Angel finds Spike the next day in one of the empty hotel rooms. They'd transfigured it into a makeshift training room, hanging up a punching bag and storing some weapons for sparring practice. During the past few weeks, Spike had spent a lot of his time in here, working out, building up his own strength. So he's not too surprised when he discovers Spike, in the training room, pounding against the punching bag with all of his might.

"How are you doing?" Angel asks from a safe distance.

Spike punches it again. Harder. "How do you think I'm doing?"

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Angel says quietly. "I know it must be a shock to see her like that, without warning—"

"Oh, and what would make you think that?" he snaps, delivering another knock onto the punching bag. "I mean, obviously it wasn't a big enough deal that you felt you needed to inform me before telling her about what happened with me coming back, before inviting her here—"

"I knew you wouldn't want me to say anything to her," continues Angel, "but she deserved to know."

"Why did she need to know?" Spike demands, finally whirling around to face the other vampire. "And how the hell did you ever come to decide that it was your sodding duty to be the one to deliver the message?"

"Because if I didn't tell her, no one else would," Angel replies, stepping forward. "She needed to know. It was the right thing to do. She cares about you, whether I like it or not. I can't deny that."

A sarcastic sound escapes from Spike's throat. "Right. Like her coming here was all about me." He suddenly begins to wail on the punching bag, whack whack whack, as hard as he possibly can.

"You're pissed off," Angel realizes.

"Very observant, mate," Spike sneers. "Would you like a cookie?"

"No, I mean, I get it. Why you're so upset." He tilts his head to observe him. "You're mad. Because Buffy loves me." He pauses for a lengthy moment, drawing it out. "She always will, and you know it."

Before Angel can blink, Spike's fist connects with his jaw, and the impact sends him tumbling to the ground.

Spike goes with him.

They skate across the floor like crabs, any sense of finesse or control that they'd had before now completely vanished. Wild kicks, fierce blows, tackling and pinning each other down, scrambling and throwing more randomly placed punches. All out, no-holds-barred, just the two of them stripped bare, nothing but sheer primal instinct. Spike's feral rage explodes from within, and he claws madly at his adversary, tearing at whatever he can get. Somehow, Angel is eventually able to get the upper hand and shoves Spike off harshly, sending him flying into the wall.

Spike struggles to his feet, and for a minute they both just stand there in silence, glaring at one another from opposite sides across the room and panting like rabid animals. Angel mops off his bloody lower lip with one hand and stares warily at the other vampire, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"Is this what you want?" Spike finally shouts at his grandsire. His eyes glisten with angry, unshed tears. "You want to go and rub it in my face? To have me admit it? Do you think I don't already know? Of course it's you. It'll always be you." He spits the words out like vile, and then pauses, pacing back and forth before stopping and looking at him again. "This is your fault! The reason I'm like this, the reason I am what I am today."

"You were Dru's creation, not mine," Angel reminds him in a calm tone.

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he retorts bitingly. "If you hadn't gotten your soul, if you hadn't been there first, if you hadn't come back with your stupid fucking amulet, I wouldn't be here! If I ever had more than just your fucking leftovers, if I hadn't had anything to live up to, I wouldn't be here."

He looks at Spike with a patience that is infuriating in it's composure. "That isn't my fault. You chose to be where you are now."

"I didn't choose anything!" he yells at him.

Suddenly, Spike screams in frustration and ferocity, and it's a raw, wounded sound, echoing through the empty room. He spins and smashes his fist against the plaster furiously, melts against the wall, broken. He doesn't know who he is anymore, or what he's doing here, and it hurts. It hurts. The tears leak out from his eyes, and he swipes at them angrily, tired, so tired, of feeling like this. Broken into shambles and left only with the pieces. He's so tired of it all.

"Spike." Angel steps forward, reaches out to touch his shoulder. He jerks away, angry.

"No!" Spike snaps at him. "This isn't how it works. You don't just get to come in here and—"

"I'm not trying to do anything," he replies quietly. "But don't hate her. Don't hate her because of me. It's not her fault."

"So what? You two are back together then?" The vampire scoffs loudly. "And I'm just supposed to sit back and smile as you two flutter about and not be—"

"We're not back together," Angel informs him. "It's over."

Spike frowns, confused. "But you just said that she loves you."

"She does," he responds. "But I'm not the one she wants. Not anymore."

"What are you talking about?" Spike demands.

"I'm not going to spell it out for you." Angel sighs heavily, turns and starts to walk out of the room. "Figure it out for yourself."

Spike can only stand there in disbelief as he leaves the room.

***

"Spike." Buffy stands in the doorway, compulsively crossing and uncrossing her arms, uncomfortable and fidgety. She doesn't know whether to run away from him or to him, and the uncertainty she feels is almost suffocating. "Can I--Is it okay if I come in?"

He lays on top of the bed, an arm draped over his eyes. When he hears her voice, he sits up, looking at her carefully. "Go ahead."

The way he looks at her makes her stomach twist. He looks at her like he barely knows her, like she's some kind of stranger, and it's tearing her apart inside. Some crazy, irrational part of her wants to scream at him, or hit him, or do something that they'll both understand. Anything besides this intolerable awkwardness. They never were good at speaking. No, their language was always all in the physical contact--all of their past is written in the impetus of their fists, the passion of their kisses; even the slightest touches were deeply intimate, interlocking hands and warm arms.

But they don't have that anymore. They only have this; uncomfortable silences that hang in the air. She can't scream at him. Certainly can't hit him. All she has to use are words.

"I have to say this fast, because otherwise I know I won't have the guts to at all," she blurts out in confession, voice stammering. "I'm not good at this."

"Good at what?" he asks, swinging his legs over the matress to look at her more directly.

"Talking. Sharing." Buffy pauses, considering what to say. "Obviously I still remember. What you said to me…the last thing you said. Before you--before you went away. About me not loving you. And part of me believes that maybe…maybe you were right." She stops, closes her eyes. "Maybe I didn't love you."

When she looks back up at him, he's staring at her, resignation and understanding written across his face. Like this is exactly what he expected. And it's the utter acceptance of this, the withdrawn look he wears, that breaks her heart to see.

"Not because I didn't want to," she continues. "But because I couldn't. On some level, I just wasn't… capable, y'know? Like I was still cut off, even after all this time, and not just you. From everyone. So maybe I didn't love you because I couldn't, not fully. Because I couldn't love anybody like that."

"No." He shakes his head firmly. "Wasn't like that. Wasn't because of you. Was never because of you. You can love. I see it, all around you. You're full of it, you are." Oh, and she is. It radiates from her now, glowing from the inside out. Almost tangible. Buffy, his beautiful Buffy, smiling and shining with a newfound happiness. As strong and gorgeous as ever.

"I've changed, since you've been—gone," she says slowly. "I've spent a lot of time thinking. About me. And you. And what that means." She steps closer to him now. "Once you were gone, I realized. The world is a lot worse without you in it. I mean, I didn't hate it. I saw things that made me love it more than ever, actually. It's just, without you? It wasn't the same. I missed you. I missed you so much."

"Buffy, love…" Spike rises to his feet, expression pinched with pain.

"I'm sorry, oh god, I'm sorry." Buffy's voice wavers, and she begins to cry. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you what you deserved before. Couldn't let you in. I'm just-- I'm a mess, Spike, I'm an awful mess. I really am. It's been better lately, but I'm still trying to pick up the pieces, and I don't think--I don't think I can do it without you. Oh god, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He comes forward, takes her face inbetween his hands, wipes the streaming tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "Don't be sorry, please."

He doesn't want her to be sorry, can't have her apologizing. The truth is, he did horrible, terrible things to her. He knows enough now to know that it wasn't just him making what they had such a mess, but god, he can't let her do this. Can't let her take the blame. Because so much of it was him, too. Fool enough to think that beauty could come out of such ugliness, that her purity would be enough to light up his darkness, that they could somehow balance each other out. That his love would be enough to save the both of them.

How wrong he had been.

"I'm terrified." She swallows hard. "I'm terrified, because I don't know. I don't know if I'm ready to love. I don't know if I can even do it at all, especially the kind of love with the pain and the hurting and the seemingly inevitable abandonment by the other party that always undoubtedly seems to follow. But I want to try. And the only person I want to try it with is you." She looks up at him with wet eyes. "Spike. Do you think…do you think you could let me to love you?"

"No." His throat tightens, hot, stinging tears pricking the back of his eyes. "No, this can't be. This isn't--you can't. This is too..."

"I am." She reaches up, still crying, and she smiles as she reaches upward, cups his cheek in the palm of her hand. "You're the one, Spike."

Spike doesn't move, doesn't breathe, just gazes down at her. There are tears still glistening in her soft green eyes, and when he nods at her, ever so slightly, they spill over onto her cheeks. She can't stop touching his face; fingertips brush over his temples, the bridge of his nose, the shape of his lips. She tilts his face down, feathers kisses across his forehead, his eyelids, and he feels her hot salty teardrops landing on his skin.

"Buffy," he whispers, voice cracking, and she says nothing, only draws him into an embrace. He weeps into her shoulder as she curls her fingers into the curls of his hair. She pulls back and then kisses him deeply, swallowing his sobs with her own and opening his mouth with the motion.

Spike slides an arm around her waist, presses back with equal ardor, frantic and urgent. Her lips are hot and achingly soft against his, and she yanks his mouth to hers, covers him with desperate, needy kisses. Her back bumps against the door with a rough bang, and she fumbles to kick it close, locks it with one hand, never breaking the contact. She can't afford to, is too scared that he'll slip from her grasp again, and she has to hold on now, has to show him that she means it while she knows he's listening.

He's forgotten how talented she is, but he quickly begins to remember as she pushes him toward the bed. Kisses him for what feels like forever as she lays herself onto the sheets, tugs him down beside her. Their mouths meet in a calamity of heedless passion, unchecked fervor, hands running everywhere, skimming over every curve. Finally she's forced to wrench her head back for breath.

"I want you," Buffy gasps, kissing him again. Hungry, burning. "I need you. Can't wait, I have to—"

She doesn't finish, and instead scrambles to remove all of his clothing. Wants to tear his clothes off, wants to consume him, and her hands are practically shaking, trembling as she tries to pull his shirt away. Spike sets his hands over hers, slowing her down.

"Easy, pet," he says with a smile. "We have time. Want to make it last."

This time, his kiss is gentle, fragile. She sinks into it, closing her eyes as she undoes the buttons of his shirt, slowly. He's right. They have time, no need to rush. Still, she doesn't think she can last another second without this. She wants him, all of him—his perfections and his flaws, his reckless intensity and his delicate tenderness, everything he is. Wants him inside of her more than anything.

Spike travels downward, kisses her neck softly as he helps her pull her shirt over her head. She unfastens her white silk bra, kicks off her pants, and helps him unzip his jeans, discarding the clothes carelessly onto the carpet beside the bed. His body hovers over hers, and for a minute she just drinks in the sight of him. He is like a sculpture, perfectly crafted, all flat planes and smooth sinew. When he slides his body against hers, she gasps, arms circling around him, legs winding around his waist.

She pulls his hips down to hers, lifting her own to meet his. Suddenly he enters her, and it is mindblowing. Intensity and heat and passion, all blooming inside of her, and it steals her breath away. She can't breathe, can barely think, everything is escalating into rapture as it washes over her, and she arches to meet him. When Spike comes, it's like he's exploding inside of her, and they both seem to spin into oblivion, intertwined limbs and converged skin, kissing one another into ecstasy.

And it's then that Buffy feels it; raw and burning, but so very real. Her love for him. A love anything unlike she's ever known.

Afterwards, she hides under a sea of blankets, snuggled up against his chest and dozing softly, only a few tufts of golden blonde hair visible. He smiles at the sight of her pillowy silhouette, guiding his fingers down the smooth lines of her curve. A muffled sound from within the blanketed cocoon startles him, and he quickly jerks his hand back.

"What're you doing?" she mumbles sleepily, poking her head out from underneath the covers.

"Nothing," he says hastily. "It was, uh, nothing. Sorry."

"Felt nice." She smiles at him, tilts her chin upward just far enough to brush her lips across his. Just a fleeting, soft-as-silk kiss, light and wispy. Still, it's enough to make him melt inside. God, he could spend all of eternity like this way, laying in her arms, just kissing her forever. Oh, and this, this must be what heaven is. He can't imagine anything more divine than being here with her.

"Mmm." Spike purrs as she pulls away, and she giggles, furrowing back down against his chest with a happy, contented sigh.

"You're all rumbly," she notes with a yawn.

"Shh, love," he murmurs, lowering his lips to her ear. "Go back to sleep now."

He makes shushing sounds until she closes her eyes again, and watches her for a long time after she's fallen asleep.