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. (beat) There was one thing about you...
SPIKE : Really ?
ANGEL : Yeah, I never told anybody about this, but I-I liked your poems.
SPIKE : (not flattered) *You* like Barry Manilow.
ANDREW : Spike ?
(he runs toward Spike, hugs him tearfully)
ANDREW : (emotional) It’s you. It’s really you ! My therapist thought I was holding onto false hope, but... I knew you’d come back. You’re like... you’re like Gandalf the White, resurrected from the pit of the Balrog, more beautiful than ever. Ohh... he’s alive, Frodo. He’s alive.