Sideways Shanshu 2

Spoilers: Season 5, up to The Body

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Buffy et al. are the property of ME, Fox, and Joss Whedon.

No copyright infringement is intended--it's just for fun. :)

Summary: Continuation of "Sideways Shanshu", or in other words, a

really long epilogue. Spike is human, so now what? Where does he go from

here, and what does Angel think of the whole situation? Meanwhile, Buffy

prepares for her mother's funeral, deals with her father, and also has

to explain to her dad why a bleached blonde, wounded British guy is

staying at their house.

Author Notes: There's only so much sadness you can write before it gets

to you, so this isn't a total sob fest--I'll leave that to Joss Whedon.

Hopefully the grief and serious parts are well-balanced with the lighter

moments, but if not, you know who to blame. :)

****

The silence in the house was unnerving--it seemed colder, more distant.

And then Spike remembered why it felt that way; Joyce was gone. She

wouldn't ever be here again, making him feel welcome, chatting with him

about whatever they felt like talking about. The loss of such a vibrant

personality echoed with a hollow sound, as the noise of their entry

tried to mask the emptiness.

He looked to his left, and sensed...something. It tickled in the back of

his brain, a knowledge that escaped him until he walked into the living

room and could fully understand what it was. Death was in this room, not

violent but sudden, unexpected. It was the smell, he realized, still

able to recognize its scent, although not as well as before.

"She died here," Dawn said quietly from behind him, Buffy growing ever

more anxious and perturbed. He pushed down the welling grief inside him,

trying to keep it sustained since he had to tell them what he was

sensing, in order to ease their minds.

"Yes," He nodded, the last of the pieces falling into place. "On the

couch. It was very sudden, quick. She didn't have time to fear it."

"You--you can still sense that?" Buffy asked incredulously, maybe with a

tinge of fear, or relief. It was hard to tell the difference.

"A bit. Not like I used to, though. The demon in me knows it, but you

could say we're not exactly on speaking terms. It's just the memory of

it." He could plainly see the anxiety in her, and said quietly, "She

didn't feel it, love. There's no fear or panic in the air."

Buffy let out a deep, shuddering sigh, letting go of the dread. "The

doctor told us it was probably very quick, but I thought he was just

telling us what we wanted to hear. Now I know for sure," she looked at

him with tears in her eyes. He desperately wanted to go to her and hold

her in his arms, but he couldn't. Not with Dawn there, and especially

since they had made an agreement banning anything but friendly behavior.

Still, he couldn't stand there and do nothing. He gave Dawn a shoulder

hug first, then went to Buffy as if it was only a natural consequence,

and placed a hand on her shoulder, his thumb caressing along the edge of

her collarbone. She attempted a smile and reached for his hand, patting

it in a neutral way. As he dropped his hand, he moved so his body

shielded his actions from Dawn's view, and stole a moment to briefly

entwine his fingers with hers. She squeezed back gratefully, and the

moment passed without Dawn being the wiser.

It was going to be a long, long month.

****

Where in the house Spike would be staying soon became a problem. With

only three bedrooms, the logical choice would be for Spike to have

Joyce's room. However, even if Willow and Tara had slept on the covers

of the bed overnight, having Spike occupy it for however long it took

for him to recover was another thing entirely.

So that was how Spike got Buffy's room, and Buffy got her mother's. He

argued that the couch was fine with him, but Buffy became irrational at

the idea. With no other flat, comfortable surfaces in the house, Buffy

was willing to let Spike have her bed. He was more than willing to take

it, although it was another reminder of that long month ahead of him.

In another moment of perception, he realized that he hadn't even seen

his reflection yet. Spike almost dreaded the prospect of looking into a

mirror for the first time in well more than a century, but his vanity

won out, in the end. While Buffy and Dawn were downstairs, he walked

into the bathroom and flipped on the light, nervous at what he would

find in his reflection.

It startled him, but he couldn't stop staring. The scar on his eyebrow

was noticeable, as he'd thought. His hair was a fright, hardly combed and

looking like he'd just crawled his way out of a bar brawl. The cut on

his cheek was nearly healed, and he could barely see the leftovers of

the scratches from when the female robot tossed him through that window.

But what petrified him most was the gaze staring back at him, privy to

all of his misdeeds and foibles, both as a vampire and a human being. He

sucked in a painful breath, his chest aching both from the cuts and the

agony inside. The face he beheld was the face of a killer, a man who had

seen and done terrible, evil things. And laughed while doing it.

Sick to his stomach, he leaned on the counter for support. His gaze

drifted away from the image, but it was still burned in his mind.

Horrible, bad, evil, cruel...all these words described him, and more.

And the worst agony of all was knowing that nothing he did would ever be

enough to atone for his actions.

The memories of his past sickened him to the point of nausea, and he

retched into the toilet, shaking uncontrollably. He clutched the edges

of the bowl until he was spent, too weak to even sit up. The shudders

didn't stop, and the effort of vomiting had aggravated his existing

wounds, causing wave after wave of pain.

That was how Buffy found him, having heard the sound of his misery while

coming up the stairs. She pulled him away gently and dampened a

washcloth, then placed it on the back of his neck. The cold eased the

nausea somewhat, and after a while he was able to kneel, then stand with

her help.

Spike caught a glance of himself in the mirror, and started to feel the

sickening in his stomach again. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the

wall and forced the reaction down. When it settled, he opened his eyes

to see a very concerned Buffy staring at him.

"Are you all right? What happened--is it your stomach? Should we go back

to the hospital?"

He shook his head slightly. "No, it's not that. I just...couldn't stand

the sight of myself in the mirror. I saw a killer staring back at me, a

murderer who destroyed lives and did horrible, unconscionable things. I

remember everything....God. How does Angel live with this?" He hated how

weak he sounded, how his voice shook when he thought back on what he'd

done. "I thought I had this under control, but I had no idea...not until

I saw myself in the mirror. I shouldn't be allowed to live, Buffy. Not

after what I've done."

"Don't say that. Don't *ever* say that. You told me yourself that you

didn't want to waste this chance on self-pity. And I'm not about to let

you start backing down on that."

"You have no idea what this is like," he put his hand over his heart.

"You don't know what it's like to suddenly care about 120 years' worth

of the appalling things you've done. I thought I knew, back in the

hospital. I felt guilty, yeah, but I never looked at myself in the

mirror. How can you even stand to be around me?"

He sank against the wall, despite the pain from his injuries. Buffy

calmly filled a small paper cup with water and offered it to him. "Rinse

out your mouth, first, then swallow some water. The acids in your

stomach need to settle," she remarked, then watched him as he obeyed,

making sure to avoid looking in the mirror. He took the damp washcloth

and wiped his face off, the coldness helping to stave off the queasiness

he felt.

He felt used, spent, wadded up then thrown into the far corner of a

filthy room, but it was an improvement. Buffy took his left hand into

both of hers, and make sure he was staring her straight in the eye. "You

are going to get through this, because you aren't going to waste your

life moping and crying about what you shouldn't have done. That part of

your life is over, and nothing will bring those people back. It won't be

easy to put this behind you, but you will. I know it, because I know

*you*.

"I remember when you told us, a couple Thanksgivings ago, that we

couldn't ever reconcile with the Chumash, because what could we say that

would make them better for being slaughtered out of existence? We

couldn't make atonement, not for something like that. And it's the same

for you. You can't earn forgiveness for this, it has to be given. You

have to ask for forgiveness, Spike. Can you do that?"

He shook his head. "I can't ask the dead for forgiveness, not like

they'd grant it, anyway. And the living? Forget it."

"Then start small. Ask me."

He stared at her in amazement. "I don't understand. Why would you--"

"Just ask, Spike." He saw the determined look in her eye, and decided

not to fight it.

"All right. Buffy, will you forgive me for all the loathsome things I've

done to you and your kin? Even though in no way do I deserve it?"

"Yes, I forgive you. See? How easy was that?"

The thing that puzzled him most was why she would do something like this

for him--whatever was between them was too new and too uncharted, and he

wasn't accustomed to being treated with compassion in either previous

incarnations.

But from the way she gazed at him, he almost believed it. He couldn't

help smiling faintly, in the face of her upbeat attitude, "Wasn't so

bad. But I can't do that with everyone, pet."

"I know, but you can't beat yourself up about this forever. Life's too

short for that."

Another melancholy thought drifted through his head, and he sobered.

"Yeah, that's the other thing--mortality. Growing older, weaker, and

dying in old age, if you're lucky. I was twenty-five when I was turned,

so I guess I have fifty years left, tops."

"More than me," Buffy replied wistfully. A slash of fear and dread tore

through his heart, then he chastised himself for mentioning it

altogether. She saw the reproach coming, though, and deflected it. "But

I'm going to pack a lot of life in the time I do have. Gals in the

nursing homes will wish they were me."

"Bloody right they will," he said softly, tightening his fingers around

her hand. "But I'm gonna make sure that's not for quite a while, yet."

"Well, you're going to have to live in order to make sure of that. Think

you're up to it?"

"More than ready, Slayer," he replied, using the term affectionately.

"And I'd tell you how much I love you right now, but we're on that

'friends-only' thing for the moment, so I can only say how much I

really, really like you in the friendliest way imaginable."

"You're making this month seem like forever, you know that?" She pouted.

He smiled. "I know. And the feeling's mutual."

****

When Buffy checked the answering machine, she found a message left by

her father's office, amid the numerous return calls of relatives, her

mother's co-workers and friends who wanted to express their deepest

sympathies and sorrows over her death. Apparently Dawn had spent her

time at home contacting everyone she could think of, sparing Buffy the

effort of doing everything, herself. Aunt Darlene and Uncle Joe were

coming right away, and her grandparents--her dad's side only, since both

her maternal grandparents were dead--planned to make it for the funeral.

But it was the call from the office that grabbed her attention. Her

father was supposed to call from the Riviera sometime soon. They'd left

a message for him at the concierge desk, so he should be notified

eventually. The lack of messages from her father wasn't a good sign.

Maybe he wasn't picking up his messages? Or maybe he decided that he had

to catch the next flight home immediately, and didn't have time to call?

She wanted to believe in the latter.

Dawn and Buffy had a late lunch with Spike, and then they make sure he

rested upstairs, much to his discontent. It was hard to tell which was

more odd; her mother's absence, or a now-human Spike being in the house.

Still, his presence helped ease the loneliness, and Buffy had plenty to

fret about between making calls and checking on him.

It was after finishing those calls, that she remembered she hadn't

called Angel. He would want to know, although she wasn't sure he could

come to the funeral--for obvious reasons, Sunnydale didn't do funerals

at night. Buffy dug through the phone address book and found Angel's

card, then called the number.

Another answering machine. Did anyone stay home anymore, she wondered,

but then the line was picked up just after Cordelia finished her

recorded spiel. "Hello?" A male voice answered, and Buffy instantly knew

it was Angel.

"Uh, hi. It's me, Buffy. Did I...catch you at a bad time?"

Stunned silence on the other end, then he replied, "Uh, no, not at all.

I just woke up. So, um, is something wrong?"

"Yeah. I thought you should know. My mom's been in and out of the

hospital, and we thought things were better, but she--she died a couple

days ago." She tried to stop the tears from coming, but nothing helped.

"It was a brain tumor, or actually it was the complications after the

surgery. An aneurysm, the doctor said. She wasn't in a lot of pain--it

was very sudden."

"Oh God. Buffy, I'm so sorry to hear that, I really am. How are you and

Dawn doing? You're not all alone in the house, are you?"

"No, we're being taken care of. Giles has been helping with the

arrangements, setting up the funeral and everything, though I'll have to

go finalize it. And we're dealing the best we can--it's been a chaotic

couple of days. Got rid of a hell god, Spike turned human, but then he

nearly died thanks to the hell god poking holes in him. Now that he's

okay, we've just started settling down."

Another round of silence from the other end. "Spike is human? How the

heck did that happen? And you took on a hell god?"

"It's a long, long story. When you come up, I'll tell you the whole

thing. That is, if you want to come."

"Of course I do. I'm sure Wesley and Cordelia would like to be there--

they knew her, too."

"Yeah, sure. They're more than welcome. The funeral's on Tuesday, in the

afternoon. Not sure when exactly just yet...I haven't talked to Giles in

a while."

"You should give him a call. I'll be there as soon as I can, all right?"

Buffy sighed, "All right. Just call me before you leave, so I know when

you'll be here."

"I will. See you soon." They said their good-byes and Buffy hung up the

phone, wondering if she'd done the right thing by contacting him. She

could've waited until after the funeral to let him know...but then he

might be upset at finding out so late. And it was going to be awkward

having him here, with no Riley but a new, uncharted thing with Spike. An

idle thought of sending Spike elsewhere for a couple days crept into her

mind, then she just as quickly squashed it. She wanted him here, not

somewhere else. If Angel couldn't deal with it, that was his problem.

Her next call was to Giles, and she mentally steeled herself for the

coming ordeal--the preparations needed for putting her mother to rest.

****

The next several hours went by fast, almost too fast. From going to the

funeral home, to making arrangements with the church and pastor, and

having to ask people to think of sentiments to say at the service. Then

coming home and having her father call at last--her grandparents had

managed to track him down and tell him the terrible news--and he told

her he would be in sometime tomorrow morning, if his flight wasn't

delayed.

Relief poured into her--her father was coming home. Some of the burden

of responsibility lifted from her shoulders, and she breathed in her

first somewhat relaxed breath in three days. The possible complications

that her father's arrival would bring didn't set in until right before

she went to bed.

Buffy had already gone and fetched the rest of Spike's essentials--more

clothes, and the toiletries had surprised her until she realized that,

of course, even a vampire needed to brush his teeth. Healing powers

didn't cover tooth decay. Putting them in the hallway bathroom made his

residence there seem more real, and then she understood what her father

might think of a man living--even temporarily--in a house with two young

girls. She was going to have to do some serious thinking on a good cover

story, or else have to explain her lifestyle to her dad, which wasn't

even her last choice.

Both Willow and Xander called to check up on her, and she insisted that

they stay home and take some downtime. It took some cajoling, but

eventually she talked them out of patrolling that night. Or at least,

she hoped she did. The rest of her night was spent in front of the TV,

sitting in a chair while Spike rested on the close end of the couch and

Dawn sat much too close to the TV, as usual. Unfortunately, the

programming for that night could only pull her away from reality for so

long, and she headed upstairs for some rest.

Settling into her mother's bed was easier than she expected. Maybe it

was because the bed still smelled like her, that distinctive mom-smell

that lingered in the sheets and pillows. It was a comfort she didn't

expect to find, and her mind drifted back to a couple days ago, when

Dawn had been able to contact their mother.

Now, it was clear how Dawn had done it, but Buffy had been jealous,

almost envious. Her mom told her that she would always be there,

watching over her, and that wherever she was, it was nice. Buffy wanted

to believe it, and wrapped in the scent of her mother, feeling her

presence so strongly in the room, she did...and quickly fell asleep.

****

Waking up in the Slayer's bed was enough to make Spike think that he

hadn't fully woken up, yet. But a few seconds went by, and he was still

in her room, looking at the pure girlishness of it all. He'd been in

here before, but seeing it now, he got a glimpse into the frailty that

lay just beneath the Slayer exterior.

He almost panicked at the sunlight, then the last few days filtered back

into his consciousness, reminding him that his days as a vampire were

now over. Spike settled back into the pillows with a mixture of relief

and uneasiness, glad that it wasn't just a dream, but worried about the

rest of his life, and what he was supposed to do with it.

The linens hadn't been changed, so he could still smell her on the

sheets, although now his scent mingled with hers, creating the illusion

that they'd shared the bed. It wasn't true, of course, but the thought

still caused the edge of his mouth to quirk upwards. Give it about a

month, and that might change.

Spike dressed slowly, having more mobility than yesterday, but not

wanting to push his luck. He managed to pull on a T-shirt and a button

down shirt over that, and abandoned the jeans in favor of looser-fitting

trousers. He tried to be less of a burden by helping with breakfast, but

even with his better health, Buffy limited his chores to cleaning up.

The little one went off to school--anything to get out of the house--but

Buffy didn't have the luxury of a distraction from dealing with her

mother's death. He wished there was something he could do to ease her

pain, but aside from helping around the house, there was little he could

do that wouldn't drift back into the area they'd both considered off-

limits.

The phone rang, and he obliged himself in answering the phone on Buffy's

behalf, since she was in the shower. "Summers residence."

"Spike?"

Oh, bugger. It was the broody one, himself. He tried for a pleasant,

innocuous tone of voice. "Hey there, Angel. Buffy's not available right

now, but I gather you're letting her know you're coming, right?"

"What are you doing at her house?"

Spike sighed with exaggerated patience. "I'm her guest, thanks to the

latest supernatural nasty. Carved me up but good, and she insisted on me

staying here to convalesce."

"Really? I'll have to see that." Spike narrowed his eyes when he

registered the melancholy in his former sire's voice. What could he be

brooding about now? "Let Buffy know I'll be up sometime after sunset."

Spike told Angel he would, and hung up the phone. First Buffy's father

was coming, now Angel. He considered the wisdom of fetching his car from

the cemetery, in order to thwart any possible conflagrations by having a

method of escape.

So when Buffy left to pick up her father, then take care of the final

arrangements at the funeral home, he headed off to the one place he knew

better than anyone, save the Slayer. Spike ached and cursed most of the

way there, wishing he'd thought better of the idea. One thing hadn't

changed...he still didn't think things through very well. By the time he

sank into the interior of the old DeSoto, he wasn't sure if he had the

stamina to even drive.

But he did, if only because he feared the wrath of Buffy if he wasn't

home before she was. If she found about his little trip, she would *not*

be happy.

Spike parked the car around the corner and half-limped, half-dragged

himself into the house about ten minutes before Buffy made it home. He

was sitting on the couch when they came in, flipping through channels

idly and wondering at the staggering amount of programming on TV that

had little, if any, redeeming value during the middle of the day;

Passions didn't count, since it was on in the afternoon.

He hid a wince as he stood, trying to appear as harmless as possible

under the scrutinizing glare of Buffy's father. "You must be Mr.

Summers. It's nice to meet you." He held out his hand, and the other man

took it in a strong grasp.

"And you must be William," the older man gave him a cautious smile.

"Buffy told me you were staying here to recuperate, while on the way

home. How are you feeling? Any better?"

Spike took that as a subtle probe to determine how much longer he

planned to sponge off of his daughter. He smiled back weakly, willing to

play along. "It's a little better. Hopefully I'll be strong enough to be

on my own in a day or so."

Buffy gave him a pointed look. "And who'll change the bandages on your

back, in the meantime? You're staying here until I say so, and Dad,

you're not to encourage him to leave, okay? He's a guest in this house,

just like you are."

Her dad frowned. "What makes you think I'd do that, Buffy?"

"Because I know you, and you can be uber-protective. Sp--William is more

than welcome here, since he saved Dawn's life and got all cut up in the

process. I'm not going to toss him out on the street."

Her father reappraised him, then smiled with more warmth than earlier.

"Well, if you saved Dawn's life, you can't be all bad," he said with a

lightness to his voice, and the tension in the room subsided. Buffy

grabbed a suitcase and headed upstairs and her father followed with the

other one, leaving Spike to sag back into the couch in relief, from both

the pain and the encounter.

****

Buffy thought Spike looked more exhausted now than he did when she left,

but she shrugged it off--it wasn't like he was running around town, or

anything.

The main focus of her worry shifted to Angel, and having him around not

only Spike, but her father as well. It wasn't as if she could say,

'Here's my former boyfriend, who's a vampire...but he has a soul. And

here's Spike, who once was a vampire but is now some sort of hybrid,

which I kind of am, too, possibly, but that's different, since I was

chosen by these powers that be, and Spike just walked in and out of the

portal to the realm of the dead. Or something like that.'

No, that wasn't the thing to say. Even if her father didn't laugh at

her, first. If she had any concern about her dad, it was the fear that

he would take Dawn back with him, and try to encourage Buffy to come

along. How could she try to convince her father to let Dawn stay with

her, and not raise suspicions? Or was that even possible, now?

Her father naturally put his suitcase in her mother's room, and Buffy

bit her tongue. A part of her mind screamed that he had no right to be

in there, and another part bemoaned the fact that he'd left at all. Her

mind drifted into thought of how different the last few years would've

been if he had stayed with the family, but she shook herself out of

those notions fairly quickly. The monks had managed to tamper with the

past, but she didn't have any such skills, not even with the gang's

help.

Lunch was a good time to catch up with her father, and Spike tried to

stay out of the way and conversation as much as possible. Her father

kept trying to draw him in--she might say it was more like pumping him

for information--but Spike gracefully sidestepped the probing questions

and simply answered the rest with watered-down versions of the truth;

Yes, he was from England, he had a degree in literature from Oxford, and

he hadn't been in town long, but he'd visited in the past.

Her father asked Spike how he and his daughter had met. With a careful

and slightly panicked look at her, he shrugged and said, "We met at the

Bronze, about three years ago."

"The Bronze?" The older man frowned.

Buffy cleared her throat nervously. "It's a place where the high school

and college kids can hang out, dance, and have fun."

"So, you would have been in your last year of college, William, right?

Isn't that a little old for socializing with high school girls?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but Buffy responded with, "It wasn't like

that, Dad, I swear. I was there with friends, and it was just a brief

introduction, nothing really drawn out. He was new in town, and wanted

to get to know people. We saw each other around town occasionally, then

he left to go back to England at the end of the year."

Spike picked up the story from there. "I finished up school the next

year, then headed back to Sunnydale since I'd come upon this opportunity

for work in my field of expertise that I couldn't pass up. Then it all

fell apart, and I scrounged around for something to take its place. And

I've been scrounging ever since. If not for Buffy and her friends, I

would be in worse straits than I am now."

Buffy nodded in agreement, surprised at how much of the truth could be

told and still sound legitimate. Her father apparently thought so, too,

and dropped the subject. Her eyes met Spike's in a moment of brief

respite, both of them knowing at least one bullet had been dodged.

****

More relatives called as the day wore on, either on arriving in town or

to express their condolences over the miles. Flowers and plants started

to show up, sent from Joyce's co-workers and friends, family and even

from Willow's and Xander's parents. Soon the living room looked more

like a flower boutique.

Dawn came home from school, and smiled at the number of bouquets and

plants in the living room--the smell of the flowers cheered up the room

far more than anyone expected. She grinned even further at seeing her

father at home, and broke down crying in his arms in a mixture of sorrow

and relief.

Well after dinner, and after guessing how long it took to drive from LA

to Sunnydale from sundown, Buffy pulled Dawn aside and told her about

Angel coming over. They conspired to get Dad out of the house by

insisting that the bulk of the flowers should be taken to the funeral

home that night, so they wouldn't have to carry them from the house the

next day. Dawn went with her father and they left in Joyce's car,

leaving Spike and Buffy alone in the living room, him on the end of the

couch and her in a chair.

He fidgeted for a minute, then sighed and said, "I ought to go. If Angel

saw me, he might decide that he's not willing to let bygones be bygones.

Wouldn't blame him, really," he said with a bit too much melancholy.

"Okay, that's enough of the throwing a self-pity party. You're staying

right here. No muscles will be moving you from this spot, understand?"

He gave her a sullen look, knowing better, but he nodded in agreement.

They both heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway just then,

and with a deep breath, Buffy got out of the chair and headed to the

door.

****

Angel was already at the door by the time she opened it, catching him in

a comical moment with his hand raised, ready to knock. He smiled

sheepishly and tucked his hand back into his jacket.

"May I come in?" He asked politely, preferring to ask rather than assume

he was welcome. She gestured him inside and he followed her in, looking

around in a wary method he never seemed able to shed.

He found Spike immediately, and the air in the room stirred with

noticeable friction. Angel approached him as Spike stood with some pain,

obviously hurt. Angel looked him up and down, smelled the air and said

matter-of-factly, "So it's true. You're human now."

"Yeah, the whole package, soul and everything. The demon didn't vacate

the premises, however."

"I could sense that, too, but it's not as strong. And I smell dried

blood on you--the 'carving' you told me about?"

Spike nodded, then pulled up the edge of his shirt to show the wounds.

Angel winced in sympathy as he recognized the shape of one in

particular. "Sword wound in the stomach. Not a fun pain."

"Not by half," Spike replied, with a bitter grin. Somehow, the talking

of mutual wounds softened the hard edge of the conversation. "This Glory

chippie had some fun. But we got the last laugh, didn't we?" He looked

to Buffy, who smiled. Angel caught the exchange, and again felt that

sense of disbelief he'd had earlier, while talking to Spike on the

phone.

'So, it looks like there's a lot to catch up on. But first," Angel

turned and gave Buffy a tentative hug, which Buffy accepted and

returned, gently. He could sense that seeing him again didn't bring back

all the pain that his arrival usually did. Pulling away, he looked at

her with resolve and regret--for the first time, he felt the end of what

had been. And for some reason, it had ended here, at this moment.

He looked into her eyes and felt distance between them, something that

had always been physical rather than emotional. Now, there was a

calmness he couldn't explain. Maybe it was because she'd found someone

else, and he'd learned to accept it. Or maybe, it was the beginning of

the friendship Spike had told them that could never exist.

"Where's what's-his-name, Raimey?" Angel asked, and caught a glimpse of

Spike's amusement, which turned into self-reproach when he noticed the

stricken look on Buffy's face--directed at Spike, not Angel. His eyes

narrowed at the unspoken conversation, something private that they alone

shared. It unnerved him, for reasons that went beyond mere jealousy.

"Riley. He's not here. He left for Central America, to fight demons with

his ex-Initiative buddies. We're...not together, anymore." The tone of

her voice succinctly told him the rest of the story.

"I'm sorry. He's a fool to let you go. Trust me on this," Angel replied,

trying on a smile. She seemed to appreciate the effort, but the smile

never made it to her eyes. If he ever found Riley, the beating he'd get

would pale in comparison to the first one he'd given him.

Buffy clearly noticed this reaction. "And you're not going to do

anything involving the infliction of pain, Angel. I mean it."

"Yes ma'am," he automatically replied, which earned a chuckle from

Spike.

"Ever the polite one, aren't you. Well, it's my turn to be a bit

impolite--Buffy, would you mind if Angel and I had a little chat?

Alone?" He looked at her pleadingly. A vague notion tickled the back of

Angel's mind, but he pushed it to one side.

Her eyes widened in alarm, then she relaxed. "Uh, no. I guess not. I've

got some things to do, anyway." She headed off to parts unknown in the

house, and Spike gestured outside. Angel lead the way, confused but

willing to find out what Spike wanted to discuss. He had an idea, but he

wanted to wait and find out, first. He remembered his mistakes with

Darla, and he didn't want to repeat them.

The air outside was already cooling off for the night, and Spike wrapped

his arms around himself carefully, as if staving off a chill. He led

Angel to the side of the porch and sighed with resolve, the internal

struggle plainly showing on his face.

"I'm sorry, Angel. About everything--the torture, all the stuff I ever

did to you. I feel like someone's grabbing my heart and squeezing real

hard every time I think about something horrible I did in the past.

Sometimes it gets so bad, I want to hate myself, and then I hate the

fact that I'm feeling this way. Then, I feel bad about hating the pain

and guilt." Spike paused to swallow, trying to keep himself from losing

control. He added after awhile, "Does...does the pain ever go away?"

Angel felt what anger he'd held against Spike drain away. It was hard to

hold on to it in the face of the other's misery, one that he knew so

well. "Sometimes. Not completely, it's just...easier to deal with on

some days. Other days..."

"...you feel like you could die willingly from the misery and

suffering," Spike finished.

"Yes," Angel replied, knowing it all too well. "What you're feeling now

is the worst of it. It's new, and you can't figure out how to deal with

it. Since you're human, and the demon doesn't compel your actions

anymore, you don't have the burden of fighting against your nature."

Spike laughed darkly, "Oh, I know about that. I might not have it now,

but I well know what that's like." Seeing Angel's blank look, he

elaborated. "I had a government chip implanted in my noggin, preventing

me from hurting people. I couldn't feed at all, and ended up having to

go to your old butcher for blood. When I found out I could kill demons,

it was the only way to release all the pent-up anger and need to

destroy. And I became an outcast in demon society."

"I never heard about that," Angel remarked, surprised. "But then, I'm

not a socialite in the demon realm, either."

"Yeah," Spike said, and patted his pants pockets until he recalled

something. He sighed in downtrodden fury. "Damn, I really need a smoke

right now."

"Going cold turkey?" Angel said, amused.

"Almost. My body's not craving it, but my brain is. Every time I've

gotten nervous recently, I keep itching for a cigarette." He shrugged,

then stuffed his hands in the pockets. "Better to stop now, I guess. I

don't know what smoking'll do to me, and I want to live as long as I

can."

Angel watched the blonde former vampire for a while, then asked, "How

did you end up becoming human?"

Spike looked at him in surprise. "Buffy didn't tell you?"

"No, she said she'd tell me when I came up. Should I ask her, instead?"

"That's all right--it's no big secret. It's just...bizarre." And Spike

told him all about the past year, with the hell god named Glory and her

brother Ben, Dawn being the Key to some portal to the netherrealm, and

on to recent events, explaining it with details that seemed a little on

the vague side.

"So they let me go into the portal, I snatch Dawn outta there, and then

I collapse shortly thereafter. Next thing I know, I'm in the hospital

with the Slayer and her Watcher there. It's then that we figure out that

I'm not as human as we'd thought."

Angel suddenly felt numb--was this the Shanshu prophecy, fulfilled in

Spike instead of him? If so, the pieces to the puzzle didn't fit. But

still, to think that if he'd been there, it could have been him...he

pushed the thoughts aside, having other things more urgent to think

about. If what Spike said was true, why had he stayed all this time in

Sunnydale? Why, when Drusilla had come to take him back, hadn't he gone

with her? It didn't make sense...and then, a piece slipped into place,

that notion he'd had earlier helping to reveal the rest of the picture.

He could barely believe it, but what else could it be?

"Are you in love with Buffy?"

Spike looked at him, dumbstruck. The fear, amazement, and guilt playing

across his face confirmed it all. "How...? I mean, where on earth did

you get that idea?"

"Spike, I happen to have a little experience with falling in love with a

Slayer," Angel smirked, satisfied with catching him off guard. "I didn't

make a connection until I realized that there had to be a reason you

stayed in Sunnydale this long, and the rest just fell into place. The

glances between the two of you in there...she knows how you feel about

her. The fact that you're staying in her house must mean there's a

mutual...feeling, of some kind. Which I still can't believe, knowing how

well you two don't get along, but there you are," Angel held out his

hands in a gesture of resignation. "Is this why Riley left?"

Spike shook his head, the volatile memories evident on his face. "No. I

caught Riley paying vampire trulls for suck-jobs."

Now there was another eyebrow-raising moment. "Wow. That's...really

unexpected. He struck me as a white bread, straight arrow kind of guy.

When he wasn't trying to kick the crap outta me."

"Yeah, he does have that volatile streak, doesn't he?" Spike replied

with a touch of sarcasm, and Angel gave him a deadpan look in return.

"Not unlike some people I could name. But Buffy didn't love him, not in

her heart. I could see that, he could see that, but she didn't. I heard

he left the next night, never to return, or so I hope."

Angel gave him a curious look, and Spike defended himself, saying, "Not

that I don't sympathize with the bloke, 'cause I do--but that doesn't

mean I want him back, messing up her head."

"Like I would," Angel said quietly, and Spike stayed silent, unable to

argue. "But things between us have changed, Spike. I felt it tonight

when I hugged her. She wasn't mine, anymore...she hasn't been for a

while, now, but tonight I knew it for a fact."

"I think I told you once that you'll never be friends, Angel."

"I know. Sure, we'll never be pals, but there's a calm between us now

that I never felt from her, before. It's...nice. Not perfect, but when

is it ever?"

"No kidding," Spike shuffled on his feet to keep warm, feeling the cold

seeping in. "Is there anything else we ought to talk over, so we don't

end up fighting and trying to kill each other later on?"

"Just this--you hurt her, and I'll kill you," Angel said, patting him on

the shoulder. Spike winced, then chuckled.

"Same goes for me, mate."

"Will you *ever* stop talking like that?" Angel asked as he started

walking back to the door.

"Would you rather I was a prissy toff, spouting out my love from the

highest rooftops?" Spike replied as he followed.

Angel grimaced at the image, then grabbed the door and held it open for

the former colleague. "I take it back. Stay the way you are."

"Thought you'd see it my way."

****