His plane landed at two in the morning. Instead of taking the shuttle to the hotel room Wesley booked for him, he rented a car and drove to Buffy’s apartment building.
Hours passed as he sat in the car, trying to steel his nerve.
The sun rose. At seven-thirty, Spike trotted down the front steps, running a hand through his mop of bleach-blond hair. Lifting his face toward the sun, he closed his eyes and smiled.
This was the moment he’d been waiting for. Angel got out of the car, his heart hammering in his chest, his mouth paper dry.
At the slam of the car door, Spike’s attention snapped toward him. The smile died on his face as Angel approached, and his mouth widened into a comical ‘O’.
“Spike.”
Spike recovered quickly, his startled wonder smoothing into understanding. “Angel. Looking pretty solid for the contents of an ashtray. Looks like you’ve been bit by that ‘Real-Boy’ bug, too. Must be catching.”
“Looks that way.”
“I’d tell you it’s good to see you, but I respect you too much to lie.” Spike smirked. “Well, actually, I don’t. It’s good to see you, Peaches.”
“How’s Buffy?”
“Miserable. Only happy when she’s sleeping. Though I expect that’ll change in about five minutes.”
Angel’s stomach fluttered and filled with lead, sinking to his groin. “What’s wrong with her?”
“You really are a Wanker. What do you think is wrong with her? The only man, and I use the term loosely, she's ever loved gets himself dusted, and then, for the last half year or so, he haunts her every bloody night in her dreams. I thought the girl might need some professional help, but I guess I was wrong. Been a real-boy for a while now, haven’t you?”
Angel stared at him, searching for some sign of a lie as he registered everything Spike said. “You mean, you’re not together. I thought . . .”
Spike gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Yeah, I thought I had a shot with her too, being human. A real man. But no, we’re not together. Not in any way that really counts, anyway, though not for lack of trying.”
“You’re sleeping with her,” Angel growled.
Spike shrugged. “Not anymore.”
Clenching and unclenching his hands, Angel fought with the urge to run his fist through Spike’s face.
“Oh, calm down, Captain Forehead. Do you blame me? I love her. I took what I could get. Actually, you should be thanking me. Got rid of the Immortal, at least. Better me than that Ponce, right?”
Angel glared at him.
Spike eyes met his anger and stood firm. “Take care of her. Make her happy, or I’ll stick a stake in you, just for old time’s sake.” He brushed past Angel, walking toward a moped parked at the curb.
“Where are you going?” Angel asked, his anger suddenly replaced with gratitude. In relation to Spike, it was an odd, but, surprisingly, not an unwelcome emotion.
“Work. Gotta go clothe the tourists.” Spike mounted the moped, and stuck a key in the ignition. “Oh, by the way—the bedroom at the end of the hall is mine. I come home and smell you in there, you’ll be wearing my boot-print a foot inside your arse.”
Angel smiled. “Message taken.”
“Good,” Spike said, starting the bike. Angel watched him zip up the street and out of sight.
With Spike gone, there was only one thing left to do.
He pulled open the front door and climbed the three flights of stairs to her apartment, his wrestling thumbs mimicking his wrestling emotions and buzzing nerves.
Outside her door, he took a deep breath, and then rapped twice before he had a chance to talk himself out of it.
“Geez, Spike,” he heard her grumble as she approached the door. A second later, it swung open. “What did you forget. . . . Angel?”
One look at her, and he was both home and homesick. He quivered, aching to touch her, but not daring, suddenly sure this was all a dream and even a wrong breath would shatter the illusion. “Buffy . . .”
Inside, he was sinking, desperate, ready to throw himself at her feet and beg her, if it came to that.
“Angel,” she gasped, throwing herself into his arms. He automatically encircled her, pulling her close. She clutched at him, her fingers kneading into his back. “Angel.”
Moaning, he stared down into her upturned face, and kissed her.
Buffy returned the kiss, deepening it, daring his tongue to duel with hers as she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
The kiss was endless, and entirely too short.
She stared up at him, her eyes bright with tears and realization. “You’re alive.”
Angel nodded.
“But . . . Spike said . . .” Her eyes darkened. “How long?”
“About six months. Spike didn’t lie to you, Buffy. I died. I was dead, and then . . .I wasn’t.”
“Six months,” she whispered. She nestled her forehead into his chest for a moment, and them pulled back to look up at him. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you come?”
He didn’t know what to say. “I called. Remember?”
She clung to him, burying her face in his chest. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’re here. It doesn’t matter.”
He rested his head on hers, breathing deep the familiar scent of her hair, his lungs filling with the thick ache of want. “Buffy, I love you.”
She sobbed, and her small frame quaked, sending tremors through him. “I love you, Angel. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t, not even when I thought . . .”
“Shhh,” he whispered, raining kisses on the top of her head, as the tension drained out of him. “I’m here. I’m here, now.”
She clung tighter to him. “I’m never letting you go.”
Angel smiled. “Does that mean you’re done baking? ‘Cause it turns out I’m getting older by the minute."
She turned her tear-stained face up to his, and smiled. “Shut up and make love to me.”
Angel swept her into his arms and carried her into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them.
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