Reprise
Angel stared at the blond vampire from across the room, eyes dead with annoyance.
"Spike," he called for the umpteenth time, "go to bed."
Spike rolled his eyes and poured another drink, leaning back against the couch in the office at Wolfram & Hart. "I'll go to bed when I bloody well please."
Angel sighed, walking over and sitting across from him, irritation weighing on his posture. He watched Spike swallow his drink defiantly, glaring.
"Why go to bed when I can't bloody well sleep," Spike muttered, and Angel wasn't sure if he meant to say it out loud. Either way, Angel nodded. This he could solve.
"Your soul," he assumed. "The nightmares get better—"
"It's not my bleedin' soul, you big poof," interrupted Spike, rolling his eyes again. He looked at the coffee table. "It's her," he said thickly. "Every time I close my eyes, there she is."
Angel looked at the floor, swallowing. "Buffy," he said matter-of-factly, but to his surprise, Spike shook his head. Angel frowned.
"Not Buffy," said Spike, not meeting his eyes. "I thought it would be Buffy."
Angel's eyes lit with sudden understanding, and he leaned back against the couch. "Drusilla," he said with certainty, and Spike nodded slowly.
"I thought I'd put her behind me," said Spike. "I thought I'd moved on, gotten over her. But here she is, in my mind every night, hauntin' me like the bleedin' Ghost of Christmas Past!"
Spike pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, groaning. Angel took a deep breath.
"Spike," he said, with the kind of harsh, reluctant compassion he'd honed over the years, "it's Dru. You'll never be over her." Spike looked at him, offering a weak glare, but Angel ignored him. "I mean, c'mon, you spent over a century with the woman. You don't just move on from that. She's a part of you."
Spike sighed with exasperation, shaking his head. "Maybe you don't move on, but I don't quite feature spending the next century brooding over what I did for the last. That's your department, mate."
Angel took another deep breath, ignoring him. He glanced up at the ceiling as if help would come. "Spike," he said seriously, and Spike grudgingly quieted, eyes dropping to the floor. Angel sighed. "You should have seen me when Darla came back. I'm still not over her, and I don't think we were ever half as in love as you and Dru. I don't think I was capable. You two—you two were idiots. Never seen any two people more delirious in each other, and that was without souls."
Spike had hesitantly raised his eyes while Angel spoke, listening intently. Angel picked up Spike's bottle and poured a drink into an empty glass.
"You're not over her. You'll never be over her," he continued, and he looked up pointedly at Spike, holding his drink. "You'll be in love 'til it kills you both. You'll fight—"
Spike clenched his jaw.
"—and you'll shag—"
Spike looked at the table, swallowing hard.
"—and you'll hate each other 'til it makes you quiver—"
Angel watched Spike's chest rise and fall with breath he didn't need to take.
"—but you'll never be over her. Love isn't brains—"
"—it's blood," finished Spike, his voice low. He stared at his glass, looking up only when Angel held up his own.
"To love's bitches," he said, phrasing it almost like a question, and the smallest smile passed over Spike's face. He clinked his glass against Angel's, shaking his head ever so slightly.
"Love's bitches."