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It was probably fate, he supposed, that he was dying in an alley. He had been turned in an alley, and reborn in an alley, so it was fitting, in an oddly cyclical and hocus-pocus-y way. Spike hated hocus-pocus, except when Dru mumbled it, and he didn't set much stock by earthy cyclical voodoo either.

But still, he was lying in an alley, with blood pouring out of his neck, and it seemed eerily similar to the moment that Dru had bent over him and sucked the life from the same spot.

Now Dru was gone, Darla was gone, and Angel was in his own alley, probably also dead or dying. Spike thought there was some kind of irony in that - if irony was the right word. If his life ending in an alley twice was anything but a giant cosmic joke. Dru would be laughing at him now, he knew, laughing and dancing and saying something ridiculous about her dolls. Spike himself wanted to laugh, but doing so made the blood spurt out of his neck even faster.

"Oh, what the hell. S'not like I'm not already a gonner," Spike mumbled to himself. And then, in the middle of an alley, covered in his own blood, Spike laughed.