Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Set after “Chosen.”
Summary: Buffy POV. Spike returns. Read to find out.
Dedication: This short series is for Thia for the anniversary of our friendship! *hugs* We’ve been friends for a year now! ;o) The story is also for dear Ami whose deep and thought-provoking poetry inspires me.

* * *

There was a world in a distant time
The world of fear, the world of pain
It was part of my life in a picture frame
That I left behind like a summer rain

I'm not sorry for the choices I've made
I'm not apologizing for the mistakes too
But I do miss the one that means a lot
And by "the one". . . I mean it's you

Now the new days might go by
And the new nights might come still
But you stay in my mind and forever you will

--"Ghostly Lover" by Ami, July 2003



* * *



Spike made it out. . . out of that crater, out of Sunnydale, out of the grasping jaws of death.



I’ve never been more certain about anything.



I *feel* his presence before I ever set eyes on him again.



The feeling is sort of similar to gut reaction I used to get when Angel was nearby. . . the nagging prick in my heart that refuses to be extinguished.



Funny.



Until now, I hadn’t realized that I don’t get that feeling about Angel anymore. He could round the corner right now, and I wouldn’t feel the slightest tingle in warning.



Yeah, I do still *love* Angel, but it’s different now.



It’s the kind of love that’s faded, worn, and used. . . like the cover of a well-read book. . . the kind of love that rouses only sometimes. . . when brown unexpectedly meets green.



In contrast, the emotion that radiates from behind Spike’s unwavering cerulean gaze is almost tangible. . . bright, inextinguishable. . .



. . . like an undying flame. . .



that sears my heart, leaving a brilliant brand that makes me gasp aloud.



Whenever I have thoughts like these, I’m struck by how different Spike and Angel are.



“What’s wrong, Buffy?” Willow asks, rolling over in her bed across the room and dragging a sluggish hand across the white plane of her forehead and brushing a rivulet of scarlet from her blinking eyes.



Silver moonlight is swathing the room I share with Willow. I offer her a smile to cover up the evidence of my sharp inhalation. “Nothing, Will. Go back to sleep.”



Willow’s worried brow smoothes out once again. “You sure?”



“Yeah.” My legs swing over the edge of the bed as if they have a mind of their own. The motel carpet is thick and soft beneath my feet that sink deep and form tiny craters in the fibers as I pad to the door.



As I curl my fingers around the collar of my new pink robe, Willow repeats, “You sure?” There’s a pause as she lifts her head like a tortoise peeking up at me from a shell of blankets. Then, “where are you going?”



“Out for a bit,” I reply, tugging my arms through the encasing sleeves.



“What for?” she asks.



Sometimes I wonder if Willow’s connection with the earth allows her to penetrate minds. . . or if she somehow is adept at blocking out the voices of the masses. Once I had Sunnydale’s stream of consciousness in my brain, and the pain was beyond any reason. . . beyond any form of control. She must have a strong shield because I can’t fathom having to constantly fight the thoughts of everyone in the world.



“Just to get out of my head,” I finally respond.



“Thoughts of Spike again?” She knows me too well.



“Yeah.” At Willow’s lifted eyebrows, I add, “I’ll be fine.” I grip the stake on the counter and wave it a bit at her. “Got my weapon. Got my bathrobe. Safe *and* warm. Who could ask for more?”



“I could ask for safe and warm *in my bed,*” Willow protests, her hand coming over the comforter as if she’s reaching for me, beckoning me to stay.



The lure of warm sheets is tempting. The pull elsewhere is stronger. “I can’t. Not now.”



Willow sighs. “All right. Be safe?”



“Always,” I assure. “We’ll have pancakes in the morning.”



Settling back into blissful unawareness, my best friend murmurs, “Pancakes. Yum.”



A smile momentarily traces my lips.



Then, the night summons, and I react, changing quickly into the outfit I’ve hidden in the brush, so Willow won’t know what I do.

Haunting the streets of Los Angeles in the darkest hours has become my new pastime. . .



. . .my new passion.



When emotions and thoughts fill me to the brim and threaten to spill over into areas of my life I’d rather they not touch, I find relief in fighting evil forces. . . no matter how thin the ranks.



I don’t remember how many nights I’ve been out alone. At first, Angel tried to follow me. . . to make sure I was okay.



In no uncertain terms, I told him to go away.



He didn’t listen.



The second time he interfered, he got an earful of my barely contained emotion. He was interrupting my flow. . . my continuity. I couldn’t handle someone else doing that. . . not right now.



I haven’t seen him since on my nightly journeys. Doesn’t mean he’s not there. . . just means he doesn’t hinder me anymore. . . like a giant anchor. . .



. . . released.



However, tonight is an exception.



I reach my destination, unwavering hand reaching for the door handle ready to swing open Pandora’s box.



Angel glides in front of my goal.



Earnest dark eyes wide and his forehead wrinkling with concern, he speaks, “Buffy, that’s a whole nest of vamps in there.”



Hands fly to hips. “So?” My retort conveys my annoyance quite effectively, I believe.



“You can’t take them all by yourself.”



“I *can.*” I lean closer to him. He smells of the sweet innocence of my youth, and I’m no longer young despite my outward appearance. There’s a certain type of nostalgia in that, but nostalgia isn’t the same as. . .



He matches my move, and I’m reminded that he’s no longer naïve either. “I know why you’re doing this, Buffy, and trust me, it’s not healthy for you. It’s not good for you to dwell in the darkness.”



He *thinks* he knows.



He doesn’t.



He’s the clueless man at the poker table where everyone knows who has which cards. And he only knows his own hand.



It’s for sure that he doesn’t know mine.



In his mind, he’s comparing me to Faith.



But I’m not Faith; I’m not fighting the odds for the rush of the fight. . . to make myself feel worthy of anything. . . to make myself feel whole.



I decide to tell him straight. “No, no, you don’t know what’s healthy for me. I’ll always love you, but you haven’t known what I need for a long time now.”



His shock at my bold words leaves him as paralyzed as a deer cornered by a wildcat. With the instincts of a predator, I bring my leg solidly up with enough force to knock him aside.



Groaning, he stumbles and re-gathers his balance as I swiftly open the door, enter my target, and shut the barrier behind me. Lighting the torch I’ve brought with me using Spike’s old cigarette lighter, I sweep the room, eyes falling on a nearby chair. Swiftly, I jam the object beneath the door handle, successfully prohibiting Angel from further interference.



The noises I’ve made rouse the sleeping undead, and I whirl back around with my knees slightly bent in ready position. My face is a mask of determination. Now, I will get what I need.



A voice bellows out of the shadows, “Who dares wake us fr. . .”



“From your beauty sleep?” I toss the torch from my right hand to my left and sling forth a stake from my jacket sleeve. Pasty pale vampires begin to emerge and advance on me. “’Cause well, it doesn’t seem like it’s working very well for you. You tried Mary Kay?”



The owner of the voice smiles wickedly, flashing me a pearly pointy. “Little girl Slayers shouldn’t come looking for trouble. They don’t know what they’re getting into.” The rest of the vampires provide a chorus of mocking laughter that only fuels the energetic buzz flowing over me.



It amazes me how fast word of the Slayers-in-Training-Now-Slayers has spread among the demon community.



“Not just any little girl,” I correct, launching myself at the nearest vampire with a flying kick, staking his neighbor with the non-flaming end of the torch.



For half a second, the demons freeze in their tracks like someone hit the pause button on the VCR.



Suddenly, one of the vampires recognizes me. “*Buffy,*” he growls, trying to make up for the others’ ignorance.



“Right you are. . . Buffy Summers. . . in the flesh.”



My words send a tremor through the throng, and I quickly count ten to twelve heads in the dim torchlight. I have my work more than cut out for me, and I’m thrilled.



Without further hesitation, the fight begins in earnest, and I soon find that I’m earning ownership of the battle. Using every ounce of my strength, I fling myself into the fray, using ratty furniture as sometimes shields and punching and kicking my way through the responding vermin.



The combined power from our preternatural strength bounces off the walls in perfect rhythm, and I deliberately slow down and speed up my movements to draw out the fray. . . to delay dusting them.



They give no sign of noticing, but I know that they’re fighting in vain because I’m controlling every aspect of the fight. Their panic upsurges as they begin to fatigue and as I begin to get the best of them.



This is the part of the exercise that I enjoy the most.



Why?



Because in between the disgruntled cries of the enemy and the strain of my screaming muscles, I *feel* his presence. . .



. . . Spike’s presence.



The feeling is distinct from anything I’ve felt before.



I can’t compare the emotion to the sharp ache that came with killing Angel. . . the shocked numbness that came with my mother’s unexpected death. . . the unequivocal acceptance of my own death. . . or the post-traumatic horror of my return from the grave. These events are pale in my mind. . . almost as if they never happened. They’re the kind of memories that remain black and white and gray in my thoughts.



The truth is that when I fight, something comes alive inside me. . . something Spike was always nagging me to embrace.



I never quite understood what he meant. . .



. . . not until that day in the cavern when his light. . . his soul saved the world.



The fight isn’t about darkness or pushing it back. . . it’s about spreading the light.



And that’s immensely easier than fighting the never-ending battle I was fighting to stop the evil. . . stop the night. The night will never end, but it can’t extinguish the light either.



Acknowledging this gives me a freedom I never thought possible.



Embracing the light within myself has granted me a fuel and a fire that I’ve never had and allows me to dance with renewed strength.



And sometimes. . .



. . . sometimes in the sweet oblivion of the tango between good and evil, I find him there with me. . . . I hear the sounds of his grunts and excitement as he guards my back. I see the flash of white-blond in the corner of my eye. I catch a faint whiff of cigarettes emanating from his clothing. I discover him watching me with glowing azure eyes, appreciating the hidden strength of my slight-appearing muscles as I dance for him. . . as I pound and kick and. . . slay.



Then, I offer him a grin as if to say. . . see what I’m doing?



I’m sharing my light.



And each time I fight, I feel myself drawing closer. . .



. . . closer to finding him.

The voices barely penetrate my brain, but I slowly push aside the heavy curtain of sleep in attempt to make sense of the world.



A door scrapes against tile as it is forced open. I open my eyes a slit, and light from the outer world streams inside. Is it already daylight? I decide that I can’t tell.



Footsteps move in the vicinity of where I lay.



A female voice resonates, “You sure she’s in here, Angel?”



Willow. . . that’s Willow.



No one responds to her query.



Another voice. . . distinctly British. . . intones next, “The dreams of Spike are getting stronger?”



“Yeah,” Willow confirms Giles’s words. “They are. She’s going out every night now. She’s been having prophetic dreams about him. . . she thinks. That’s why I started sleeping in the same room with her. They were scaring Dawnie.”



I hear a noise closer to me than the two talking, but I dismiss it. My hand tightens around an object in my palm. I’ve forgotten what it is, but I know it’s important.



“I’m worried about her, Giles,” Willow continues, and for the first time, I notice the flashlight beams panning around. “She goes out and fights these battles and comes home all bruised and bloody and won’t explain what happened except to say that she’s certain Spike was there fighting with her.”



I remember that Giles has been out of the country. He was supposed to get in tomorrow. Or is today tomorrow? My legs draw up involuntarily.



Giles is thoughtful, “I’m not sure what could be causing such vivid. . . for lack of a better term. . . hallucinations. I know she had strong feelings for him, but. . .”



“Maybe she finally snapped. The weight of all the loss and pain. . . maybe it fell on her shoulders when she didn’t have to bear the burden of being the only Chosen One. You know. . . it’s kind of like when she went into herself when she lost Dawn to Glory that time. Maybe she. . . .”



Giles interrupts her, and he sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of an explanation for my behavior, “She finds safety in the oblivion that she lets herself slip into. I’ve been there myself. . . when I lost. . . someone I love, and I think she’ll snap out of it eventually. She’s grieving.”



Willow and Giles are desperate. They don’t understand that Spike is *alive.*



With each dream. . . with each battle, I almost reach my destination. . . almost grasp his. . .



A hand grasps my calf, and I jolt up with a sharp intake of air, eyes wide.



The owner of the hand has a grim face. “Buffy. Are you okay?”



I open my mouth to let Angel know that I’m fine, but no sound comes out.

I don’t realize how hungry I am until Willow sets a stack of steaming pancakes in front of me at the small wooden table in our hotel room. The sweet scent of syrup mixes with the lovely aroma of batter, enticing my stomach to assert itself rather loudly. The fork I pick up is smooth beneath the pads of my fingers.



Red hair pulled up in a freshly washed ponytail, Willow opens the curtains so that rich morning luminescence flows over the table. Then, she fixes a second, matching tower of rich goodness and slides into the seat across from me, pushing a mug of coffee toward me.



She studies me, and I ignore her stare, asking brightly, “So, what are your plans today?”



Something shifts in her expression, and she sighs, poking at the top pancake with her fork. “Going with Giles to the bank to assess the remainder of our funds and then, going to a meeting with the insurance company. I’m dreading that one. Somehow, they don’t seem to be buying the idea that an entire city was sucked into a giant hole. . . even though there’s every evidence to prove it to them.”



A corner of my mouth lifts in amusement as I lick a bit of syrup from my lower lip. “Fun.”



She can’t help having a similar reaction, and we exchange knowing looks. “Yeah, right, big fun.” She pauses to take a bite. “What are you doing today?”



“Gotta get Dawn enrolled in summer school. I’m hoping they’ll take her back at my old school. Although with my record on file, I don’t know if they will.”



I wait for her next question.



“And then?”



“And then, I’m going to hit the books. . . try to figure out anything. . . prophecies, whatever, that might point to Spike’s return.” My green eyes light with defiance, and she turns hers away.



“Buffy, I. . .,” she stammers, only to be interrupted by a well-timed knock on our door.



Willow clamors to let in Giles. I sort of expect him to be alone. Angel is allergic to the sun, and Xander is in Cleveland.



Giles and Willow are uncharacteristically quiet despite being introverts. I decide to help them out.



“So, you want to talk to me about Spike,” I state, spearing my fork into the pancakes.



The metal rod stands straight up.



Willow resumes her seat, and Giles awkwardly drags up an armchair from the living area. Aware that Willow is looking at him to take the lead, he clears his throat and leans forward so that his arms rest on the table’s surface.



“Yes, Buffy, we do have some concerns about that.”



My defenses instantly rise at his tone. “Right,” I reply, more flatly than I intend. “I’m handling that just fine. I actually think I may be on to. . .”



“Buffy,” he interrupts, “we’re concerned that you’re taking the whole messages from Spike thing a little too seriously. I know you cared about him. . . .”



I watch Giles’s face as he winces slightly at the word “cared.” He has the expression of a father who will never really like anyone his daughter chooses.



“I loved h. . .” I hesitate not because my friends are upset with my admission but because I’m being inaccurate. “I *love* him. He may not have believed me in the hellmouth before he died, but I meant what I said.”



Giles jumps on my announcement, “And that’s precisely why I think that you’re deluding yourself.”



“I am *not* deluding myself,” I insist, twisting my fork in the dough. “I know that Spike is alive somewhere. I can *feel* it when I fight. That’s the time when I’m closest to him, and he’s trying to tell me something.”



I stare at the chunks of pancake that fall away as a gaping wound forms in the mound.



“Buffy, do you remember when I thought Jenny was trying to contact us through James?”



Of course, I know that he’s talking about James, the student at Sunnydale High who shot himself after his teacher ended their affair. “Yeah, I vaguely recall that.” I cross my arms and sit as far away from Giles and Willow as possible.



The wooden rods of the chair back are sticking into my ribs.



“Then, you will also recall how wrong I was. . . how I wanted to believe so much that she was still there in my life. . . still trying to be with me. . . how Willow almost died because of my stupidity.” His glasses are slipping down on his nose a bit. “I had to let go of my obsession with the notion that she might return.”



My temper flares. “Are you saying that I’m lying? That I’m stupid? That I’m obsessed?”



He quickly back peddles, “No, no, Buffy, you are far from stupid, and you don’t lie. . . at least, not outright.”



“Okay. So then, you think that I’m obsessed and delusional, that my judgment’s off, that Buffy’s fallen off the bandwagon.” My fists clinch involuntarily against my thighs.



Giles lowers his voice further, so that I have to shift closer to him. “Willow and I are just concerned that what you’re looking for is not to be found and that you’re putting yourself in unnecessary danger. You’re more incoherent and take longer to recover after every battle. We had to go looking for you this morning.”



“And what is it do you think I’m looking for?”



“You’re looking for a way to bring Spike back,” he says without censor. “And that may not be the best thing for you. . . or for him.”



“Remember what happened when we brou. . . ,” Willow trails off as my inner blaze re-adjusts itself to face her.



“Like I could forget that,” I retort.



Willow’s eyes flood with hurt, and I regret my harsh tone.



“I’m sorry,” I say, but her pain isn’t erased, and I realize that it’s not my fault if it never goes away. I take a deep breath to gather my thoughts and calm my feelings. “Look. I’m not doing this to defy you or make you worry about me. I’m doing this because I have a strong pull to do this. . . to try to find Spike.”



“Sometimes, the things that we’re pulled to aren’t exactly the best things for us though,” Willow whispers, and I fight the urge to bite back at her again.



Giles picks up where Willow leaves off, “And, you have no tangible proof. . . other than your feelings. . . that Spike is contacting you through the. . .”



“The fighting. . . the fighting dance,” I supply. With a burst of energy, I stand abruptly, startling my challengers. “Actually, I do. Got it in the last fight.”



Reaching into my pocket, I close my hand around the loose links of a metal chain. . . a chain attached to the medallion Spike had worn in our final battle in Sunnydale.

The dream sweeps up from the depths of my psyche with rapid force, puncturing my sleep with alacrity. Breathless with its brilliance, I wake with a start and find the space full of darkness. . . the way my world has been since. . .



“Buffy?” From across the room, Willow is watching me with the tired eyes of someone who has not been able to achieve solid sleep. “A dream?”



It’s what we’ve been waiting for. “Yes.” I close my eyes again and summon the courage to add, “It’s time.”



“Right.” Willow’s eyes are luminous as they catch a stray bit of moonlight that is peeking around the curtain. She reaches for the phone beside her bed to call Giles.



After my revelation a few days ago, Giles and Willow reluctantly agreed to aid me in my quest. Part of me believes that perhaps they’re coming with me to protect me from myself. . . to prove me wrong in a sense. On the other hand, they’ve seen enough of the mystical to expect the unexpected.



Willow is dressing across the room. My stomach tumbling, I scramble to throw on a pair of faded jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt. I run my brush through my long, blond strands until my scalp tingles with the motion, and I take a quick peek at my make-up-less face in the mirror.



My eyes are flashing emerald green, and my cheeks are flushed with excitement. Despite my restless sleep and the exhausting aftermath of my dreams, I have never looked more alive.



Pausing, I bite my lower lip. I’m questioning myself for the first time.



I told Angel that I’m not done baking. I cringe at my own bad analogy.



Am I ready to be with anyone?



I told Angel the truth. . .



. . . the truth as I saw it in the moment. . . a moment taut with tension, fear, and potential loss. . . a moment when I was still half-asleep, half-lying to myself.



How does a woman tell her forever love that she loves someone else when she’s denying it herself?



I may have been aware of it in the hours Spike and I spent cradled in each others’ arms, and I may have known in the quiet moments when we just looked at one another, at a loss for words to describe what we knew was to come. It was as if for once we had a clue. . . had a handle on the apocalypse at hand.



There were no wild cards. . .



. . . only a single truth. . . .



We had each other, and neither of us was running anymore.



“You coming?” Willow asks.



I re-focus, eyes wide. With her hand on the doorknob, Willow is holding the door open, letting in the night’s scent.



I smile.



Tonight, Spike is coming home, and Willow and Giles are helping me.

Slayer instincts are odd.



Xander asked me once how they worked. With his usual humor, he seemed to want to compare them to comic book heroes’ ability to detect their enemies’ presence.



They don’t work exactly like that.



They’re actually more like intuition than superhuman powers. One can hone intuition. As a freshman at U.C. Sunnydale, Willow and I took a one-hour course for freshman women and read a book called “The Gift of Fear.” The author wrote about learning to pay attention to one’s intuition and using it to form a plan and act rather than react.



So, in a sense, Slayer instincts are present in everyone to some degree. I just learned to pay attention to mine.



And tonight, my instincts have led me to a crowded demon bar. I find irony in the notion that Spike will return to this world in a bar.



I push my way through the throng of vampires and demons who eye Willow, Giles and I with an air of disdain. We’re not carrying visible weapons, and plenty of demons look like humans, so for now, we can get away with our bold entrance.



As I turn to face the crowd with my elbows on the bar, Willow whispers in my ear, “Buffy, you’re right. I feel something here. . . something’s not right with the aura of the place.”



“You mean, outside of being a demon bar?” I ask in return.



She imitates my stance while Giles hovers on my left. “Yeah. Outside of.”



I survey the dim room with a critical eye, patterns and battle formations forming in my head with minimal effort. I count twenty demons and seven vampires.



“What next?” Willow is crackling with mystical energy. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing my friend with sparks of white light dancing through her hair when she uses magicks now. It won’t be long before the demons take more notice of us.



Before I have a chance to reply, a vampire charges toward us. He’s swaying a bit from the alcohol in his system. Never really understood how alcohol could affect vampires without circulation and all, but then, I’ve never been good at biology.



I crack his wrist easily when he reaches out to grab me.



And the fight begins.



At first, in the midst of whirling and kicking, I don’t feel Spike’s presence. I am only aware of a soaring happiness with each neatly landed punch and each kill. Willow’s magicks are zigzagging through the bar, hitting their marks with surety. Ever the improviser despite his insistence on research’s importance, Giles fashions weapons from furniture and broken liquor bottles.



Bodies begin to litter the ground.



And then. . .



. . . I experience Spike.



His existence breathes over my skin in cool drafts as he once did in what seems like the distant past. Unbidden goose bumps rise, and I shiver and make a soft primal noise in response.



I search for Willow, and our gazes instantly connect.



She senses him, too.



Giles skirts in from the side to protect her as she raises her hands, one hand grasping the medallion and one hand weaving a tapestry of archaic symbols in the air. The bar lights flicker and wink out, leaving only the result of Willow’s chanting to add sparkle to the bloodbath.



The demons around me pause for a moment.



But I need them to continue their attack on me, so I prod them and provoke them with words until their tempers are completely gone.



And they oblige me.



Sweat is pouring off my skin, and my muscles scream at me to stop, but with each second I remain focused, Spike is stronger. My legs and arms are unstoppable weapons, and I grunt with each landed blow.



Demons are dying so that one may live.



In an instant, the tiny sparkling lights become glaring, and Willow’s voice rises to drown out everything in the room. . . .



My ears pop as if I’m on an airplane with poor cabin pressure.



The demons that we haven’t killed are stunned into immobility as they cover their ears and drop to their knees in the gore that covers the slick floor.



My body begs me to do the same, and just as I’m about to crash, a tear rips down the air before me.



Light thrusts forth, and the room is bathed in white.



A silhouette blots out some of the brilliance. The body tumbles into me, knocking me to the ground.



In the same moment, the noise and lights fade until the room is completely dark. A quiet thud tells me that Willow has collapsed from exhaustion. The demons that survived have lost consciousness.



The body on top of me is warm and muscular. . . and fully clothed in some sort of loose robe.



My hands fumble over the form until I find shoulders, and I heave him off of me so that I can sit up and embrace him against my chest.



Giles murmurs something, and a tiny pinprick of light appears. I hear him checking on Willow who is moaning but sounds otherwise okay.



My eyes slowly adjust to the quite opposite lighting and confirm what I’ve known all along.



Spike is in my arms.



And he’s watching me as if he’s never seen me. . . blue eyes dark with. . .



. . . a love that still burns. . . .



“You heard me,” are his first words, and my heart sings.



I stroke his face with an open hand, running my fingers over his eyebrows and down the concave of his cheek to his lips.



“I did.”



“And you didn’t give up,” he says.



I shake my head. “I didn’t.”



His arms move around my waist, and we tremble together.



“Thank you, Buffy.”



My one available answer is to hug him closer.



Then, I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Spike?”



He nuzzles into my neck like a kitten that’s found a home. “Mmm?”



“Where were you?”



“I don’t know.”



“You had to have been somewhere,” I press, trying to confirm or deny my biggest fear. “I hope I didn’t rescue you from Heaven.”



He mumbles something against my flesh, and all I feel is his breath warm on my skin.



I push him back a bit, and he looks a little bewildered when I ask, “What did you say?”



He won’t meet my eyes, but his tone tells me his next words are genuine. “Anywhere that isn’t with you. . . those places aren’t Heaven.”



Tears spill from my eyes, but before I will allow myself to break down completely, I have one more thing to say. “Spike, I love you. And I need you to believe me this time.”



His eyes give me every answer I want.



The bar entrance bangs open.



Alert, Spike and I rise simultaneously.



Angel stands in the doorway with a cluster of his L.A. group behind him. He surveys the scene, gaze landing on Spike. His expression is unruffled and unsurprised until he meets my eyes.



With the wisdom of someone who has read tens of thousands of faces over the centuries, Angel knows the truth. . . that Buffy Summers is done baking.



With a single look, he offers me the only thing he has left to give me. . .



. . . his blessing.



He returns his attention to Spike whose hand has found mine in the shadows.



Nodding to his grandchilde, he announces something about Spike that I hadn’t noticed. . . that hadn’t seemed relevant, “Welcome to the world of the living, Spike.”



The end.