The Last Cut is the Deepest

Chapter Four

He was coming. Buffy sat on her bed with her hands clutched in her lap, waiting as he made his way upstairs. She almost wished they had installed the fire pole Faith and Kennedy were always begging for. She was pretty sure Angel could shimmy up that thing faster than even he could run four flights of steps.

So... the waiting was done, and all that was left was her speech, which she’ d spent the entire morning (between alternating fits of rage and panic) practicing. "Angel, there’s something I have to tell you..."

His knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, making her jump. He came in without waiting for an invitation, and the agonized look on his face made her speech fly right out the window.

"Oh my God. Somebody died," she jumped up and grabbed him roughly. "Angel, who died?"

He shook his head, but wouldn’t meet her eyes. "No one. Buffy... you should sit down." He gently urged her back toward the bed.

She stared at him in irrational fear for a moment until an idea dawned on her. She smiled and waved away his distress. "Oh, I don’t need to sit. I already know."

He frowned. "You know?"

Buffy nodded. "Of course. Didn’t you think I’d be the first one to hear?"

Angel sucked in a breath as though she’d stabbed him. She looked so... elated. God... *had* she been in love with Spike? The idea made his stomach curl with nausea. "You’re... happy about this."

"Of course I am! Angel..." she took a step toward him, obviously concerned. "Aren’t you happy? God, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? I mean... it’s the best thing that could happen – for everybody, especially us. Look at what we’ve been through all these years. You should be overjoyed that we finally have a reason to cut out all this... pretending crap! Come here -- -go away. Aren’t you sick of it?"

Angel collapsed into the nearest chair. "I can’t believe you think that. I thought..." he gaped at her, blindsided for the third time that day. "The past few weeks... things have been so good between us. I didn’t..."

Buffy knelt beside him. "Exactly. Don’t you see? This totally lets us off the hook! We can finally let it go!"

He had spent a great deal of time learning to be even-handed and cool under pressure over the centuries. But suddenly, he couldn’t remember a single reason why. "I knew it! I knew it, but I couldn’t believe it would really happen! You’re leaving me, just like that!"

Buffy’s face scrunched in confusion. "I’m leaving you because we can have sex? Did somebody slip something into your blood this morning?"

"I should have..." His gaze snapped up. "Wait. What?"

"Sex," she explained, in case he’d hit his head or something on the way over here. He wasn’t making any sense. "The curse? Perfect happiness? Why would you think I wouldn’t be happy about that?"

Oh, God... the curse. He’d forgotten all about it. And that meant she didn’t know...

Angel gently took hold of her hands and looked her straight in the eyes. "No, Buffy. I’m not talking about that." He steeled himself, knowing that the momentary nightmare he’d just imagined may very well still come to pass. But he owed her the truth. Whether she said so aloud or not, she’d developed an inexplicable, deep respect and affection for his grandchilde toward the end of his life, and carried enormous guilt that he had died for her cause. She deserved this measure of peace, whatever came after. Whatever Angel might lose because of it.

"It’s Spike. Buffy... he’s alive."

~

Watching her with Spike through the observation window in Intensive Care sparked a sensory memory of Hell, in Angel. Of pain so deep, so sharp, with no ease or end in sight, death seemed a welcome relief. Or at least, that’s how he felt now... a visceral recollection of unending torment.

A few hours ago, his greatest concern was how to gently ease Buffy into the notion that they might finally consummate this new phase of their relationship with even a modicum of class. And now...

Now his heart was ripping wide open and spilling his unlife’s blood onto the sterile hospital floor. Now he was entertaining thoughts of how pleasant it would be to rip Spike’s head off with his bare hands and not even bother to glut on the blood. He caught himself unconsciously noting the location of the nearest surgical supply room – one of the finest sources of torture devices in the universe. He wondered absently if he would leave the body there for the nurses – or Buffy herself – to find, or take the time to haul the bits of scrawny carcass down to the boiler room and watch them sizzle and burn. Who would question the disappearance of an already dead vampire? And what could they do to him, the CEO of LA’s Wolfram & Hart office, if they did?

Ex-vampire, he reminded himself.

In other words, Angel was quickly losing his grip on what scant shreds remainf hif his sanity.

But in his defense, he hadn’t committed any of those acts. In fact, when the initial shock wore off and he’d realized he was staring at Spike’s *human* body there on the floor of the White Room, he had instinctively called Grant General and demanded they send their Wolfram and Hart-sponsored Med-Vac to transport them to the trauma unit. He had waited until the doctors were sure Spike was going to survive before he broke the news to Buffy. He had only hesitated 287 times on his way to the school. He had even brought her back to the hospital himself when she insisted she needed to go.

Now he waited, watching her watch Spike... watching her hold his unresponsive hand the way Angel so often did Cordelia’s when he was feeling lost or unsteady.

Was Buffy feeling unsteady? Didn’t she know that if she only reached out for him, he would shore her up without a moment’s hesitation? Had he been absent from her life for so long that turning to him was lessomatomatic than leaning on a creature that had once been her mortal enemy?

He had no answer to those or any of a million other questions that spun through his mind. Hence, his current state of near-insanity.

"The doctors indicate that other than slight malnutrition and a melatonin deficiency, he’s in perfect health," Wesley reported quietly, as much in deference to his friend’s obvious pain as to honor thiet iet sanctity of the hospital. "He’ll need a great deal of rest, and possibly some physical therapy, but he should be ready to be discharged in a few days. Assuming he regains consciousness, that is."

"He will," was all Angel said in response. After all, *he* had, when he came back from Hell. Because of her...

Buffy finally came out of the room to join them in the hallway, but the look on her face told them clearly that she was nowhere near present.

"He’s really alive," she said from that great spiritual distance, "It’s really him."

Wesley nodded. "Yes. So all the evidence thus far indicates."

She turned back to the window, crossing her arms defensively over her chest as she always did when she was upset, shutting Angel out.

He stepped away, unable to force himself to go on watching his worst nightmare coming to pass before his eyes.

"Will he wake up?" she asked.

The tremor of emotion in her voice... the effort she was making to veil the desperate hope and fear she was feeling... ripped him apart.

He couldn’t take it. With one long, last look at Buffy’s profile in the dim lights of the machinery, he turned and left without a sound.

"There’s no physical reason why he shouldn’t," Wesley told her, casting a moment’s worried glance at Angel’s drawn countenance disappearing behind the elevator doors. "His vitals are surprisingly strong."

"This isn’t possible," Buffy ined, ed, even in the face of several million dollars worth of irrefutableentientific evidence. "It can’t be. The Hellmouth collapsed with him inside. And he was on fire when I..."

Wesley had a sinking sensation that he might have an idea what was happening, but kept it to himself. "We aren’t certain what happened. But the DNA samples, compared to the records from the Initiative, confirm that this is, indeed, Spike."

"And human," she added, giving him a look of desperate confusion. "But why? Why him? Why now?"

His heart squeezed tightly in sympathy for her, despite his instinctive drive to rise in Angel’s defense. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Buffy was so very young... had lost so much and had so little in her life she could depend on… when she was usually so cheerful and strong. "I know this must be difficult for you," he offered, laying a gentle hand on her fine shoulder.

"Difficult?" she chuckled bitterly, "No, changing spark plugs with your *teeth* is difficult, Wesley. This is..."

"Something else entirely, of course," he agreed.

Buffy looked back into the virtual fish tank that was the intensive care unit at Spike’s pale, still form. He still looked just the same. His hair, the chiseled lines of his face...

How many times had she wished she could have just one more conversation with him? To settle once and for all everything that had happened between them. Forrs, rs, she had buried that irrational yearning... alongside so many others. He had become just another name she sobbed in her nightmares.

And now... after all this time... a second chance. *Another* of her infrequent wishes come true. After all, who had time to waste wanting things that could never be?

But she wanted so badly to tell him what he had truly helped her find. Helped her learn about herself. Who she was... what she needed. She wanted to acknowledge what he had done for her, what he had become, in a more genuine manner than her lame, last-minute attempt to give him something to take with him into death. She wanted to tell him that she understood, that she was grateful, even if forgiveness and love were never really there. Angel always counseled that forgiveness wasn’t something to seek or give, but just a mirage to start a reluctant traveler on a long, hard journey that never really came to an end.

Thinking of him, she looked back suddenly, and realized that he wasn’t there behind her anymore. "Oh, God, Angel..." she gasped, "He must think..."

Wesley made an attempt to comfort her. "I’m sure he understands, Buffy." Which wasn’t exactly the truth. He knew Angel *should* understand -- and most likely would, in time. But right now...

"No," she searched frantically up and down the hall, reaching inside her for that tingle that told her a vampire – her vampire – was near. Nothing. "He doesn’t. I have to go." She sprinted toward the exit, forgoing the wait for the elevator and plunging into the staircase instead.

Wesley watched her vanish, saying a silent prayer for them all before he turned back to his vigil at the window. "I believe we have a very long night ahead of us," he murmured to the sleeping ex-vampire. "And many arduous days to come after."

He settled into one of the hard plastic chairs and waited for the answers to their many questions. One way or the other, Angel would want to know.

~

Angel most decidedly did not want to know.

He heard her coming just as he reached the car, only a hair’s breath before she grabbed his arm, when it was far too late for a clean getaway.

"Angel..."

He had known it, that last night in Sunnydale. The half-defensive, evasive way she responded to his questions. The scent of him streaming from her clothes, her hair, her skin... He’d felt it in his heart, known it in the marrow of his bones, and yet, he believed her when she told him it wasn’t true.

Of course she would have come to... care for Spike. How could she not? He had been there through all the years after Angel abandoned her. Stood beside her in spite of his instincts… his very nature. In spite of his fears, he had supported her. Said he loved her... and more importantly, showed it.

Unlike himself.

And now Spike was human – yet another tha that Angel had failed.

"How is he?" he asked, keeping his back to her.

She stopped pulling at him, but didn’t let go of his coat. "What are you doing?"

"I’m going home. It’s been a long day," he replied flatly, refusing to allow even a drop of the rage and pain gutting him to leak into his voice. "I wanted to know his status first."

"Okay. I’ll go with you. I can fill you in on the way." Before she could move to the passenger’s side of his car, he held up a hand, effectively restraining her.

"No."

Buffy eased away and took her fighting stance – the ‘men are stupid’ kind, not the killing demons kind. Though in this case, the two weren’t so very far apart.

"The same," she answered his first question, thinking that was what he was waiting for. "The specialist isn’t really sure if he’ll be as intact emotionally and mentally as he is physically. They still don’t know yet where he’s been, or how long he was there."

Slowly, Angel turned, and Buffy instinctively took a step away from his look of revulsion – a mask so cold, so full of hate, she was pretty sure even Angelus didn’t have it in his repertoire. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘fine.’ Or preferably, ‘dead’."

"What is the matter with you? Why are you acting like I’ve done something wrong? Look..." she took a step toward him. "I’m sorry I freaked out like I did. It’s just... it’s so hard to believe..."

"I’m not angry with you. I knew how you would react."

For a moment, she thought of kicking him, just to change his distasteful expression. "Your version back at my place was a little melodramatic, don’t you think?"

He closed his eyes. "Maybe. But I’m prepared for the worst."

Buffy stared at him, unable to believe what was coming out his mouth. "You mean *were*, right? You were prepared for the worst."

He held her gaze evenly. "Lilah said their guest would teach me a lesson I didn’t want to learn. I can’t think of anything I want to learn less."

"So, what, you think I’m going to run off with *Spike*? God! This is sure a healthy, mature relationship marked with honesty and trust we've got here! Is this another ‘do as I say, not as I do’ thing? Because I seem to remember you telling me that we don’t get to pick and choose who we help based on whether or not we like them, or whether they deserve it! Isn’t that what you preached about Faith? And now all of a sudden, because it’s Spike, that doesn’t count anymore? You’ve lost it!"

‘YES!' he wanted to scream at her. ‘I have! And when your bleach-blond fucktoy walks out of that hospital, he’d better damn well hit the ground RUNNING!’

Instead, he asked, his voice steady as a rock. "So this is just duty, is it? Can you honestly tell me that you don’t love him?"

Her already miserable scowl darkened. "What kind of question is that? I love *you*!"

"That’t wht what I asked you."

She turned away, unable to take the cold steel in his eyes any longer. "That ’s not fair. You can’t ask me a question you don’t really want an answer to and then punish me for it afterward. That’s *my* game, and you can’t sucker a pro, Angel."

He watched the tension ripple through the lean muscles of her back with a pang of longing that almost doubled him over.

"You’re right," he admitted, "It’s not fair. I’m sorry, Buffy. No one blames you for caring about Spike. I certainly can’t. But that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Now he’s back, and you still can’t answer a very simple question," he pointed out, more gently now, a softening he hadn’t intended, but couldn’t help in the face of her pain. "So that means either our relationship is about to get very, very complicated, or very simple, very quickly."

Her hurt gaze snapped up. "It is NOT! Spike or no Spike, he has nothing to do with you and me!"

"No? Then ‘No Spike’." He demanded, already knowing her response. And realizing how unfair and impossible the request was – for both of them.

"He’s my friend, Angel. I can’t just turn my back on him, especially now. You know what this feels like – to be gone one minute, and the next, all the noise and stink and pain of this world is crashing into you again? I know you do! So do I! You can’t really remember what that felt like, and not want to help him!"

"Yes, I can," he replied simply to her impassioned plea. "And in point of fact, I don’t have even nklinkling of desire to do anything but send him straight back to Hell, where he belongs."

Buffy startled at his harsh words. "You don’t mean that. This is what you do, Angel! This is you you are!" She gestured wildly at the hospital above them. "Saving souls, right? Lost souls? They don’t get any more lost than Spike is right now!"

He searched deeply into her eyes, but just couldn’t be certain what he saw there. Was it the natural defense of a friend? The need to do the right thing? Something more? He discovered that she was right – he didn’t want to know. "I can’t, he said, "More, I won’t."

This was a side of her lover she had never seen before. Not broken and sad, not cold, razor-edged psychotic evil, just... nothing. Like he didn’t care. She wasn’t liking the feeling of the wall he’d suddenly built around himself. She’d been on the other side of that barrier, hiding from the pain and fear of losing the people she cared about.

Well, she wouldn’t go there. Ever again. "Fine. You do what you have to do, then, and so will I."

With that, Buffy turned on her heel and raced back into the hospital, heartbreak dogging her steps.

It was better this way, Angel tried to convince himself as she ran away. Buffy needed the chance to find her own answers. Her own understanding. And when she did, then he would take her assurances seriously. But either way, right or wrong, he had no intention of setting a single foot in that hospital again.

~

He didn’t recall ever actually eating cotton, but somehow the dusty, dried out taste in houthouth was familiar, and cotton was the first analogy that came to mind. Old, bone dry, rotten, stinking, 6000 year-old cotton.

Oh, right. Thirst. And what the Hell was going on with his vision? There was a whole lot of grey, accented with some vague blobs of colors, but that was it. He struggled to pry his eyes open further, find something to focus on that might be a good foothold on sanity...

The world tilted, then cleared a bit, and suddenly... she was there. Right next to him, real as you please, like she sat in hospital rooms waiting for him to wake up all the time.

"Slayer?" he croaked, cleared his throat and made another attempt. "You die again too?"

Buffy shook her head as she picked up the pitcher from the nightstand, poured a tall glass of water, and moved to his side to hold the straw to his mouth. "You’re not dead..." she informed him, “Anymore.”

Spike sucked down the whole glass in a couple of gulps, then promptly spit most of it out again.

"Like drinkin’ motor oil," he complained, wondering why his voice sounded so weak and funny. Why he felt shaky and sick all over. What little movement he could manage was heavy and slow, like pulling his way through molasses.

"It’s got electrolytes or something in it. The doctor says you need it to build up your strength." She reclaimed her seat. "How do you feel?"

Spike took a moment to consider his response before he found the appropriate one. "Like pureed dog shit."

Buffy regarded him closely, her face unreadable. And for the first time since they’d known each other, he could gain no clues to what she might be hiding from her scent – because she didn’t have one to speak of. Which was just another part of a growing suspicion he had that something was off on a colossal scale, here.

"Do you remember anything? How you got back?" She was asking – which sounded an awful lot like mumbling. "Where you were?"

He shook his head. "Just impressions. A whole lot of nothing, then bright light, and..." his brow furrowed in confusion. "Angel yelling. Did I really hear Angel yelling?"

"Probably," Buffy replied with a sigh.

"Christ, I am in Hell," he moaned. "If I’m not dead, what the flying fuck is wrong with me? Can barely move. Can’t see for shit. Can’t hear. I hull oll over like I got put through a meat grinder." He trained his eyes on the Slayer once . ". "What’s going on, Buffy?"

She swallowed hard and glanced away for a moment before forcing out lightly, "Sounds like you’ve got a bad case of humanity, Mr. ‘The Bloody’."

"I’ve got a..." he began. Then, he turned his head to regard the fuzzy outlines of lights and machinery clogging the room. The barely audible beep... beep... beep... that told him everything he didn’t want to know. He closed his eyes and commented, "Fuck."

It all made the kind of twisted sense that could send a man running in front of a speeding train. Only now, he realized that kind of dramatic gesture would actually make him *dead* -- in a far more permanent, far less fun way than he was used to.

"I can’t believe I’m sodding human," he mumbled just before he slipped back into unconsciousness, as though he’d discovered he’d contracted some horrible disease and just couldn’t handle the news.

Which, Buffy imagined as she watched him succumb to his exhaustion, it must seem like to him.

~