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They were having one of their increasingly frequent moments of near amicability. Angel and Spike stood side-by-side, surveying the orange-bathed city spread at their feet.
“Dru loved the fall. Said the dying leaves whispered their secrets to her. ‘Course she thought the bloody stars sang to her as well,” Spike shrugged.
“The decay and death were welcoming to her,” Angel added. “I think she was the most sane in the autumn.”
“The pixies slept,” Spike said without sarcasm.
They fell silent and gazed down, too far up to see the mad dervish flitting happily like a leaf in the wind.