I was inspired to write the dialogue in the style it was done in another Buffy fanfic called "Ghost in the Shell".  That's an excellent epic post-Gift story.  To help you understand while reading it, what Buffy says won't be in quotation marks, but other people's replies will be.

This is my version of the Buffy-meets-Angel scene that we'll never know the whole truth about. It starts kind of sad, then goes to kind of lighthearted and ironic. B/A and B/S

Dedication: because amidst all this post-Wrecked angst I wanted to write something for that cute time back when Spike and Buffy were almost acting like buddies, and I wanted to write something with Angel in it.

I own nothing but Spike, and I say that with my fingers crossed.

Weirdest Thing Around By Rashaka

        I step lightly as I leave the car, but as soon as I'm out, and both feet are on solid turf again, the airiness just goes out of me, and I have to lean against the car door for support.

        The gravel makes crunching noises as I shift my feet, and I can smell the sea.  At least, I think I can.  We're standing in an open lot, a public highway rest stop, with scattered eucalyptus trees that nearly overpower my faint ocean breeze.

        He's across from me, about seven feet away, and he's leaning against his car door, too.

        I'd forgotten how gorgeous he is.  When you're hurt, your mind sort of muddles things, hoping that it can somehow help you forget by blurring details of memories that upset you.  Surely, he wasn't that tall.  Surely, he wasn't that good looking.  Surely, he wasn't that sexy.

        He was.

        We stare at each other for a bit more, re-vamping the details in our minds.  And I did not just make a pun there. A very bad, completely unintentional one.  Xander would laugh.  So would Dawn, and Spike.

        Huh.  Spike's on that list now, I guess?  Pretty strange of me.  Nah, I'll worry about it later.

        I can't seem to find anything to say to Angel, but I can't look away either.  He has that affect on me.  Why isn't he talking though?  Well, I suppose if I don't have to he doesn't either.  Still, we have to do something.  Staring at him all day isn't going to make me feel better.  Well, yes it will.  But, no, it won't.  This is confusing.

        Hello, I say.  There, my friends can all be happy now.  Elizabeth Summers has retained her basic communication skills upon her return to the world of the living.

        "Hello," he says back.  Wow, now there're two of us that can speak.  We're just soaring here.  He smiles, runs his hand through his hair nervously.  I want to kiss him very badly.  It's been too long since I've kissed anyone, and Angel's kisses are…well… Angel's kisses.

        Instead, I walk forward.  Halfway, again; just like the drive.  Just like his drive as well, he meets me halfway.  We're standing very close, but not touching yet.

        So, I say.

        "So," he says.  I wonder why he doesn't say anything else, why he doesn't jump for joy, or stare at me the way Sp--- it hits me, then.

        Standing here, next to me, looking into my eyes, is enough for him.  He doesn't need to talk about it; he just needed to know that I was real again.  He hasn't even tried to touch me. 

        I think, finally, since I've come back, that I understand something. 

        I do the touching, this time.  I put my hands on the sides of his face, pull him down, and press a kiss to his forehead.  I pull back.  Last time he left for real, the time after the Mayor and the school, he refused to say the traditional send-off.  I think, this time, we should.

        Goodbye, lover.

         "Goodbye, Buffy."

        Our fingers separate, and I know he understands too. 

        I get into my car, push the stereo on to a rock station, and begin my new life.  The life in which it's over, finally, completely.  A life in which we're not quite friends, no longer lovers, and strangely ok with it.  It's done; the last nail is in the coffin, so to speak.  After all this time, I, Buffy Summer the Vampire Slayer, can finally fall in love again.

        My great new-life's resolution is rudely interrupted when I notice that the motorcycle behind me is the same on that has been behind me for over an hour.  Through three junctions, two stops signs, and one traffic light.  Only 45 minutes more of flat highway travel, two exits, and then it's Sunnydale.   After that, nothing for at least 70 miles.  What kind of person drives into Sunnydale this late at night, without even a car—just a bike?

        Suddenly the answer is as clear as the night sky out here in the desert, and I pull over in a huff.  I get out, and walk around to the roadside, hands on my hips.

        To my complete lack of surprise, the motorcycle pulls over, and off it hops my vampire.

        Why are you following me.

         "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

         You thought he would hurt me?  That's kind of strange, actually—Spike of all people should know Angel wouldn't touch me, and if he tried I could certainly hold my own enough to keep from dying again.

         "Not physically."  Oh, so that's it.  I almost want to laugh, and then I don't.  No, oh god, now I want to cry.  What is it with me?  Are all people who come back from the dead and go meet up with their ex-boyfriends and don't' even get kissed for it this moody, or am I a special case?  Still, Spike looks honestly concerned.  It's a good look on him, I'm surprised to realize.  But I don't see what use he thinks he could have been.

         You thought you could do something about if he did hurt me?  I ask.

         "I—I don't know.  I just didn't want you to be alone.  I'm not the best company, but I'm better than just the dark."

        You are the dark.

        There was silence from him a moment, and then of all things, a grin.  "Hey, thanks love," he replies, genuinely pleased.

        I don't believe him.  Of course that would make him happy.  The weirdest things make Spike happy.  In that light I can almost believe everything he's said before I died is true, because I am one of the weirdest things around.

        You're sick, William.  Ditch the stolen bike and get in.

         "Didn't steal it," he lies, muttering.

        Of course, I say, and shift gears into overdrive.  Do you like fried chicken?

         "Depends, Slayer.  Do they have wings?  Spicy kind?"

        Probably, Spike.  Probably.