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Author's Chapter Notes:
Please review. It makes me smile. :)
Angel sat in the belly of the behemoth of an aircraft, and fumed. He was late again, and what's more, now he had to tell Buffy that someone she had fought with, on the Hellmouth, was dead. All of this because he wanted to, finally, feel the soul he'd been so smug about for one hundred years. After what Buffy told him about what happened in Sunnydale, after spending hours listening to her weep over the loss of Spike, he had tried to reach down inside, to find some kind of comfort to give to her, but there was none.

She'd said that he told her he felt it, his soul, before she'd left him there. Spike, in the end, knew he had a soul. Angel wasn't even sure his was even there anymore. He tried to think back, think of where he'd seen it last, where he'd misplaced it. But, no, it hadn't been misplaced. Angel knew exactly where, and when, he'd lost it. And, he knew whom he'd given it to. Connor. With Connor gone, there seemed no reason to even try anymore.

That was, until Spike whirled out of that amulet, like a demented genie on a mission. Just seeing Spike there was enough to make Angel jealous. Not of Spike, necessarily, but of the fact that, despite losing everything he could possibly lose, Spike's first thoughts weren't for himself. He didn't even bat an eyelash, not that he could, over being a ghost. Didn't mope or sulk at the lot he'd been cast, well, at least not for long, and certainly not for a century, he just launched right into the only things he knew. He knew only two things, and he was proficient in them both, Buffy, and taking the piss out of his curmudgeon of a Grandsire.

Angel would never tell Spike that he envied him for that. Angel would never tell Spike that the reason he put on such a megawatt grump, was because, that was the only way he could keep from crying at the irony he felt inside at wanting to laugh with joy, and stake him for being so damn cheerful, all at the same time. What, and give him more ammunition?

That was why he'd stirred up the trouble with The Circle, to feel the rush of fists and fangs. The comment still rang in Angel's head, "Don't you ever get tired of fights you know you're gonna win?"

Yes, he was. This was a fight Angel had known he was going to lose, even before it started. That's why he signed away the rights to the Shanshu. He didn't want it anymore. Not without Connor. Without him, there was no reason, so, why not give it up? It wasn't his anyway. Angel had just wanted out.

The night of the fight, Angel had set his sights on that dragon, simply because it was the fastest way out, and, he knew that vampires and fire were not a friendly mix. Angel had watched, from the periphery of his vision, Spike, snarling and growling, hacking and slashing away at anything that got between him and Gunn, who he'd chosen to protect. When Spike sensed that Gunn, sadly, no longer needed protecting, Angel noticed Spike's protective stance widen to include Illyria.

Angel almost smiled at the memory of the tiny Victorian poet, Victorian to the last, trying to protect the mighty Illyria, God-king of the premortium, who'd been encased in an even tinier body.

Angel was only half-heartedly in the battle. He took some minor swipes at an Akijahan or two, but he wasn't really committed to it. Spike, on the other hand, jumped in with both feet, both fists, both fangs, and a battleaxe for good measure.

It wouldn't be long now, Angel knew. The dragon had seen him; the glint of his sword had caught its attention. Just like the Tyrannosaurus Rex, it was attracted to movement. Soon, it would all be over, and Spike would have what he deserved, the girl, and the life, all of it.

That was when he'd heard Illyria scream. She'd tried to warn him, but Spike had somehow managed to, simultaneously slash open a Dufarrn'k, while dancing away from the Yarnesh that were nipping at his calves. Angel had to admit, Spike was pretty nimble in a fight. But, not nimble enough to keep the Dufarn'k's blood from splashing up onto his face and neck. What Angel had thought was a cry of pain, had actually been a warning. Spike dove toward Angel, tackling him to the ground, just as the dragon reared its head back.

The next thing Angel saw was a wall of fire, where, only milliseconds before, Spike had been standing.

The next thing he heard, should have been impossible. He heard Spike's voice, in his head, thundering like a sonic boom, the one name that should have been on his lips as well, "Buffy!!" The force and sheer volume of that cry made Angel's teeth rattle in his skull and brought him to his knees.

Then, all was quiet, as Angel realized that somewhere in the soul that was buried under all the regret, he'd recognized his kindred was in agony, and had cried, at the top of his voice, "Enough!"

And, everything had stopped. No demons, no dragons, no nothing, just a horribly mangled piece of flesh that had once been William the Bloody, and a visibly disturbed Illyria. And, then, of course, there was him.

Angel shook off the memory, and tried to focus on where Drusilla might head next. Once his hands stopped shaking, he would call Buffy and the others, and tell them the news of Robin Wood's death.
************

On a rainy night in England, a woman stood in an old convent cemetery. She walked slowly, careful not to disturb the dead. She came upon an old and crumbling stone. The name on it was so weathered that it was, almost, unreadable. Drusilla didn't need to read it, she knew the inscription by heart. The stone read: Sister Mary Michael , B.1835 D. 1860. Underneath the dates, was an inscription, almost as old, lovingly chiseled, twenty-five years after the stone had been erected, secretly by her brave knight: Racing Heavenward. That was what it said. Her boy had left her a love note.

Drusilla smiled as she left her sleeping sisters, and whispered, "Mummy will be home soon."
************

It was Xander's turn to stand watch outside the chamber. Dawn had told him what Buffy had done for Spike. In the past, the very mention of the words "Buffy, Spike, blood," and of course the ever-popular, at least on the Hellmouth, "Sucked," used, together, in the same sentence, would have sent him running for a nicely sharpened stake and some fresh holy water. But, after the things they'd all been through, Xander thought, what's a little blood between friends? Xander smiled to himself, listening to Buffy's soft snoring, which only goes to show how much I've grown, he thought.

Inside the chamber, Buffy busied herself lighting candles along the outer edge. She knew Spike couldn't see, but the dim light was starting to put a strain on her vision, so she'd sent Willow for some, non-magical ,candles.

As far as she could tell, Spike was still sleeping. The ordeal had been hard on them both, but hardest on him, and he needed the rest, so Buffy tried to be as quiet as a church mouse, as she moved about the crypt.

She smiled, at the thought. What do you know, I'm being quiet as a church mouse, in a church, with a sleeping vampire. I should write gothic novels! No one just makes this stuff up.

Just then, she heard Spike's gruff voice, coming from the floor. It sounded as if he might have been in pain, or possibly crying, "Love," he said softly.

The stress in his voice caused her to turn around and ask, "What is it, Spike? Are you in pain? Because I could..."

"No," he whispered softly, the word, almost a prayer.

That's when Buffy noticed it. He was looking at her. His eyes were open, and she could see the most beautiful blue eyes in the world staring, lovingly up at her.

For him, nothing in the universe mattered more than seeing those liquid pools of green, widen, quiver, and then, at last spill over, looking at him. Somehow, he managed to make his brain work long enough to utter the words that he had wanted to say for over a year, "Love," the words said in whispered worship, "you're beautiful!"





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