A/N - A short one-shot where Spike reflects on Angel and Buffy.
Angel.
A name comprised of five letters, two vowels and three consonances. The same as his.
But whenever she heard it, her face would light up in a way that he could never inspire. Pale skin blushing red with a thousand good memories running under the surface. The smile that he thought was dead would arise, laughter lines drawing tight around her shamrock orbs.
And when she heard his - the joy died. A fire extinguished by distaste and shame.
He gave her everything, took on her pain, but his face seemed to scald her far worse than the memory of being ripped from Heaven.
Nightly visits, deeds done in darkness. Because then she could pretend his blond hair was dark and pretend his loving words belonged to another man.
Mornings spent in a lonely bed, devoid of life. He wished his heart might beat, if only so the sound of his own blood would keep him company until she ventured back again, somehow even more broken.
He would give it all if she asked, his body, his mind, a soul if he had it.
But she did not want it, not a single piece of him. Using and abusing, whispering Angel's name in the throes of passion without hesitation.
And he could deal because even hate could become love and hope was born from despair. He could wait by her side until the rage burned out and inspire a genuine smile on thorn covered lips that sliced him apart until he bled.
But in the meantime, all she ever saw was him. Acting like his soul made him a better man. A cursed demon whose guilt was the only barrier holding him back from genocide.
The chip did not make him a better man, unwanted and disgraced, but he never pretended to be a martyr - just a vampire in love with a Slayer.
And he could change, could repent for a lifetime of violence. If only she would grace him with an embrace not borne of self loathing.
But the name burned on her breast, though comprised of five letters, two vowels and three consonances just like his, was Angel.
And not Spike.