Angel startled at the sound of glass shattering. Spike had just thrown an empty whiskey bottle at the wall.

"Spike. You think you could not destroy my office while you're here?"

"Just be glad I didn't chuck it at you," he replied, though his tone held no real malice. Spike's shoulders slumped suddenly. He hung his head, running his fingers through his hair. He sighed as he walked over to Angel, plopping down on the leather couch next to him.

"This time tomorrow, I'll be dust," Spike mumbled, laying his head back against the couch. Angel turned his head to look over at him.

"Okay. That's clearly the alcohol talking."

Spike gave a mirthless laugh, biting back a sob.

"Yeah? What do you know about it?" he asked, voice slightly trembling.

"I've been through this before. And so have you," Angel replied somberly.

"But this time...she isn't coming back," Spike murmured. "Not that I knew she would before, but..."

Angel looked away, staring out the window at the afternoon sun. In his mind's eye, he saw Cordy, smiling as she fixed him waffles.

"They're mortals, Spike. Eventually, it'll just come down to you and me."

"Bloody hell." Spike sniffed. "You and me for sodding eternity, eh?" He chuckled. "Spike and Angel foreva!" he said in a falsetto voice. Angel half scoffed and half laughed at that.

Angel turned away from the window, facing forward, taking the remaining gulp from the glass in his hand.

"You forgot one thing though," Spike said quietly, eyes drifting shut.

"What?"

"There'll always be the...sad, sorry sacks of nameless faces we'll have to save. The fight will never end. Mission'll never be over," he slurred. "There's always..."

Angel looked over at him. Spike had passed out. Angel sighed, looking down in his lap at the empty glass.

"Yeah, Spike. There's always something."