Author's Notes: I fixed the formatting on chapter three, FF.net was being stupid, couldn't figure out was wrong but now it's resolved. Thank you to all the reviews I've been getting!! Very much appreciated. I lurve feedback.

***

Downstairs, Angel is sitting with a cup of coffee, staring off vacantly into space. Brooding, as per usual. Buffy sees Lorne at the table too, face hidden behind a copy of some celebrity tabloid magazine. When he sees her, his face lights up, and he gets to his feet to come over and give her a hug. She's surprised, but hugs him back.

"Lorne, right?" she says. "Nice to see you again."

"You too!" he responds, looking giddy to see her. "Well, I'll leave you two to chit-chat. Just thought I'd drop by for a minute, before I'm off to have brunch with some clients. Talk to you cupcakes later."

He exits the room before she has a chance to respond, and she's left sitting across from a still-silent Angel.

"So," he asks, "how did you sleep last night?"

If he knows what happened, his voice betrays nothing. Buffy pulls a seat back, sits down.

"It was-" She pauses, considering. "It was great."

"So where's Spike?" he asks coolly.

Buffy just looks at him for a moment. He's playing up the nonchalance-she can't tell if it comes from blatant ignorance, or if he's doing it on purpose. He isn't letting on at all. But maybe he's just trying to play it up, she thinks.

"Sleeping," she explains.

"Really?" Angel looks a little surprised at that. "Interesting."

Buffy edges the chair in closer. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since he's been back, he's not much one for sleeping. Has nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Her heart races a little, stomach drops. Feels guilt twisting her gut, and she's not even sure why. Not her fault that her vampire boyfriend's apparently got a case of insomnia. "How do you know?"

"Well, only so long before you start to notice he wasn't sleeping," he commented dryly. "Asked him what was up, and he just said he had bad dreams. Didn't really want to get into it. I didn't push."

A realization dawns on Buffy. "Angel, where exactly.Where did he come back from?"

"Good question." Angel sighs, stirring his spoon in his coffee, and she idly wonders if there's blood mixed in there, too, or if he's like Spike, who enjoys all kinds of food. He never seemed like the coffee-drinking type. He shrugs, continues. "None of us really know, exactly."

"Didn't you ask him?" she questions.

"Obviously." He gives her a strange look. "He says he doesn't remember anything."

"Doesn't remember?" Buffy frowns, confused. "How can he not remember?"

"No idea. We think that maybe the change from dimensions could have wiped his memory. It's pretty unclear."

"Are there any kind of prophecies, or books on this, to explain it?"

"We've checked all of them. There's nothing."

"There has to be something."

He stands up, irritated. "Well, there isn't."

"There has to be an explanation," she snaps, angry, urgent. "Heaven isn't something you just forget." For some reason she can't quite figure out, this is upsetting her, maybe more than it should. If he was in heaven, and he forgot. What if it ended up catching up to him some day? What if he had to go through what she had? No one deserved that. Least of all him.

Angel freezes, studies her carefully, calmly, and then says, "Hell isn't something you just forget, either." His jaw clenches. "Trust me, I should know."

She's not sure how to respond to that, so she switches the subject. "So he doesn't sleep. Like, ever? Are you sure?"

"I'm not his babysitter, Buffy. Maybe he does. I'm only telling you what I know." He pauses. Another sip of coffee. "He's always first one up in the mornings. I'm just wondering why today is a different case."

Maybe he's waiting to see if she's going to try to cover her tracks. Well, she ain't playing that game. Angel has to know that something happened. He isn't that stupid.

"Well, I know for a fact that all of last night he slept perfectly fine, when we were-"

"Wait, what did you say?" His eyes widen. "You were together? Last night?"

Angel sets his coffee mug down on the table, hard, and some of the liquid sloshes over the rim. Okay, so maybe he is that stupid. Buffy feels a blush begin to heat up her cheeks, and she can't look him in the eyes. She sighs. Stupid Buffy. Always saying the wrong thing.

"I-I thought you knew," she says meekly.

"Knew?!" His voice rises with anger. "So you two are back together? Now? Here? How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"Well, we weren't exactly quiet about it-" she starts.

"What?" There's a throbbing vein popping out on his strained neck. "Don't say that! God, I don't want to hear that!"

Crap. Said the wrong thing again. Stupid, stupid Buffy.

"I'm sorry!" she says hastily, face reddening even more. "I thought you were just playing it cool, not wanting me to know that you know, you know?"

Angel blinks at her in confusion. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"You're impossible to understand, you know that?"

"Don't even go there, Mr. Brood-In-A-Corner-And-Give-Me-The-Silent-Stare."

"I can't believe you. You-and him-here? What were you thinking?"

"I thought you'd be okay with it!" Buffy protests. Okay, so she hadn't really thought about what Angel would be think much, if at all. The moment Spike's hands had been on her, pretty much every other thought had flown out the window.

"Okay with it?" He scoffs loudly. "I'm supposed to be okay with you running off and boning my-"

"It wasn't like that," she cuts in defensively.

"Whatever." Angel shakes his head, snatches his keys off the table. "Look, I'm leaving. You get the place to yourself all day. Hope you have fun with it." The words are spat out sarcastically, and Buffy is slightly stunned and wounded by the vileness in them.

"Angel," she says, plaintively, and he turns. Looks at her with a scowl. "I didn't-I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah," he responds softly, "you never do."

He leaves and slams the door behind him.

***

Buffy is still in the kitchen when she hears him come down. She's standing in front of the refrigerator, her hand resting on the handle. Doesn't do anything except stare at the whiteness, Angel's words echoing in her head. You never do.

She fears he may be right.

Spike comes up from behind, slides his arms around her. Presses a soft kiss to the nape of her neck. "Good morning, love."

Leaning into him, she smiles, closing her eyes as he tucks his chin over her shoulder. "Morning."

"How did it go?" he asks, voice edged with a trace of anxiety.

"It went-" Buffy hesitates, unsure of what to tell him. "He wasn't exactly.happy. But I think he understands. Or, if not, he will."

Spike's face is etched with doubt as he eyes her skeptically.

"You know, one of these days, your face is going to get stuck that way," she teases.

He laughs. "Sorry. Just a bit nervous, is all."

Buffy furrows her brow, looking at him. "You care about him, don't you?"

"What?" he exclaims with a scoff. "Of course I don't care, I just-" He stops, sighs. "He's done a lot for me. More than I'll probably ever care to admit, and he didn't have to. So yeah, I'm all for not pissing him off."

"I understand. And I told you." Her voice is firm, and she tightens her hold on the arms encircling her waist. "It'll work out. I promise."

"Hope you're right." His voice is still rather doubtful. "So, what are we doing today?"

"Well." Buffy twists around to face him, reaches a hand up and weaves her fingers through his curly locks. "I was thinking we could do something about this."

"Oh really." Spike lifts an eyebrow and grins. "What's the plan?"

***

Three hours, two bleaching peroxide kits, one towel, and lots of spilled excess water later, Spike's hair is smooth and platinum blonde. He looks how he used to, and when Buffy first sees it again, it takes her breath away.

It's Spike, classic Spike, and when he grins, it's like she's being swept back in time.

"So? What do you think?" he questions, hands hovering over his head. "Look good?"

"Looks perfect," she tells him, and it's true.

"I need some gel," Spike says, glancing around.

"No, you don't." A damp curl falls across his forehead, and she sweeps it away. "I like it this way."

Spike takes her hand, kisses her knuckles. "If you say so, pet."

Buffy smiles up at him. He looks so content, so carefree. So in love. He glows.

She wants to ask him what he dreams about. Wants to ask him where he was. Wants to know if he has known heaven, if he remembers. She still drowns in the memory sometimes; still sometimes dreams of being torn out of the warmth, of waking up in the cold confinement of a box. Remembers how the thick dust coated her new, pink lungs, remembers the maggots crawling in her hair, her scalp, driving her crazy, remembers the way her fingernails tore away as she clawed her way out. And when she'd awake, she would remember how he held her wounded hands and gazed into her eyes.

Instead, she kisses him. No need to ask him now; it doesn't matter. Questions can come later, if need be. Right now he is here, and he is whole, and that is what counts. Even during the few moments when their skin is not touching, she finds peace in his presence. And when they do touch.

Everything else just falls away.