her voice she couldn't control. "It was so hard not even having a photograph of you, because memory ... memory is so not enough." She came up to him, touched his face. She was all a-tremble with desire, a desire that seemed to transcend mere arousal and satiety. "You're more beautiful than I remembered. You look so good to me."

"Not good at all. Big Bad here."

"Hey! Don't quip while I'm telling you my heart."

"Oh, is that what you're doing?"

Oh God, I am. A sodden wave rushed up and lifted her off her feet, tossed her towards the ceiling. She seized his hands to keep from getting sucked up in it, tumbled head over heels. "Listen. Listen, beautiful Spike, because I never talk like this, I might not do it again." She tugged on his hands, and laughed. Once it began, the laughter took on itself, pouring out like a coughing fit. Spike laughed too, indulgent, and gathered her in. Swung her up into his arms.

Like a bride, she thought, I feel like a bride. "Listen! Listen!"

"Gonna put you to bed, girlie, on account of you're on the verge of passin' out." He carried her there, laid her down gently, and started to take off her shoes.

She sat up. "Listen! I want to say it out loud so you won't be in any doubt. Here's how it is. You were my enemy, and then you became my ally, and finally my friend. Our friendship was forged in terrible wrong and pain and—and—big badness. Right?"

"Right," he said agreeably, letting one shoe drop and prying off the other.

"So it holds. It's strong. Super-strong. It transcends death. But that's not all."

"Not all? Fancy that. Lie down, there's a good drunken slayer." He prodded her shoulder.

She caught his hand again. "Spike! I'm serious, here! You're not just my friend. You are also my love. I love you, and I'm in love with you, and I'm your girl and you're my beautiful blue-eyed vampire-man."

As she babbled, she saw him soften, smile, and begin to bask in her declaration. He was radiant.

No question that he believed her.

At the same time, she knew that the unmentioned name was in his mind. It was in hers too, making things complicated.

"I don't want you to worry about him.. I can't say I love you both equally because you are Spike, and he is Angel. He is tall and dark and like the Incredible Hulk and you are wiry and light and like—like—maybe The Human Torch."

"That was me, yeah, all on fire down that hell-hole in Sunny D."

She winced. Had not meant to remind him of that. "Or do I mean the Silver Surfer? Xander would know. Not that—not that I'm going to call and ask him or anything. You just have to believe me, that neither Angel or you takes away from the other. Of that I'm sure."

"Hmm mm."

"And whatever Angel decides about us, I'm not waiting for him to say yes to me in order to say yes to you. I say yes to you, Spike." Her cheeks were bright hot, and she dropped her gaze, which brought her eyes straight to his bulging crotch. She forced herself to look up into his face again.

His eyes, smiling, brimmed with tender amusement. "Well well. In vino, veritas."

"It was beer, actually."

"Sam Adams, draft. Can smell it. You've been a thirsty little slayer."

"And now I smell bad? Don't tell me I smell bad!"

"Go to sleep, love."

"But we're gonna do it first, right? I'm so ready for you, God you must smell that too, I'm not gonna be able to hide anything from you, am I, uh, not that I want to! I just—I need to pee—" She started up, and almost toppled. Spike caught her, and guided her to the bathroom. She used the toilet without turning on the light. Her head weighed a ton, and at the same time it was a balloon, bobbing along the ceiling.

She made it back to the bed in a running leap and a bounce, and thinking of that bulge in his jeans, peeled out of her teeshirt.

Why aren't you in here with me?"

"Give us a sec'. Gonna take a leak."

"Since when do you do that?"

"Beer in, piss out. Even for demons."

She heard the hard clack as the toilet seat hit the back of the tank.

The next thing she was aware of was a bright light against her closed lids, immediately followed by a seering pain behind her eyeballs.

Morning. She fought free of the sheet tangled around her body, and hunched around the other way, out of the sunlight streaking in the unblinded windows.

But her head hurt too much to sleep again. So much that it was astounding she'd been asleep at all.

"Owwwwww." Moving hurt. Lying still on her stomach hurt. Rolling onto her back hurt. Every position made her head feel like it was in a vise—a vise being turned by some very muscular kind of demon.

She wasn't wearing any clothes.

But she couldn't remember the much-anticipated lovemaking. That was gone. Not a kiss, not a caress, not the weight of him on her, the heft of him inside her, not a growl or an endearment. The whole event vanished in a drunken blackout, and the man himself vanished too.

It must've happened though, because she was soaked between her legs, lying on a wet spot, and her thighs were stuck together.

God. Had he really fucked her and then left her to sleep alone? She dragged herself to the side of the bed. Her stomach flopped, bile rising sickeningly up her throat, burning, making a foul tang at the back of her tongue.

And now the Sunnydale High Marching Jazz Band was doing a medley of their worst bits in her throbbing head, which felt inflated to the size of a beach ball. At least.

"Oh God. Never. Never again. I'm Diet Coke girl, forever." She dragged herself up. The dried fluids had knit her pubic hair so it tugged painfully when she rose.

That's when she saw the blood stain on the sheet. Her gorge shot up, and she hunched over, so as not to vomit, because the memories that flooded her—of being forced to the bathroom floor, struggling against his clutching hands and furious face and the sharp knee driven between her thighs—was immediate and vivid.

Forced and torn and left unconscious—No no no. She staggered up, still hunched, favoring her groin, and scuttled into the bathroom. But there was no tearing pain there, just the sick pounding of her head. Glancing at herself in the big mirror, she saw no bruises, or marks of any kind, on her nude body.

A clot of blood ran down the inside of her thigh.

She'd begun her period, that was all.

"Shit."

Even though there was no one to see, Buffy was overcome with chagrin at the conclusion she'd leapt to. Now she didn't want to face her reflection as she tore through her toiletry bag for a tampon. He'd sought his soul for her, fought to win it, and was never anything but on her side ever since. Last night their whole interaction had been—well, she'd said a lot of stuff she couldn't quite remember, but that quarter hour of kissing on the hotel roof was indelible. The upstairs bathroom in Sunnydale was as far in the past, and as irrelevant to their love, as the night her mother clocked him in the high school corridor.

How could she have gone there?

At least he would never know she'd had that thought. He must've left her when he smelled the blood; it made sense that he wouldn't want to lie there with that aroma in his nostrils, and maybe he'd even tried to wake her up to tell her. She must've been dead to the world.

In the shower she tried to rinse away the ugly flashes of memory, but like the pounding in her head, the nausea in her belly, and the sharp cramps that began as soon as she was on her feet, they hung on, like the shreds of a nightmare.

Need coffee. Need juice. Need to go out in the light—with my dark glasses on. Need to wash my mind out with soap.

He sees them. The three: Gunn, Fred, Wes. Their backs are to him, but they're not very far away. Angel trots towards them, calling out. They're only walking, three abreast, away, but he's faster, he's going to catch up in a moment. And meanwhile they'll hear him, so they'll stop and turn and wait.

Fred's hair is loose and moves on the breeze. Gunn's arm is around her on one side, and Wes's on the other. They move very evenly, almost like skating. Angel calls again, but they don't turn, or even pause. Though they're only walking and he's running now as fast as he can, through a dark air that feels like glue, they're getting farther and farther away. His friends, his partners.

Angel stumbles to a stop. "It's your fault too!" he screams. "I'm not the only one who fucked it all up!"

Then the earth erupts at his feet, and he falls.

Angel awoke, harsh and sudden, with a sensation of his body hitting the mattress, as if he'd plunged from the ceiling.

He was in his bed, in his old suite at The Hyperion, the air smelling of dust and rusty blood. Right away he remembered that his friends were dead, and that while they made mistakes too, everything really was his fault, because he and he alone made the decisions that led them there.

Oh God.

What now?

Maybe the Powers had forsaken him. Maybe, when he signed away the Shanshu, he'd signed away their guidance too.

Probably he was supposed to be dust now.

Connor should go back to school, and Faith to Cleveland, in a day or two.

Buffy had come here and said a lot of nonsense, but soon she would take Spike back with her to Rome, and he'd be all on his own. No seer, no friends, nothing but this hulk of a hotel. A good place to stay buried in.

How low was he, when the removal of Spike felt like a grave loss?

Angel dragged himself up and into the shower. The last of the scabs fell away in the hot stream. He was well again, at least physically.

The brightness of the mid-morning, even with sunglasses on, proved too much; by time she'd shuffled down from the hotel entrance to the sidewalk, Buffy's head was throbbing so hard she could only retreat back into the Hyperion's welcoming darkness.

Moving towards the kitchen, she hoped not to meet anyone. This was prime vampire snooze-time, and with any luck, Faith and the mysterious Connor would be elsewhere, doing whatever it was that girl slayers and boy slayers did together.

"Buffy."

No luck.

Angel was just popping the microwave door as she walked in; the stink of heated blood flooded the room. In the next moment, Buffy's digestive tract was no longer under her command; she hurled forward and vomited into the sink.

In another moment Angel's hands were gently sweeping back her hair, as she coughed out the last remnants.

"Big night?" He turned the sink on full. She'd thrown up mostly stomach acid; wasn't sure if she'd eaten any dinner the day before.

"Apparently." She rinsed her mouth, shut off the tap. Angel was still holding her hair with one hand, but as soon as she straightened up, he let it go and stepped back, moving to pour the hot blood into his insulated mug. Once the lid was on it and the container rinsed, the smell was nearly gone. "There might be some stuff I'm forgetting."

"I hope you haven't been making a habit of that. Drinking."

"No, Dad."

Angel looked grim, and turned away. "Siddown. What you need is some food in your stomach. I'll make you some eggs. —Don't say no. Trust me, you'll feel better."

"You are going to make eggs."

"There was a time when I cooked breakfast for my team all the time. Cordy could've told you, I fry a mean omelette." He was opening cabinets now, assembling ingredients. It was a good way to keep his back to her; Buffy was surprised he wasn't fleeing her presence altogether. The whole course of last evening's events was coming back to her in bits and flashes. Her argument with Spike in the lobby. Angel's entrance, and then her speech to the two of them. Her proposition.

And the horrified way he tried to negate it by refusing to look at her.

Oh yeah. All the pieces were back in place. Buffy sat at the end of the big table, and laid her head down.

Angel set a glass in front of her, and slapped some pills down on the wood. "Drink this down. Take these. You look kind of green."

"Whereas you seem to be all better now." Meekly, she sipped at the orange juice. "Which is good."

Angel didn't reply. He was chopping onion and pepper with vampire speed. Buffy sat back and looked around. The kitchen, like the rest of the hotel, had an air of disuse, and was dusty, but was otherwise pretty nice. "This is some place you have here."

"Glad I had the forethought to ward it up before we moved out. Found it just as we left it when we came back." Angel paused. "When I came back."

Despite the cheerful sound of cooking, the smell of coffee brewing, the temperature between them, not exactly high from the get-go, plummeted. Buffy swallowed the aspirins. "If I'd understood the situation, maybe I could've helped. I'm sorry about that. It's partly my fault, and partly yours. Lesson learned: Champions need to stay in touch."

"I guess so." Angel cracked eggs on the edge of a basin, in a way that showed Buffy how careful he was being, to rein himself in.

"I just want one egg."

"But you're going to eat three. And bacon and toast and fried tomatoes."

"And like it?" She couldn't help smiling into her juice glass.

"And like it," Angel echoed.

"So you cooked for them. Cordelia, and—"

"And Doyle. Later Wes. And even a few times for Gunn and Fred and Lorne too, but more recently... more recently we'd let our good old habits slide."

"Those happy little rituals are always the first thing to go when things get bad," Buffy said. "The last year in Sunnydale, we—"

"How's your sister?"

The question startled her. "Dawn is good. She's at university, in England. At Cambridge, actually. Huh. I forget that you knew her. Because you really never have been in the same room as her, you just think you ... I got the sense from Faith that something of the same sort happened here. Wholesale insertions into people's memories. Except not an insertion so much as a deletion. Your son was deleted."

"It was a decision I made." The frying pan sizzled as Angel poured the egg mixture in, sending up a cloud of steam.

"A bad decision?"

"He's alive. The hostages he was about to murder when the spell took hold are probably all still alive too. My friends aren't. You tell me if it was a bad decision."

"God. That's not my call." The headache still thumping behind her eyes was just another reminder of how surreal, how hard, this superhero life was.

And you couldn't walk away from it. She'd tried, and not only would it suck you back in, but—the sense of displacement, of missing everything important while you were fixated on what was utterly trivial—skiing with the Immortal!—was killer.

When would this headache clear up?

Angel slid a plate in front of her.

There was a lot of food on it. And ... it looked good. The omelette fluffy, the bacon crisp, the tomatoes with those toasty brown patches. Her stomach, obedient dog, growled.

"There, I knew you were hungry. Eat up."

He sat, prepared apparently to watch that she did as she was told.

It was the first time since her arrival that she felt he really welcomed her. He'd been too weak the other day, begging her not to go; that wasn't like this, didn't impart the little frisson of pleasure. Who knew Angel could cook, would cook, had such a grasp of domestic details, of human comforts?

He knew how to make proper coffee, too.

"I hope you'll tell me everything. That we can tell each other ... what friends should tell."

That slayed the doting pleasant look. "Where to begin." It wasn't a question, more a negation.

"I could use the FAQ on Connor. I'd like to know about the friends you lost, and about this law firm thing, and—and—" It nearly shut her down, realizing the length of the list, and how many things weren't even on the list, because she didn't know to list them.

Their paths really had diverged. She knew almost nothing about him anymore.

Except that he was still Angel, and the sight of him still cracked her open inside and filled her up with a brimming golden glowing love. This overwhelming feeling didn't make her happy or satisfied; sometimes it felt as close to outright suffering as her middle finger was to her ring finger. But though so many years had lapsed since he'd left her, that love never modulated, let alone died. It was a fact inside her, like her slayerness. A fact she wanted to face.

Even in her next-morning nauseated sobriety.

Angel shook his head.

Buffy put a hand on his. "Please. I'm in no rush. There's plenty of coffee. Tell me something. It might help you, to talk about it. Any of it."

"And what will you tell me?"

She blinked, confused. "Anything."

"What happened with The Immortal?"

"Wh—what?"

"The Immortal. How did he throw you over?"

"He, uh ... he didn't. How do you know I was seeing Piero?"

Angel shook his head again, and started to get up. Buffy grabbed his arm. "How do you know? Have you been spying on me?"

He gave her a look of such blandness it made her flinch. "Yes. When I had the resources of the law firm at my disposal, I had you watched. I wanted to know you were all right."

"You wanted—! You never called me or wrote to me but you set spies on me?"

"Told you she'd pout."

Buffy glanced around. "Spike! You knew about this too?"

"Only at the end, pet. Otherwise I probably would've found some way to tip you off, without tippin' you off about me." He swung into the room, turning one of the kitchen chairs backwards to sit.

She scrambled up. "God! Every time I start to think we can get it together and relate to each other like grown-ups, you pull some stinker like this! What is the matter with you?"

"Yeah, what's the matter with you, our Liam? Don't you know first thing 'bout relating to a woman, you homunculus?"

"You shut up, Spike! You don't get to kibbitz this fight, Mr I Didn't Bother To Say I Was Alive!"

Angel's fist struck thunder on the wooden table. "Both of you, shut up!"

In the sudden silence, Buffy realized her headache was gone.

She drew herself up. "Don't you try to shut me down. Just because you don't want to own what you did, doesn't mean I'm going to pretend it didn't happen!"

"Buffy. C'mon. I didn't do anything. I just had a couple of guys in your general vicinity, just, you know, making sure no harm came to you."

"No harm? I'm the vampire slayer!"

"Well, according to the bi-monthly reports I was getting, you were more of a party-girl-ski-bunny-topless-sunbathing-on-the-Riviera—"

Spike perked up. "Topless? Why Slayer, you have changed."

"That's just how it is on French beaches, okay? It would've been dorky to wear the top! What do you know—the last time you were on a beach they still had bathing machines."

"Been on a beach more recently than that. Moonlight swimming. Vamps don't need to wear suits, we're wild creatures who swim naked— Say, you an' me ought to do that. What about tonight?"

"Spike. Buffy and I are having a discussion. Would you get out?"

"I'll leave if the slayer asks me to."

This response so astonished her that for a moment Buffy could say nothing. Spike was watching her. She expected to see him smirk, but he seemed genuine.

"She turned back to Angel. "Are your spies still on me?"

"No. I ... after we saw you in Rome, I called them off. And before you start screaming again, yes, I should've told you that too. We were only there for a very brief time, and it was in the middle of the whole clusterfuck that the last month has been."

"You were there. You saw me."

"Yes. Yes and yes. And maybe keeping that from you is another of the myriad ways I fucked up, but since it's a mistake that did not lead to your dismemberment or death, I'm kinda gonna give myself a pass." Angel looked at them each in turn, and slammed out of the kitchen.

The door flapped violently in his wake.

Spike caught Buffy before she reached it. "Wait a bit, pet."

"Why? I have to talk to him—"

"He can't. Not yet."

"... oh."

Spike turned her, his hands on her shoulders. "Little hung over today, I reckon."

"You were in Rome. And you saw me. And still you didn't—"

"Never mind that. There wasn't any time, had a caper to pull off on a deadline, an' then to rush back here. Better we didn't meet up then."

"I'm sick of being told what's best for me." She was tense, still wanting to take off after Angel, or to berate Spike in his place.

"Know the feelin'." His thumb came up and caressed her jaw. "Don't be too cross with him. He's a chundering idiot, but I reckon he does the best he can."

"I ... I guess."

"For an emotional cripple."

"Spike!"

He shrugged, smiled. "Just callin' him like I see him."

His thumb was still drifting along her cheek. Buffy caught it gently in her teeth, and let it go. "... what happened last night?"

"Nothing. What, you think I'd get on you when I wasn't sure yes meant yes? Learned that lesson already."

"No! Spike, no, I never thought that. I just ... I was surprised when I woke up and you weren't there."

He looked puzzled now. "Pet, tried to wake you to tell you you were on the rag, but you were out. Was a bit ... confusing, lyin' there with you spread out beside me like a cornucopia, an' no tasting allowed, so I took myself off. Figured you'd twig to it."

"Oh, I did, I—I totally twigged. I was just ... disappointed."

He smiled again, wistful. "So was I. Lay awake for hours, thinkin' on what you said to me. How you looked at me. Don't mind tellin' you I took myself in hand, on the strength of it."

She got up on tiptoe, whispered. "... I don't mind telling you, then ... I've done that a lot myself, in the last year. Thought of you, when I ...." She blinked against the prick of tears in her eyes.

"Made you sad, did it?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry you suffered on my account."

"Maybe you are, but it thrills you too, doesn't it?"

Spike glanced away for a moment, and she knew she'd hit the mark there.

"Will sleep with you tonight, if you want me. Say, what about that beach date?"

"You were serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"Yes. I'd like that. Only— Could we ask Angel too?"

"He's not fond of the ocean since he spent a summer at the bottom of it. Besides, thought you an' me ought to have a proper date at long last. Seem to remember you tellin' me last night that you weren't going to let Angel determine how things go between you an' me. But ask him if you must."

"I did say that, yes. Okay, I'd love to go to the beach."

He lit up. "I'll find us some wheels, an' all. You only need to bring yourself. No suit—we'll do this demon style, yeah?"

"Way to endear yourself," Spike said, when Angel opened his door. He'd retreated to his suite, where he seemed to have shut himself in, after the argument in the kitchen, like a wild animal responsible for its own confinement. "Never gonna get horizontal with the slayer if you keep that up."

"I notice you haven't either."

"Not yet. She wanted to last night, but she was drunk."

"I don't like the idea of her drinking. It doesn't seem like her."

"You don't know her anymore. She does all sorts."

"Don't tell me," Angel warned, warding him off with a gesture.

"Girl's flash in the sack. An' not just there—had her other places too, every which way. Energetic an' flexible—in every sense—an' a quick little learner. Was very little she wouldn't do." Spike threw himself into an armchair. "Still, would like to find out how she is with a fellow she's really fond of."

Angel perked up, looked smug. "Buffy in love ... she was wonderful."

"That's not what Angelus said."

"I'm not talking about that time. Though she was wonderful then too."

"That was the only time there was."

"No. We had one other." Angel started pacing again. "Five years ago, she came to LA, I forget why. We were attacked in my office by a demon whose blood brought me back to life."

"Brought you back to—"

"A gifthorse which, when I examined its teeth, I found I had to give back. The price was too high."

"You were alive."

"For a single day. A day which the Powers agreed to take back, to make as if it never happened. Except that I remember it. I remember making love to Buffy, for hours. With ice cream."

"Ice cream."

"She was sensational. We were sensational. Nothing in my life or unlife was ever so rich and perfect as ... I was never so happy, so delighted. But the great thing of it was her happiness. I'd never seen her like that before either. Just pure, unadulterated joy."

"Ah." The pang that started when Angel said Buffy in love was now a full-fledged ache. His heart was always breathless for her, always yearning and hoping. He could twist Angel's head off now, for forcing him to think of Buffy giving herself to him, especially in a state of joy, and at the same time, there was a surge of affection for the old man, because they shared that consuming love for the world's most adorable girl. He pricked himself with it a bit more. "Did she shine with it?"

"She did. Like a little sun."

"An' don't you think she would again, if you stopped antagonizing her for a moment an' took her in your arms?"

Angel's open, reminiscent expression darkened into something nearly thunderous. "You know I can't. And why would you even want me to? She's yours now. I heard what she said to you."

"Don't really want her in your arms, no. But I do want her to be happy. An' if part of that's havin' you in her life, an' her bed ... well, so be it."

Angel grinned suddenly. "You're practically cutting out your tongue, saying that."

He was. Knew in his heart that as he pretended to be more interested in Buffy's fulfillment than anything else, it wasn't the whole truth—the idea of her not being his alone tormented him. Even as he suspected the only way he'd be able to have her in any ongoing way, despite her reassurances, was by sharing. If he plumbed for All Or Nothing At All, he'd lose. "Well, don't exactly like it, do I? Old Spike ought to be more'n enough for any woman, especially the Slayer. She knows I love her like—"

Angel took a bottle out of a cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey. "She's only confused because she's here. You should take her away. To Rome, or anywhere. Just go."

"Just go, he says. How'm I to do that? Knock her out and stuff her in a burlap sack? What century you think this is, idiot?"

"You could have her if you'd just step up and take her. Sometimes that's what a woman wants—she wants not to have to arrange and decide everything herself."

"That's bollocks." An' went so well when I tried it in her bloody bathroom. "Might be some women are like that, but not our Buffy. Wouldn't want her to be, come to that. Anyway, haven't I told you an' told you that I'm not gonna walk out on you? We have work to do here, yet. Was out doin' a bit of recon early this morning. Things are humming at Wolfram an' Hart like nothing ever happened. Demon life's startin' to come out of hiding again. We averted an apocalypse, but that was last week. They're already assembling the ingredients for the next one."

"Don't change the subject."

"Thought you didn't even want to talk about it."

"I don't." Angel closed his eyes. "Spike, I know you care about the mission. I respect that. And if Buffy had just stayed where she belonged ...."

"Oh fucking hell. Don't put it on me to remove the temptation. Y'know, if you really an' truly mean to give her the go-by, you ought to tell her yourself. Tell her in no uncertain terms. But I don't think you do mean to. I don't think that at all."

"Well think again. The people who work with me get slaughtered. I'm not going to risk anyone else."

"It's not up to you, you great prat. Look, not gonna stand around here arguin'. You'd better go talk to her, because she's gonna stay sore about that spying caper 'til you do."

"Why should you care if she's sore at me? All the more for you this way, isn't that so?"

"Already have a date with her tonight, whether or not." Spike scooped Angel's car keys up from the dresser, and pocketed them.

"Hey! Put those back!"

"Tsk tsk. Wouldn't lend your ride to your best friend?"

"You're not my best friend, Spike!"

"Best one you've got left. Should treat 'em better, now they're so rare."

Angel found her, an hour later, in the basement. Punching the small bag, so hard and rapid it resembled a uvula in a cartoon scream.

And she herself: totally concentrated, lost in the precise action of muscle and force. He stood in the doorway, watching her. She knew he was there, though he was behind her; she'd sense him. But she kept on. Her golden skin was dewed with sweat, ponytail jouncing.

When she stopped punching, the abrupt silence was like a final blow. Without turning, she pulled off the gloves. "These fit me, so they can't be yours."

"I bought them for Cordelia. There was a time when I was training her. She became a good fighter. Knew how to handle a sword."

"Did you fall in love with her?"

Angel answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"Oh. I—I'm glad—"

"Nothing ever came of it. She was taken away before we could."

Now Buffy turned. Her face alight with curiosity, but at the same time restrained, so he could see the effort she was putting into remaining objective. "But if she hadn't been taken away? Were you going to risk it?"

Yes. No. Maybe. All three seemed true. If she'd met him on the bluff, declared herself, as seemed her intention ... would he have allowed himself to be her lover?

It wasn't orgasm, or even making love to a beautiful willing woman, that was the danger. People thought that, but he knew it wasn't true. It was something altogether more concentrated, quicker and deeper than that, a confluence.

He'd often wondered, since infant Connor was taken from him, why those moments of joy he'd experienced with his little son didn't bring out Angelus. Some of them, surely, should have? Perhaps because his pleasure in the child was never unaccompanied by anxiety, by a pressing sense of the mystery of his existence?

"Buffy, I'm sorry about the spies. I know it was wrong, and you have the right to be angry."

"I have the right, do I? Gee, thanks!"

"Don't take it that way."

She came up to him then, craning to look up into his face. She was redolent of sweat and menstrual blood; he could smell also her recent proximity to Spike. The combination of odors made him feel at once possessive and near despair. No matter what she said, she didn't need him. Not really.

And that was for the best.

"How should I take it? Should I be grateful that you're still taking all the initiative in our relationship? Cutting me off at the knees?"

"Buffy. We don't have a relationship anymore. Remember? We can't."

"That's not what you seemed to think the last time I saw you, in Sunnydale. And if we don't, why spy on me at all?"

"Because ... because I'm still weak."

"Oh, you got that right. You're infuriating, too. Last night I wanted to punch your lights out."

He wasn't ready for how she grabbed his head and yanked him down. She'd never kissed him like that before, and for one upside-down moment it might've been Spike's aggressive nervy mouth pressed to his, Spike's muscular tongue thrusting in.

It was Spike whom she kissed in this raunchy way. With Spike she'd moved beyond the yielding femininity Angel remembered. Spike had fucked both the grown woman and the slayer, whereas he'd had only the earnest young girl, still self-conscious, still learning.

There was so much more to Buffy that Angel had never met.

He was meeting it right now. She vaulted to wrap her legs around his waist, bringing her up to his eye level. Hers sparkled, daring him, defying him to put her down before she took possession of his mouth again, her hands fisting his hair. "It's a good thing I like you so much, or you'd be in waaay more trouble right now, mister."

With her pressed up against him, Angel's newly-healed skin prickled with the ghost of its burns. Somewhere deep within, the angry lecherous demon shifted and groaned. Banked desire unfurled, making his clothes too tight, making her squirming body almost too hot to handle. The smell of her flowing blood was keener now her thighs were parted, bringing back with a sharp immediacy his memory of biting her, drinking deep. He wanted to fall to the floor with her, have her right here on the cold cement; he wanted to dash her body against the wall before these sensations undid his last shred of self-control.

It was Buffy who let go suddenly, falling back like they were repelling magnets.

"God, Angel. What's it going to take to unfreeze you?"

"Take?" It was all he could do not to fang out; his body sang with a disturbing voltage. "Buffy, you should take Spike and get out of LA."

She stared, mouth slack, incredulous. The moment boiled. Then she tossed her head, and seemed to shrink. Muttered, "Way to humiliate me."

She was on the stairs when he caught her, pulled her back. "No. No. Not humiliate. Protect. For God's sake Buffy, they're all dead. I led them to their deaths. I don't want ... You and Spike, you both deserve your lives. You should be happy. Spike ... can make you happy."

Her face was a mask of fury. "I don't think you believe a word you're saying. You cling to that curse because it protects you from honest dealing with the people you love. Don't you think that stance is getting a little shopworn?"

"The curse is real." He wanted to plead with her, not to torment him, not to challenge him. Not now, while he was so raw, steeped in his failures.

She could be imperious too. "I know it's real. But I don't believe in lightning striking twice in the same place. Perfect happiness isn't going to come from being with me—we're both way past that point. But we can offer each other some good-enough happiness if you'd stop being such a first-class martyr."

"Buffy, you can't know—"

"And if you think I'm going to take Spike away from the mission he's dedicated himself to, or beat a retreat because you insist on being Mr Unilateral Decision, you can forget it. I'm part of your life again, and his, and you're just gonna have to deal."

Buffy turned and marched up the stairs.

Rooted to the spot, Angel struggled for some response. "Just ... don't let Spike mess up my car tonight!"

Buffy wrote an email to Willow. My life's now set up for maximum confusion. Buckle your seatbelts, everybody. I'm going on a date with Spike tonight. Oh yes, Spike's not dead. We're going to go skinny dipping in the Pacific. And I'm getting involved with Angel again too, though so far he isn't cooperating. I'd say: Don't Ask, except I know you will ask. All I can say is that I'm changing my life based on a drunken revelation. Really, something I knew deep down all along, but couldn't let myself know until just now: I'm in love with them both. Indivisibly. And I'm a kinky girl and I have needs. I'm trying to get them met. I'm looking forward to meeting S and A's needs too. I think it'll work out. Also, staying here because it looks like there'll be steady work for a senior slayer. And it's time for me to end my time-out and get back in the game.

BTW, Angel has a son. I still don't entirely understand the details—he was born to Darla, who I thought was dust, just three years ago, but he's a college student now. And I think Faith is doing him. Yes, she's here too. I'll tell her you said hi.

Buffy hadn't brought a swimsuit with her to LA, so despite Spike's caution, she went out to buy a bikini, just in case. She also, despite his telling her she had to bring only herself, picked up a bottle of good wine, and the makings of a picnic—a baguette, some prosciutto, a melon, and a nice little Spanish cheese. A year in Rome had taught her a proper regard for food. And Spike always liked to eat.

They'd be naked together, but in a fresh way—the ocean breeze on their bare skin, under the bright moon, under the water. They'd play, and talk, two things they'd never really done together.

Changing her tampon before meeting him in the lobby, she was glad it was the time of the month. It gave them space—he wouldn't expect sex, at least, not serious sex. (His description of her—a cornucopia—flashed into her mind; she imagined him going down on her, making her come over and over so the blood would flow thicker, as he lapped it up. He'd asked her to let him do this back in Sunnydale, but after she knocked him unconscious with one right to the jaw, he didn't bring it up again. Now the idea made her flush; her clit twitched, and it was all she could do not to touch herself. If he asked her again—? But he wouldn't, would he? He'd wait for her to signal what was to be permitted.)

"All ready, kitten?" Spike sprang up when she walked into the lobby, came to her and put an arm around her, very casual and companionable. Yet at the same time she sensed it was a test, one the many they'd set for each other all evening—determining what each was to be allowed by the other. How easy they could be together. "You smell nice."

"New perfume." She wondered if he was referring to that scent, or the one of blood she knew must hang around her just as enticingly. "You smell nice too."

"C'mon then, the car's out back in the alley."

The car wasn't all that was out in the alley. Sprawled in the back seat, towels around their necks, were Faith and Connor.

"Let's get going. We're missing prime moonshine here," Faith said.

Buffy glanced at Spike. "I thought we were going to be, you know, a deux."

"So did I," Spike murmured.

"Did Angel put you up to this?" Buffy asked. "More spying?"

She thought Connor blushed a little. "Dad doesn't even want me dating Faith. So, uh, no."

"Don't be paranoid, B. Double-date with the hotties, that's all. C'mon, let's go."

Spike opened the passenger side door, and handed her into the car. Buffy giggled. "All right, we'll all go. But you two better behave, or we'll leave you at the side of the highway to hitchhike."

As they left the city and headed towards the isolated beach Spike knew, Buffy was uncomfortably aware that Faith was all but fucking Connor in the backseat. She tried not to keep glancing at them in the rearview mirrors, but it was hard to concentrate on anything else. There was something weird about the two of them—Buffy knew he was twenty, but beside Faith he came across like a child, a child being corrupted by an older woman. Hard to remember she and Faith were the same age, just twenty-three. In so many ways she felt ancient, like she'd traversed life-times. Something to do with having been dead, she supposed.

After a while they sank down below the mirrors' sightlines, and then it was just the occasional thump against the seat back, and Faith's triumphant chortles that reached her over the roar of the wind and the engine. Spike put his arm around her again, and yanked her in close. Chuckling, he whispered, "Slayer girls're wild."

Wild. Oh, we are. She laid a hand on his denim thigh, and another fantasy bloomed vivid in her mind—she could undo Spike's flies, pull out his cock. Go down on him right here on the freeway. If anyone could be trusted to come doing eighty and not get them killed, it was Spike.

And he'd love that. Oh, how he'd love it.

And so would she. She missed his cock, wanted to reacquaint herself with its beauties. Knowing that Faith was right there, and might see her if she popped up suddenly, made the whole idea that much more enticing.

But she didn't move. Spike moved his hand down from her shoulder, up under her arm, fingers spidering her ribs. Tugging her closer.

"Like havin' your head on my shoulder."

"Me too." Overhead, the full moon sailed above the light-wash of the city they were leaving behind. She began to smell the ocean. "I never dared imagine this."

"Even with the naughties in back, s'good, yeah."

"I almost don't want to get there. We could just drive, right?"

"Gonna see you all nude an' glowing in the moonlight. Won't miss that."

"I don't know if I can do nude in front of the kid."

"You promised, Slayer. An' expect he an' Faith will disappear off into the dunes soon's we park." He gave her another squeeze. "Spoke with Angel, did you?"

"We don't have to talk about Angel. Tonight is for us."

"Thought he was our significant other."

"Oh no, is that what we're calling him?" She couldn't help but laugh. And then laugh again, at how easily that we came to her lips, how amazingly good it felt to ride with Spike and chat with him. He could be so easy to get along with, when he wanted to be, when she let him.

Ease like that, was hard to remember, with Angel. She must've had it, at some point, but the moments that came to her memory most readily were never those.

"An' larger for his absence, drat him. Though we both know how bloody large he is, in every dimension."

"Uh—we do?"

Spike's fingers tickled under her breast. "Oh you filthy-minded kitten. Know what you're thinkin', though it wasn't what I meant."

"It wasn't?" She rolled her head against his neck, enjoying how the wind whipped her hair around. Brought her lips to his ear. "Tell me the truth. You and Angel—you have done it, haven't you?"

"Aren't you obsessed."

"The more you evade the question, the surer I am that you've been jumping each other's bones this whole time."

"Not in this century. Or the last one, come to that. Not since the glorious nineteenth. When we both wore waistcoats."

"And were evil."

"I'm always evil in the sack, baby."

She giggled again, and poked him the side. But before she could reply, Connor popped up behind them. "Whoa! You had sex with my Dad?"

Buffy turned to frown at him. "I thought you were busy back there. And we were whispering!"

"I hear like a vampire. What's this about my father?"

"Bloody nothing," Spike grumbled. "Anyway, here we are."

They'd pulled off the freeway, and were gliding now into a small parking area overlooking a stretch of deserted beach. Moonlight glittered on the water out to the horizon.

"Good spot!" Faith said, leaping out of the car, yanking Connor after her. They ran down towards the surf, pulling clothes off as they went.

Buffy turned to Spike. "I'm sorry to keep bringing up Angel."

"S'all right. Can't really help it, can you?"

"No, I can. And you're being really nice about it. I call a moratorium for tonight."

He took her hand, brought her palm to his lips. A shiver went through her, made her seize his face, bring her mouth to his. All his kisses, she thought, were so eloquent. He told himself to her with kisses. She tasted his yearning, his patience—when was Spike ever patient, in the past? She gasped when they finally broke, catching up on breath. He smoothed her blowing hair under his hands.

"Beautiful slayer."

"I love you. Spike, I love you so much."

"An' I love you. Tell me what Angel said to you before."

"I thought we weren't going to talk about him anymore now."

"Was askin' about this before and we got distracted with smutty talk."

She shrugged. "He said I should go back to Rome and take you with me."

"And you said—?"

"I said no. He wants to be alone so he can wallow in being lower than low. It isn't good for him. Spike ... Do you believe in this? What I want to make, here, with both of you? Because if you really hate it, then maybe—"

"Don't hate it. Perplexes me a bit. Frustrates me, too