A/N As always big love and thanks to the lovely April for proofing my appalling grammer and spelling xx

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She's always been a picker. When she was little she'd never been able to have those kiddie plasters. You know, the brightly-coloured supposedly waterproof plasters complete with smiling Disney characters or jolly patterns. Not sticky enough, that had been the problem. Too easy for her persistent little fingers to get underneath and uncover the irresistible scab beneath. So she'd been stuck with reliable old Elastoplasts, grubby cotton fraying round the edges and super adhesive glue leaving a dirty outline on her skin.

Later, when she'd been old enough to tend her own cuts and grazes, she'd always left them uncovered, her slayer healing clotting the flowing blood in double quick time. And she'd picked enthusiastically: Sometimes out of boredom, the mindless concentration of the vice driving off the ennui when homework or cable failed to occupy her. Sometimes in frustration when her unnaturally rapid healing would make the black and red clot itch unbearably and she'd gouge manicured nails right into the centre till the bleeding started up and the itching faded away. Other times she'd picked when her mind had been full, or her heart had been broken and the mixture of slight pain and the satisfaction of slowly separating clotted blood from new pink skin had held a surreal kind of comfort.

One thing she could say for being the slayer, there was never a shortage of scabs to pick. But then not all scabs are on the outside, and you don't always need your nails to reopen the wound.

Out the window she can make out LA far below; they've just dropped under the blanket of cloud and the city makes a far more interesting sight than the rolling cotton-wool hills she's been staring at since Rome fell away beneath her and the vastness of the Atlantic beckoned. They'll be landing soon—back in the good old US of A for the first time in the best part of a year—and then let the picking commence.

She's well aware, as the city beneath inches slowly into view, details of buildings and parks growing unmistakably before her eyes, that coming to LA is a colossal emotional pick fest. But the scab over her heart had itched with its biannual need to be set about, and so she'd come. Same old routine now, it seemed for years. She'd just be getting herself on track: boyfriend, life, job, and then one way or another she'd end up seeing Angel again and whether it was for a day, an hour, or a moment, the all-but-healed crust would be ripped away and she'd be bleeding again.

A fairly depressing pattern, she had to admit, but as any picker worth their salt will tell you, no matter how often you pick or how viciously you attack the wound, it always heals a little more each time, until one day when the scab comes off there is no blood, just fresh new skin, and that at least is a little more optimistic. So she'll keep picking, bottle of antiseptic at hand in case of excess bloodshed, and wait for the wound to finally be healed, and in this case she has the best metaphorical antiseptic money can't buy in the form of the snoring sister currently staining her balled up sweater with an impressive puddle of drool.

Her foot taps impatiently against the polished floor at baggage collection, and she wishes she'd left Dawn on suitcase duty and gone cab hunting herself; at least then she'd have had something to think about other than Angel, and seeing Angel and how much it was going to hurt this time. Again. Apparently he'd been in Rome a couple of months back when she and the Immortal had first got together and her life had shone brighter than the sun with renewed hope. Of course, since then, reality had cast its storm cloud shadow over her world again, and the Immortal had gone the way of all the men in her life. No real loss, that one, and she'd always been half expecting it; rebound relationships and all that jazz.

Finally she sees her suitcase making its way ponderously around the carousel, mocking her with its leisurely approach, Dawn's bright yellow case like a beacon just behind it. She'd given Dawn the hardest time about buying the stupid thing but ridiculousness aside it turned out her sister had been right: it was pretty damned easy to spot.

The cab doesn't have any air conditioning and she finds LA's gritty heat far more oppressive than Italy's fresh Mediterranean sunshine. Still, it’s good to be back in the states. Everything here is so familiar: the hotdog stands and fast-food joints, the gaudy shop fronts and seedy alleyways—although Rome certainly had its fair share of those.

"You gonna stop by the hotel first or go straight there?" Dawn's question lassoes her attention and drags it back into the cab's seedy interior; she should never have let her sister be on taxi duty. "Because you're kinda sweaty and gross." How very kind of you to say so, Dawn. "You should really take a shower."

"No." She's not offended—nothing that isn't true, after all—but this is hardly a date, and she doubts Angel will care if she's a little on the ripe side. "I think I gotta do this straight away before I jib out and we have to go back to Giles empty handed." That's this year’s excuse, after all: get the skinny on Angel's new job as head honcho at evil incorporated and report back. Funny how every year, twice a year, there seems to be a completely plausible excuse for putting herself through this.

The scab itches furiously as she enters Wolfram and Hart's office complex with its high-ceilinged lobby and chrome-finished banisters. Lawyers and their clients pass through, brisk and busy, neatly dressed and composed on their way to court or this or that important meeting. She shares the lift with a thirty-something power dresser issuing orders on her stylish cell phone, expensive suit perfectly crisp even towards the end of the day. Her perfume, probably Channel, scents the air and suddenly Buffy wishes she'd taken Dawn's advice and washed some of that arduous eight hour flight off her body before putting herself where there might actually be people.

She's relieved when the woman gets out of the lift on the fourth floor without sparing her so much as a glance, and she's on her own then right up to the top. And there's Angel's office with its heavy wood doors and picture-perfect bright and blonde PA bent over the desk outside.

"Hi," she greets, trying to keep the churning nausea she feels out of her voice. "I was hoping to see Angel." The secretary freezes, her back suddenly tense as she straightens up without turning around. "I…" The lack of response is disarming and the slayer finds herself beginning to babble. "I don't have an appointment. I, er, but I'm sure if you tell Angel I'm here he'll see me. My name is—"

"Buffy." She's cut off by that oh-so-familiar screech, far louder than necessary, even for Harmony. And she isn't even sure she wants to know what Harmony Kendal is doing working for Angel.

"Er, yeah." But she's here, so maybe an attempt at cordiality is in order, especially if she wants to get in to see Angel. "Hi, Harmony." She digs deep in her memory banks for the vapid valley girl she seems to remember being once upon a long time ago. "You look amazing! Did you lose weight?" Harmony's smile could light up a football stadium, and a feeling of magnanimous charity washes over her. Why shouldn't she give the girl a compliment? Plus she's fairly sure she'll get past the PA now. "So, can I just go in and see Angel? It's been like forever since we said hi."

"Sure, Buffy."

She's at the door by the time Harmony realises her mistake, but by then it's too late because she's already halfway in and she can ignore the shrill cry of her name that follows her inside. And there he is right in front of her, not entirely unchanged this time in his Armani suit and neatly combed hair. She feels the first experimental tugs as she moves towards him, eyes riveted on his as the edges lift from her heart, tentative and careful so as not to hurt too badly.

"Buffy." His voice is startled, and though she's vaguely aware that there are others in the room—a small group just behind her, probably Angel's core team; the LA scoobies or something closely resembling them—it isn't really important right now. All her attention is focused on letting the sight and sound of him slowly peel back the ugly hardened crust, and there beneath, just as she'd hoped, is fresh pink skin, healed and new.

"Hello, Angel." And she can actually smile and mean it when she says, "It's good to see you," because it actually is, and all that love she has for him, that bottomless well of affection, is still there beating in time with the steady rhythm of her heart, but the pain? The pain is finally, unbelievably, gone.

Her relief is shorter lived than it deserves to be, but then that's the way it can be with scabs and a seasoned campaigner like herself should know that by now. Because there's always the odd one that will take you by surprise, that one in a hundred times that just when you think you're home free you find the deepest part of the wound wasn't in the centre like you always expected but at the edge, and that last little tug, when you've already taken your eyes off what you’re doing and you're ready to put away the plasters, it's that little tug that has you bleeding again.

"Buffy." His voice comes from somewhere over her left shoulder, impossible and unmistakable. It can't be, and if she doesn't turn round it won't be true and that pair of silly, frivolous syllables will never be said in that way again. Her ridiculous name was never a prayer, after all, and he never had the right to make it sound like one.

The silence is never-ending and in it she's acutely aware of her own self, of her heart ricocheting wildly about in her ribcage, of how startlingly wide are her dry, unblinking eyes. She feels her muscles conspire against her, each one playing its part in the hastily choreographed ballet of contractions and extensions that defies her will and turns her body towards the sound of him.

"Spike?" If seeing is believing—and she can see him there in front of her, looking for all the world like some damned and fallen angel—then why is her head shaking in slow motion denial? And why does she bring down the shutters of her eyes in a blinking attempt to drive the apparition away?

"Buffy?" A red wine feeling of nausea rumbles up from her gut until her head spins and her tongue feel thick and furry in her mouth. Has she been drinking? She doesn't think so, but maybe she has because the room is tilting and spinning like it's rounding the Cape.

"Spike." One of them needs to do something or they could go on like this all day, ping-ponging their laughable names back and forth.

The disbelieving thought, "Oh, God, he's alive," takes another pass through her brain, and a strong familiar emotion surges out of the fog of numbness his presence has created around her. Anger, bright and vicious, stilling the vertiginous world and bringing everything into crystalline focus. He is alive.

Fury launches her jaguar pounce and rips from her throat an inarticulate snarl of rage that bounces back at her off the spotless glass walls just as her claws sink easily through the feeble cotton armour of his shirt and into the vulnerable flesh beneath.

"Bastard," she hisses as her momentum takes them down together with her little fists flying. Just a moment is all it can take for months and months of isolated grief and bittersweet pride to transform into a blaze of fiery anger. "You bastard!"

His shock gives her probably two and a half free shots before he's fighting back, flinging her waif-light body off with an outraged roar. Vaguely, she's aware of the others in the room, of Angel calling for calm, of a girl’s shrill voice rising with worry as she cries out for them to stop, but it's not important right now because she's so angry, and if the flashing amber of his eyes is anything to go by his temper has caught up fast.

"Bloody bitch," he growls through a crowded mouthful of jagged fangs just as his heavily booted foot slips under her guard and connects with her ribs. She'd forgotten how well he knows her fighting style, and she is always open under her left when she's angry. Good thing she knows him just as well, and a subtle feint left opens him up for a killer hook to his right eye. And how very satisfying that she is wearing the big Opal ring she blew half her holiday money on when they took that weekend off to visit Venice. "Money well spent," she thinks as a she watches a pretty crimson rivulet trickle south over his pale cheek. Such a nice contrast of scarlet on ivory; she always did like that one.

They surge together, moving as one to clash savagely again until strong arms wrap around her midriff, pulling her up off her feet and away as two men struggle to restrain Spike's deceptively powerful arms. "Calm down, man," the chocolate-skinned, sharp suited cutie on his left orders through gritted teeth, while the other man—Wow, is that Wesley? Boom Chihuahua, where did all that bad boy hotness come from?—expertly twists Spike's arm behind his back in a restraining hold the vampire could break with barely a twitch of demon muscle but chooses to accept.

Her own struggles calm to an annoyed wiggle. "Put me down, Angel!" she demands, and of course he obeys, because he's Angel, after all. And hanging onto her just to annoy her or to make some lewd comment about how she should just keep on wiggling is not really his style.

In the awkward silence that follows, her red-hot rage cools fast to icy calm. "We need to talk," she tells him plainly, her eyes riveted to his, blue again now and swirling with emotion. A turmoil she knows isn't reflected back at him in green.

"Angel." She doesn't let go of her dead lover’s gaze even as she addresses another former boyfriend. "Is there somewhere Spike and I can talk in private?"

"Down the hall, third on the left," he replies with just the hint of jealous suspicion. "Spike knows which one."

She nods mutely and Wesley releases Spike so that he can go ahead of her through the swinging hardwood doors and past Harmony, who says something catty that neither of them really hears, to the third door on the left and the empty confessional behind it.

She moves past him as he parodies a gentleman and holds the door for her and settles herself on the bare desk at the room’s centre. "So," she begins, and he slowly closes the door and turns to face her. "You didn't tell me you were alive."

It's not a question, but still it demands an answer and she can see him groping for the right thing to say, something moving and sincere, something sure to sweep any woman off her feet, or perhaps some plaintive explanation designed to coax forgiveness from her. But he's still Spike, even after he's matched her record of two deaths and still standing, and when he opens his mouth, it's the train wreck she should have expected.

"Yeah, well." He bristles defensively. "Not like you'd have been bothered. Woulda thought you'd have been too busy snogging the bloody Immortal. Tell me, slayer, which of his sleazy spic lines got him into your frillies?"

Pushing down the offence that bubbles up her gullet, she closes her eyes and tells him very calmly that she and The Immortal aren't seeing each other anymore.

"Well, that's about his style, innit?" He's trying to needle her and she knows it, trying for whatever stupid, insecure reason to make her mad, but she's determined to rise above it. Let him have his hissy fit; then they can talk it all out properly. "Not much fun on the other side, is it, slayer? Getting screwed and dumped?"

Her fist doesn't wait for her brain to issue the command that a comment like that is sure to provoke, but she's still sitting on the desk, so his nose will probably survive the half-power strike. "Don't be an ass," she tells him sternly, a little late now, perhaps, to be striving for maturity, but if she doesn't she knows he won't, and they'll end up either killing each other or going at it on the desk.

And there's a thought that could heat any girl’s blood, but luckily he's busy gingerly checking out his abused nose, and by the time he turns his sullen, school boy eyes on her, she's cool and calm again.

"Just tell me." Her voice is soft now, seasoned with the barest mix of hurt and pleading. "Tell me why you didn't call me."

……………………………………………

"Angel?" Wesley's voice sends a startled jolt through his body; he'd been so wrapped up in enjoying the sight of Buffy dealing out retribution to what he must now consider his rival that he hadn't sensed his old friend slipping quietly into the security guard’s room.

"Yes." He makes the curt reply without taking his eyes off the bank of surveillance monitors, each one tuned to a disused office on the top floor, so that he can see them replicated twenty times, his love and his…whatever Spike is.

"Angel." There's disapproval in Wesley's voice, but that's nothing new these days, so he ignores it. The scene unfolding before him in grainy black and white is much more important anyway. "Angel, what are you doing?"

"I'm just making sure she's okay," he dismisses distractedly as he watches Buffy's shoulders drop a little as her body language softens.

"She is the slayer, Angel. I'm quite sure that even if Spike wanted to hurt her, she'd be quite able to defend herself."

"Hmm." He isn't listening. How can he when she's slipped from her desktop perch to stand so close to his grandchild that he can hardly make out any space between them and run her fingers over his blood-stained cheek.

Wesley says something else, a little louder now, his accent even more clipped than usual, and if he were listening he'd hear the reprimand behind the tone, but he's not because the silent movie tension of his private cinema is like amber round his mind. So his old friend leaves, and he can lean close into the screen and try and squint out the detail of their faces, the blurred expressions that could maybe tell him what he finds now he desperately needs to know.

……………………………………………

He'd told her how badly he'd wanted to come to her when he'd first been brought back. Had regained some of that spasmodic eloquence of his to describe a lost and troubled year. She'd felt tears in her eyes when she'd thought of him trapped and alone, incorporeal and afraid, and despite the fact that she'd twice felt his cold perfect skin break beneath her fists already that day, she'd had to step close to him and dip her fingers in his blood just to reassure herself that he was real, that he was solid.

He'd told her about his and Angel's ridiculous sortie to Italy, and when she'd interrupted him with an outraged, "You were in my apartment?" he'd had the good grace to look a little sheepish and had hurry on with the tale. How Andrew had told them that she'd moved on and that they should do the same, although why he is suddenly taking relationship advice from a geeky orientation-confused virgin is beyond her. Then he'd shrugged as if to say that was all he could think of, and now, in the silence that follows, he's looking at her with expectant blues and fidgeting distractingly.

"Okay, I get the ghosty bit, and that you thought we should both move on." She's rather proud of herself that she manages to keep her voice from hitching over that painful statement. "Although, listening to Andrew? Wouldn't recommend it."

Her attempt to lighten the mood coaxes a cute half smile from him, just enough to hint at the dimples she knows he'd be appalled to hear she finds adorable, and she takes a moment to regroup before she has to press on.

"Spike." Something in her tone must set off alarm bells in his head because his eyes widen slightly and his Adam's apple bobs with a nervous swallow. "You still haven't told me why you didn't call. I thought we were at least friends." The word feels like fish bones in her throat, and she's surprised she doesn't choke on it. "Didn't you think that I'd be glad that you weren't dead? Why didn't you just let me know I could stop grieving for you? Isn't that what a friend would have done?"

He shakes his head, eyes casting down, admitting defeat to her verisimilitude. But he doesn't speak, and she has to reach across the inches of gulf between them to raise his chin with tingling fingertips. It hurts so much to think he wouldn't tell her, old insecurities circling like vultures ready to feast on the carcass of another failed relationship. But when he'd talked about not coming to her, she'd seen her pain reflecting in his eyes and that irrepressible part of her heart that keeps hoping, disappointment after disappointment, wonders if maybe somewhere under his defeated ramblings there's a good reason he stayed away, one that doesn't have its roots in not wanting her anymore.

He doesn't answer, and she has to battle down the rising urge to turn tail and flee. "Spike." His eyes are swirling with a rising tide of hurt, and she feels like she might get sucked in at any moment. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He's as emotionally dysfunctional as she is; they're a matched pair in that, as in so many other things, and there really is only one way for all his anguish to go. "Because of just bloody this!" Pain makes cracks in his anger, and his voice hitches slightly. "Because I couldn't bear to see you and hear all this bollocks from you."

His attack takes her by surprise; she thought she'd been handling this pretty damned well considered. "Hello!" She gestures towards her own chest with angered disbelief. "Injured party here."

"Oh yeah?" his face twists into an ugly sneer and he glares at her. "This is right hard for you, ain't it, pet?" His sarcasm isn't appreciated, but before she gets a chance to spit back at him he's talking again. "Must be a right drag, having exes getting in the way of your star-crossed pissing reunion. Have to dust off the 'just friends' speech and all that—what a bloody chore."

"What are you talking about?" She’s hissing now. God, he makes her so mad. Can't he ever just be a grown up about anything?

"It's good to see you, Angel." His awful imitation of her voice makes her roll her eyes.

"For God's sake, Spike. This isn't about Angel. This is about you not having the decency to let me know that you're alive. Why won't you just tell me why? Why, Spike?" All the anger's swirling away, now in a sudden wash of tears. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her tears break him as they always do, and he's suddenly all gentleness. "I'm sorry, pet." His clumsy thumbs dab at her wet cheeks as he takes her face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't. Didn't have the bloody balls, if truth be told."

"Why?" It's just a word in a whisper, but in its simplicity, the question becomes impossible to avoid.

"Because you said it." It's a confession so soft she knows it must not only be true but also monumental. But she doesn't understand, and she doesn't dare to ask so she just shakes her head in confusion and waits.

"Because when I was going out, saving the world in a blaze of bloody glory and all that bollocks, you said you loved me." It's heart breaking how defeated he sounds, how joyless about the very words that should have been his ultimate joy. "And just then, just for that moment, you meant it."

She opens her mouth, to say what? She doesn't know, but his finger on her lips keeps her silent. There's more he has to say, more she knows she has to hear. "And it was almost enough, you know? Helped me carry on, knowing that just for a moment you loved me, you actually bloody loved me." There's wonder in his hushed voice and sorrow in his damp eyes; it’s enough to make her own tears come stronger, and she has to bite her lip to steady the flow.

"Seeing you again, pet…the whole friends thing." He shakes his head and tries unsuccessfully to force a smile. "Hurts like a bloody bitch it does, and now I can't even remember what it was like to know you loved me just once, just for a little while."

It's awful and it’s heart breaking and it's her own stupid fault. Her fault for having the world's worst timing. Her fault for kissing Angel just because the world had been about to end and she hadn't known if she'd ever see him again. Her fault for not dragging his useless un-dead ass out of the hellmouth whether he wanted to live or not.

"You're a dope." She remembers the night she should have told him, the night when he'd asked her what it could mean and she'd ducked out like the big emotional scaredy cat she's always been.

She watches the memory draw furrows on his forehead and presses on with a half smile and a newly awakened glint in her eyes. "You're a dope. And a bonehead. And you're shirty." She flashes a tiny smile at his obvious confusion and steps in close. "And damn it, Spike." Her voice drops to a whisper just as her hand comes up to lie against his chest. "So am I."

His eyes narrow in question and he shakes his head uncomprehendingly. "You asked me that night what it meant. And I chickened out. I completely bottled it. Some slayer, huh?"

"Buffy?"

"You asked me what it meant that you were the only one that could give me the strength to keep fighting, keep hoping against hope that we'd come through." She shakes her head as if she can't believe her own folly. "And I should have told you that it meant I loved you."

She smiles slightly at the hope dawning slowly in his eyes. "You were right, Spike. In that last moment it was so easy to tell you because you were going out the hero, but it wasn't just for that moment. It was before when you were annoying and evil and, God, anything but convenient." She takes a deep breath as she watches his defences begin to crumble. "And it was after, when you were gone and I missed you so much. When I was so proud of you I didn't cry once because thinking of you always made me smile even though you were gone."

His hands are already in her hair by the time her fingers are tracing his bruised jaw. "It meant I loved you then," and it almost seems worth the pain of losing him just to experience the joy of this moment. "It means I still love you."

He's shaking his head and she can almost see the denial making its way up his throat, ready to spill out and ruin everything. But if there's one thing she knows how to do it’s shut Spike up, and so she does, not as fiercely as times past, perhaps, but just as effectively. His lips are exactly as she remembers them, cool and soft and clever under hers. It only takes a moment, the briefest of hesitations, before he's kissing her back, gently at first but with rising desperation.

His hands, already nestled loosely in her hair, wrap themselves up tightly in the soft silk strands so that he can tilt her head to the side and take command of her mouth. There have been times, and she hopes for times to come, when she'll punish such presumption with clashing teeth and scratching claws, when she'll use her superior preternatural strength to turn the tables on him and make him submit to her control. But this is not one of those times, because she had lost him before she ever let herself be his, and now, with him found again, all she wants to do is offer herself up to him like a long-awaited gift.

……………………………………………………………..

Fred's southern drawl floats over the surface of his awareness as he watches the two of them gesticulate angrily at one another. He can't imagine why Buffy ever slept with that joker; they obviously don't even get on all that well. When he'd been in Sunnydale just before the end and she'd kissed him, smelling so strongly of his grandchild that he'd barely been able to keep from pushing her away, she'd told him that Spike had changed, that his soul had made him 'different'. But he'd had Spike haunting him for the best part of a year now, and change of diet aside, he couldn't see how Spike was in any way different.

He’s useful enough, true—a bit of extra muscle always up for a brawl—but beyond that he can't imagine what Buffy ever saw in him. And from the looks of her jerky, irritated movements neither can she.

"Angel." Finally Fred manages to drag his attention away from the screens. "You shouldn't be watching them. It's not right," she tells him with typical gentleness, and there's a look of sympathy on her pretty face that he can't fathom the cause of. Her eyes flick to the screen and the look intensified to outright pity. "Don't do this to yourself, Angel."

He turns away from her, oh-so-reasonable reasons why this is caring, not spying, already forming on his lips, as his eyes settle once again on the silent images. And then her pity makes sense and he knows that she realised what he never could have, that Buffy had long ago made her choice, and her choice was not him.

And there she is in monochrome proof, his Buffy, his slayer, his one true love in the arms of the last dregs of family he has left. And it's like a car accident; he just can't look away, can't help but watch as she pulls him down with her onto the desk. There's a desperation to her movements and he knows where this is going even before she literally rips the t-shirt from his body.

"Get out." Only as he growls the command does he realise he's slipped into game face. "Get out, both of you."

They try and reason with him, try and tell him to leave, to stop this, but he bares his fangs and snarls until Fred draws Wesley away and they leave him to his masochistic voyeurism.

Her top is gone by the time he's alone again and he can just make out the perfection of her breasts crushed against Spike's slight chest as her hands run frantically over his body, as if she's reassuring herself with every touch that he's really there.

They kiss so long and so deep that he's surprised Buffy's still breathing when Spike finally pushes up on his elbows to look down at her smiling face, and even at this low resolution he can make out her million watt smile.

He flicks a single switch on the control board and the screens go black. He sighs in relief at not having to see them anymore and disturbs his neatly combed hair with a trembling hand. Buffy and Spike. Knowing that they'd been together was one thing; he'd been able to brush it off as something trivial, a hiccup in his perfect slayer’s record, in the past and best left there. To see them, though, to witness with his own eyes, the power of their connection feels like a stake thrust into his heart.

He shakes his head and lets out a shaky breath. He had thought that he was healing. Between Cordelia and Nina he'd begun to think that the wound loving Buffy had dealt him was all but mended. Scabbed and rough, but essentially healed. He was wrong.

He leans forward and flicks the switch again, opening his door to invite in the pain of watching this. They're all but naked now on the desk with Buffy on top, her hair covering her face as she rains kisses over Spike's bare chest. He can feel the blood flowing from the wound over his heart, but he can't bring himself to shut off the monitors. He'll watch them a little bit longer then and just let it bleed.





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