More days passed. Buffy got up in the morning and got dressed, and put her pajamas back on at night and went to bed, and those were pretty much the milestones of her day. In between, she did very little. Went through the motions of eating, pretended to listen when people spoke to her, and sat by the window where it was easiest to feel Spike's presence, silently comforting.

Willow came and sat with them – with her, she corrected herself, it was just an illusion – came and sat with her, one day. Said some things about how worried she was, how Buffy needed to eat more, how this kind of grieving wasn't good for her. That got Buffy's attention, briefly.

"I'm not trying to bring him back, Will," she said, voice hoarse from days of disuse. "And I'm not trying to destroy the world rather than deal with the hurt and the," her voice wobbled, "the unfairness of him being gone."

Willow reared back, eyes wide. Buffy hadn't really meant to cut her like that, but… who was she to tell Buffy what kind of grieving was okay and what wasn't? It was hers, this loss. It was all of Spike she had left, and she held it closely to her. Cherished it the way she'd never allowed herself to really cherish him.

"I – Buffy," Willow began. "I just meant – okay, maybe you're not gonna go all dark-Buffy and end the world or anything, but… I can't help but worry that you're on the way to ending yourself."

"I'm not going to try anything like that," sighed Buffy. As if she could end her life, when Spike had thrown his into the abyss to save her. She turned her face back to the window; this conversation may as well be over.

But Willow wasn't finished. "No," she said, "I don't think you're suicidal. But you're not really… trying to live, either. You might not plan on ending your life, but you don't seem interested in keeping it, you know? And I'm… I'm really worried about you, and the worst part is that I can't stay to make sure you're going to be okay."

"I'll be okay," said Buffy. She wished it was a lie.

Buffy didn't want to be okay, but dealing with her mother's death had taught her that, eventually, she would be. Eventually there would be days when she didn't think of Spike every waking moment. That was part of why she was at the window now, why she planned to stay here as long as she could. Eventually the day would come when she wouldn't be able to feel Spike sitting next to her, close enough to touch, just out of sight past the corner of her eye. She wanted to enjoy the sensation while it lasted.

"I have to go," said Willow after a moment. "Kennedy and I – we have an assignment in Brazil. That sounds so secret-agent. We're a buncha bigwigs now…" When Buffy didn't respond, Willow leaned in, hugged her shoulders gently. "You'll get through this, Buffy. I wish I could stay, but – you're strong. You'll be okay. I know you will."

"So do I," said Buffy. It didn't matter that she didn't want to be.

Willow left. Buffy didn't remember whether or not they'd said goodbye; if Willow had, Buffy didn't remember answering.

Time passed. Minutes, hours – Buffy didn't really care how long. It wasn't time for bed yet, that was all she knew. She sat, and looked out the window, and every once in awhile thought she could smell the leather of Spike's duster.

It was an illusion. God, how she wished it was real, but it wasn't.

One day Xander came and sat with her. Might have been the same day as Willow's goodbye – might not. Buffy wasn't really interested in keeping track.

For a long time he didn't say anything, which was nice. No speeches, no trying to pry poor Buffy out of her shell. Just sat on one side of her while she felt Spike sitting on the other side. She didn't turn her head; knew if she did he wouldn't really be there, and she didn't want to spoil the illusion.

Maybe that was a little insane, wanting to hang onto something she knew wasn't real, preferring the illusion to the reality. Or maybe that was normal – maybe that was how regular people lived every day, pretending that their version of reality was the truth. It would explain an awful lot about Sunnydale and how the general population somehow managed to go on not-believing in demons, vampires, and all the rest of it.

But whatever. Buffy didn't really have the energy to think about it.

So she sat in the window, and not-really-Spike sat with her, and Xander sat with her, and no one said anything for awhile, until Xander spoke up.

"I miss Anya," he said.

Buffy closed her eyes and nodded. Amid all the meaningless gibberish people were spouting lately, here were words that meant something real.

"I'm sorry," she replied. And she was, although those words usually didn't mean much when other people said them. That was just what they were supposed to say, right? I'm sorry for your loss. As if they had had anything to do with it. But Buffy was sorry, and unlike most people, she had reason to be.

Anya's was one more death that was her fault, after all.

"Andrew keeps telling me," Xander struggled with the words, "that she saved his life." He sniffed, ducked his head. "I miss her… and I'm mad at her for being so stupid… and… I'm so, so proud of her."

"Yes," said Buffy. She was proud of Spike, too. And she knew, like Xander did, that the feeling would do nothing to bring either of them back.

He looked at her, one good eye and an eye patch that was her fault too. "Giles has me headed to Africa," he said. "Looking for new Slayers. I'm… kinda hoping the time alone will help."

Buffy said nothing.

"I just wish I knew what would help you," he went on. "But for what it's worth – I'm sorry."

Buffy waited. Looked at him for a long moment before turning to gaze out the window again. "Giles said he was sorry, too, before he left," she said eventually. "For trying to have Spike killed. Why are you?"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shrug uncomfortably. "Being an ass, mostly," he said. "We – Spike tried to fit in with us, and stuck around that summer you were gone, and none of us really ever let him forget he was supposed to be evil. We never really… let him be good."

"No," said Buffy, "you didn't."

Xander stopped, cleared his throat. "Yeah, well," he said. "He hurt you, and then he went nuts, and, you know, he was a vampire in the first place. It was a little hard to see past any of that. I couldn't figure out how you could just let it slide."

"I love – loved – him," said Buffy, turning to face him again. Admitting it to another person for the first time. She took a long, slow deep breath, held it for a second before letting the words out on a sigh. "But it doesn't matter. Doesn't mean anything."

"How does loving someone not mean anything?" he asked.

"Loving him," she said. "You, apologizing. They're just words. They don't mean anything. You're too late, Xander. Spike's – gone." Couldn't say died. Not yet.

She turned her face back to the window.

After another long silence, Xander just said, "Yeah, I guess so." Buffy could tell that she'd cut him too, the same as she'd cut Willow. Hadn't meant to. Couldn't dredge up an apology.

"I am too," was the best she could do. "Too late, I mean. We waited too long, and now none of it matters. What we say, what we feel…" her voice cracked, and the tears she didn't deserve to cry began to leak out of the corners of her eyes. "There's no point to it, anymore." Buffy shut her eyes tight, grit her teeth and fought for control. "It's just… empty. Like we're all just faking it now. Motions, gestures. You know. They don't mean anything. Because we waited too long. Because we were… cowards…" Her chest heaved, and one sob managed to break free before she wrestled herself back to stillness. Tears spilled down her cheeks and spattered on the legs of her jeans. "None of it matters anymore."

"Oh, Buffy," sighed Xander. He reached out and put his hand on her arm while she fought to stop crying, but she shook her head and shrugged him off gently. Just sat with her head bowed over her lap, her hands tightly gripping the edge of her seat, every muscle tense, until she heard him get up and walk away.

She was wiping her eyes, a minute later or an hour, when she felt his hand on her arm again. Shrugged, but he didn't let go.

She looked up, irritated, only to find there was no one there.

That was the first time it happened.

The next time, she was walking to the bathroom and felt someone's hand on her shoulder, and when she turned around, startled, all she saw was her empty hotel room. It took a second before she realized what felt so familiar about it – any time she walked away from Spike and he wasn't done talking to her, he'd reach out and grab her shoulder, exactly like that. Spin her clear around if he was feeling vehement enough.

"Spike?" she'd whispered, feeling a little foolish as she did.

There was no answer, of course, but it was still… kinda nice. Feeling him like that. Before, she'd had to shut out the world, sit alone and still for as long as she could, to feel as though Spike might be near her, just out of sight, not talking to her but still there. She told herself it was only an illusion, but she couldn't make herself let it go. It was so much better than thinking of him the way he really was, burned to ashes and dust at the bottom of a crater in what used to be her hometown. Better than reminding herself with every breath that his death was on her hands.

Of course, she never really stopped thinking about that, but still. Feeling his presence was… soothing.

As the days went by, Buffy felt him near at least a few times each day. Sometimes it was the smell of his leather duster, other times a caress of cool fingers at the back of her neck, making her shiver. Once she thought she heard him chuckle at something Dawn said, and that unnerved her enough that she had to ask.

"Dawn," she said cautiously, "do you think… could Spike haunt us, somehow?"

Dawn had chewed her lip in thought. "I dunno," she'd said. "He had his soul in the end, so… maybe, I guess. If it meant finding a way to bug us, I'm sure he'd try."

"Do you ever – sometimes, I – do you ever feel him around?" she asked.

Now Dawn looked at her with sympathy – or maybe it was just pity for the crazy grieving woman – and replied, "No, Buffy. I wish he were here, but… he's not."

But the little touches, the sense that he was with her somehow, grew stronger as the days passed, and Buffy started to wonder if she was really imagining things after all. They boarded a plane and flew away – to Rome, Dawn explained, along with a scolding that she really needed to pay more attention to what was going on – and for the entire flight Buffy kept having to fight the urge to move to the window seat so that Spike wouldn't have to risk sitting in the sun. Every time she let herself look, though, all she saw next to her was an impatient Italian woman who clattered away on her laptop until the battery quit, and kept demanding alcohol from the flight attendants whether they were serving or not.

They landed and she could feel Spike stalking along behind her in the airport, all the way through baggage claim and out to the cab that took them to their new… place. Buffy couldn't bring herself to call it a home. Couldn't betray the memory of her mother's house like that. This whole building belonged to the Watchers' Council, and she couldn't forget that, couldn't get comfortable enough to relax anywhere except in the privacy of her bedroom. Nothing in it really belonged to them; it was just a glorified hotel where they got to stay for free.

Feeling Spike's presence was the only thing that made staying there tolerable. Once, she would have been willing to swear that she woke up with Spike's arms around her. That morning, Buffy kept her eyes shut tight, refusing to move or do anything that might break the spell, for as long as she could. Didn't want to spoil the illusion.

She knew he was dead. She knew she might be delusional. She just couldn't make herself care.

Buffy made it through one day, and then another and another, going through the motions of life until Dawn told her nearly three weeks had passed since the closing of the Hellmouth. Her routine in Rome, if you could call it that, was the same as it had been in Los Angeles: wake up, force herself to eat a little, and eventually go to bed. In all the empty moments in between, she sat quietly and soaked up the sensation of Spike's presence near her.

He wasn't a ghost, she had reluctantly concluded. Buffy never heard him speak, never actually saw him other than as glimpses out of the corner of her eye that vanished whenever she turned to look. She'd only heard his laugh the once; the touches and the scent of leather were, themselves, not as common as the simple, vague impression that he was with her, somehow.

But he wasn't, not really… well, probably not, she told herself. Feeling Spike's presence like this was just something her mind was coming up with to cope with him being gone. A part of Buffy's mind was trying to delude her into thinking he still existed, even though she knew he didn't.

It couldn't last. She knew that.

But it felt so real, and oh, how she wished that it was.

Then one day she and Dawn were out walking in the hills outside Rome, because Dawn had insisted to her that she needed some fresh air, that it would be good for her, help with the grieving process, and a bunch of other stuff that Buffy didn't really believe. But she went along, if only to get Dawn off her back and give her more peace and quiet to feel Spike near her.

She stood at the top of a hill and looked down into a grove of almond trees, and felt Spike standing just behind her. Fingertips caressed the back of her neck – or maybe that was just the breeze. But she could smell cigarettes and leather, and if he were really there, Spike would have been standing so close she could have leaned into him while he held her from behind. Buffy took a deep breath and closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.

She stood like that, swaying with the motion of her breath, for about a minute, before the world tipped sideways.

Buffy felt dizzy, and something inside her wrenched as if it was being tugged out of her by invisible hands, out through her heart and her solar plexus. Eyes wide, she put a hand to her stomach and gasped, unable to catch her breath as her knees hit the rocky soil and she toppled over onto her side. Dimly she could hear Dawn calling her name in a panic, but she couldn't focus on that right now.

Something was taking Spike away from her.

No, she begged silently, no, no, not like this, no, don't go… Buffy reached inside herself, her eyes closing over a flood of tears, reached for that place where her awareness of Spike came from… but there was nothing.

He wasn't there anymore. She couldn't feel him, couldn't find him.

Spike was gone.

The knowledge crashed over her. She'd been living in a fog, hanging onto the illusion that Spike still existed, was still in a condition to care about her, could possibly still be anywhere near her. She was so stupid – an idiot, a moron, insane, delusional. She'd been fooling herself all along, and now she was waking up to the reality everyone else had been waiting for her to see. Spike was gone.

No, not gone. Dead.

Because of her.

Between one breath and the next, she began sobbing hysterically, calling Spike's name over and over as Dawn lifted her partway out of the dirt and wrapped her arms around Buffy's shoulders.

"Spike, Spike," she wept, kneeling, leaning helplessly into her sister's embrace.

"It's okay," Dawn murmured into her hair. "It's all right, Buffy."

"No," she cried, "no, he's gone, you don't understand."

"I know, Buffy, I know…"

"No, you don't!" Buffy sobbed, her body wracked with the force of her cries, chest heaving. "No, he was here, I could feel him, you don't understand, he's gone, Dawnie, he's gone, he left… Spike… he's… oh God, Dawnie, Spike's dead, oh God… oh, no, no… God…"

And then words left her and all she could do was wail her pain, all the sorrow and despair in her broken heart, to the empty Italian sky.

"…And we'll find out why they really brought us here," said Angel to his team – his friends. Adjusting to life at the top of Wolfram & Hart, law firm, wasn't going to be easy, but if this was what it took to redeem himself – to protect his son – then he would do it, whether his friends stuck by him or not. He picked an envelope up from the stack on his desk, tore it open. "Meanwhile, we do the work our way. We deal –" He stopped, startled, as a gaudy pendant on a chain slithered out of the envelope and onto the floor.

It was one he recognized, only too well.

"– with whatever comes next," he finished. Angel stared at the pendant, then took a step back in surprise as it began to glow. A whirlwind sprang up and scattered the papers on his desk as it grew, black with soot and ashes and flecked with brightly glowing sparks, as if a bonfire were hidden somewhere deep inside the gemstone of the amulet.

The ashes coalesced into the shape of a man, forming from the bones outward. It was a little like watching a vampire dust, thought Angel, only in reverse…

The sparks swirled inward, and the soot condensed onto the bones, adding flesh, skin, clothing as a hot wind raced through Angel's office. And then the shape was screaming, gasping, doubled over in pain, and the whirlwind had stopped, and Angel realized that he knew the man standing before him, its back turned but the blond hair and leather duster impossible not to recognize.

…no, he understood suddenly. It was exactly like watching a vampire dust, only in reverse.

"Spike?" asked Wesley, astonished.

"Spike," Angel replied grimly.

It looked like "whatever comes next" had already arrived.