Buffy was standing in the kitchen, making a token effort at washing the few dishes from breakfast that morning, but mostly trying not to listen in on Dawn's telephone conversation from the next room -- and trying not to cry because it was Dawn on the phone and not her.

She knew that she would never be able to repair her relationship with Spike -- if one could even call it a relationship, after the nightmare of complicated, painful drama it had consisted of -- if she did not just get her nerve up and talk to him. But it was harder than she had ever thought it would be, knowing that she had so much to make up for to him -- and *not* knowing if he would grant her the opportunity.

“So,” she heard Dawn’s voice suddenly growing nearer, in motion, and turned with the dishrag in her hand to see her little sister standing in the kitchen doorway, surveying her skeptically as she talked to Spike. “If there’s -- nothing else you wanted to talk about right now -- I guess I -- kinda need to do homework.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly as she met her sister’s eyes and continued to talk into the phone, “Yeah, I know, right? It totally sucks. I don’t see why the monks couldn’t have made me Buffy’s incredibly brilliant, college graduate *older* sister, instead of making me suffer through the inhuman torture that is high school. And on a Hellmouth, too.”

Buffy realized immediately what Dawn was doing -- giving her one last chance before she hung up the phone, to do what she should have done weeks ago -- to take that phone from her hand and break the awkward silence between herself and Spike, a silence that could be felt by both of them, even across the miles.

Dawn laughed at something Spike had said in response to her words, an impatient tap of her foot beginning as she gave her sister a pointed look of exasperation.

Buffy bit her lip, frowning, her eyes wide with sudden terror -- before she spun on her heel and faced the sink again, very deliberately picking up a plate and resuming her mundane household work.

Dawn sighed as she turned and headed back in the living room.

“Oh -- nothing,” Buffy heard her say, her voice fading slightly as she moved farther away from her. “I was just looking at this really stupid, annoying -- math problem, and thinking how much easier it would be if the stubborn thing could just work itself out…”

Buffy winced slightly, aware that she was the “math problem” in question, but breathed a sigh of momentary relief as she heard her sister say her goodbyes for the evening and hang up the phone -- relief that was swiftly overtaken by a melancholy sense of failure and despair.

She *did* feel relief whenever Dawn hung up the phone with Spike -- because whenever she knew that her sister was talking to him, it was like every nerve in her body was taut, prepared, ready for action that her heart was not quite steady enough to take yet. And when Dawn hung up the phone, there was a certain ease in the thought that the moment had passed, and her dilemma made moot -- for the moment.

But invariably, the truth would catch up with her denial-bound mind, reminding her that the problem was not going to go away -- not until she dealt with it.

“I meant that, you know,” Dawn stopped again in the doorway on her way up to her room, addressing her sister’s back matter-of-factly. “The stupid, annoying, stubborn part -- and I wasn’t talking about math.”

Buffy’s jaw set with irritation, and she did not turn around, refusing to acknowledge her sister’s words. She was more than a little annoyed with Dawn’s attitude, and even more annoyed at the fact that she was pretty much right -- and found it easier to ignore her completely than to turn around and try to fight both her sister’s surprisingly sound logic, and the intense urge she felt to slap her.

Dawn let out another heavy, dramatic sigh as she turned and walked away.

And a few minutes later, as she put the last clean dish in the draining pan, Buffy sat down at the kitchen counter, and began to cry.

*************************************

“Maybe you should just call her.” Angel’s voice held a defeated note -- as if he knew his words were in the best interests of the person he was speaking to, but really, *really* had not wanted to speak them aloud.

“Are you bloody kidding me?” Spike demanded, turning on his sire with an incredulous look, momentarily ceasing his frenetic pacing across the floor of Angel’s suite.

This had become a nightly ritual of sorts at the Hyperion, the only variant being the precise location where it took place -- depending on which phone Spike happened to use to call Sunnydale.

“Why should *I* call *her*, when she can’t even be bothered with so much as a question. ‘How’s Spike?’ Would it be so hard? But, no, she obviously wants nothing to do with me!” he snarled, his hurt and resentment obvious in his voice, as it lowered to a mutter with his last words, “Probably bloody well relieved to have that chapter of her life closed for good. God knows I should be!”

“Spike -- we’ve had this conversation before,” Angel pointed out in a voice of patience that was strained nearly to its end. “You know that’s not true.”

“See, that’s the thing, Peaches,” Spike reminded him, looking up at him with a matter-of-fact expression as he finished, “No, I really don’t.”

“I told you, she thinks you don’t want to talk to her, Spike,” Angel repeated words he had stated many times over the past month and a half that Spike had been staying with him. “She *does* care -- but she knows you’ve got a pretty good reason to be mad at her, not to forgive her…and she’s just like any other woman, Spike. She’s not gonna willingly set herself up to be rejected.”

“She’s *not* ‘just like any other woman’.”

The softly stubborn words were barely audible -- wouldn’t have been at all, to a human -- but Angel smiled secretly to himself to hear them.

Spike’s feelings for the Slayer really had not changed all that much.

“No,” Angel agreed, shaking his head wistfully as he turned away from the window overlooking the lights of L.A. to face his childe. “Gotta admit, she’s not.” He paused for a moment, studying Spike’s taut expression of frustration, as he moved to sit down in one of the chairs in his living room area. “So why aren’t you willing to make an effort for her?”

Spike was silent for a long moment, his eyes closed, as he visibly swallowed back a swell of emotion that threatened to take his control. When he finally did answer, in a bare whisper of striking pain -- Angel could not fault him for his words.

“Because that’s all I’ve ever bloody well done.”

Angel was silent, having no answer for that painfully true statement.

Buffy had told him enough during their own phone conversations of the past few weeks, for him to understand that the pseudo-relationship the Slayer had shared with his childe had been at best unhealthy, and at worst downright abusive at times. Buffy had been falling apart -- and Spike had willingly gone along for the ride, albeit perhaps hoping to slow it down a bit, or even change the direction she had been taking.

But his efforts had failed, for the most part, and the wreckage of their relationship had ended up being just as painful as the relationship itself. Neither of the two had come out of the thing unhurt, or innocent, Angel knew.

But he knew that Spike had never stopped trying to win Buffy’s affections.

And she had thrown his efforts back in his face, every time.

“Why shouldn’t she come after *me* for once, if she really cares so much? If she really bloody *loves* me, like she said she does…”

Spike’s voice broke over the words, and he sank down in the chair across from Angel, covering his face with his hands, as tears began to flow again, despite his best efforts to hold them back.

“You’re right,” Angel said quietly, surprising himself with the words. “You shouldn’t have to always do the work in a relationship -- if you do -- then, maybe the relationship’s not worth having.”

Spike looked up at him, a startled, stricken expression on his face.

And suddenly, Angel knew exactly how to play the conversation out.

“Maybe you’re right,” Spike conceded uncertainly, in a hollow, desolate sort of voice. “Maybe if she -- if she’s not willing to make a single soddin’ step in my direction -- maybe -- maybe it would never have really worked, anyway…”

“Yeah -- just not meant to be,” Angel agreed quietly, a soft note of subtlety to his voice.

“I mean -- if she really loves me, you’d think she ought to show it, yeah? Maybe do more than just say it -- *once*! If she loved me, she would have at least asked to *talk* to me one time during the past soddin’ six weeks. If you love someone, you don’t just bloody let ‘em go, like it was nothing to you, just ‘cause you‘re too scared to do anything. ‘He’s been gone for nearly two months now -- oh, well, he’ll come back if he feels like it, if he don’t -- no big bloody deal’! That’s *not* how love works!” he declared, rising to his feet again.

“I agree,” Angel stated calmly. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I did everything I could to make her love me! I lost Dru because I couldn’t get her out of my bloody head! I followed her back to that bloody hellhole in Sunnydale, just to be near her -- granted, I planned on killing her at the time -- but I never really would have. Loved her even then, I did. And I did my best to show her -- soon as I knew myself. Took action about it, even if it wasn’t the best choice of action. I’ll admit chainin’ her up in my crypt was a bloody stupid move -- but at least I didn’t just say it, and then stand there and wait for her to make the soddin’ next move!”

“Until now.”

Spike was struck speechless by Angel’s unexpected words, and he stopped in mid-rant, staring at his sire, as understanding slowly began to dawn on him.

“No,” he objected, shaking his head emphatically. “No, it’s not like that, Peaches -- I’ve *done* my…”

“Do you still love her?”

Spike closed his eyes for a moment, wincing at the question, but ignoring it as he tried to go on, “*She* needs to do *something* to…”

“*Do you still love her*?” Angel repeated, slowly and pointedly, leaning forward in his seat to catch his childe’s eye. “It’s a simple question, Spike, with a simple answer.”

Cornered, Spike dropped his gaze, fresh tears welling in his eyes, as he admitted in a whisper, “Yes.”

“Then it shouldn’t be about whose turn it is to move their piece next,” Angel shook his head as he tried to make Spike see what he was saying. “It shouldn’t be about keeping score, or making someone pay. It should be about doing whatever it takes -- *whatever* it takes -- to make it happen.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Spike nearly sobbed the words out in frustration, tears streaking his face as he met his sire’s eyes again. “Don’t you think that’s what I’ve spent my entire existence believing and doing -- no matter who the bloody heartless bint in question happened to be at any given time…”

His voice trailed off, as he shook his head slowly in defeat, and whispered, softer, “I just don’t know if I can, anymore, Sire. I just -- I’m just so…”

Angel felt his own throat close with emotion at the word that sounded so sweet coming from his childe’s lips, the word that spoke of Spike’s unconscious desire for his guidance, his support -- and he could offer him no self-serving advice designed to keep him away from the Slayer he still loved himself. All he could do in that moment, was what was best for his childe.

“So what, Spike?” he asked gently, rising from his seat and moving toward where Spike stood, very still, but trembling slightly, in a swiftly failing effort to control his emotions. “You’re just so -- what?”

As Angel reached out a hand to rest on the smaller vampire’s shoulder, Spike lowered his head, closing his eyes against his tears, as he swallowed hard, and whispered, “Scared.”

Angel could remember a time when he would have viciously mocked Spike for that admission -- more than one time, as a matter of fact. But now, he kept his manner gentle and understanding, as he stepped closer, trying to get Spike to meet his eyes.

“Of what?” he asked him softly.

“Of -- of being hurt. Again,” Spike admitted in a tearful whisper, his eyes pointedly downcast. “Of going to her, and -- and finding out…”

“Finding out…?” Angel prompted after a few silent moments.

“That she -- that she didn’t mean it,” Spike struggled over the words, clearly trying hard to express a sentiment that he was not sure he even understood himself. “Or that she *did* mean it -- but she doesn’t really love me -- just thinks she does. Because how can you love someone and do the things she did, before? How can you love someone, and let them go through what she -- allowed to happen? How can -- how could she -- just let all this time go by -- and not even once -- not even *try* to…?”

After just allowing his childe to cry for a few moments, putting his arms around him gently, Angel drew back and met Spike’s eyes solemnly. “I don’t know, Spike. Those aren’t questions I have the answers to -- because I’m not in her head. No one knows what Buffy’s feeling, or why -- but *Buffy*. And I’m definitely not the person to ask about the inner workings of her mind!” He shook his head with a quiet, rueful laugh.

“No, you’re not,” a clear, soft voice spoke from the doorway, startling them both at the familiar but unexpected sound. “But I am.”

As both vampires tried to get over the surprise of seeing her there, standing in Angel’s doorway -- standing as straight and proud as ever, but with tear-filled, sorrowful eyes, and a certain brokenness to her manner in spite of it all -- Buffy stepped slowly, cautiously, into the room.

“So why don’t you ask me?”