Hey all! I really had fun writing this chapter- the humor stuff (even if it's not particularly effective) is a lot easier for me than most everything else. But still, it does get serious, so don't write it off as a fluff chapter just yet. (Not that there's anything wrong with fluff. I love fluff.) Onward!

Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?

-Henry David Thoreau

When Greg got home that night, Spike was nowhere to be found. He set down his bags, and went to go check in the guest room, thinking the younger man was still asleep, but nothing. He checked in the kitchen, then the living room, and then, in a final shot of desperation, his own bedroom, but to no avail. He's gone home, he thought angrily. He said he would come here, and then he up and went home. He pulled out his cell and called Spike, and when it went straight to voicemail, grabbed his keys and stalked to the door. He would kill him, he decided. He would kill him, and then drag his body over here and force it to eat.

He pulled the door open violently, but before he could take two steps, ran into something soft. Spike, who had had his back turned, let out a decidedly unmanly shriek as bags of groceries went flying into the air, spilling their contents all over the floor of the hallway. Spike and Greg stared at each other for a split second, and then lunged for the contents of the bags, stuffing them back into their rightful places. Both avoided the others' eye.

Once everything was safely packed away again, they stood face to face.

"I just went out for some-"

"I thought you left-"

They stopped, and Spike waited for Greg to continue. He did. "I thought you went home, and was just about to go get you again, but… well, I guess that won't be necessary." Spike shook his head.

"You didn't have any groceries in the house, so I went to go get some. By the why, do you literally ever cook?" He asked accusingly. "You don't even have salt here, boss. Salt! That's like the…" He struggled to find a metaphor of the appropriate magnitude, but gave up. "Anyway, it's a cardinal sin." He pushed past Greg to make his way into the kitchen. "You can't just live on take out, you know. It makes you fat and you die early." He turned around and waved a ladle that Greg was sure hadn't been in the kitchen that morning. "Fact."

Greg rolled his eyes and went over to help pull groceries out of the bag. "Spike, you can't possibly need all this stuff." He held up what looked like something out of a horror movie. "What's this?"

Spike snatched it out of his hands. "That is ginger. Now no more comments. That cupboard there is going to be for spices, and the one over there is for ingredients like sugar and flour- basics. This drawer is for…"

Greg could barely keep up as Spike reorganized his entire kitchen in a matter of minutes. The tech was a whirlwind of energy, never staying in one place for longer than a second or two, jamming things into cupboards and drawers with scary precision. Greg eventually just gave up and got out of the way, standing on the fringe of the kitchen and watching the show. Finally, Spike was done.

"You got everything, boss?" Greg just shook his head mutely. Spike sighed as he tied on an apron decorated with a truly horrible flower pattern. "I'll show you again later. Now, I need to start cooking, so you go take a shower and watch TV or something. I'll be done in about an hour." He turned and marched off toward the stove. Greg stared for a minute, dazed, and then took Spike's advice and headed for the shower.

Half an hour later saw him back in the kitchen, albeit not helping. He sat on a stool to the side and made conversation with Spike as he cooked, being careful not to distract him at "critical moments in the cooking process", as Spike called them.

After a little while, a comfortable silence fell over the two of them. Spike straightened up, pouring the pasta into a serving bowl. "I'm all done here. Boss, would you mind getting the parmesan and setting it on the table?" As Greg did his bidding, he gathered up the pasta and bread and made his way to the dining room. Setting them down on the table, he motioned for Greg to sit, and then settled into the chair opposite him. "Now this is real food, boss. Italian cooking cannot be rival- Oh! I forgot." He sprang up and rushed back to the kitchen, emerging a few seconds later with a bottle of sparkling water and two glasses.

"Isn't wine the traditional drink with Italian food?" Greg asked.

"Well, yeah, boss, but you don't drink. Therefore, water."

"Spike, just because I don't drink doesn't mean you can't. I wouldn't mind, really."

Spike just looked at him, confused. "If you don't drink, boss, then I won't drink. Maybe if we were in a group of people, but just the two us? It's common courtesy- it would be rude for me to have something you can't. It's like… it's like making cheese fondue with someone that's lactose intolerant, and then just watching them eat bread." He wrinkled his nose. "Although, cheese fondue is disgusting. I don't know why anyone would make it in the first pla- " He stopped. "Anyways, rude."

Greg smiled. "Well, Spike, thank you for the thought. I appreciate it, even though it's unnecessary." He raised his glass. "To the team?"

"To the team, boss."

"The Princess Bride, Spike? Really?"

"You said I could pick out the movie!" Spike whined. "You haven't seen it, and it's a modern classic. Stop complaining. Anyways, I brought two. We can watch the second one when we're done."

Greg leaned over to see the other movie, but Spike hid it under a pillow before he could get a proper look. Greg looked at him suspiciously. "Spike… what did you get?"

Spike shook his head. "You'll see after the first one. Don't worry, you'll love it. Another modern classic. Okay, pop Princess Bride into the DVD player." He clapped his hands. "This is so awesome! It's one of my favorite movies," He confided. "Inigo is the best, although Westley is pretty cool too. Alright, be quiet now, it's starting!"

Greg looked at him incredulously. "I wasn't even talking! You just-"

Spike turned around. "I said, be quiet! We'll miss the beginning." With that, he turned all his attention to the TV, and Greg knew the conversation was over. He sighed and settled into the couch to watch.

An hour in, he was engrossed. The battle of wits between Westley and Vizzini was going strong, and he found himself on the edge of the seat. It's in the other glass, he mentally yelled. Westley, don't be an idiot!

When the iocaine incident was over, he leaned back smugly. Of course Westley would win. He had known it all along.

As Spike cleared the table three hours later, he couldn't help but gloat. "I knew you'd like them, boss. And don't think I didn't see you crying when you thought Woody and Buzz and all the others were going to die. You're just a big softie behind all that gruff 'I'm a policeman and I have a gun' façade."

Greg protested. "I wasn't crying! I just had something in my eye, that's all. I don't cry at movies. I never cry, Spike." He sniffed. "Never."

He made it a full ten seconds before he broke. "You can't tell me you didn't cry too the first time you saw it, Spike! It was an emotional scene! Come on, you were scared, and you know it- they had been through so much, and then they were going to die? You'd have to be a monster not to be affected! There's no shame in my reaction. No shame at all."

Spike just grinned. "And to think I physically had to hold you down when that movie started. You can never argue with me again about my taste in cinema. I know how to pick a good movie, boss, and that is now validated. Now help me get these plates to the kitchen. I cooked, so you have to clean up."

Greg grumbled all the way through the cleanup. Spike just sat there with a smirk on his face, occasionally letting out a "you were crying" subtly disguised as a cough. Finally, Greg had had enough. "Alright, Spike, you've made your point, now get out of here before I resort to violence. Go to bed. I can finish here without your helpful input."

Spike got up, still smug, and headed out the door. "Good night, boss! Don't let the bedbugs bite!" Greg scowled until the minute he got in bed.

Spike went to bed in the best mood he had been in for days. He lay down, replaying the evening in his head, planning out movies for next time, and just generally being happy. As he drifted off to sleep, it occurred to him that he hadn't felt so at home since his family left. It was a good feeling, he thought. Tonight was a good night.

Four hours later, he shot up again with a gasp. It took him a minute to recognize where he was, and then he groaned, rubbing at his eyes. He hated nightmares. He hated them. And two nights in a row was bad, even by his standards. Knowing he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon, he got up slowly and put on a sweater, heading back out to the living room. He turned the TV on and set it to mute, just letting the two-dimensional characters with their simple lives and their simple problems distract him from everything going on in the real world.

He didn't know how long he sat there in a daze, but immediately snapped out of it when he heard footsteps coming down the hall behind him. He turned around just in time to see Greg walk into the room, his skin pale and clammy. Spike spoke up.

"Nightmares?" Greg whirled around, obviously not expecting anybody, and Spike took note of how haunted his boss' eyes were.

"Um…" He croaked. "Uh, yeah. Nightmares." He gazed at Spike, recovering himself. "You too?"

Spike nodded. Greg sighed and turned around, motioning for Spike to come with him into the kitchen. When they got there, he set some water to boil and pulled out a couple of teabags from a jar on the counter. Then he sat down at the kitchen table. Spike followed his lead.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Greg asked. His voice was still rough. "It sometimes helps." Spike shook his head, and Greg looked at him understandingly. "Okay. We don't need to talk. Let's just sit here for a while, okay? I know how disorienting dreams can be, and it sometimes helps to stay still for a little bit." He rubbed at his face, willing some color into it. "Have you been up long?"

Spike shook his head. "Just a few minutes. I usually can't go back to sleep, so I came out here to watch some TV. I hope you don't mind." The kettle started whistling, and Greg got up to attend it.

"Of course not, bud. Do you take sugar or milk?" He busied himself fixing the tea. "I've figured out that this stuff helps me go back to bed much faster. If you can't sleep, you might as well have some." He set a cup down in front of Spike. "My grandparents used to make it for me when I was a kid. They thought tea was the cure for everything. I guess in a way it is."

Spike didn't look up, and Greg sat down across from him, giving him space. Neither talked for a long time.

"Lou." Greg glanced up, confused. Spike was still looking at the table. "Lou and those kids from the school. I saw them dying, over and over again, and I couldn't do anything about it. I can never do anything about it. It's always-" he swallowed. "I can never do anything. They always die. Every time." He fell silent again, determinedly not looking up. The mug was shaking violently in his hand.

Greg reached over and stilled it. "Hey, Spike. Hey. I know how you're feeling, I really do. In a dream, you can't do anything, and as much as you want to move, you're always just a spectator, no matter how badly things play out. That's an awful feeling, Spike. I know that's an awful feeling."

Spike didn't move. "You know, I could deal with it, boss. I could deal with it if I wasn't so helpless. I hate that feeling." He was feebly picking at the edge of the table. "I- I hate that feeling more than anything else in the world. I became a cop so I could change things, and when I'm not able to do that, I can't stand myself. Because I put all that effort in, and it was useless, and I feel like I could have done more, should have done more- I know it's not rational, and I know that in all likelihood I probably couldn't have changed anything, but it still feels like a failure to me."

Greg nodded. "I think every cop feels that way, to some extent. At least, all the goods ones do. Do you remember how torn up Sam was when Ed had to shoot that guy in the hockey arena? He's still not over it. And each of us has those cases, the ones that we're going to remember forever. But it's not the end, Spike."

"But so many people die, boss. It's not fair, and we can't do anything, and it's just not fair to anyone. We didn't catch those two who tried to blow up the school yesterday, and for all we know, they're going to try again tomorrow at a different school and this time no one's going to spot that wire, and hundreds of kids are going to be dead. That's just not right, boss. No one should be able to get away with something like that."

"I'm not going to say it's okay, Spike, because it's not. But those kids yesterday didn't die. You saved them. They'll grow up and live happy lives. They'll change the world someday." Greg said, remembering their conversation in the restaurant the day before. "They wouldn't have been able to do that if it weren't for you. When things get bad, just remember that. It's not okay, but it's moments like that that start to balance out all the wrong, all those other people that aren't going to go on to change the world- it's moments like that that keep me going every day. Be sure you keep that in mind. It may be the only thing that's going to keep you believing in this world, and in this job. I know, Spike. It's taken me a long time to realize it, but I know. And someday, you're going to know too."

There was another long silence, and then Spike peered up at him. "Is that how you deal with the nightmares?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, buddy, it is." He leaned back. "I'm glad you told me about yours; I know how hard that is. But you learn how to deal with them better every time. I promise."

Spike blinked. "Do you want to talk about yours? Your dream, I mean?"

Greg didn't say anything for a long time. Then he stood up. "Let's clean these up, okay?" He said, picking up the mugs. "Then we can go back to bed. You might be able to sleep now."

Spike stood, slightly hurt. "Okay, boss. Bed. I'm going now. I'll see you in the morning." He made his way into the hall and started towards his room. Just when he was about to walk through the door, Greg's voice stopped him.

"Spike?" His boss asked. He still had the cups in his hands. "Come here for a minute, okay?" He disappeared into the kitchen. Spike warily made his way back down the hall. When he stepped into the room, Greg turned to face him.

"My dream, Spike?" He faltered, and closed his eyes. "It was about yesterday."

Spike nodded. "I understand. But just like you told me, those kids got-"

Greg cut him off. "Not the kids, Spike. You. That explosion, and you flying through the air, and-" He took a deep breath. "Well, it was you, Spike. That's what I was dreaming about." He turned his back on him and started washing out the mugs. "Now go to bed."

Spike stood there for a moment, shocked. When Greg made no move to continue the conversation, he slowly, haltingly, exited the kitchen and went back to his room. He closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed for a long time before attempting to go back to sleep. When he did, he didn't have any more nightmares.

So, very abrupt change in tone, but I tried to make it work. Again, still a little sick (but getting better!), so my posting schedule may be erratic for a bit.

Review review!