"Then why even bother? Try to do the right thing, try to make a difference..." Spike leant back on the couch, arms behind his head.
"What else are we going to do?" Angel asked, resting his head against the high back of his chair.
"So, that's it, then," Spike answered. "I really am going to burn."
"Welcome to the club." Angel shrugged.
"Least I got company, eh?" Spike looked over at his Grandsire. "You and me, together again. Hope and Crosby. Stills and Nash. Chico and the - "
"Yeah, are we done?" Angel interrupted.
"Never much for small talk, were you?" Spike smiled. "Always too busy trying to perfect that brooding block-of-wood mystique. God, I love that."
"Not as much as I loved your nonstop yammering," Angel countered.
"The way you always had to be the big swingy, swaggering around, barking orders," Spike continued.
"Never listening..."
"Always interrupting..."
"And your hair," Angel shook his head. "What colour do they call that? Radioactive?"
"Never much cared for you, Liam," Spike said, somewhat wistfully. "Even when we were evil."
"Cared for you less," Angel returned.
"Fine."
"Good."
The pair sat in silence for a minute.
"There was one thing about you though," Angel said, almost grinning.
"Really?" Spike turned to look at him.
"Yeah, I never told anyone this, but I... I liked your poems."
Spike snorted. "You like Barry Manilow."