"How did this happen?"


She didn't want to have this conversation, or really, any conversation, with Angel. But it seemed impossible to duck, while they were in his house. While she owed him, for being responsive to Dawn. Spike had disappeared somewhere, Dawn was on the phone with their aunt and didn't want her present in case that somehow made her "give away" the lies she had to tell. So Angel was able to corner her in the kitchen.


"I don't know."


"You don't know?"


"These things happen. To people. To vampire slayers."


"Spike."


"Had nothing to do with it!"


"Oh, you believe that?"


Buffy looked up from her mug of hot blood. "I do. Not that it even matters."


"It matters!" Angel's face suddenly softened up. It was kind of amazing, like watching something melt in a high flame. "Buffy. You don't want to spend time with him. You don't have to."


"What would you prefer? That I spend time with you?"


"Well—yes. I mean—you could stay here. You should stay here."


"That ship has sailed."


"I'm not talking about ships. I'm talking about what use you could be on the team."


She shot him a look. "Please. You're talking about ships."


"Well—"


She shook her head. "Nothing's changed in how I feel about you, Angel. But a lot of other things have changed, just not enough to ... to change us. There is no us." The convolution of her words annoyed her.


"But Spike."


"I turns out Spike suits me."


"Suits you."


"We click."


"Oh, is that what we're callin' it now?"


A sort of cringe rode up Buffy's spine at the sound of his voice; she turned. A weird assortment of feelings came over her, at the sight of Spike's undisguised jealousy. Angel couldn't disguise either how Spike made him bristle. Some time, she thought, she'd get him to tell her some stories. Maybe now she'd be able to hear them.


"You want to click a bit with the old man, Slayer?" Spike said. "I'll give you some privacy. After I kick his ass."


He moved so fast that despite the warning even Angel wasn't prepared to be driven against the wall, which gave off a booming crack as his head hit it. Buffy flew in between them, intercepting a bone-crunching head-butt, but managing to fling Spike away before the fight could really get started.


"NO!"


She still had the power of authority over them; the men glowered and feinted, deadly beams criss=crossing the air in their glances, but they held their separate corners.


"There will be no fighting. There will be no clicking. Spike and I are getting out of here, as soon as Dawn is squared away. We'll take her to her flight."


Angel stared. "Why did you do it, William?"


Buffy thought he was referring to the attack, but Spike just shook his head, a quick stubborn shake that was as good as a fuck you.


"It's not even your style," Angel said, with a sneer.


"That's right, you great prat. Don't go round makin' more, an' didn't make her."


"But you let her rise. You could have—"


"Oh could I? I suppose you would've." The face Spike pulled made Buffy wince, even before he lifted a finger to his neck, to pantomime her beheading. "You would've, yeah."


"Because I love her."


"Oh, let's not have a contest over that. 'Fore you met her, you wouldn't have known the article if you tripped over it in a well-lit room. Sayin' you'd have put a stake in her proves it."


"She never wanted this to happen to her. It was her worst fear."


"I knew that."


"Yet you let it happen."


Buffy parted her lips to protest being discussed like this again, but realized she wanted to hear the argument out. The two of them confronted each other with all their pasts riding their shoulders, their faces, the curls of their lips and brows, and she might as well have absent, except that they showed too, in everything they said and did, that she was completely present to them both, of supreme importance.


"Wasn't goin' to give up on her without a chance. There's always a chance, 'cept ... Death—real death—is the end of chances."


There was almost a sob in Spike's voice. Angel's retort didn't come, as if he was shamed to silence.


Buffy stepped up to Spike. "How could you have known? That it wouldn't be a disaster—the worst kind of disaster?"


"I didn't. But I've been 'round you long enough to know that relyin' on you generally answers." He glanced past her then, at Angel. "She comes through, doesn't she, Our Liam? Isn't that her distinguishin' characteristic, that no matter what, the Slayer comes through?"


Slowly, Angel gave a nod.


"An' you'd have had me snuff her, knowin' that?"


Angel couldn't look at them then. With a lumbering move, he walked out of the office.


Buffy sidled over to the desk chair, and sat. She was too emotional to speak, but she wanted to hide it if she could.


Spike stayed where he was, behind her where she couldn't see him. A long pause ensued, before he said, "You want to throw your lot in with him an' his people?"


She stared at the desk, at the rows of files, the spindled bills. "Of course not." She flung out the words, but there was a catch in her voice.


That seemed to fetch him. The next moment he was kneeling at her feet, looking at her with an intensity that seemed to open her right up.


"You sure? Be less lonely for you. Be certain of the whiteness of your hat, any road, with that lot."


She resisted her hard urge to evade his gaze, forcing herself to meet his eyes.


"You are being too fair. It's not like you."


"Takin' care of you. Got to do it right."


Leaning forward, she put a hand on his hair; it felt silly at first, like she was pretending to be a queen, knighting him. But he expanded a little beneath her palm, as a cat does when caressed; she slid her hand down along his cheek. The muscle flexed beneath his fingers; he pressed into her touch.


He rose then, and she rose with him, coming into his arms. His kiss tasted of all the cigarettes he'd smoked, in the alley behind the hotel, forcing himself to wait out her audience with Angel. Knowing he'd done that, and how hard it must've been, made her pull him closer.


It occurred to her, what she usually managed to overlook, how much he allowed himself to need her. How little she could do or say to keep him on her string.


And then that he had his string now too, and she was on it.


She was on it.


The light knock on the door parted them. Her sister looked in. "It's all set with Aunt Arlene. She said she'd fix it so there's a ticket waiting for me tomorrow at the Northwest counter at LAX. I just have to ask for it."


Before Buffy could answer, Dawn disappeared, closing the door again with a sharp clack, denoting her realization that she'd interrupted something.


"Raincheck on this, okay?" Buffy said. "I need to hang with her in her room, until she goes. Sister stuff."


"'Course."


"We'll take Dawnie to the plane, and we'll get out of here."


Spike nodded. She couldn't make herself break away, even as she was completely aware of Dawn standing just outside the room; her erratic heartbeat, her audible breathing, the aroma of her simmering misery. She just had a few hours to reassure her sister that her world really wasn't coming to an end.


And—


"Plenty of time for us," Spike said, with a little smile that showed he'd plucked her thought out of the ether. "No worries on that score," he said. "Not now."