Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm just playing in Joss's playground.

As the last demon soldier fell dead, Buffy Summers collapsed against the alley wall completely spent. The rain did little to wash away the blood and sweat. She leaned on her sword, trying to catch her breath, and finally trained her eyes on the platinum form ten feet away from her.

Spike hadn't even bothered with staying on his feet. His feet splayed out widely and he leaned back against a dumpster, rain tricking down his face.

He couldn't quite explain the sequence of events because all of the sudden the idea of sequential order lost all meaning. He felt like he was at square one. All he knew was that he lost consciousness and felt some kind of ebb. As if a shifting was taking place.

Then there was a feeling of something like a spirit leaving his body. It felt much like when he awoke from the dead sans soul. And immediately upon seeing Drusilla felt no conscience deter those private thoughts he had kept to himself as the woeful poet. Bashing brains in. Taking women by the score. Railroad spikes.

But now as he sat there dumbly he remembered feeling something giving way. And it wasn't ripped out, painful. It was absurdly enough like losing a baby tooth. It got loose, jiggled a bit, and fell out. Now completely in sync with his faculties, Spike feels the change. He hears the change. The first thing that he hears and feels is the constant beating of a heart. His own.

He struggles to stand, but the battle has taken his toll, and besides the ground feels nice. He can stay there a bit more and try to rationalize how he was the vampire to end up with the Shanshu. How he fit into the Powers' plans. And perhaps just as predictably found himself wanting coming up with answers. Maybe life doesn't provide you with any, especially with prophecies in the mix.

Then of course, there's the surprise visitor and she finally ambles over to him.

Spike prepares himself for the histrionic display that is sure to come. Whether it's a positive or negative one, however, remains to be seen.

But Buffy Summers has always surprised Spike in the past and she does so now. She collapses in a dazed heap right beside him and allows her head to lean back with no give onto the dumpster's steel side. Since she's the Slayer, she probably doesn't feel the dull ache that will set there in the morning.

Spike can only stare at her, praying this wasn't a hallucination. And praying harder that he really had died and the beautiful form beside him was evidence that St. Peter had allowed him access past the pearlies.

Instead the Slayer could only stare straight ahead, finally attempting to form words. "So, um, do you remember what happened here? The whole story?"

Both good questions. He supposed she was still trying to get her bearings. He would give her time.

Though the transformation itself was painless and, truth be told anticlimactic, when Spike tried to remember the battle itself, it was like pulling out a good-sized splinter. It wasn't enough to cause serious harm, but the pain receptors still responded and they decidedly did not like what was happening.

As soon as Spike thought back to events before the Shanshu, his head throbbed and his brain fought stubbornly to seal the events away in some vault. But Spike was stubborn too, heartbeat or no.

There was him. Angel. Illyria. And Gunn. They fought different flanks. Gunn took up his place and knifed, chopped, and stabbed as many as he could. But in the end, the wound he sustained back at the Senator's--the demonic Senator's--had proven mortal. Thankfully, he died quietly. And, Spike liked to think at peace. Perhaps in the arms of the baby Jesus as he wanted. It was amazing what a couple of boilermakers could get out of old Charlie boy, as Spike found out after one of their infrequent excursions to the nearby bar. If Spike was correct it was the same night Angel discovered Cordelia had…

Buffy dimly saw Spike choke up and close his eyes. She figured it was just exhaustion.

Illyria had learned loyalty in her time on the human coil, but the god in her would not be satisfied. Before the portal had closed--thanks to some assistance by Buffy and more specifically the closing charm that the coven had given her before this "jaunt", as she fibbed to them--Illyria leaped into it, thus ending her brief unforgettable stay on Earth. Finally, in some ways laying Fred to rest. Again, he choked up at the memory and Buffy paid it little mind.

"I knew we made it," she decided. She checked herself over just to make sure. Then turned to Spike.

"I'm fine," he said softly.

"Angel. Did he really take on a dragon?"

Now he knew why his brain fought so hard. He could barely say the words, so he breathed out and hoped his lips would do the talking for him. "So it seemed."

"So, um, where is he?" Buffy looked around to the far end of the alley.

"Angel fell, pet," Spike said simply. He was starting to fall back on his familiar affectionate nicknames, more and more coming back to himself.

He could remember Angel setting his jacket down, taking on a horde of demons, ten from front to back. He remembered Angel leaping on the beast jamming the sword through the dragon's snout Val Kilmer style and leaping down. When the dragon took his fiery breath, his head exploded. So far, so Val. Except the blow caught Angel full-on. He never had a chance to move. He was instantly incinerated.

Buffy gave Spike a patient "duh" face. "That's why we've got to find him, silly. So we can get him back up."

Spike turned to Buffy, his eyes clear and sad. "He fell."

It was agony watching the Slayer's reactions as it sunk in. Her mouth hung open and she shook her head in stubborn denial. His face contorted as tears began their slow trickle down her face.

Spike could only watch. He dared not try to comfort her. Not with this.

She finally crumpled, hugging herself in a tight secure ball. Spike only turned away, giving her what space he could.

Drained from her grief, Buffy turned back to Spike, who only stared out at the rain that continued to fall.

"I want to say goodbye. And I want you to be with me," she rasped out.

Spike could only sigh. "We said our goodbyes before the fight, love. I paid my respects to him when I fought at his side. This is for you to do. I'll wait here. If you want."

Buffy closed her eyes and her hand grazed his shoulder slightly as she stood up. She marched over to the spot where Angel had laid his jacket, about ten meters down, the rain attacking the leather in relentless, thick droplets. Buffy stood over it and lowered her head, her mouth moving in silent reverent and private passages of remembrance and thankful love. Then she stooped and cradled the jacket in her arms, walking back to Spike. She slipped the jacket onto her drenched shoulders, and as promised the former vampire waited for her. They walked side by side.

It seemed the most natural thing when she slipped his arm around her shoulders and rested her head against his chest. As they reached the end of the alley, the sun peaked out. And that's when Buffy knew.