The Last Cut is the Deepest

Chapter Twelve

Despite the barely two hours of sleep she'd gotten, Buffy felt like a million bucks when she got up for breakfast the next morning. The discussion - and often heated argument - between herself and Angel had been just as trying as she'd expected. There'd been the anticipated tears, occasional shouting and throwing things, and both of them had learned *way* more than they ever wanted to know about the other's 'romantic' lives while they were separated.

'Cordelia? Ugh! And I thought my taste was questionable!' she recalled with a shudder of revulsion.

But after all the conflict came the comfort, the holding, and a copious amount of relatively fierce 'Everything-But' style making out, and now the air was clear…er. As clear as it was likely to get, for now anyway, and they were ready to leave the past behind them and move on.

She felt lighter, somehow, having shared some of the darkest secrets of her soul with the man she loved - like she had finally shed that heavy burden of pain and guilt that had weighed her down for so long. Thers jus just one last conversation she needed to have before she could finally be free of it all.

Buffy found Spike where he spent most mornings, in the courtyard thoughtfully staring up at the rising sun from behind his thick shades, smoking a cigarette.

"I thought you quit," she chided him. "You do know being mortal means lung cancer and emphysema are back on the menu…"

All she could see of his no doubt sardonic expression was a cocked eyebrow. Spike slid his left sleeve up, demonstrating that he wore not one, but two nicotine patches on his upper arm.

"I tried for an IV drip, but apparently, they don't make one. Turns out two packs a day for a hundred years makes the jones a bit more dire than the recommended dosage covers," he drawled. "Speaking of junkies…What're you doing out here? I thought you turned to dust if you didn't have fifty gallons of coffee by now."

She took a seat on the nearby bench. "I thought maybe we could talk before the Pancake Wars begin."

Spike glanced at her for a moment before coming to sit beside her. "The Great Poofter called a bit ago. Only vampire in the known universe up before sunrise. Wanker."

Nothing like a nice, pre-coffee surprise to kick start the day. "Oh? And…"

"He says he wants to talk to me, too," the ex-vampire grumbled. "Think I'm gonna need another patch for that one. And possibly a flame-thrower."

"Well… if he didn't ask to meet you alone in a dark alley at midnight… at least he's probably not going to try and kill you again. That's a positive, right?" she suggested nervously. Angel had told her about the effects of the truth spell, and how much his deep desire to murder Spike had shaken him. It shook her, too.

He tipped his shades down to shoot her a look. "If you say so, Pet. So… you wanted to talk."

Buffy stared down at her hands folded in her lap. "I think we should make some things clear."

Spike chuckled. "Things are crystal clear, luv. Fear not. Old Will knows his place in the scheme of things. Least as far as you're concerned."

She looked him in the eye, and stated unequivocally, so there could be no more misunderstandings, "I love Angel. I always have. And I always will."

He feigned shock. "No! You don't Chr Christ, what kind of blind idiot do you take me for, Slayer?" he paused before adding, "Don't answer that."

"I just… I wanted to make sure you knew. I do care about you, Spike, and respect you and even trust you," she went on, ignoring his self-deprecating jibe. "And on some level, I do love you. You told me once that saying you loved me had nothing to do with you… that you said it because of what I am. What I do, how I try… because you've seen the best and the worst of me, and that you didn't want anything in return for it. Well… that's how I feel. I know things have been tangled between us in the past. But if we're going to be friends - and I really want us to be - honesty is the only way to go. I'm sorry for the way I treated you, and I'm grateful for everything you did for me. Maybe if I had said all of this years ago, things might have been different. But for all that…" she took a deep breath, "You do know that part of our relationship is over, right? Forever. We're never going to be together like that again, no matter what happens. I care about you, but I don't love you that way. God, I sound like I'm 12."

"You like me, but you don't *like me*-like me. I get it. Hell, Buffy, I knew all that the night I saw you and Liberace playing tonsil hockey in that so-called pagan temple. In fact, if we're being completely honest here, I'd say I've known it all along. I just didn't like to admit it." Spike pulled off his sunglasses so that he could look into her eyes, and she could see that he meant what he was saying. "I know you never gave me your heart and soul, Slayer. Just like you never gave them to Sergeant Flatline back in the day. You're not put together like that, sweet; no matter how hard you try. You give yourself once, and that's that. I always knew I was just a convenient substitute. It was just easier to pretend I was more."

She shook her head. "Maybe it started that way, but you did become more than that, Spike. You're my friend. You, in your own right. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all of the things you did for me back in Sunnydale - even with all the bad stuff. Taking care of Dawn when I was gone… fighting by my side… letting me come to you and use you the way I did. I said I owed you before," he began to object, but she cut him off. "And it's true, no matter what you say. I owe you my friendship. Just know that you have it, okay?"

Spike nodded and gave her a warm, genuine smile. "Sounds like a fair deal. More than. And same goes, here. You've done more to change me and my life than anyone I've ever known. And for that, Buffy, I'll always get your back. At least until I drop dead from lung disease, or possibly a massive coronary, the way things go around here."

Buffy chuckled as she got up, feeling satisfied at last. "I bet you'll end up one of those legendary old fogies you always hear about who drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney every day of their lives, but still die in their sleep after having plenty of time to drive their great-great-grandchildren crazy."

"Buffy," he called as she walked away.

She stopped and turned back, the sun a halo around her golden head. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," he said softly, as the sight of her still took his breath away. "It means a lot that you told me what's what."

"You're welcome," she replied with a smile, then turned and tossed over her shoulder, "Good luck today. Don't forget, Angel leads with his right."

Spike touched the still-soft bruise on his cheek, and once again lamented the loss of his vamp healing abilities. "Yeah, I remember."

As he watched her walk away, he realized… her little speech really did go a long way toward making him feel better about being back --and being a weak-assed human again. She'd made him believe that maybe he *could* be useful, after all. Finally. Work toward being the better man she had always insisted he could be.

If he lived through his meeting with Count Dickula, that is.

~

Michael glanced up from his dictation to find himself face to face with the notorious ex-vampire, 'William the Bloody'. Since he had made the bleached-blond Billy Idol wannabe's appointment himself, he wasn't surprised to see him. But all the stories he'd heard from the office grapevine made it impossible for him to be anything but wary at his appearance, nonetheless.

His esteemed boss outright hated the man - a rare occurrence. This did not bode well in Michael's esteem. He trusted Mr. Angel's judgement… even if his taste in women was open to question.

"Spike here to see Ivana Trump," the blond ded, ed, lighting up a cigarette.

Michael gave him a disapproving scowl. "We don't smoke in this building."

The ex-demon smirked. "Don't give much of a shit what ' d' do, mate. Tell the big pansy I'm here, won't you?"

Angel's assistant glowered at the man's back as he wandered about the reception area, smoking and examining the rare pieces of art Mr. Angel had collected since he took over the position. He took in the blond's tidy new Armani, and noted that the old saying was true - you could put a monkey in a suit, but he was still a monkey. Or an ex-monster with a bad attitude and about as much class as a $10.00 streetwalker.

Reluctantly, he hit the intercom button. "Mr. Haverton to see you, Mr. Angel," he reported, not bothering to hide his distaste.

"Send him in," his boss replied with an unmistakably woeful sigh.

Spike turned just in time to catch Michael's smug smirk. "Mr. Angel will see you now, *Sir*," he informed him politely, but his meaning was clear, 'I hope Mr. Angel eats you for lunch, now, Sir.'

"Yeah, thanks, Nancy. You're a peach," he shot as he cruised by, and acting far cooler and less about-to-die than he felt, pushed open the imposing Double Doors of Doom.

Angel's office suite was predictably posh - or fruity, depending on who you asked - with dark, deeply polished furniture and more artsy-fartsy pieces and rare books peppering the walls and every availablefaceface.

Every one that wasn't buried under ten tons of file folders, that is.

Angel didn't look up from his current file as Spike entered.

"Nice place. Need to get your Betty out there to do some filing, though," he opened. "And what the Hell kind of stupid name is 'Mr. Angel', anyway? You running a law firm or a queer strip joint?"

"Have a seat, Spike," Angel offered evenly, for once glad to be in the power position across the desk. He was far less likely to lunge for Spike's throat with all that space between them. He didn't want to mark the mahogany.

Spike cocked a brow at his grandsire. "I'll stand, if's a's all the same to you. Easier to get a running start that way."

Angel glanced up, regarding him without emotion. "Sit," he commanded.

Spike sat. The chairs looked comfy, and… why tempt f

"I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here," Angel began, acting for all the world as if this was just another business meeting.

"Not really. Got an ashtray?" his guest inquired, gesturing with the end of his smoke.

Angel produced one from his desk drawer and slid it across to him. "I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

Spike took his time putting out the butt before meeting the fag's temperate gaze. "Don't apologize, sunshine. All's forgiven."

A hint of a sneer appeared on the vampire's lips. "Actually, apologizing isn't on the agenda. I'm not sorry I gave you that beating, Spike. Like you said… you deserve far worse," He took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper a bit. "I'm only sorry that it hurt Buffy. I think we've both given her enough pain, don't you?"

The younger man sat back in the chair, hands folded over his stomach in a posture completely incongruous with his expensive clothes. Angel noted that he still wore his Doc Martens. "Fair to say."

Angel nodded. "That's part of why I asked you to come. You'll be working at the school with Buffy and the others, and obviously, so will I. So we have no choice but to make some attempt at a truce. For her sake, if nothing else."

"Why, that's mighty diplomatic of you, Ghandi," Spike snarked, "By 'truce', you mean no more slamming my head into walls or grinding my rib cage into ta pow powder, right?"

The vampire took a moment to resist the urge to start shouting, and replied coolly, "If you ever hurt Buffy - or anyone at the school, for that matter - any agreements we come to here willl very quickly become moot. Buffy may trust you and forgive you for the things you did to her, but make no mistake - I never will. Letting you live, and trying to control my ongoing desire to make you pay are the only compromises I'm willing to make. And believe me - they don't make me happy. But for Buffy, I'll do it."

Spike smirked, "So is that a yes, or what?"

Angel leaned closer to him, his voice dropping into a more menacing tone. "Your first part of this truce is to watch your smart mouth. I'm fed up with your attitude."

Spike almost lost his lunch, he laughed so hard. "So you're saying I have to be *nice* to you? Like Hell, mate! I've hated your guts for a century and change. That's sure as fuck not gonna change, now. Especially now!"

Angel got up and moved to look out his favorite window, his hands clasped behind his back. He was determined to take this discussion seriously, even if the other participant wasn't. Struggling to accept Spike's presence in their lives was impossible enough without him making it even more so with his incessant goading. He pressed on.

"I know that you're in love with Buffy. And no doubt you've got it in your twisted brain that I stole her from you. But she was never yours to begin with, any more than she was mine. She's a person, not a piece of property, and she follows her own path." He turned slowly to face Spike once more. "And I am well aware of your feelings towards me. I have no illusions that we can - or should be - friends. But it's not fair for us to constantly put Buffy in the middle the way we have been."

"Speak for yourself," Spike snorted, "I'm not the biggest asshole in this scenario."

"You've done your part," Angel reminded him. "And in case you're thinking that I might not stick around, and you'll be in a good position to take my place at Buffy's side - think again. Buffy and I are together - the way it should be - and that's not going to change. So, if you're staying here because you imagine you have a chance in Hell with her, you might as well leave town right now. I'll book you a flight, first class, anywhere you want to go in the world. Set you up with a job, an apartment, all the money and resources you could possibly need to start over."

Spike stared at him, dumbfounded. "Are you trying to buy me off?"

Angel held his gaze. "That's one way to put it."

"That's… a pretty damn good offer," the ex-vampire pondered aloud, "I'd be hard pressed to say no to a set-up like that."

"Then take it and get out of our lives."

Angel's barely veiled jealous insecurity gave Spike a very big happy, and put a lock on the answer he'd already decided to give.

"Not bloody likely. I'm fine just where I am."

The vampire nodded. "That's pretty much what I expected you to say." He reached into his top drawer and tossed a file from it across the desk. "And this is my plan for dealing with that response."

Spike glanced at it, them back up at Angel. "What the Hell's this, then?"

"It's a contract, Spike," Angel answered, "I want you to do some work for Wolfram & Hart."

The blond's mouth dropped wide open. "You… You. Want me? To work for YOU? Have you taken up smoking crack in the past couple years?"

Angel reclaimed his seat with a pleasant smile. "On occasion I may need a contractor who can think like a vampire, but isn't one."

Spike scowled in distaste. "Think I'd rather work for Dr. Van Helsing. Although… I guess that joke's not funny anymore, is it?"

"I would pay you substantially more than you'll be making at the Slayer School for working only per diem," he explained, "It's money they really need, but Buffy won't take it from me directly. You can help them that way, as well as helping me."

"And what's the catch?" the other man queried, in no way about to assume that Angel just all of a sudden wanted to give him a lucrative job out of the kindness of his dead heart.

Angel smirked. "The contract has a special clause in it. It states that part of your duties as a Wolfram & Hart employee includes protecting Buffy, Faith, and any other members of the Slayer line from any and all harm that might threaten them. Including you."

"Or you'll what, not pay me?" the blond questioned with a sneer.

"For starters. You can have an independent attorney read that over, of course, but I can tell you - Wolfram & Hart has been known to levy harsh penalties against employees who breach their contracts. The Enforcement Division is… very meticulous about their work." The tone of his statement, though the words were vague, left little of the implication to Spike's imagination: Cross Angel and die.

"You really expect me to sign this?" he exclaimed, "Give you permission to rip my guts out if you don't like my behavior? You can go get fucked, mate. I may be slow, but I'm not crazy." He tossed the thick packet back at his grandsire.

"There's more." Angel opened to the last appendix of the contract and slid it back. "That final clause restricts me and anyone who represents me from directly or indirectly causing you any physical or magickal harm, so long as you abide by the terms of the contract. Which I think is a fair exchange, don't you?"

Spike read the passage for himself, then glanced up once more, wide-eyed. "You're serious. I can kick your ass, but you can't kick mine?"

"You can try," Angel replied dryly, his smirk turning a touch more evil. "But I wouldn't recommend it."

Spike skimmed through the forty or so pages of the document, checking out the colossal salary and benefits it detailed. It really was a sweet deal - he was protected from the crazy bastard's penchant for jealous revenge, and all he had to do was promise not to hurt Buffy or the other Slayers - which he had no intention of doing anyway. And, he noted, the contract made it explicit that he, Spike, could turn down any job with no penalty except not getting paid. Plus, the dosh really would go a long way toward helping Buffy's impoverished school.

He shrugged. "Got a pen?"

Angel gladly handed over his favorite gold-plated Cross pen, and suppressed his nearly jig-inducing glee over the clause he hadn't explained.

The one that made the contract null and void if Spike's lips came within three inches of any part of Buffy's body - except her fists.

Secure in his relationship he might be, but Angel was nobody's fool. A little backup plan never hurt anyone.

Sometimes it was good to be the boss.

~