"But I didn't want some kind of Pyrrhic victory!" Spike shouted, briefly pressing his hands to his temples. His blue eyes flashed as he glared across the living room at Angel.
"So you'd rather be dead, then?" Angel snarled at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was as miserable as Spike, more so perhaps. They'd been his friends longer than they'd been Spike's.
"No—yes—I don't know!" Spike threw his hands in the air and began pacing with a renewed vigor.
"Well, which is it, Spike?" Angel snapped. His hands dropped to his sides as he stalked angrily across the room to Spike.
He grabbed the younger man's shoulders and shook him harshly. "Which is it? You think it matters that they died and you didn't? Or are you just going to throw away their sacrifice because you're too selfish to do anything but feel sorry for yourself!"
Spike knocked Angel's hands away violently. "No! No, I'm not! I know it matters, it does! I just-" he suddenly deflated, all the fight gone from his countenance. "I wish they were here."
Angel swallowed hard. This time, his hands were gentle as he laid them on Spike's shoulders. "I know. God, do I know. We're gonna be okay, Spike, I swear we are."
Spike looked him solemnly in the eyes. "I know. But right now, I don't wanna be."