Spike was fiddling with the jet's stock of miniature bottles of Jack Daniels, while Angel was silent, looking out the window.
"Can't even get drunk," Spike complained. "Why would anyone ever make a bottle this small? It's inhuman."
He paused, then glanced over at Angel.
"Thousands would have died if we'd saved her."
"Yeah," Angel murmured.
"She wouldn't have wanted that," Spike replied.
"Yeah. I tried calling Wes." Angel sighed. "There was no answer."
"I guess she's gone then," Spike said somberly.
He returned his attention back to the alcohol.
"It's like a bloody tease. It's like 'here's what a bottle of Jack would look like if you actually had one' or 'here's a drink, but it's very far away'."
"What does that mean? Really?" Angel asked.
"It's a play on perspective," Spike told him, holding up a bottle and wiggling it.
"Gone," Angel clarified. "What does it mean that she's gone?"
"Well, in the world of men, a person dies, they stay that way," Spike shrugged.
"Unless you're a vampire," Angel pointed out.
"Or the ghost of one that saved the world."
"Or Buffy. Death doesn't have to be the end, not in our world. Rules can be broken. All you have to do... is push hard enough." Angel's eyes wandered back over to the window.
Spike raised another bottle in a silent toast, then drank it down.