After inspecting the alley—Willow was satisfied that the traces of portal-energy were gone, no hot-spot remaining, but also no sign of Spike—they walked. It felt random. Willow didn't say anything; Buffy cradled her axe and was grateful for that much. She felt caught in the moment when the dirty bandage is torn from the seeping wound.

They crossed some streets, came into a more brightly-lit area. Willow glanced at her. "We should find some place to get cleaned up a little. Pee." Skin and clothes were battered and dirty.

>They rounded a corner, to a wider boulevard with some traffic even at this dead hour of morning. Buffy looked at the street-sign. "I know where we are. I spent a summer here back in high school." They were close to the stretch where Anne's diner was, not far from the efficiency she'd passed on to Chantarelle at the end of that summer. "We can get coffee a couple blocks up."

"Think we could all use a drink."

Spike seemed to materialize out of shadow. It was only when he stepped forward into the yellow streetlight glow that Buffy noticed the dumpster-lined alley they'd been passing.

Like them, Spike had been through the whirlwind, his exposed skin pitted with little red cuts, his clothes tagged with tears.

Buffy saw herself thrusting the axe into Willow's keeping and throwing herself into his arms. He'd catch her and lift her to his mouth for the long restorative kiss that would make everything right.

A couple of breaths passed before she recognized that she wasn't actually doing this, and neither was Spike; he remained at a distance, hands thrust in his pockets.

Willow said, "A drink sounds good."

"There's a bar round this way won't raise the alarm at the likes of us." He shrugged towards the corner. "Passed it as I came along."

"What happened back there?" Willow said.

Spike's shoulders rose; Buffy could imagine he was going to deny any knowledge of what she was talking about. But he said, "Seems to have decided I wouldn't be such a good pet as all that, an' buggered off back to her new kingdom." Then, as if it had only just occurred to him, he said, "You two all right?"

Willow said, "We've been worse."

"Been lookin' for you. Knew you weren't dead, nor gone." He tapped the side of his nose.

He was subdued, a little slow; Buffy wondered if his mind was finally intact. In the alley Willow had said the energy that had bound Spike and bifurcated his mind was erased, but that didn't mean he was whole again.

"C'mon, then." He walked around the corner without waiting. Buffy bounded after. A couple of doors down on the sidestreet was a darkish front with a pink neon sign Cocktails; Spike was already opening the door. The darkness inside was dense; for a few seconds she was blinded; Willow bumped up against her.

At the bar, Spike asked for a bottle of Jack and three glasses. She performed an awkward pas-de-deux with Willow, who was trying to give her the stool beside Spike's as Buffy tried to make her take it—she was full of nerves, and thought he wouldn't want her sitting right beside him.

But Spike slipped onto the stool himself, and the women found themselves on either side of him. The barman looked at them, at the shiny red axe, and their dishevelment, with an expressionless glance that yet took in everything. Spike knocked back one shot and poured himself another. On her stool, Buffy realized she was trembling.

Willow picked up her glass and took a slow sip. Then she slid down. "Gonna hit the jakes, be right back."

Buffy wanted to tell her to wait, that they'd go together, but she was already walking off into the darkness.

She'd never been in such a dark lounge. The only light seemed to come from behind the rows of bottles themselves; there was a murky mirror behind the array that barely even reflected her, not that she wanted to see herself right now. Some kind of slouchy jazz played low. Apart from them, the place seemed empty. Spike was already on his fourth shot.

When he spoke, his voice seemed to come up from the floor, rather than beside her. "You all right, Slayer?"

"Are you?"

"Need to get very very drunk."

"But are you—"

"Pieces all connected, yeah."

She tried to answer, but it was as if she'd had a blow to the belly. This was relief. She couldn't breathe around it.

Then Spike's hand was on her shoulder. "Steady." He let her go, and nudged the shot glass closer to her. "Drink up."

"Spike—"

"Need time."

The words, rather than being heard, seemed rather to appear to Buffy, branded red into the black air in front of her. Hanging there, sizzling a little at the edges, for contemplation and reference. Need time. They looked like a rebuke, and also a plea, and also a dismissal, and also an assurance. She couldn't sort that, so she squeezed her eyes shut on them, picked up the little glass, and swallowed.

"She didn't have to kill him. She didn't have to do that." He poured another shot for himself, and her.

Buffy wasn't ready to think about Angel, about the realities of how he'd died. She was still processing Need time. She thought she'd be processing that possibly forever. If she didn't just wink out, between one burning sip and the next, one airless breath and the next. Beside her on his stool, Spike was a whip made flesh; she believed she could feel the furious energy of him singing along her flank. It amazed her that he could sit still and drink with such wrath churning in him.

"Didn't have to interfere with my fight."

"She liked you." As soon as she said the words, she wished she'd been quiet. They echoed back at her, inane, gormless.

"You like me," he corrected. "She— Wasn't a she. It. A god. Angel hadn't managed to clip her wings like he did, she'd have swallowed this world like a hard-boiled egg." He downed another shot. Buffy had lost track of how many he'd had, but the bottle was only half full, though Spike was no looser. She longed to touch him but didn't dare. She thought that any second now he'd rocket up, announce that he was going, and be gone.

"Do you really expect her to commiserate with you because Illyria didn't let you get annihilated?"

Buffy hadn't heard Willow return; she asked her question as she slipped back up onto her stool. "Because neither of us are going to do that." She leaned forward to catch Buffy's eye. "I put a glamour on the ladies room, but you'd better get in there now."

"A glamour?"

"To make it clean and sweet-smelling. It's not going to last."

Buffy got down; the floor was farther off than she'd thought it would be; her knees contained springs. She steadied herself on the bar. Spike swallowed another shot. "Don't expect anything."

This made her want to grab him, shake him, shout in his face. Expect! Rely! KNOW! She mumbled, "Will you watch my axe please?"

In the ladies room, the lights were pink and bright, and everything had a glowy sparkle to it. She used the toilet quickly, holding her breath even though it was, as Willow had promised, not stinky. Washed her face and hands—the soap was silky and smelled like Chanel 19—and used the clean new brush that was sitting on the shelf beneath the mirror. Her reflection startled her; she'd forgotten that her face was a purple cluster of bruises. The swelling had gone down some, but she had the addition of pebble-cuts she'd seen on Willow and Spike; they began to smart as soon as she saw them. She breathed, counting backwards from twenty. Soon, her face would be back to normal, smooth and pretty. And soon, Spike would ...

Fear seized her. She'd been shunted off to the bathroom so Spike could make good his escape. Willow was going to help him disappear. Dropping the brush, she dashed out. The cry died on her lips when she saw them, two slender figures folded onto their stools, arms propped on the bar. The bottle of Jack was almost empty now. Spike held his glass up to his lips and tipped it in. Willow murmured, "Save me one more shot."

Buffy fingered her axe. She didn't want to resume her seat. The whiskey churned around in her stomach. "Can we go home?"

Willow and Spike lifted their heads in unison.

Willow said, "Spike was just telling me he's not quite ready to—"

He interrupted. "Can't go back to your castle now."

"Where ... where do you want to go?"

Willow spoke again. "I was just telling him I don't think it's a good idea for him to be alone. I mean, I get the not wanting to be around all those slayers. The energy there is maybe wrong for how things are now. But being all by himself ...."

Buffy felt stupid, like she'd been conked in the head. "So ... what? Spike, you're not going to leave us?" She wanted to say me, but swerved at the last second.

Need time. Need time. The words hovered, renewing themselves with every fresh blink.

As she looked at him, she could see how quietly, deeply drunk he'd become. The bottle was empty. His eyes were red, a little watery.

"We could go back to the retreat house. How would that be? We could ... I mean, you could. I don't have to go. Maybe Dawnie could spend a few days with you while you rest. Or—Bakhita? She's a slayer too, but maybe ... or Xander? Xander could use a little break, he hasn't had a holiday in ...." Her babbling played back through her head; she bit her tongue.

"Was thinkin' I'd go to Cleveland for a bit. Work with Faith an' her lot while I sort myself out. Classic hellmouth conditions, could do me good."

"But that's another houseful of slayers, it's—" Again she stopped. This wasn't really about the slayers at all. It was a little bit about the castle in Scotland, its isolation—Spike needed the mission—classic hellmouth conditions—that meant plenty to stalk and slay every night, which the Scotland situation didn't offer. But mostly it was about her. Spike wasn't ready for her. He needed to get out from under her anxious yearning impatient presence. She could feel how it must be for him, how exhausted and overwhelmed he was and how she pressed. She stepped back a little along the bar, making space. "That sounds like a good idea. I bet Faith and her girls would be really glad to have you."

Spike's shoulders dropped. It was the first hint she'd seen that he cared at all for what she thought. He let his eyes meet hers then. "Won't lose touch, Slayer. Won't disappear."

Again she wanted to cry out. She fisted the axe, its smooth heft reassuring her the way his touch would have, if she'd had that. "You promise?"

He gave the slightest of nods. "I promise."

She reminded herself that he'd always stuck to his promises. And that the tighter she tried to hold onto him, the worse they both would feel.

As if to demonstrate, she spread her fingers wide on the polished wood rim of the counter. "Are you going now?"

"I can drop him there," Willow said. "Unless he—unless you want to get there some other way, Spike."

"Suits me."

Before Buffy could think of anything else to hold off the moment, Willow was linking a hand around each of their arms. "Let's move."

Buffy threw up her whiskey on the stones of the castle courtyard. A moment later Willow appeared, looking pleased with her two-places-at-once teleporting feat in the few seconds before she put on her sympathetic face. "It'll be okay, Buff. He'll be back. I bet he'll be back sooner than you expect."

"I don't expect anything." When she said the words, she remembered that Spike had said them, just a few minutes—and half the world—ago.

Willow linked her arm again, pulled her close. "C'mon. Let's get some rest."