*****

"How's my little boy," I coo, tickling Connor's tummy. He makes gurgling noises of delight. I roll the soiled diaper into a tight ball.

"You know, cupcake," Lorne complains, holding out his hand, "when I said friendship's all about sharing, I wasn't jonesing for diaper removal duty."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," I reply. I give him the smelly bundle. Lorne holds it like it's a bomb about to explode.

"Well," he says with disdain. "At least we don't have to pay for an exterminator. I'm sure all resident rats and cockroaches have relocated to the sewers for some fresh air."

And with that he rushes outside to get rid of the offending object.

The right man for the right job; that's what I like about working in a team.

I change Connor into clean clothes, struggling briefly with the tiny buttons. Then I put him on a thick blanket on the floor. He starts playing with his own fingers.

If anyone had told me a few months ago I'd add changing diapers to my otherwise ignominious list of skills or read myself through a pile of parenting books to learn everything about `potty training' and the `phase of defiance' I would have filed that comment under `bad joke'. And if anyone had told me I'd be having sex with Spike. Nah, nobody would have even dared suggest such a thing.

And yet, it happened.

It's been six weeks now since... since we `shagged' - to use one of Spike's expressions - and there hasn't been a single phone call from him.

I don't know if he's deliberately punishing me for the century I didn't get in touch with them (or him), or if the thought that I might like to hear from him just never occurred to him.

This train of thought? Not good!

I better concentrate on something a little less spikecentric. Like singing.

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me.," I sing. Okay, I know I'm a bad singer, but Connor doesn't seem to mind. And, I know Christmas was six weeks ago, but it was the first song that came to mind, okay?

". a partridge in a pear tree."

"Christmas carols, muffin?"

Lorne's back and he gives me a funny look. I stop in mid-verse. I don't want him to read me, not now. He already knows how I feel about Cordy. He doesn't need to know what happened between Spike and myself.

What is it with his nicknames for me, anyway? They beat `deadboy' any time, to be sure, not to mention `peaches' or `poofter', but couldn't he pick something less. sugar-y?

"It's just a song," I say, knowing I can't fool him but pretending to, anyway. "Also, Cordy made me swear never to massacre Barry Manilow again."

"I've heard worse," he lies.

"Lorne, actually, I'm glad you're here. Can you look after Connor? I think I need to work out. Now. Just cause I'm dead it doesn't mean there isn't room for improvement." .and I really need to clear my mind of certain images. Images of Spike's lean body, his erect. I guiltily wrench my thoughts off that particular track.

"Oooh," Lorne swoons, full of mischief, "I'd love to watch you pump those irons, pumpkin, all those rippling muscles. But," he proclaims in a silly voice, bending down to offer the baby a green skinned finger to play with, "if daddy needs someone to look after you, then your Uncle Lorne says yes, yes, yes."

Connor squeals.

"Thanks."

"No sweat, sugar."

I rush downstairs to the basement where I have my training room. Training is good. Training should keep my mind off a certain blond vampire who hasn't called.

Maybe he expects me to call him. I can't do that, of course. Seniority. I'm the sire of his sire. Also, he doesn't have a phone. I checked. (And no, I didn't check telephone directory for `Bloody, William the' - I used some of my old contacts in Sunnydale.)

I take off my shoes and the socks.

Why doesn't he have a cell phone? Even I've got one of those damn things. I find them much too small. They make me feel clumsy. But if I stick to the numbers Cordy has programmed into it, then I can manage. Unless of course I forget to charge it or I leave it in the wrong pocket.

I take off my shirt and hang it tidily over the backrest of a chair.

So, why hasn't Spike got one? I'd have thought he'd cope with them better than I do. He always took a shine to new things. Unlike many of our kind he was flowing with the times rather than resisting them. I only knew him for twenty years, but in that time he eagerly embraced new inventions, fashions, countries, languages even human food.

I begin my training with a few introductory Tai Chi exercises. Slow controlled movements requiring concentration and precision.

I succeed for a while, but then my mind starts wandering again.

I'll never forget how we stepped off the boat in Shanghai during our trip to China in 1900. The first thing Spike did was eat some noodles from a street vendor. The first thing Darla and Dru did, was share the vendor.

What was the first thing I ate? Rat. Raw. Now people, they taste different if you travel. What they eat affects their scent and even to some extent the flavor of their blood. But wherever you go, the rats taste the same, strange isn't it?

I know I told Buffy that I left Darla and the others after those gypsies cursed me. But in truth I left them two years later, when we were in China. And I'm not sure I'd have left them if Darla hadn't disowned me.

I slowly lift my left leg to achieve the Crane Stance. For several minutes I hold that position, trying hard to clear my mind of all thoughts of Spike. It's no good. I give up and bring the exercise to an end.

Maybe a round with the sand bag will help.

Punch. Punch. Kick. Punch.

I didn't keep tabs on Spike, after I was cursed with a soul; or on any of the others. James, Penn, Drusilla and William the Bloody - in some perverted way they were like my children. The knowledge that that they went on killing, while my own murders weighed heavily on my conscience - well, let's just say I shied away from the reminder. I severed all links and banished the memories of my creations as far from my mind as I could. Hoping I'd never have to set eyes on them again.

But you know what it's like, nothing will stay buried forever. The past isn't gone. It's just hidden, waiting to catch up. The planet is just not big enough to run from it. And like flotsam and jetsam Darla, Spike and Drusilla ended up at the Hellmouth, a place with its own kind of evil gravity, and we met again.

And now?

Punch, punch, punch. My blows become a staccato. My knuckles are beginning to hurt. I keep on pounding just the same.

James and Penn are both dead. I've seen them turn to dust before my eyes. Punchpunchpunch.

I've set fire to Drusilla who is probably the most painful walking memento of what Angelus was capable of, a reminder of what I've been. Punchpunchpunch. I've witnessed Darla sacrificing herself for our child and I have once again shared a bed with William the Bloody.

I hit the sandbag so hard it swings erratically, like a pendulum.

And it was unlike anything I could have imagined.

The mere memory sends shivers down my spine. It fills me with hunger and yearning. It also gives me an almost painful erection, no matter how hard I will it to go away. All those meditation techniques I studied to keep the hunger in check, and those other. desires - not working. Not this time. I think back to Christmas morning and I am way past what a cold shower can cure.

I stop. The sandbag swings back and hits me against the chest. I wrap my arms around it, in a parody of an embrace, stopping its momentum.

Anger. Disdain. Brutality. Vindictiveness. All those I would have understood, maybe even welcomed. Not because I yearn for pain. I don't. But sometimes I wish it were the currency in which to pay for what I've done. Pain is easy; it's the fear of failure that's hard to endure.

I let go of the sandbag and look at my knuckles. They're bleeding. They're hurting. But they'll heal.

I pick up my shirt and my shoes and go back upstairs.

On my way to the shower I check on Lorne and Connor. They look happy; untroubled.

I move to the bedroom and pour myself a whiskey, from the bottle I keep hidden in my wardrobe. The bottle Spike gave me for Christmas. Irish Whiskey. Pretty old, too. I sip it slowly, almost guiltily enjoying the mellow flavour.

I chose a new set of clothes and carefully lay them out on the bed, and then I strip. My arousal has dulled a bit. I eye the shower and ponder my options. Hot or cold, what's it gonna be?

It's not like it matters. I can't put it off indefinitely, anyway. Sooner or later I'll do it; might just as well do it now, matter-of-factly - not desperately.

How can it be, that after a hundred years - with both of us utterly changed - one thing has remained the same? How can it be that I still want him? How can it be that I want to feel him inside of me, or surrounding me?

I step into the shower and turn the faucets. Hot water cascades down my body.

Sometimes I wish I'd never seen him again. Never poured my cappuccino over his t-shirt. Never seen him change in the middle of that shopping mall. Never noticed.

The amount of time I spend obsessing over what happened is humiliating.

For him it was obviously just a one-night stand.

I mean, what else could it have been?

I guess we'll be trading blows again real soon.

I can almost hear Cordy say `Gee, broody much? Get a life.' Except that this is not brooding, this is. reminiscing.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool tiles of the wall. It doesn't take much to evoke the memory how Spike touched my cock, how one-by-one he slipped his well-oiled fingers into me to prepare me, oh, so carefully, stretching me. I remember the slick head of his hard cock prodding my opening, And then the burning sensation as he slowly pushed inside of me, his eyes widening in wonder, blue, not a spark of yellow in them. the way he panted as he began to thrust. oh yes.. thrusting faster and faster, as the passion overwhelmed us both.

My hips undulate faster against my fist. I'm not a monk. And I don't wanna be a monster. All I have is this, a memory and my own hands.

When I spurt my come over the tiles the water washes it down the drain faster than you can blink. There's no evidence of my weakness.

A few minutes later I step outside the shower and begin to towel myself dry. Then I slip into my boxers.

*****
Part 2:

(Spike's POV)

I'm still her whipping boy.

That's all I'll ever be.

I wonder what part of me decided it was good enough to feed on scraps. Cause it just isn't. Being a vampire is about being voracious. It's about drinking, and shagging, and fighting and obsessing. About wanting. And taking.

It's never about waiting.

Lately, everything's happenin' to me in slomo. I don't know if it's the chip or my love for Buffy that has slowed my life to an agonizing crawl. Seems like I'm always waiting for something. Like waiting for a shag, waiting to be needed or waiting to be just talked to.

The only time I ever feel like I'm picking up speed is when I'm with her.

Outside, the sun is setting.

I get out of my chair. My body protests, aching all over. I shrug. There's pain and there's injury. I'll heal.

I sip a pint of pig's blood, straight from the fridge. It's cold and disgusting. Much like me, really.

She's right, you know. I AM evil. Why wouldn't I be? It's not like anyone cares either way.

It's been 18 hours since Buffy left me lying in that alley, outside the police precinct. I know she's not in the slammer cause I still have connections. She never came back to tell me she was off the hook or to. Well, I managed to get up and drag myself back to my crypt without her help, thank you very much.

Since then I've listened for the sounds of her foot steps. All day, in fact.

I'm through with waiting. I get my bike out of its hiding place, hop on and I drive. As fast as I can. I don't have a plan. I just need to unfreeze. It works, too. By the time I reach L.A. I am seething with rage.

Why I end up in front of the Hyperion? God knows.

One good kick crashes the door wide open. With a roar I drive my bike inside, down the stairs and round the red settee before I kill the engine.

I jack up my bike but remain seated.

One by one they appear in the lobby: The Ex-Watcher's first. I recognize him from some of the photos Angel showed me at Christmas. He steps out of the office, looking grim and aiming a crossbow at my heart. Then there's a black guy, brandishing a mean looking axe.

There's a nervous looking girl, big with the whole `please-don't-notice-me' vibe. So, I don't.

And then there's Cordelia herself. Still a hottie. I can see why the poof pines for her. The prom queen got her hair cut. Must be contagious. She, too, has a loaded crossbow.

"Cordelia! You look absolutely." I give her an appraising look and am rewarded with the involuntary beginnings of a smile, "tense! Celibacy's a bitch, innit. No wait, you are. When was the last time you had a nice shag?"

Score. But I give her that, she hides it well.

"Mr. I-have-a-chip-on-my-shoulder! No wait, it's in you head, isn't it. You look absolutely trashed," she replies almost cheerfully. "Jeez, looks like Buffy and her groupies finally got fed up with Mr. Ex-Big Bad and sent you packing," Cordelia observes. "Did Buffy run out of stakes?"

Not bad. Hurts in all the right places. But I think I can top that.

"Rumor has it you're saving yourself for a nice office romance. Let me remind you, shagging the boss is a no-no, unless you all want to bend over. Angelus unleashed is more fun than a barrel of monkeys."

There is a collective gasp.

From the look on her face I am a hair's breadth from being shot to dust.

"Spike!"

There he is, barefoot, wearing pants and undershirt, hair wet, holding a towel, and boy, he looks royally pissed. He tosses the towel away and marches down the stairs. There's a green-skinned fellow in a camp suit following him.

"I'll have you know that I am the boss here now," the ex-Watcher pipes in. As if I didn't know. I give him a once over, with all the brazen sexuality I can muster. He blushes. And then I turn it off dismissively. "Does it help you get laid? Guess not. Yeah, well we all know what Watchers have instead of-"

"Enough!"

Angel has reached Cordelia and puts a reassuring hand on her arm. He gives me one of his inscrutable stares.

"Great googlie mooglies, the Dark Avenger has spoken! It's good to see you, too."

"Who is he?" the nervous girl asks no one in particular.

"Whoever he is," the green skinned bloke says, sounding a right nancy boy, "he's quite delicious, at least he would be, if the goods were undamaged. You just gotto love the bad boy vibe."

"Spike's a vampire. One of Angel's. " Wyndham-Pryce hesitates, momentarily unsure how to continue, ". an old enemy."

"He hired another vampire to stick hot pokers into Angel." Cordelia informs everybody succinctly.

"Best fun I had for ages," I smirk, lighting myself a cigarette.

If looks could kill. They all glare at me collectively. Angel's got himself quite a large bunch of friends, there.

I feel cold. I resist the urge to draw my duster tighter around me.

"How did you get inside the hotel?" The Watcher asks me.

"What?" I exclaim in mock surprise. "You mean, peaches didn't tell you guys? Got an invite to the batcave from Mr. `tall, dark and lonesome' himself." There. The seeds of strife and all that rot.

I'm evil, right? Got to live up to everybody's expectation, don't I.

God, I wish someone would put me out of my misery, already.

***

(Angel's POV)

Here we go again.

He's driven a motorcycle inside my hotel! And he's insulting my friends. And he's back to insulting me. This is so typical. I mean, what did I expect? That Christmas changed everything?

So, is this the big moment where he tells everybody that he and I `shagged'? They're all here, for maximum impact. Was that his plan all along: to humiliate me in front of my friends?

Those are my thoughts until I get a proper look at him.

Spike is a right mess. Someone gave him a proper beating. His left eye is black and blue, partially closed, and his lip is split. There are bruises on his cheeks and his jaw.

He's sitting on his bike, obnoxious smirk in place. But he's nervously picking at his nail polish. Like he's itching for a fight. Or maybe like he's embarrassed. I can't quite tell. But as he's not wearing his injuries like a badge of honor, I'm beginning to suspect that the hurt isn't just physical.

"You invited him in?" Cordy asks in a `have-you-lost-your-mind' tone. "What for?"

I have no answer to that. The connection between Spike and myself is hard to explain, so I don't even try.

"If he's a vamp and an enemy as well, how come we aren't dusting him?" Gunn asks.

"Maybe he's family? Like Darla? I mean, not everybody gets on with his relatives, right?" Fred speculates.

I notice that Cordelia's crossbow is still aimed at Spike's heart as if she expects Spike to attack me any second now.

I realize they are all waiting for me to say something. To explain this.

I stare at him. Spike stares back.

He doesn't say anything. That in itself is totally out of character. I mean, normally, he never keeps his goddamn mouth shut. He has that wounded look. The same expression of pride and hurt he wore whenever Angelus tried to break him. Just without his usual obstinacy.

And why can I say "I killed so many people and I'm sorry," but when I want to say "I treated Spike worse than an animal, and I'm sorry" it comes out as "Angelus tried to break him"?

Never mind. He's family. He needs help. And he's come to me. Nothing else matters.

After all, helping the helpless is what I do.

I gesture to my friends to stand down. They do so reluctantly.

"What happened?" I ask and walk towards him. He relaxes, minutely. He gets off his bike and stands before me. His eyes flicker to my hands, noticing the bruised knuckles, then up again.

"Got a few minutes to spare, mate?" Spike says, evasively.

Both Wes and Gunn seem uncertain what to make of this. Fred looks on in fascination. And Lorne is practically oozing curiosity. It seems like Spike and I have a big audience tonight.

"Angel, I don't think it is." Wesley starts.

"I'll talk to him." I interrupt him.

Spike drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot.

"Let's go upstairs," I suggest and vaguely point upwards. I have a brief but extremely visual flashback of Spike crawling up the stairs half naked, singing. He'd been so funny, vibrant and - okay, I'll admit it - drop dead sexy.

What stands before me is dull by comparison. I really want to know who did this to him and why. Maybe I can help.

"Not here," he says, meaning the hotel.

I make a decision.

"Wes, can I borrow your bike?"

Wesley is confused. "Why, yes, but."

"Angel! You're not leaving with him," Cordy says resolutely.

"Yes, I am. Look after Connor for me. I won't be long. I think. Wes?"

He takes the keys out of his pocket and tosses them to me.

"Spike, wait outside."

Spike wordlessly gets back on his bike and starts the motor. Its roar is deafening in the confines of the lobby. He turns the bike with a spin that leaves a black smudge of rubber on the floor and drives up the stairs. A moment later he's gone.

"Are you sure this is such a great idea, man?" Gunn asks me.

"Angel, you can't possibly think of driving somewhere with him," Cordelia complains. "Have you forgotten what he did to you the last time you two met? He made you into shish-kabob."

The last time Spike and I met we drank, ate, talked and slept together. Only, I can't tell them that.

Okay, I know, I shouldn't play the Lone Ranger all the time. I'm supposed to connect, let them in, strengthen my ties to humanity, but how can I tell them what happened last Christmas? Well, I can't. Even if I wanted to, I don't think Spike would like me to fill them in. But I can't let them worry about my safety, either. Cordy always berates me for keeping things to myself and perhaps she's right.

"Spike and I, we... made up."

"You what? When was that?" She asks sharply. I can't blame her for being angry at being left out of the loop on this.

Gunn and Wesley follow our exchange like a tennis match, turning their heads alternately at her and then at me.

"Christmas," I reply. "Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

They turn to look at Cordelia.

"Sure, and now you're going to tell me he doesn't want you dead anymore? And you expect me to believe that?"

Cordy's a great friend, honest, funny, astute - I already mentioned `honest', didn't I - and also fiercely loyal. Even so, there are things I can't tell her. I can't tell her how I feel about her and that my feelings for her scare me. And I can't tell her how I feel about Spike, because I don't quite understand it myself.

"Look at it like this," I say, "if he skewers me again, you can all go `I told you so.'"

It doesn't take me long to get dressed. I grab a few things, put them in a duffle bag and walk to the hotel garage where Wes's bike is parked. Where Lorne is waiting.

He watches me while I fasten my bag on the bike.

"Be careful," he finally warns me, with great sincerity. "I don't need him to sing to see that he's volatile."

"I can take care of myself," I say as I insert the ignition key.

"I know you can, muffin. It's not you I'm worried about," the Pylean says gently.

I may not be good with people but there must be something I'm doing right, cause I couldn't ask for better friends. I give him a grateful pat on the back and then I'm off.

I pull up next to Spike.

"Where to?"

"Just follow me." He flicks his half-smoked cigarette away and steps on it.

So, that's what I do.

*****

Part 3:

(Angel's POV)

Roaring through the night on our bikes, we break every speed limit. Spike's an idiot to flirt with disaster like that, but I do my best to keep up with him, so I guess that makes me an idiot as well. Eventually he leaves the PCH and I follow him along a winding trail. We end up on a nice secluded beach, of all the places.

I wonder how he found this place. He must have been here before, probably with Drusilla. I remember that she was fond of the sea.

We jack up our bikes. Spike lights up while I untie my bag and sling it over my shoulder.

We walk quietly for a minute or two, heading towards the water. I've got sand in my 300$ shoes, and I worry about what salt, tar and sand will do to the leather. Maybe I should take them off.

He flicks his glowing cigarette butt away, causing sparks to fly. It lands several feet away from us on a patch of wet sand and winks out.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck," I finally say, slightly unnerved by the fact that he's so uncharacteristically quiet. "Do you want to talk about it?" I wince at my own words and the 'Vampires Anonymous' vibe they evoke.

"It's nothing," he says in an uncertain tone that sounds more like 'maybe.'

I turn towards him. "Whose handiwork is that?" I point at his black eye.

He shrugs. "No one you know."

I know he's lying. And he's not even remotely convincing. Wesley's a better liar than Spike and he's not even evil. What is this? What's he keeping from me?

Suddenly, I get it. "Buffy? Why, what did you do to her?" I blurt out, still feeling that protective surge in my belly. I've moved on, I had to, for her sake. That doesn't mean I don't care anymore.

"What d'you think?" Spike smirks nastily.

I grab him by the lapels of his coat, and growl at him. "What did you do to her?" Suddenly I'm scared that the behavior modification chip in his brain malfunctioned. That he killed Buffy and that he dragged me here to brag about it, to tell me that he 'bagged' himself his third Slayer.

"Oi! Sod off!" he snarls back. "You're tearing my coat, you dimwit poof."

I'm going to tear him a new one in a minute! I feel rage building inside of me. It's as if something cold and scaly slowly uncoils deep inside me.

"What. Did. You. Do?" I hit him without letting go of his coat. The blows open the cut on his lip. The smell of his blood spurs me on.

"Nuthin'. Slayer's all safe and sound, if that's what you're wondering about. She's probably selling greasy burgers to fat junk food addicts, as we speak." He snickers and runs his tongue over the cut, ever so teasingly, tasting his own blood.

He hasn't denied that it was Buffy who beat him up. I'm getting tired of his games and shove him away, hard enough for him to fly several yards before he crashes to the ground.

He rolls on his back.

"Look at you!" he laughs, propping himself up on his elbows, "Three years, and she's still in your system."

I study him coldly.

"Love-sick puppy," he taunts me. He jumps to his feet and starts circling me. While he's prancing around me he never stops talking.

"Come on, Angel, tell me: what is it that made you her lapdog?" he asks, his voice dripping with venom. "Her hair? Her tits? Her Slayer strength? Her scent? She smells nice, doesn't she? All the pheromones leakin' all over the place when she's fighting."

I turn to keep my eyes on him. I wish he'd stop yapping. It's getting harder to control the rage. I could let it all out! Lay it on him. It's tempting. He's evil, he's a vampire and whatever I do to him will heal, anyway.

Unless of course it's fatal,.

Suddenly he stops. He stands before me, his head tilted sideways, giving the impression that he's looking down on me even though he's smaller than me, smirking insolently.

"When you close your eyes to go to sleep," he says, "do you think of her, of her sweet and hot little cunt?"

That does it! My fangs slide down, a growl rises in my throat and I backhand him with all I've got. He doesn't even pretend to duck. My blow sends him flying backwards.

He slowly picks himself up. But he's laughing.

It's a sound so tinged with despair that it stops me in my tracks.

Sometimes I'm really slow on the uptake. This must be one of those cases. He's pushing my buttons, but I don't know why. Is this what he's been aiming at all along? For me to get so mad that I finish what Buffy started? Does he even know?

"Don't you sometimes wish," he pants, swaying unsteadily, "that love had an on and an off switch, so you can just turn it off when it hurts too much?"

And suddenly I understand. Light bulbs and everything. He's not going to tell me what's going on until I force him to. He's practically inviting me to beat the story out of him. Part of him wants to talk but he can't or isn't allowed to or promised no to. Whatever.

How screwed up is that? I shake my head in exasperation.

Okay, I can work with that.

A kick and a swing later I have him knocked over, lying sprawled in the sand. He tries to get up, but I press my advantage and catch him with a calculated punch before he can. I quickly straddle him and pin him to the ground. He struggles perfunctorily. If he really wanted to fight, this would have taken much longer. Maybe I was right and he really wants to talk.

And I? I feel myself growing hard. Because I'm lying on top of him, holding his wrists above his head, using the weight of my body to keep him down. His resistance only serves to increase my arousal. Our faces are mere inches apart. His lower lip is still bleeding.

Having him writhing underneath me like that brings back memories of the days when breaking William the Bloody into tiny little pieces was like a piece of art. The memory disgusts me. But deep inside of me something wicked stirs, almost languidly, and tries to urge me on.

I know Spike can feel it, too.

***

(Spike's POV)

Now what?

Do I get a lecture on how I'm soulless and evil and disgusting? With maybe a bit of pummelling thrown in for good measure?

Or is this the bit where he's gonna shag me blind first, before goin' all high and mighty? I know he wants me, I can feel his hard-on.

I stare up into feral eyes. Inscrutable. Appraising me. Dunno what it's like to have a soul. Must be like a thick blanket, smothering the demon that lurks underneath. Right now that blanket's pretty threadbare, I'd wager. So, maybe Angelus will come out to play.

Feel like I'm trapped in a pattern: Get kicked, get shagged, get hurt, not necessarily in that order. Can't say I care. Right now I don't care about anything. Must've been insane to drag him out here. Dunno what I was thinking. Nothing makes sense.

Let's just get this over and done with.

"You wanna fuck, Angel? Yeah, come on, I'll give you a good fuck."

That's one thing I'm really good at.

*****

(Angel's POV)

"You wanna fuck, Angel? Yeah, come on, I'll give you a good fuck." Spike spits out.

"What?" I barely manage to keep my face impassive.

His erratic behavior is beginning to wear me out. I never thought Spike might be capable of such self-loathing and despair. Was it presumptuous of me to think that those are properties of a soul? I'm reminded of stories where a trapped animal gnawed off its own limbs to escape. Only, this feels like I'm supposed do it for him.

"That's why you're here with me, innit?"

God, is that truly what he thinks?

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" I say harshly. "For me to throw you around a bit and fuck you like the worthless demon you are?"

The look in his eyes is indescribable. I feel sick in my stomach. But I think I just made another crack in his already battered armour.

"Well, let me tell you something, Spike," I continue coldly, "right now I wouldn't fuck you even if the end of the world was near."

Crack.

"You're nothing," I go on relentlessly. "Tell me, what's it like to always be second best?"

Crack and snap.

With an anguished howl he resumes his struggles. He bucks and squirms and thrashes around frantically, trying to dislodge me. "Let go, you stupid wanker! Get off me...you and your stupid soul, you sanctimonious fuck...I don't need you, don't need anyone..." An almost incoherent stream of insults and foul language issues forth. e struggles and rants for what seems like ages, but strangely enough he doesn't shift to his vampiric features, not once. Eventually, his outrage is spent and he goes limp underneath me. His gaze wavers, then he turns his face away.

"Spike?"

There's no reaction.

I let go of one wrist and cup his cheek. "William, look at me." He complies wearily. I let my human features reappear. "Whatever it is, just tell me," I say softly.

He doesn't answer right away. I wonder if he'll ever talk to me again.

"Why does she hate me so much?" he finally asks with a pained voice.

That one has me stumped. I can hear the unspoken message as clearly as if he had actually said it: 'Why doesn't Buffy hate YOU, Angel?'

Like I've got all the answers. Like I've ever known what goes on inside her head (or anybody else's). I've been around for over 250 years, but when it comes to dealing with people, I usually feel like I've only just reached 25. If you count Whistler's appearance in my life as a coming of age that's probably a fair assessment.

I think I'll just tackle this like a case I'm trying to solve. He witness, me detective. I think professional detachment will prove helpful. "Tell me what happened," I say, poker face firmly in place.

And then the story comes out. Slowly, haltingly. Some of it he told me already, six weeks ago. But he never mentioned that he and Buffy actually have sex. I can't believe she actually got involved with him. What I do believe is that she kept the whole thing secret. Obviously, that's one of the things that are eating away at him.

After a while I release his wrists and get off to sit beside him. Spike sits up. He pulls a flask out of his coat, drinks, then offers it to me. I can smell it's bourbon. I accept, take a sip and pass it back. He puts it back into his coat pocket and hunts for his cigarettes.

I hear him work his lighter and there is the crackling sound as the tip of his cigarette is consumed by fire. I feel briefly like I'm trapped in a Marlboro commercial. Except they don't do beaches, they do deserts and canyons. He inhales deeply.

We sit and stare at the waves rolling in, while he talks and I listen.

What I hear makes me both sad and angry. He doesn't go into great detail, for which I'm grateful, but it's obvious enough that their relationship makes both of them deeply unhappy. I don't even pretend to understand what makes these two do the things they do to each other and to themselves. I tell myself it is not for me to judge. After all, that mess is at least partly of my own making. In a way, both are still licking wounds made by me.

After a while he grows quiet and we haven't even reached a point in the story that would explain his bruises.

He pulls out his flask again and offers it to me. I shake my head. I get up and fetch my bag. When I open it he gets a good look at my favourite broadsword. But that's not what I'm looking for. I rummage around until I find the container of pig's blood. I know its healing properties are next to nil, but it's all I have. He makes a face but drinks it anyway.

"Angel? Do you know how many people you've killed?" he suddenly asks.

"No, I don't."

How can I tell him that guilt cannot be measured in numbers? How can I tell him that I tried to made a list once, writing down names and dates, trying to find out just how evil I was?

He takes his time with his next question but I can see it coming. "Do you know how many you've saved?"

"No, I don't." This time I try to explain. "It's not like two scales that you can even out, if that's what you're wondering about."

He just laughs without mirth. "Heaven forefend, do I look to you like I want redemption? If I do, you need a pair of glasses, mate."

I leave that remark unchallenged and wait for him to continue his story.

He tells me how Buffy thought she killed an innocent girl and how she was going to turn herself in. This is one instance where I could have actually told him she'd behave like that. After that thing with Faith. Spike tried to keep her from going to the police. Doesn't he know Buffy is the most stubborn girl... What am I saying? Of course he does. So, she wouldn't let him stop her. And then Buffy beat the crap out of him.

"What did you do?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says sullenly.

At first I think he's being evasive but then I realize it's the truth. "And then?"

He just shrugs. He grabs a handful of sand and watches it run through his fingers. "Sometimes I think I know her inside out," he muses, "and then I don't get her at all." He looks up, suddenly alarmed. "She mustn't know I told you!"

"That goes without saying."

He nods, taking my word for it.

"Spike? I'm glad you came to see me," I tell him, truthfully. "But next time you need someone to talk to, let's just skip the fighting und cut right to the talking, okay?"

"Or the shagging?" he says, smiling faintly.

"Or that."

There is a long silence. Finally, just when I think that he's done getting all his defences back into place he says in a small voice: "Dru may have been crazy, but we could talk for hours. Or just watch telly, you know, do normal things. Sometimes I miss that." The memory softens his face.

I'm not much for talking. But I'm a great listener. And as for advice, well, I've read so many parenting books I've got good advice practically coming out of my ears, but Spike isn't exactly in his terrible twos. There is, however, one thing I can do.

"Spike, take your coat off."

"Changed your mind, did you?" he says with just a touch of sarcasm. "What happened to 'I wouldn't fuck you even if the end of the world was near'?"

I dig into my duffle bag and get my first aid kit out. I show it to him. He shakes his head. "It's nothing. A few pints of 0 neg from the hospital will stitch me up in no time."

"Just let me," I say. "Okay?"

He doesn't make a move. I take that as a 'yes' and push the duster off his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation he helps, shrugging his arms out of the sleeves. I slowly and carefully unbutton his shirt and push it off.

I pause. His chest and shoulders are covered in nasty bruises. I'm pretty sure he's in pain. I'm also pretty sure he doesn't want me to make a big fuss about it.

I unzip the first aid kit and get to work. "I'll be honest with you, Spike," I say as gently as I can while checking for broken bones, "I never liked you. At least not until I got to know you better last Christmas. I wanted you, certainly, but I didn't like you."

I find a fractured rib. He winces, whether at the pain or at my words I can't tell. There's a look of desolation on his face.

"You're not exactly making it easy to like you." I elaborate. I start cleaning the cuts and abrasions. "You know, Spike, you're vindictive, selfish and spectacularly rude. You're a liar, a rogue and a killer - albeit on a leash. You're also one of the most annoying persons I've ever met."

I find myself smiling. He's still silent. I give him a nudge and he lifts his arms a little to allow me to bandage his ribs, so the bone will knit properly. That brings me pretty close to him, especially whenever I reach his back where I have to change the bandage roll from one hand to the other.

"But I don't hate you." I deliberately plant a kiss on his cheek. "Not by a mile."

He blinks at me in surprise. He studies my face. The look of desolation slowly fades and is replaced by his usual smirk. "So, you want me then, do you?" he asks with a leer that's not quite back to its old strength. I can sense the underlying question.

"I would have thought that'd be evident," I answer, referring to the bulge in my pants.

"Poofter," he says, but without malice. It sounds almost affectionate.

"Spike, I wish you'd stop calling me that. Besides, it takes two for a good... um... shag, so if I'm a poofter, what does that make you?"

"Irresistible?"

I pull back and squint at him, giving him a once over. "Very."

*****