Angel: You're starting to feel it, aren't you? How close you are now... to hell?
Spike: What if I am? Not like it's such a big, bleeding deal, is it? If a ponce like you could break out--
Angel: I never escaped from hell. All I got was a short reprieve. Not even sure how I managed that.
Spike: Oh, put your martyr away, Mahatma. Fred told me all about your great, shining prophecy. Pile up all your good deeds and get the big brass ring handed to you like everything else.
Angel: Except for one small catch. The prophecy's a bunch of bull. They all are. Nothing's written in stone or fated to happen, Spike. You save the world, you end up running an evil law firm.
Spike: Or playin' Casper with one foot in the fryer.
Angel: You think any of it matters? The things we did? The lives we destroyed. That's all that's ever gonna count. So, yeah, surprise. You're going to hell. We both are.
Spike: Then why even bother? Try to do the right thing, make a difference...
Angel: What else are we gonna do?
Spike: So that's it, then. I really am going to burn.
Angel: Welcome to the club.
Spike: Least I got company, eh? You and me, together again. Hope and Crosby. Stills and Nash. Chico and the --
Angel: Yeah, are we done?
Spike: Never much for small talk, were you? Always too busy trying to perfect that brooding block-of-wood mystique. God, I love that.
Angel: Not as much as I loved your nonstop yammering.
Spike: The way you always had to be the big swingy, swaggerin' around, barkin' orders...
Angel: Never listening...
Spike: Always interrupting...
Angel: And your hair. What color do they call that, radioactive?
Spike: Never much cared for you, Liam, even when we were evil.
Angel: Cared for you less.
Spike: Fine.
Angel: Good. [they sit in silence] There was one thing about you...
Spike: Really?
Angel: Yeah, I never told anyone about this, but I--I liked your poems.
Spike: [dismissively] You like Barry Manilow.

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