"Hey. You all right?" Connor asked, sitting beside the face-down Spike and gently rubbing his back.

Spike shook his head and refused to give a better answer. Connor knew that feeling. That feeling where his throat was so constricted with emotion that if he tried to speak, he'd surely cry so hard he could never stop.

"I'm sorry you got a whuppin'," he offered. "Been there. It sucks."

Spike didn't reply. If anything, he buried his face further into his pillow.

"Come on. Roll over and talk to me," Connor prodded, attempting to pull the boy over onto his back.

"Go away!" Spike ordered, his breath hitching. "Leave me alone!"

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me you're okay," Connor replied firmly.

"A-Angel h-hates me," Spike finally replied brokenly.

"What?" Connor asked. "What makes you say that?"

"I-It's true," he insisted, sobbing miserably. "He h-hates me."

"I'm sure that isn't true," Connor said soothingly. "Why don't you sit up and tell me about it?"

"No," Spike refused.

Connor sighed and went to Spike's bathroom to get him some tissue. When he returned with it, the boy had moved, but not to sit up. He was curled up on his side in the fetal position. If he hadn't looked so dejected, it might have been funny.

"Here," Connor said, thrusting the toilet paper into his hand. "Blow your nose and let's talk about it."

Spike shook his head again, but he made a visible effort to stop crying.

"I heard him," he finally said. "I heard him on the phone with Willow at the mall when he thought I wasn't paying any attention."

"You heard Angel?" Connor asked, and Spike nodded. "What did he say?"

"He said he wished he could have kept me little forever," Spike said sadly. "That he could actually stand having me around when I was like that."

"Oh," Connor said, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm sure he didn't mean that like it sounded. He was probably just letting off some steam. You know."

Spike didn't know. All he knew was that all his unlifelong suspicions had finally been confirmed.

Angel hated him.

"...just say things sometimes, you know?" Connor was saying. "They don't mean them. I say things I don't mean all the time. They're just offhanded comments. It doesn't mean they're true. It's just... just smalltalk."

"No, he hates me," Spike insisted. "He said so."

"He did not say so," Connor firmly pointed out. "You just told me what you heard him say. And you probably shouldn't have been eavesdropping anyway. You'll only hear things you don't want to."

"He hates me," Spike said, working himself into fresh tears. "He smacked me real hard, too. 'Cuz he hates me."

"He spanked you because you scared the shit out of him and ran off in the daylight and wouldn't come back," Connor said, amazed to find himself defending his father on this point.

"And 'cuz I got brought h-home by the police," Spike added importantly.

"Shh," Connor whispered, placing a silencing, conspiratorial finger to his lips. "I didn't mention that part."

"Y-you didn't?" Spike asked, getting his new tears under control as best he could. "Why not?"

"Took pity on my kid brother?" Connor explained, shrugging.

Spike almost wished that Connor had told Angel about the police. That wouldn't have made the situation better, probably, but it would have made it … more impressive. The idea that he'd stayed gone all day and night just to come crawling back in the end was far less so. It wasn't just less than impressive—it was downright humiliating. He should have run from that cop instead of allowing himself to be dragged home.

Home.

Was this home? Was it really?

Yes, he supposed it was, and that thought only pissed him off more.

Spike had started to calm down in spite of himself, but his heart felt suddenly heavy again, and he blurted out a venomous,

"Well, if he hates me, then I hate him, too!"

"Fine," Connor said. "I give up. I guess you're right. I guess he hates you, then."

The harsh words shocked Spike so much that he actually stopped crying. He pulled himself into a sitting position and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. Connor picked up the unused, discarded tissue and pointedly thrust it back into his hands. Spike rolled his eyes but noisily blew his nose anyway.

"You don't really mean it, do you?" he asked after a moment. "You don't really think he hates me?"

"No, I don't," Connor admitted, reaching out to tousle Spike's wilting hair.

"Then why'd you say that?" he asked reproachfully.

"I don't know, but I'm glad it shut you up," Connor said lightly.

"I'm not stupid," Spike said seriously after a long moment of silence. "Me and your dad, we haven't always got along so great, you know? But I... I didn't think he really hated me. I thought... I thought it was just how we were, how we acted together."

Connor didn't know what to say to that, so he just put his arm around him and rubbed his neck and shoulders.

"I'm sure it'll all work out," he offered. "You'll see."

"Yeah," Spike said dully.

"We need to get you into bed," Connor said gently. "You want something of mine to sleep in?"

"No way," Spike answered sincerely. "I look good in this shirt!"

Connor chuckled slightly. It seemed Spike could recover quickly from almost any situation.

"Connor?" Spike asked shyly as Connor had turned to leave.

"Yeah?"

"Could … Could I write in my diary first, before I go to bed?"

"You have a diary?" Connor asked.

Spike nodded, but didn't offer any other information.

"Sure, pal," Connor answered with a shrug. "Who am I to stifle your creativity?"

As he lay on his bed staring blindly at the ceiling and semi-unintentionally eavesdropping on the boys, Angel felt more and more wretched. He wasn't sorry about the belt, but he was terribly sorry that he'd hurt Will's feelings. He would talk to him tomorrow and make things right—just as soon as he went back to the mall and got all those things that he'd refused to buy him earlier. He was vaguely aware that that probably wasn't the best parenting tactic, and that he should just march his ass right back down the hall and talk to the kid now, but he just couldn't. He couldn't do it.

He didn't expect anyone to understand his reasoning, so he didn't intend to try and explain it to anyone. He wasn't sure he even understood. He just knew that he was conflicted. He missed his little Will so much, though he was trying very hard not to let the current version know that. Six-year-old William had been like a second chance—a chance to do things right. Spike wasn't Connor. He knew that. And he loved his son with all his heart, but when that little kid had shown up … it was just wonderful. And then when Spike had woken up a brand new teenager... Life was on repeat.

Angel didn't know how to deal with a teenager, obviously. The last time he'd had to, he'd kicked his own flesh and blood out of his house. This time around, he wanted to do the exact opposite—he wanted to keep Spike inside forever and never let him leave. He didn't want any person or circumstance to take Will away from him, but it seemed he kept managing to push him away on his own. He let out a deep, shaky sigh.

"...Angel?" Spike's soft voice whispered from his doorway, startling him.

Angel glanced at the clock. It was almost sunrise. He'd been lost in his own depressing thoughts longer than he'd realized.

"Yeah, champ?" he answered, trying to keep his voice even.

"Can I come in?" Spike asked timidly.

"Of course."

Spike apprehensively crossed the threshold of his grandsire's room, hoping that he wouldn't lose his nerve. He hadn't been able to go to sleep, even after he'd vented all kinds of hateful, hurtful words into his journal. His journal that Angel had given to him. As a gift. For no reason other than he thought it would help him.

"I'm sorry, Papa!" he exclaimed tearfully, and when Angel opened his arms to him, he ran and buried his face right in his grandsire's shirt. "I'm really sorry!"

"Oh, sweetheart," Angel cooed, kissing him on the head and hugging him tight. "Me too. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings like that. You know I don't hate you, right?"

"I … I said … hated you!" Spike lamented, blubbering rather incoherently as he crawled right up into Angel's lap like he'd done as a smaller child. "I told Connor … but … don't."

"Hush," Angel soothed. "Try to calm down. Everything is okay, right? You're here and you're safe, and that's all that matters."

It took some doing, including two glasses of water, a glass of blood, and lots of petting and sweet nothings, but Angel managed to get Spike calmed down enough to have a real conversation with him. He gathered him into his lap on the bed, even though Spike suddenly didn't seem like he much wanted to be there anymore, and rested his chin on that little blond-tipped head before asking quietly,

"Why did you run away from me?"

"You were making me mad," Spike answered honestly. "And embarrassing me."

"I told you those girls didn't hear what I said," Angel replied. "Besides, I wouldn't really have done that anyway."

"Would too," Spike sniffled.

"No, I wouldn't," Angel insisted. "I'd have waited until I got you home to bust your butt."

"Too old for that," Spike replied sullenly, though the lingering sting in his bottom suggested otherwise.

"Sorry, buddy, but I don't think you'll ever be too old," Angel said lightly.

Spike tried to pull out of Angel's arms, but he had too tight a hold on him, and Spike was pretty tired, so he didn't bother to keep fighting it.

"Sorry," he mumbled, figuring that should cover all of it.

"It's all right," Angel assured him. "I want to be very clear here. I don't hate you. In fact, I … I guess I love you. In any form."

Spike was so shocked that he couldn't reply for a moment. Was Angel telling him that he loved him all the time, big, little, or in between? That was certainly what it sounded like. Sure, Angel had told him he loved him a lot while he was a little kid, but he hadn't said it since the teenage transformation. And he'd certainly never said it under normal circumstances.

"I … okay," he whispered, unable to make himself say the words back.

"I hope you had a good day out," Angel said brightly, clearly not surprised or offended that his words of affection weren't returned, "because you're grounded for the rest of your life."

Spike rolled his eyes, not believing that in the least.

"You already hit me," he reminded him. "Isn't that enough?"

"No," Angel answered simply.

"It really hurt," Spike informed him, turning to give him a pout.

"Good."

"Not good," Spike protested. "I'm a hundred and … Well, I'm at least thirteen!"

"Yes," Angel answered, still cuddling him. "And do you know what thirteen is? A minor. A minor who can't have a job, or rent an apartment, or drive a car. A minor who is going to let me take care of him until he grows up … and maybe a little while after that, too."

"So I'm just your little plaything, is that it?" Spike asked, trying not to sound snotty but knowing he'd failed.

He didn't feel like a kid. Well, actually, he sort of did. But only sometimes. Sometimes, he had the clear-headed thoughts of his adult self. And those other times, he felt hateful and miserable and angry at the world. The problem was, only his adult mindset could seem to recognize when his teenage self was acting ridiculous, and when he went to those dark, teenage places, he couldn't seem to control himself. Things that were probably reckless seemed enticing, and ideas that were bad seemed good. And if Angel wanted to take care of him and help him through this—even if it did include rules and consequences and general unpleasantness—well, he supposed he should be grateful. No. He was grateful.

Spike couldn't explain any of that to Angel—and Angel was too much of a lunkhead to understand anyway—so he expressed his feelings by wrapping his arms around his grandsire's neck and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He hopped off Angel's lap and fled from the room, grinning to himself at the look of shock that he was sure would remain plastered on his papa's face for days.