A/N: I tried to make this line up with the comic series of both shows, but I dunno how well I played that out. Constructive criticism is welcome, as this is my first Angel-related fanfic. Enjoy!

He stood, staring at his worn out shoes, taking a deep breath. Not that he needed to breathe, either way.

It just felt better to inhale oxygen at a time like this, he reckoned.

"You are breathing inordinately and constantly alternating your stance. Why?"

Spike closed his eyes and turned to face Illyria, who was gazing back at him with a perplexed expression in her sharp features. Beyond her overpowering demeanor, there was a tiny bit of the sweet, lovable Fred in there that Spike once knew. He wouldn't let go of it. Neither would Illyria herself, although she'd hate to admit it.

He tried to be patient with her, as always: "I happen to be a bit nervous, Bluebird."

"Do not call me that," she replied curtly to his affectionate nickname. Nonetheless, Spike knew she didn't mind his terms of endearment. She always made exceptions with him.

He stood in front of this enormous wooden door, unsure of whether to knock or not. He was a vampire, after all; the only time he could've possibly shown up here was at night (unless he wanted to be burned to a nice golden crisp and turned to dust). A bit of an inconvenience to anyone currently sleeping in the rooms behind these big walls.

Illyria folded her arms across her chest. "I cannot understand why you are apprehensive about this endeavor. You came here to make an arrangement."

"Yeah," he scoffed, "along with a visit with someone I haven't seen in two soddin' years and a slight case of being dead."

"I do not understand the problem," Illyria repeated, her head cocked to the side, "You have come here, and I have been dragged here with you---"

"Not bloody likely, pet. Soon as you heard I was about to head out to Scotland all on my own, you came runnin'. Which I appreciate." He added the last part hesitantly, trying to avert her glare.

"I did not 'come running'," she retorted, "I merely concluded you would not be able to handle yourself here alone."

"Gee, thanks, Blue." Spike rolled his eyes. "Slayers. I mean, she's got loads of 'em here, training. We could use the bloody help. And the Poofter hasn't contacted me in weeks, so I figured he wouldn't go bonkers if I asked for a little help from . . . from here."

"You are referring to Angel?" Illyria questioned, as she always questions everything. After he nodded, she said, "You have strange names for your acquaintances."

Spike sighed again. "I can't bloody do this. What if she answers the door? What'll I say?"

"The Slayer? Has she already forgotten you so that you must think of something to speak of immediately, if and when she opens this door?" Illyria began to pace, analyzing the situation. Poor Blue. Always trying to cover up the humanity inside her by criticizing the rest of us.

Spike shook his head, reaching into his pocket to take out a cigarette. "No, Illyria. That's not how it works." He lights the cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. "When people . . . when two people have something, and it's ripped to shreds, you can't jus' jump back into it, yeah?"

"Why do you humans---or half-breeds," she added the last part as a jab toward him, but he chose to let it slide, "insist on hiding these strong emotions you thrive upon from each other?"

Taking a drag from the cigarette, Spike raised an eyebrow. "I . . . I dunno, Blue."

"It is foolish. Knock on this door, or I will kick it down for you."

"Hey, hey. Don't need to start off on the wrong foot with these Slayerettes by kickin' down their door. Be good, yeah?"

"Would it be best for me to morph into the Fred persona? Will that be easier on the girl?"

Looking up from the cigarette he just threw to the ground, Spike shook his head. "Buffy's not just a girl. She can handle herself."

"You are quick to defend her," Illyria replied questioningly, taking a few steps closer to the door. "You love her. You have buried it in the depths of your brain, and it resurfaces, time and time again. You love her."

The statement was simple to Illyria, but so much more complicated for Spike to hear. He didn't answer her, because frankly, he wasn't sure how to respond.

Instead, he bit his lip and knocked loudly on the door. "Bollocks," he added afterwards, squeezing his eyes shut. Illyria stood behind him; he could feel her presence even with his eyes closed. He had a feeling she'd be just Illyria to whomever opened the door, which Spike guessed was fine, as long as she behaved herself . . . No removing of body parts or attacking random passersby, and she'd be good to go.

The door creaked open slowly, and Spike thought that if he had a heart that actually beat, it would've stopped right there.

Standing on the other side of the door was a sleepy-looking Buffy Summers, the vampire Slayer, the woman Spike had fallen in love with years ago.

At first, all he could say was her name. "Buffy."

"Spike?" Buffy, merely staring at him incredulously, whispered in a voice that was barely audible. Spike hadn't realized how much he had missed the sound of her voice. "Andrew told me that you were . . . but I didn't . . ."

Andrew? Spike seethed inwardly. The ponce had probably let it slip that Spike had come back from the dead, after seeing it himself on multiple occasions. Which probably gave Buffy quite the surprise, considering the last time she'd seen him, he had been burning alive to save the world. "Andrew mentioned it, huh? Git can't even keep a secret."

They both continued to stand, across from each other, simply taking each other in.

"You and Angel worked for that evil law firm in LA," Buffy said, trying to piece everything together. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes darting to the ground. "What happened?"

"Went to hell and back," Spike replied. He nodded to Illyria, "Literally. People died a few times, things got icky, but point is, the Big Poof and I and the rest of the team got things straight. For the most part."

"Angel . . . is he okay?" Buffy asked. Of course she always asked about him, Spike thought resentfully.

"He's just dandy. Never went evil. Didn't have to; Wolfram & Hart was already evil enough to begin with. We weren't working with the enemy, Buffy. I hope you bloody well know that." His words were firm, but his tone was soft. "After we heard about you and the Immortal---"

"The Immortal? Spike, that was . . . " He almost didn't want to hear what she had to say. The Immortal had bested Angel and himself all too many times, and he had even charmed Buffy into his evil clutches. Bastard.

But he was glad he listened:

"The girl you saw in Italy with the Immortal wasn't me. She was a decoy. A few of them were around, set up in all different places . . . it's a long story that I can explain eventually, but . . . "

Spike wasn't sure how to react to this. So, she wasn't in a relationship with the Immortal? Was she in a relationship with anyone, he couldn't help but wonder?

"I don't really want to talk about any of that right now," she finished. "You never called, Spike."

He wasn't about to hide what he was feeling. He was already too far gone. Which is why he replied, without resentment, "You didn't either, Slayer. Lots of miscommunication."

"This chatter is quite time-consuming," Illyria piped from her rigid stance a little ways off, "Spike, explain to her why you are here."

"Who's she?" Buffy asked, raising her eyebrows at the tall, blue-haired woman donning a leather suit, "And who's her stylist?"

Spike chuckled, having missed that wry sense of humor Buffy always had. "She's another long story," he replied, "And I guess exchanging long-winded epics outside in the cold isn't the best idea, huh?"

Buffy shook her head, smiling slightly. There was silence for a moment, until she said quietly, "I missed you, Spike. I'm just . . . You're here for whatever reason, and I'm glad."

He didn't think he'd ever hear those words. He'd imagined her rejecting his visit (and kicking his arse to next Tuesday in the process), or calling him a fool for trying to make amends with her.

Illyria could always see right through him, as much as he could see through her. It was a mutual see-through thing. And he knew she was damn right about this.

He loved Buffy. He never stopped loving her, even though he'd resolved to do so a thousand times over.

She'd told him the last time they saw each other that she loved him, too. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't.

Point was, he needed some Slayers as backup in the City of Angels; just a few, and if Buffy could provide them for him, great. If maybe the two of them could figure out what exactly was between them relationship-wise, then that would be even better.

Whether she loved him or hated him or both, she respected him, even now. After all this time. That was all he needed from her.

They continued to stand like that, across from each other, until Spike felt the warm touch of Buffy's hand on his.

"Come in, Spike," she said, and the invitation certainly meant a lot more to a vampire than to any other creature in the world. Especially to this vampire.

Finally, Spike looked head-on into her hazel eyes for the first time in two years, and he saw the compassion in them that could only belong to Buffy. The Buffy he loved.

Maybe things hadn't changed as much as he thought.

And so he entered the Slayer Mansion, Illyria trailing listlessly behind him. A lot of introducing was in order. A lot of explaining. But that was alright.

Spike was no longer standing, when it came to confronting the girl of his past who just wouldn't leave his mind. He was moving, at a steady pace, and he was willing to take as many steps as he could to make it all worthwhile.