Archive of Our Own

Bittersweet Legacy: Book 1
by Vatrixsta Cruden

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Beginning -- Bitter Chill

~

The winter here's cold and bitter,
it's chilled us to the bone.
We haven't seen the sun for weeks,
too long too far from home.
I feel just like I'm sinking,
and I claw for solid ground.
I'm pulled down by the undertow,
I never thought I could feel so low,
and, oh, darkness, I feel like letting go.

~

The hotel was darker and quieter than usual that night.

Granted, Cordelia, Wes, and Gunn were still at Caritas, no doubt in the middle of a drunken rendition of "The Weight." Angel had joined them on stage for their only-slightly-inebriated version of "If I Had $1,000,000," but he'd felt that he'd have to draw the line somewhere.

It was all part of Cordelia's "Penance Plan." Every time they finished a case, Angel was ordered to accompany them for celebratory dinner, drinks, and, in last week's case, a trip to the Los Angeles County Fair. Angel shuddered at the memory. Despite his protestations that he was still an eighteenth century guy at heart, Cordelia had dragged him onto the Ferris wheel, then later, into something called "The Gravitron."

A smile he couldn't quite contain spread across his face as he made his way up the great staircase in the lobby. The last month had been good. They were back on even ground, his people trusted him again, and he only had to wake early and make them breakfast twice a week. Once again, they were a family (they'd gone so far as to make him sing "We Are Family" with them after the Hopkins case to prove it), and nothing, even his own obsessions, were about to change that.

Life was good. Once again, a tiny smile pulled at Angel's mouth. He hadn't been able to entertain that particular notion in a very long time. It felt fantastic. This business with Darla wasn't at an end; his slip with her a few weeks ago had been the tip of the iceberg, he was willing to bet. However, it didn't seem to matter to him as much now. She was just another vampire he had to take out, because that was his job. But she was no longer his mission; she never had been.

Cordelia would be so proud to hear him think that.

Small hairs on the back of Angel's neck stuck straight up as he walked through the doorway. His gaze scanned his room, the relaxed buzz from tonight's celebration evaporating as he sensed something he'd half expected to never feel again.

"Hello, lover," a silken voice called out from the shadows.

Angel spun around toward the source. "Buffy?"

The small light beside his armchair clicked on, and she was visible, bathed in a soft glow. Like an angel, he thought distractedly. It may be my name, but she's always been my angel.

Her eyes were clear, her hair shorter and a bit darker than he remembered, her lips colored blood red. She was wearing pink leather pants and a red tank top that matched her mouth. Her legs were crossed at the knee, a pair of short, black chunky boots on her feet. He sincerely doubted anyone but Buffy was capable of pulling the outfit off.

"Why did you leave me, Angel?"

It was so out of the blue, her voice was so wounded, the look in her eyes so lost, that it took Angel several moments to come up with an answer. Even then, it was rather lame.

"What?"

"It's not a trick question," she murmured, an edge to her voice. "Was it the chance to be so noble? You finally redeemed yourself in Giles' eyes. You made my mother very happy. Nearly as happy as I made her when I brought a corn-fed Iowa boy home for dinner. You must have been so proud of yourself, breaking my heart, crushing my dreams, walking out on me after you'd promised to never leave, all that, and you still look like the good guy. The hero who gave up everything for the girl he loved more than he should."

"Buffy," he whispered, his own voice causing an involuntary flinch. Why had she come? What had happened to make her say these things? Certainly, there was a kernel of truth to what she said, but it was twisted around bitterness and anger.

"Buffy," she mimicked. "You always said my name like that."

"Like what?" he asked dumbly.

"Like it was the most beautiful word your lips had ever formed," she all but sneered. "Like I was your salvation."

"You were," he answered honestly.

"Were," she repeated bitterly. "Which brings us back to the beginning. Why did you vote yourself off the island, Angel? So I could hook up with some surfer from a neighboring tribe and count all my loot in the sunshine you seem to think is so important to a good relationship?"

"Sunshine wasn't the only reason I left you," Angel declared. Though he wasn't pre-disposed to think so, the only girl he'd ever loved was acting like a major bitch, and it was starting to tick him off. "Or have you so conveniently forgotten our last year together?"

"Right," she said silkily, as though she'd just remembered something. With a careless kick of her right foot, she slid from the chair and moved toward him. He nearly stepped away. There was something off about her, something that was starting to scare him. "Our last year together," she murmured. "So it was the sex thing then, hmm?"

"What? No. I mean . . . yes, but not . . . not entirely."

"It's all right," she soothed, pressing a hand against his chest. He glanced at it, then back to her face, searching for something, though he didn't know what. "I understand how hard that must have been for you. I know it doesn't mean much to say so, but it =does= happen to all guys at some point." She lowered her voice to a confidential level. "Impotence is a real bitch."

He snatched her hand away from his chest, and lightning fast, she pulled it from his grasp. "And so are you, apparently," he murmured, his brain sluggishly piecing together facts he didn't want to recognize. "Your hand is cold. Buffy, are you sick? Is that what this is about?"

Her laugh was icy, its pitch sending chills of dread up and down his spine. "Oh, lover . . . it can't be taking you so long to get this." Buffy pressed her body to his, her mouth moving against the side of his neck, below his ear. "Then again . . ." Without warning, he felt her face change and her sharp fangs sink into the artery that didn't pulse, but was still filled, with borrowed blood.

With a cry, he pushed her away, staring in horror at her blood stained mouth, at the ridges that disappeared as she morphed back to her human features.

"You always were kind of dense," she commented, licking her lips crudely. "It killed me when you left, baby," she confided. "And then I died because you weren't there to save me."

"Buffy," he whispered, unable to comprehend what he knew to be true.

"There you go again," she laughed, turning on her heel abruptly. "Ain't nobody gonna save you now, though."

Her lilting laughter disappeared as she left the room, and Angel sunk to the armchair she'd vacated, too numb to do more than stare sightlessly at the doorway.

The hotel was darker and quieter than usual that night.

~

If all of the strength and all of the courage
come and lift me from this place.
I know I can love you much better than this
Full of grace, Full of grace, my love.

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Awakening -- "Colorblind"

~

I am covered in skin
no one gets to come in
pull me out from inside
I am folded, and unfolded,
and unfolding I am
colorblind

~

It was weird being dead.

Granted, Buffy had been dead once before already, but she hadn't retained any memory of that. Mostly, it had been a dark void, one that terrified her, one she never wanted to return to.

Except for all the parts of her that did.

Spike had once told her that slayers were just a little bit in love with death; the idea of an end, of no more fighting, no more thankless existence. People died around Buffy every day, and she wasn't allowed to mourn them properly, because she was too busy wondering what she'd done wrong, why she hadn't been able to protect them.

What Spike never took into account was just how deep Buffy's fear of nothingness ran. Everyone she'd ever loved, with the exception of her mother, had left her in some way or another. Angel had done it for her own good. Her father had done it for his. Riley had done it because he'd had an inferiority complex. Her friends stayed, her real family always stood and fought by her side, but in the end, wasn't she just damning them to the same life she would lead, until she died?

So when Buffy found herself losing to a vampire that'd been turned sometime in the sixties, if his bell-bottoms were any indication, she didn't fight quite as hard as she should have. When his fangs sunk into her throat, and she felt her life begin to leave her body, she found she couldn't quite let go. Fear got the best of her, and she reached for his wrist, ripping through the skin with blunt teeth, using the last of her strength to feed from her soon-to-be-sire.

It hadn't been like it was with Angel, intense pain and pleasure warring for dominance with every pull of his mouth. Nor had it been like it was with Dracula, an odd desire to comply with whatever he wished, the pain barely penetrating her enthralled brain. It hadn't even been like it was with the Master. He had inspired terror in her, a cold, blind panic that this was it, she would die at the hands of this bat-faced wonder, just as it had been written for thousands of years before she was born.

This final time Buffy Summers died . . . it had been like nothing. There was pain, but it was incidental. Soon, it would be over. No more fear, no more wondering, no more guilt over all the souls she hadn't been able to save. Never again would she have to put herself on the line for an ungrateful world.

Everything was taken away from Buffy. Sooner or later, it all got lost. Angel's desertion had been the most significant, but Riley's, so soon after nearly losing her mother, had been the killing blow. His departure had been the death of hope: hope for a normal life, hope for a love of her own, and hope for a strong man who would never leave because her life was too much to handle.

Her last conscious thought had been for the safety of the people she loved. Mostly, she'd wanted them to understand why she hadn't been able to go on. She'd known Angel would. He'd always understood her so well, and she'd hoped he'd understand this final decision.

However, before she could let go, instinct had taken over, and all that had brought her to this point, awakening, blinking up at the starry night, with what once used to be a peaceful, loving hippie at her side.

"Woah, man, I've never met a slayer before. And you're like . . . wow. Do you want something to eat? I bet there's a groundskeeper or something wandering around."

Buffy blinked a few times, doing a mental check of her senses. Automatically, she started breathing, then stopped, a tiny smile spreading across her face as she realized she didn't have to. Angel always breathed, she remembered, always kept up the illusion of being human. Why bother, when it was so cool to be this still? A vampire would never stand a chance against a slayer who could be this still.

Her nose wrinkled up. What was she thinking? No way was she going to bother hunting vampires now.

"Hey, dude, it isn't cool to ignore your sire."

Buffy glanced toward her "sire."

"How embarrassing," she mumbled aloud.

Well, maybe one for the road . . .

Moving faster than she had when she'd been alive, Buffy snagged her abandoned stake from the ground, and turned the vampire who'd made her to dust. With a careless shrug of her shoulders, she stood and began walking out of the mausoleum he must have dragged her into. Half its roof was gone, but it had still been a safe place to rest until she'd risen.

Wonder how long I've been dead? she thought. Giles must be freaked if it's been over a day.

"Buffy!"

"No way," she said under her metaphorical breath. "This is just too good."

"Buffy, are you okay?"

"Riley, what are you doing here?" she asked, a smile coming to her lips.

"I got back last night. Everyone's worried about you. You didn't come back from patrol last night."

"I know," she said gravely. "You look good enough to eat," she added.

Riley blinked at her. "Are you okay?"

"You had fun with those vampire whores, didn't you, Riley?"

"What? Buffy . . ."

"They needed you," she said sympathetically, moving toward him. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "I need you now, Riley." Something in her eyes must have convinced him, because she sensed his body yielding to hers. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything, Buffy," he said quietly. "But you look . . . are you sure you're all right?"

Buffy lunged for Riley's throat, her face already shifting. He never had a chance to fight her off, her grip was too strong, the speed at which she sucked him dry too swift. His body hit the ground with a thud, and she swished her tongue around her mouth, making sure she had no bits of Riley between her teeth.

"Never better," she answered Riley's corpse belatedly, a wiggle to her hips as she walked from the cemetery.

It was great being dead.

~

Coffee black and egg white
pull me out from inside
I am ready
I am ready
I am ready
I am . . . fine
I am . . . fine

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Destruction -- "End of the Innocence"

~

Remember when the days were long
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn't have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standing by
But "happily ever after" fails
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales

~

She had been crying.

It was the last thought -- the only thought -- that ran through Joyce Summers' mind. My baby's been crying, and she looks hurt, and dear God, is that blood on her neck?

A day and a half had passed since Buffy had gone missing. Spike was staying in the house with Joyce and Dawn. The others had gone to the Magic Shop for supplies, all except Anya, who had been elected to make sure Spike behaved himself.

"Mom, I . . . I think I'm dying," Buffy had whispered from outside her own front door.

Years of being coached by Giles, by her own daughter, had been tossed aside in a fit of motherly concern.

"Buffy, quick, get inside, baby, what's happened?"

Joyce didn't even see Buffy's face change. It all happened so fast, Joyce barely had time to experience the horror of her daughter draining every drop of blood from Joyce's body.

Buffy had let her mother's boneless corpse drop from loose fingers, lazily licking her lips. Family blood had been sweeter than Riley's. Really, she'd only bothered to drain him because she'd been so hungry. Her sire, if you could call him that, had met the business end of Mr. Pointy as soon as she'd woken up.

Old instincts dying hard, Buffy supposed. Slayers must be extra strong when they rise. Maybe I'll ask Giles about it. Maybe I'll turn Giles. Can't really imagine un-life without him.

Spike had chosen that precise moment to enter the room, and his gaze had gone first to Joyce, then to Buffy, her game face still evident. While she was almost positive he wouldn't try to stop her, Buffy hadn't made it to this stage of the game by counting on "almosts" to save her. His shock had given her the upper hand, and she'd knocked him out and tied him up in a matter of minutes.

It seemed such a waste to stake him. He'd always been hot, but her high moral fiber had insisted she stay away from him. Morality wasn't really an issue anymore, so Buffy pressed a soft kiss to Spike's forehead, then practically skipped from the room.

Anya had been next, though Buffy hadn't drained her. She hadn't been all that hungry by that point. The killing was more for sport than food. Dawn, though . . . she had been curious about Dawn. Family blood was sweeter, but what about =fake= family blood? Would having memories of Dawn being annoying her entire life make up for the fact that on a fundamental level, she didn't really exist?

Taking a page from Angelus' book, Buffy had snapped Anya's neck, then left her body in the corner to play with later. Dawn had been upstairs at the time, and Buffy had enjoyed knocking on her sister's door, feigning happiness when the young teen expressed relief at Buffy's safety.

The girl's screams were heard down the next block, but this being Sunnydale, no one paid them much mind.

Done committing carnage in her own home, Buffy had hoisted Anya's body over her shoulder, snagged the keys to her mom's minivan, and haphazardly driven to Xander's apartment. His landlord, recognizing Buffy as one of "Xander's girls" had been kind enough to not only un-lock Xander's door, but also give her verbal permission to enter. Another fun fact she'd noted that evening was a vampire's ability to enter a person's home if that person's landlord said it was okay.

As she'd arranged Anya's body on Xander's bed, Buffy had half-hoped Giles accompanied the boy home. Talk about doubling her pleasure, doubling her fun. The memories this would bring back for Giles would be priceless. Plus, he'd have to deal with Angel in a matter of days. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

What would be better, Buffy had wondered, letting them wonder who committed these horrible crimes, =then= lowering the boom that it was their precious slayer, or hitting them with both shocks all at once?

In the end, her decision had been made for her. Spike had woken up and explained "the slayer's gone off her rocker." Then, what was left of the Scooby Gang had piled over to Xander's just in time to witness Buffy leap from the living room window, Anya's body still warm on Xander's bed. Buffy was still a little ticked at having missed the expressions on their faces.

She'd had bigger fish to fry, though. The blood that wasn't her own had been calling out to Angel. Her mate. The longing she normally ignored was undeniable in her current state. She needed him, on a desperate, animal level. She needed to punish him for leaving her; then she had to ensure that he never would again. On the way to Angel, she had swung by her dad's office to catch up.

With a little whipped cream, he'd made a fabulous dessert.

~

But I know a place where we can go
And wash away this sin
We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by
And the tall grass wave in the wind

~

There had been three messages on his answering machine.

Angel had pulled his numb body from the chair with an adrenaline rush of fear. He'd called Cordelia first, then Wesley, warning them not to invite Buffy in. Both had attempted to draw more information from him, but when he'd insisted they not let Buffy in, they'd both understood. After a quick debate, he'd called Gunn as well, though he wasn't even sure Buffy knew the young man worked for Angel.

Giles had called two and a half hours ago, while Angel and his crew had been at Caritas, celebrating a successful case. He'd been drinking while his love had been murdering her family. The first call requested Angel's presence in Sunnydale. Something had happened to Buffy, and they would prefer not to go into it over the phone, but Angel's help was required.

Before he heard the second message, some small measure of hope still existed in Angel's heart. Maybe it was like that time with Willow, he'd thought madly. Maybe this vampire that wore Buffy's face was from an alternate reality and all they had to do was send her back, and their Buffy, =his= Buffy would be just fine, like Willow in her fuzzy pink sweater, just standing there in the back of the library.

The second message had been more direct, and Angel had known hope was a luxury he could no longer afford. "Buffy has been turned, and we believe she is on her way to Los Angeles, either to kill her father, or you, or both. Be on guard, we're packing and shall arrive by morning."

Ironically, the third message was a thank you from Virginia Bryce. Angel had assisted her in choosing an anniversary gift for Wesley. Six months ago, the British Watcher had impersonated Angel and saved the young heiress' life. Virginia's happy voice inspired Angel to rip the machine from the wall, and hurl it across the room.

Next, he attacked his desk, papers, picture frames, pens flying everywhere. An inhuman howl left his mouth as he upturned the couch, before moving on to the coffee table. In a matter of minutes, his entire room was in a shambles, but he didn't feel any better. He sunk to his knees, at the center of the mess, too horrified to cry.

Was this what he'd left her to?

There was supposed to be sunshine and picnics, boys and happiness amidst her darkness. Buffy was supposed to be the slayer that defied the statistics, the one who beat those stuffy watchers and uncaring powers at their own game. It was supposed to be different for her, better. He'd left so her life would be better.

He should have been with her. No matter how illogical it was, he should have stayed, should have done anything to make it work. For the moment, all the reasons he'd left faded away. It didn't seem to matter that they were destroying themselves wanting each other, but never being allowed skin on skin contact. Never mind that every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd dreamed of being buried inside her living warmth.

Angel had wanted to give Buffy everything, to be the man who'd be parted from her only by death. He'd wanted to marry her, to give her children, safety, and a lifetime by his side. Barring all that, he'd been willing to surgically remove himself from her life so she'd have a chance with someone else. He'd left the woman who gave his existence purpose so she could have a life, and it had been for nothing.

The door opened quietly, and he didn't even move. Let whatever it was kill him and end it. At least then, maybe his soul could find Buffy's.

=Who would then do what must be done?=

Angel didn't know where the voice came from, but it got through to him. Buffy and I don't belong to ourselves, he remembered saying to Doyle once, we belong to the world.

"Angel?"

"What are you doing here, Cordelia?" Angel stood and grabbed Cordelia by her arms roughly. "I told you what's happened, why did you go out at night? She could still be out there, she could have killed you." He shook her once, sharply. "You could be =dead=."

Cordelia's eyes filled with tears. "I was worried about you. And before I was worried about you, but I didn't say anything. And maybe if I had, you wouldn't have more stuff to feel guilty for. Maybe if we'd all been better friends a lot of bad stuff could have been avoided."

She didn't say so, but he realized he must have been hurting her, and he released her immediately. "I'm . . .I'm sorry," he whispered, abruptly turning from her.

"Don't," she ordered, coming up behind him, pulling at his shoulder to make him face her. "Don't you dare try to pull away from us again. I won't let you this time."

"I'm not--"

"Not yet," she admitted. "But if Darla got under your skin . . .what's Vamp Buffy going to do?"

Under my skin, in my blood, in my head, a permanent lock on my heart and soul, he thought crazily.

"Wes is on his way. So is Gunn." Cordelia wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight. "We aren't going to let you slip away this time."

"It wasn't your fault," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her lower back. "I was falling, and nothing could have stopped it."

"That's what I told Wes, but he's consumed with guilt," she confided, and they both laughed, though the sound was pained.

"I'm not going to flirt with darkness over this, Cor," he said softly.

"Good," she said, pulling back so she could see his eyes, and therefore determine if he was lying to her.

His hands wrapped around her wrists, and he squeezed once, gently, to make sure she had his attention. "I won't fall into darkness," he said, "but that doesn't mean I'll survive this."

"Angel," she began warningly, but before she could continue, Wesley came through the door, followed by Gunn.

"Woah. Looks like a semi breezed through here," Gunn commented, his gaze caught by the chair that seemed to be imbedded in the wall.

"Well then," Wesley said, "let's clean it up."

"Guys," Angel began to protest.

"Don't 'guys' us," Cordelia snapped. "We're going to be here for you. We're going to help you through this."

Angel smiled weakly at her, but didn't voice his thoughts. She tried so hard, they all did, and for now, it was best to let them believe what they needed to. He knew the truth.

The only person who could have helped him now was dead.

And he would have to kill the demon that wore her face.

Somewhere, Buffy had to be laughing at the irony.

~

Just lay your head back on the ground
And let your hair fall all around me
Offer up your best defense
But this is the end
This is the end of the innocence

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Mourning -- "Me and Cinderella"

~

So long ago - I don't remember when
That's when they said I lost my only friend
Well, they said she died easy of a broken heart disease
As I listened through the cemetery trees

~

They came together in a large van, clutching each other like refugees in a new land. Giles took Angel aside and explained the details of Buffy's crimes, told him of the police finding Riley's body, Xander's discovery of Anya. Joyce and Dawn's deaths seemed to bother Giles the most, and Angel didn't bother to tell him he'd already guessed that Buffy's family was most likely dead. It was an instinct to go after the people you'd loved. It appeared Buffy had a cruel streak in her that would attract the demon within him like a magnet.

Spike was amongst their ranks, and Angel didn't bother to be surprised by it. Nothing seemed shocking after the sensation of Buffy's fangs piercing his throat.

Angel's people occupied one side of the great lobby of the Hyperion, the Scooby Gang the other. Everyone looked uncomfortable, sad and numb, and Angel had to tamp down on the urge to start hitting something.

It was Willow that finally broke the silence.

"It'll be okay," she said quietly. "We just have to get all the ingredients together -- Giles had everything but the orb at the magic shop."

"Willow," Angel began quietly, hating what was about to take place.

"We'll just curse her," Willow said, as though it were obvious.

Angel looked at her sadly. "No, Willow, we can't."

"Yes, we can," she insisted. "I did it for you, I'm sure I can channel that gypsy spirit again and curse Buffy. I'm a lot better at magic now than I was--"

"Willow," Angel interrupted, "it's not your skill that's in question."

Everyone in the room regarded Angel now, and their scrutiny made him uncomfortable. Why did he have to be the one to say this? Why not Giles, whose sacred duty was Buffy's well being? Why not Xander, who no doubt harbored resentment toward Buffy for Anya's death? Why not Cordelia, who couldn't want Buffy to be a permanent fixture in their lives, as she no doubt would be, at least until she'd grown accustomed to living the lonely, miserable existence of a vampire with a soul?

Why weren't any of them saying it first, why wouldn't they spare him having to?

"You don't want to?" Willow sounded shocked, hurt even.

"Of course I want to," Angel snapped, horrified as tears came to his eyes. He forced them back. Once he started crying, he might never stop. "That isn't the issue, Willow. What =I= want so rarely is," he added bitterly.

"I don't understand," Willow said finally, and he made an effort to remember who he was talking to -- a twenty-year-old girl whose best friend had died a few days ago.

"It's not fair to her," he said finally, his tone much more even now. "It's . . . you can't imagine -- none of you can -- what it's like to live with the crimes the demon perpetrated. No matter how many times you tell yourself it wasn't really you . . . it's still your hands that committed those crimes." Angel's gaze strayed to Giles for far too long, memories of Jenny Calendar assaulting him, and he forced his mind back to the subject at hand. "It's still you that's ultimately responsible. Buffy feels . . . Buffy =felt= guilty when someone died while she was sleeping, or eating dinner. How is she supposed to deal with this?"

"You do," Xander pointed out. "You deal with it every day. Do you think she's not up to it?"

Angel shook his head. "I think she would survive it. In time, she might even start to live some kind of good life." He stared down at the ground, pulling the words he desperately wanted to keep quiet from the recesses of his soul. "But why should she have to?" His gaze met each of Buffy's friends -- her family. "Why should she have to wake up and remember killing her mother and her little sister?"

Xander flinched, and Angel felt badly, but it couldn't be helped. The boy would recover from Anya's death. Angel wasn't entirely certain Buffy would. God knew Angel never had. An image of his sister Kathleen's face flashed through his mind, followed by one of his mother, and finally, the father he'd never had a chance to mend fences with. Luckily, a voice broke into his thoughts before their faces contorted with horrified screams.

"Angel is correct." All occupants of the room now turned toward Wesley. "And I believe, given time to consider every alternative, Mr. Giles will agree, as well."

"Giles?" Willow asked, her voice plaintive. Begging him to say we aren't right, Angel thought. Begging him to say they could still save Buffy.

"This is her worst nightmare," Giles said finally. "It would be . . ." The older man looked directly at Angel, a wordless apology passing between them. "It would be hatefully cruel to curse Buffy. Something people who love her could never do."

"It would be for us," Angel said. "We want her back. We love her, we need her. Her soul is at peace right now, and it would be the worst kind of selfish to call it back to a body that would do its damnedest to reject it." He cut off his speech abruptly, angry with himself. Your issues, he intoned quietly, and nothing they care to hear about.

Willow moved toward him, and he was horrified to see large, crystal tears gathering at her eyelashes. The tiny redhead stood before him, a river of sorrow spilling down her cheeks. She took his hand.

"I'm sorry," she said hoarsely.

"For what?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.

"For cursing you again. I did it for Buffy, so she wouldn't have to kill you, but you didn't want it, and I'm so . . . " a hitched sob left her throat. "I'm so sorry, I just want her back. And she just wanted you back, but she had to send you to hell, and it's all my fault."

Angel placed a hand on her shoulder, then pulled her to his chest while she sobbed. "It's all right," he said quietly against her head. "It was . . . it happened, you did the best you could, and . . . and maybe it was meant to happen that way. You did the right thing, Willow. Things worked out. Just like they'll work out now. Maybe they won't be as we'd like them to, but . . . they will work out." They have to, he added silently.

Tara moved up behind Willow, and Angel gratefully turned the redhead into the welcoming arms of her lover. The two girls clung together, and Angel moved to the workstation that Cordelia often occupied, gripping the counter tightly. If he'd had circulation, his knuckles would have turned white. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

"What do you intend to do?"

It was Giles' voice, right next to him, away from the others.

"What she couldn't. What she should have."

"Are you sure that you can?"

No, Angel thought. "I have to."

"That's not what I asked, and you bloody well know it." Giles' eyes were burning with repressed sorrow and rage.

"I can kill her," Angel said tonelessly. "I just don't know if I'll survive it."

"You damn well better," Cordelia said hotly, and he was worried, because he hadn't felt her approach. "If you go kamikaze on me again and stick me with these visions, I will =never= forgive you."

Angel almost smiled. "I love you, Cordelia," he said softly. "Always remember that." Then he turned, and walked away before anyone else could speak to him.

~

I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between these seedy walls of dying dreams
I think her death, it must be killing me

~

"Lots of rooms. Must get a lot of lost souls."

Xander's words were quiet, his subdued persona since they'd all arrived unnerving Cordelia more than she wanted to admit.

"A few," Cordelia answered as they walked down one of the long hallways in the hotel.

"It's uh . . . it's real nice of Angel to let us all stay here. Can't be easy for him, especially given how not secret I've kept my burning hatred of him."

"Angel's just a bigger person than all of us," Cordelia answered. "I guess that's what happens when you're a billion years old."

Xander almost smiled at that, and Cordelia mentally patted herself on the back.

"I never pegged you as someone who'd work for Dead Boy, but life here really seems to suit you, Cordy." Xander chuckled weakly. "Look at me, Mature Guy."

Cordelia smiled as brightly as she could under the circumstances, acknowledging his compliment without words. Funny how she hadn't even noticed the changes in herself until they'd come and gone. It was the first time she saw the woman she'd become reflected in Angel's eyes, in Wesley's eyes, that she'd realized just how far she'd come. It made her proud that Gunn had never even known the shallow, bitchy Cordelia who'd ruled the halls at Sunnydale High.

"Here we are," she announced, standing outside one of the hotel's many rooms, "your accommodation for the duration of your stay."

"Thanks," he answered softly. "Would you -- Could you, I mean, you know, if you aren't . . ." He sighed deeply. "Never mind."

"Can I come in for a minute, Xander?"

This time, the smile he gave her was wide; it was the smile of the boy she'd fallen in love with. "If you want to."

With a gentle smack to his arm, she preceded him into the room.

~

Well, I seen the sun coming up at the funeral at dawn
Of the long broken arm of human law
And how it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
I wondered why she hung around this place

~

"Is there anything you'd like? Tea, perhaps?"

"Tea." A funny smile passed across Giles' mouth. "She used to tease me about thinking tea would solve any problem at hand."

Wesley winced in sympathy for the older man. "She had a beautiful soul. Quite unconventional, but immeasurably brave."

"What would you know about it?" Giles snapped. "You did nothing but put her down your entire tenure as her watcher."

"I was a different man then," Wesley stated calmly. Giles had suffered a great loss, and he refused to add to it by sniping at the other man.

"And what miraculous procedure unstuck that bug up your arse?"

"It was Angel, actually," Wesley said conversationally. "Cordelia as well. They accepted me into their lives without question. Opened their hearts and their business to me. Never made me feel inferior because I hadn't clocked the time in the field they had. Angel, especially, made an effort to make me feel needed, which I felt was quite extraordinary on his part, given my past treatment of him." Wesley moved to the small kitchenette in Giles' room and busied himself with the teapot. "Your slayer was like Angel in that way. Always willing to open her whole heart to someone. Always willing to give a second chance when it was needed."

"Yes," Giles said quietly, following Wesley into the kitchen. "She was like that."

Something in Giles' voice didn't sit right with Wesley. "I detect a but," he said, then made a face. "Please, do ignore that phraseology."

"I had planned to," Giles assured him, rooting around in a cabinet until he located a box of herbal tea. "Buffy . . . recently -- well, for the last year or so, I've noticed changes in her. Some were natural, some made me proud, even. Her maturity was astounding. I barely recognized the young girl I first met five years ago in her."

"Everyone changes," Wesley said reasonably. "Angel never ages, and yet even in the short time I've known him, he's gone through a remarkable metamorphosis."

"Yes, well, from what I've seen, Angel's growth seems to be for the best. Buffy . . . she lost what remained of her innocence after that business with Faith. Whatever she experienced in Faith's body scarred her deeply. She refused to talk about it, and I don't think she ever really forgave any of us for not instinctively knowing something wasn't right while Faith was amongst us."

"Surely that didn't completely change her entire personality," Wesley said.

"No, no, certainly not," Giles agreed, snatching up the kettle as it began to whistle. Wesley held two cups while Giles poured. "It was merely the beginning. I was supposed to be her watcher, and I saw all these weights landing squarely upon her shoulders, and I was helpless to do anything to aid her."

"May I remind you that it was never your job to aid her," Wesley pointed out. "Watchers were always intended to advise, to observe, but ultimately, to remain uninvolved."

"Yes. Well." Giles removed his glasses, angrily cleaning them with the edge of his shirt. "I tried not to care for her, but it proved an impossible task. There was just . . ."

"Something about her," Wesley supplied helpfully. "For the record, I don't believe myself capable of remaining unattached, either. In a manner of speaking, I've taken up the role of watcher to Angel. Granted, he doesn't need me nearly as much as Buffy needed you--"

"Don't be surprised," Giles interrupted softly. "Buffy appeared quite independent as well. So much so that I nearly left her when she needed me most."

"But you didn't," Wesley announced triumphantly. "You remained by her side until the very end."

"And I imagine you'll do the same for Angel," Giles finished, his own triumph clear.

Wesley carried his tea into the living room. "Touché," he murmured as he took a seat, settling in for a long discussion with a man he'd once borne more than his fair share of jealousy towards.

~

Well this place is old and it feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
What smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn

~

Willow sat quietly on the large bed in the room that man -- Gunn, she remembered -- had shown her to. He'd taken Tara to the kitchen where the other witch could help him make dinner for everyone.

Like any of us could eat, Willow thought sadly. Angel probably can't even eat, and his hunger is way more intense than mine, even when I really want a jelly doughnut.

"You all right, Red?"

"Gaaah!" Willow cried, leaping from the bed, her hand pressed tight against her breast. "Spike. Don't =do= that."

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't realize you humans were so damned jumpy."

"Well we are," Willow informed him. "We're also prone to be even more jumpy when we're under tons of stress, like now." There were tears in her eyes. It seemed there were always tears in her eyes lately.

"Hey," Spike soothed gently, "I really am sorry. It's just in my nature to go lurking about."

Mollified, Willow sat back down on the bed. After a moment, she motioned for Spike to join her. He sat quietly at her side, and she was amazed at how unobtrusive he was. She nearly jumped again when his hand came down on her shoulder in an awkward patting motion.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, facing him.

"Well, the way I figure it is, Niblet would've been the closest one to the slayer, assuming the slayer had let her live. Since she didn't, that leaves you. And I figure if Buffy were still Buffy, she'd want to make sure you were all right."

"And so," Willow began, a disbelieving note crossing her voice. She let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.

"I'm here to make sure you are," he said, then fidgeted slightly. "All right."

"I'm fine," Willow muttered defiantly, even though she was anything but.

"I somehow doubt that, Red."

"What do you care anyway?" Willow snapped. "You're probably glad Buffy's a vampire now!"

Had she been less irrational, Willow might have noticed Spike looked like she'd slapped him.

"You're in love with her," she continued, lost in her own grief, "everyone sees it. And she never would've looked at you that way as a human, but now that she's DEAD you've got a chance."

"You're about two seconds away from something very unpleasant, you little witch," Spike said in a low, deadly voice.

"Right," she scoffed. "Even if you could hurt me, there's nothing you could do that hurts worse than what's happened to Buffy."

"You think I don't know that?"

The tone of his voice brought Willow up short. He hadn't sounded like arrogant Spike, or uncaring Spike, or even evil Spike. It had been ages since she'd heard anything approaching this tone from him, and at the time, he'd been threatening her with a broken bottle.

"Buffy never would have loved me back," he said calmly, "soul or no. She's been in love with Angel from the moment she set eyes on him, and if him going all Angelus on her didn't change that, nothing will." He stared down at his black fingernails like they were the most fascinating things in the world. "And even if by some miracle she did love me like this . . . it's not what I want. Much as it bloody pains me to admit it -- and it =does= pain me, Red -- the girl I loved had a soul, and a conscience, and she slayed vampires because she was chosen.

"The Buffy I loved is as lost to me as yours is to you."

Willow felt the tears start again. They rolled down her cheeks in unending, spiraling waves she had no prayer of stopping.

She and Spike sat quietly on the bed, sharing their grief with each other, and the silence.

~

Hey! Hey! Hey! Come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than in the middle
But, me and Cinderella
We'll put it all together
We can drive it home...
....with one headlight

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Infection -- "Hey You"

~

Hey you, out there in the cold
Getting lonely, getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you, standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you, don't help them to bury the light
Don't give in without a fight.

~

It was laughably easy to track her down. Assuming anything about this situation made Angel feel like laughing. Which it didn't.

Buffy liked the ocean. She liked to hear the waves crash against the shore, she loved the smell of salt air, and once, she'd told him the beach reminded her of her life. Wild and unpredictable, capable of giving you the greatest ride of your life one minute, and pounding you harshly into the ground the next.

The demon Buffy was now wouldn't be able to shake her wants and desires, her hopes and dreams. That was a lesson Darla had taught him barely a day out of his grave. The same love will infect our hearts, she'd whispered to him as he stood in the destruction of his family's kitchen.

His demon hadn't been capable of love for the first hundred and forty years of its existence. Angel himself had never known it, aside from the love he'd felt for his sister and his parents. It hadn't been until Angel had loved Buffy with all his dead heart that he'd given the demon something new to feel. After Angel lost his soul, Angelus had been unprepared to deal with his new set of baggage.

He'd quite literally been prepared to suck the world into hell to end his obsession with the small blonde girl whose sacred duty it was to kill him.

It was then unsurprising that Buffy would have come to Los Angeles in search of what her human self had thought of as her true love. Naturally, the demon would perceive that love differently, but no less vehemently. If anything, her desire to be with him would be intensified, as she no longer feared his curse breaking; he'd be willing to bet she would welcome it.

"It's about time you got here. I was beginning to think that sign on the door that says 'Angel =Investigations=' was just for show."

She stood by the shore, moonlight shining down on her already pale skin. It saddened him that Buffy's ever present, healthy tan had been obliterated so quickly. Then again, her pale skin looked like fine porcelain, infinitely fragile.

He shook the imagery off. This business of thinking of her as anything but a demon to be killed had to stop.

Acutely aware of just how easily she could probably kill him, he moved toward her slowly, stopping once he'd reached her side, a few feet still separating them. He took in her appearance, and caught his metaphorical breath. Her dress was pale blue, a tasteful print that clung and curved around her body. It was virtually see-through, and he could clearly see her breasts, rosy nipples poking angrily against the silky material, her hips, the small patch of blonde hair just above legs that seemed to stretch on into infinity.

He really had to stop wanting her this badly. Though given how successful he'd been at that particular endeavor in the past, he sincerely doubted he'd have much luck now. His body was chemically inclined to lust after hers. Soul or no, pulse or no, she was his mate, and his bones ached the longer he stood beside her. The demon inside him howled for him to take her, right here in the sand, to rip into her flesh with his fangs, because she'd welcome it, would claw at him for more . . .

"Thinking naughty thoughts, lover?" she inquired in a baby soft voice.

His gaze snapped to hers, and he probably would have blushed had he been physically able. Man and demon were meeting inside of him, in perfect agreement for the first time in over two hundred years. She was his, and he had to take her.

"What do you want from me?" His voice was hoarse, and he tried to inject more authority and less longing into it. "Why did you come here?"

"I came to L.A. to pay a visit on Daddy," she began, mistaking his question, purposely, he was sure. "Turns out I had a lot of unchecked rage issues brought on by the abandonment of a father figure." A tiny frown marred her perfect brow. "At least, that's what the therapist I met told me. I was understandably disappointed with her diagnosis and, well . . ."

"Had her for dinner?" Angel suggested, the part of his mind still functioning rationally deciding that listening to Buffy speak so casually of murdering her family was more traumatic than re-living the time he'd killed his. And still, he wanted to touch the skin so tempting beneath that flimsy dress. She wore no underwear, it would be so easy to slide it over her hips, to press her to the sand and--

"You look tense," she commented, seemingly concerned for him. "You always look so tense. You really need to learn to relax more. Here, let me show you." She moved fast, knelt at his feet. If it had been an attack, he'd most likely be dust, because his limbs felt sluggish. His mind hadn't yet processed that his Buffy was =dead=, not when she was right here in front of him, sounding so much like herself.

"What are you--?"

His shoes and socks were removed and tossed aside. Again, she stood before him, and he noticed that she was barefoot as well, wiggling her toes against the sand.

"It feels great," she confided. "It's a little known fact that wet sand heals all that ails you."

"Buffy," he murmured, because that sounded exactly like something she'd say. He reached a hand out toward her, and she grasped it, squeezing tightly.

Then, she began to laugh. But not Buffy's laugh, rich and deep, sending ripples of delight up and down his spine. This laugh was a cold, evil thing. Buffy stood on her toes and brought her mouth to his ear.

"Gotcha," she whispered, a moment before she shoved at his chest, then turned and ran down the beach.

Angel did the only thing he could think to do; the thing he'd always done.

He followed her.

~

Hey you, standing in the road
always doing what you're told,
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall,
Breaking bottles in the hall,
Can you help me?
Hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall.

~

"It sort of feels like you died too, doesn't it?"

Xander looked at Cordelia, surprised that she'd spoken. They'd been sitting on the floor of his room quietly for the last half-hour. It was nice, being with her like this. Back when they'd been dating, they couldn't have gone ten minutes without an argument, or a vicious make-out session -- sometimes both at the same time. This sitting quietly with an old friend thing was new to them.

"Yeah," he said, focusing on her question. "That's exactly how it feels."

"I lost someone," she began hesitantly. "I'm not even going to compare it to how you must feel with Anya, but he -- Doyle -- was very special to me."

"Were you . . ."

She smiled. "No. Though not for his lack of trying."

"You always were irresistible, Cordy."

"We might have been something, though," she continued. "In fact, I'm pretty sure we would have been. I mourned that for a long time. Angel was mourning the death of his friend, and so was I, but I was also mourning the death of a chance at something that would never come again."

"Love always comes again," Xander said before he could stop himself. He frowned. "Anya said that once. At the time, she was being flippant about how men always moved on to the next barmaid."

"But it's true," Cordelia agreed. "When we ended, I was heartbroken."

"Right," Xander said, his disbelief evident. "Cause Queen C was all torn up about finally being given a legitimate excuse to ditch the King of Cretins."

"I was in love with you, Xander," Cordelia said flatly. "It killed me to find you with Willow."

"You loved me," he repeated quietly.

"Of course I did, dorkus!" She smacked his arm. "God! How could you not know that?"

"Maybe because you were always saying how I was beneath you and how you could do better than me by trolling for guys at the docks?"

Cordelia grimaced. "Yeah, okay, so not my finest hour."

"Hours," Xander corrected.

"Whatever," Cordelia said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. She grew serious. "I'm sorry. For how I was in high school. For how I was as your girlfriend."

"Yeah, well, me too." A bittersweet smile tilted Xander's lips upward. "I used to think you and I were how it was supposed to be. Passionate and angry, lots of sudden clinches in broom closets."

"How could you possibly think =that=?"

"Well, you know how my parents are. Ma and Pa Walton they're not. I guess I always thought love and rage went hand in hand."

"Xander," she murmured quietly, sympathetically.

"Anya showed me how different it could be," he said softly. "She made me a man, Cordy, in every way. I was so proud to be with her, even when she was embarrassing me by saying the most inappropriate thing possible." A laugh caught around a sob in his throat. "I really do feel like I'm dead."

Cordelia wrapped an arm around his shoulder, tugging gently until his forehead rested against the side of her neck.

"That's okay," she whispered against the top of his head, pressing an almost motherly kiss there, "we'll resurrect you in the morning."

~

But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high,
As you can see.
No matter how he tried,
He could not break free.
And the worms ate into his brain.

~

"Her name was Glory," Giles said at last, "and she was a God."

They'd been talking for over an hour. They'd abandoned tea when Giles had begun his tale of Dracula, and switched to brandy when Wesley informed Giles of Darla's reappearance to the land of the un-living.

Giles had already explained about Dawn, a girl whom Wesley had no memory of. He wondered if Angel and Cordelia knew of her. Buffy's sister had been some sort of key, pure energy with the power to open some demon dimension. Unfortunately, Buffy's turn to darkness had resulted in Dawn's death, and, Giles had learned before he set out for Los Angeles, Glory's as well.

"Apparently, a few demons at Willy's bar witnessed it. Her minion informed her of the key's destruction -- while in human form, Dawn was as vulnerable as any other mortal -- and she quite literally self-destructed. My pet theory is that when all hope of returning to her home was gone, the thought of going on was too much."

"Remarkable," Wesley commented.

"What I find remarkable is this scroll you've discovered," Giles insisted, slurring his words slightly. They'd gone through half a bottle already. "A vampire destined to save the world and reap a hero's reward -- it's unheard of."

"It =was= unheard of," Wesley corrected, puffing up a bit. "But then Angel is rather famous for breaking vampire conventions, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmm," Giles hummed noncommittally, sitting back in his chair. "Buffy would have been overjoyed to learn he might become human one day."

"Would she have," Wesley mused dubiously.

"Of course," Giles snapped. "She loved Angel. More than any of us realized until it was much too late."

"Her treatment of him would suggest otherwise," Wesley declared hotly. "Honestly, the way she spoke to him the last time she was here--"

"She was angry," Giles defended. "Angry and hurt over Faith."

"Did she even tell you what happened?"

"Not in so many words," Giles admitted grudgingly. "But things . . . things were tense at the time. The look on her face was explanation enough."

"This is counter-productive," Wesley declared, pouring himself yet another glass of brandy. "And I've no doubt that we'd never be discussing it were we not so fantastically schnockered."

"Indeed," Giles agreed, also pouring more dark brown liquid into his own cup. "Though I admit, I look forward to a drunken oblivion."

"I never feel rested after passing out," Wesley commented idly.

"So long as I'm unable to dream, I shall be content," Giles declared. "I admit, I'm quite afraid of what I'll see the next time I dream."

"And so you should be," Wesley agreed, not without sympathy. "And so, perhaps, should we all."

~

Hey you, out there on your own
Sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?
Hey you, with you ear against the wall
Waiting for someone to call out
Would you touch me?

~

It only took him a minute to catch her. When he did, she was still laughing. Instead of stilling, she continued to move, wrapping her arms and legs around his until they fell to the ground, rolling in the sand and surf. Luckily, neither needed to breathe, so the few minutes they spent being pounded beneath a wave did no long-term damage.

Once they'd regained their footing, they squared off with one another again, each measuring exactly how far the other was willing to go. Buffy took long, lingering eyefuls of him, water dripping down his neck into the collar of his now-clingy dark blue shirt. Water dripped off her, as well, and the dress he'd thought see-through before was literally transparent when wet.

"You can't kill me," she pronounced finally, inching toward him with silky, assured steps. "You can't kill me anymore than I could kill you."

"You did kill me," he reminded her.

"Only because I didn't want the world sucked into hell," she countered. Her gaze found his, and her eyes were so familiar, so achingly =Buffy=, that he nearly wept. "Not caring about the world so much right now."

For some reason, his hands were gripping her upper arms tightly. When he'd first taken hold of her, it had been with the intent to push her away, because he didn't know if he could control himself with her so close. Now, with her face so near his throat, her mouth making tiny little brush strokes against his skin, he found his resolve weakening. Weak. He'd told her once that he'd never been anything but. Every time he saw her, he proved it.

He'd been weak with Darla, too. Despite all the hell he'd survived -- both literal and figurative -- she'd managed to wear him down. He could say she'd blackmailed him all he wanted. They both knew the truth: he'd sought to lose himself in her only to remember . . .

. . . it wasn't sex that caused him to lose his soul. It was Buffy: her light, her radiance, and an essence that was simply and uniquely hers. Once upon a time, she'd given him peace, made him feel like a human being for a single, perfect moment, and his soul had soared so high in her embrace, he'd actually lost it.

"Are you still pissed off about that?"

Angel was snapped back into the present. "About what?"

"That whole me sending you to hell thing," she said in a "duh" voice. "Because I really am sorry."

"I was never angry with you for that," he told her honestly.

"Right," she said slowly. "I sent you to hell for an eternity, and it didn't make you even a little bit cranky. Come on, you can tell me. That's the real reason you left me, isn't it? You couldn't get past the whole eternity of suffering thing."

"You did the right thing," he said tightly. "I've never blamed you for it. I certainly didn't leave because of it."

"Liar," she whispered against his face. How the hell had she gotten so close again? Why didn't he push her away? "Oh, my love, we have so many issues to work through."

"Like you being evil," he pointed out nastily.

She made a tsking sound. "That is totally unfair. You went evil way before me. Did I ever hold that against you? Did I try to throw it in your face?"

"As a matter of fact," he began, losing all semblance of rational thought in this conversation, "I can recall several occasions where you--"

"Oh no, you do not get to throw all the times I tried to stake you in my face," she stated firmly. "It was my job. And besides, =you= are the one who turned all Ambivalent Cold Guy the morning after."

"I was soulless," he cried.

"So am I!" she shot back. "And look, here I am, trying to work things out between us. God, Angel, aren't you willing to put just a little effort into this?"

And there it was. This had officially become the most surreal conversation he'd ever participated in.

"I don't want you," he said clearly, though hysterical laughter started bubbling up in his head at the boldface lie.

The low, throaty chuckle, though, that came from her. Long fingernails scraped down his chest against the material of his shirt until she reached his belt. Three teasing strokes had him hard as a rock, and her palm pressed against his fly.

"Nice try, my love," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his chin. "But I know better. You've always wanted me. You want me just as much as I wanted you, evil or not."

"You never wanted me when I was like that," he denied vehemently. "When you were human, you hated me without a soul."

Her smile turned cruel. "Keep telling yourself that," she whispered, releasing him. She took a few short steps away from him. "But we both know the truth. I ached for you every single minute we were apart. I hated the evil that controlled you, but I still loved you. And I certainly still wanted you." She shrugged carelessly. "And now, I really don't care if you're souled or not. I'll take you any way I can get you."

"I won't," he said quietly.

"We'll see," she giggled softly, slowly disappearing into the night.

This time, he did not follow her.

~

Hey you, would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I'm coming home.

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Learning -- "Everybody Wants to Rule the World"

~

It's my own design
It's my own remorse
Help me to decide
Help me make the most
Of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever
Everybody wants to rule the world
There's a room where the light won't find you
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down
When they do I'll be right behind you
So glad we've almost made it
So sad they had to fade it
Everybody wants to rule the world

~

"Excuse me, Mr. McDonald, there's an unauthorized vampire on the premises."

Lindsey's gaze tracked Darla as she moved around his office, flipping off the intercom link with his secretary. "Is Drusilla joining us?"

"Hardly," Darla said with a disdainful toss of her head. "Dru found being pursued by Angel more than she could handle. After she returned from that ill-advised holiday to Sunnydale we parted company. I imagine she's halfway to Buenos Aries."

"Perhaps Angel's decided to play the marauding knight, come to rescue the fair lady from our dastardly clutches," Lindsey mused, not particularly caring one way or another.

"Wrong, but thanks for playing, and we hope you'll enjoy the home game." The occupants of the room turned their attention to the newcomer. "You were admirable contestants, especially you, given the handicap and all." Her gaze darted quickly to Lindsey's prosthetic hand before once again returning to his face.

"Slayer," Darla hissed.

"Woah," Buffy said, holding up a hand. "So no need to start insulting me."

"You smell different," Darla pronounced, carefully moving toward Buffy. "You smell . . ."

"Dead?" Buffy offered helpfully.

Darla's eyes widened. "You're . . ."

"A vampire," Buffy enunciated slowly. "Very good. It's nice to know you aren't a total blonde."

"You're Angel's slayer," Lindsey said, finally speaking.

Buffy turned to regard him. "I don't belong to anyone but myself."

"That's not the way your file tells it," Lindsey informed her.

"Does my file say how many different ways I can kill you?" she snapped.

"No need to snap at Lindsey, sweetie," Darla interrupted, stepping between them. "Forgive him for being rude. He's in the middle of a power struggle."

Lindsey sent a glare Darla's way, and on cue, Lilah entered their impromptu gathering.

"Speak of the devil," Darla murmured.

"Isn't that normally how people speak of you?" Lilah shot back.

"No need to be rude to a valuable ally, Lilah," Lindsey chastised.

"This 'valuable ally' is the reason Angel nearly killed one of the senior partners. I think you've got a massive blind spot where she's concerned, and trusting her is a serious error in judgment."

"That sounded suspiciously like a threat, Lilah," Lindsey drawled.

"Call it what you want. I'm here with the authority of the senior partners. We've been ordered to cease all contact with Darla and Drusilla." Lilah paused, turning toward Buffy with a sneer. "Who the hell are you?"

"Rude, much?" Buffy rolled her eyes. "I can't believe you're the people giving Angel such a headache. He really must be slipping."

"You haven't been doing your homework, Lilah," Lindsey chided. "We have here in our presence the illustrious slayer who brought Angelus to his knees."

"Buffy Summers," Lilah murmured.

"Formerly," Buffy agreed cheerfully. "I haven't decided whether or not to keep the Summers. I've noticed most of the 'big' vampires don't have last names. I mean, Angelus, Spike, Darla, Drusilla, Dracula -- jeez, there are a lot of D's, aren't there? -- no, I'm thinking Summers is gonna have to go."

"Normally, the sire assists the childe in finding a new identity," Darla said, smiling serenely.

"Bummer," Buffy declared, not sounding too bummed out at all.

Darla looked at her disdainfully. "Something wrong, dear?"

"I staked my sire," she explained without preamble. "So I guess I'm gonna have to stick with Buffy, at least for now."

"Can we help you?" Lilah asked, sounding annoyed.

"You know, you, I just don't like," Buffy said, reaching out to snap Lilah's neck before the other woman could react. Darla and Lindsey watched, barely phased.

"Well, Lindsey," Darla began with a raised eyebrow, "you can cheer up a little. That power struggle seems to have come to an end."

"She was rude," Buffy declared. She turned her attention to Lindsey. "Are you rude?"

"No, ma'am," Lindsey answered carefully, a hint of respect in his gaze. "I am curious what you want with us, though."

"You, I need something from," Buffy murmured silkily, running a hand down the side of Lindsey's face. "I need you to give me something."

"What?"

"I need Wolfram and Hart's file on Angel."

"Right," Darla scoffed. "Like he's going to give =you=--"

"I can only give you the data I've gathered myself," Lindsey warned her. "Everything else is under too tight security."

The office door suddenly broke open, and five security guards burst in. "Mr. McDonald--" one of them began.

"It's fine," Lindsey assured them. He gestured to Lilah's body. "Get this out of here."

Once Lilah had been disposed of, and the guards departed, the three principals in the little drama re-focused on one another.

"Angel has a file you don't know about?" Buffy asked curiously.

"I know bits and pieces, whispers that have floated around like office gossip. I know there are scrolls and prophecies to do with the End of Days, Angel's role, whether he'll be playing for the home team or not."

"And will he?" Buffy asked, extremely curious now.

"That's to be determined," Lindsey explained softly, caught up in this woman's eyes. He'd never seen such power restrained inside such a small package before, and he'd spent his fair share of time with incredibly powerful things.

"I hate to interrupt this little meeting of the minds," Darla cut in, annoyed, "but Lindsey and I were in the middle of something when you broke in."

"I'm sorry," Buffy said sweetly, "were you begging him to sleep with you? Cause I know that's how you got your men a few years ago."

"I don't beg, little girl, and I also managed to 'get' Angel a few =weeks= ago." Darla stared at Buffy smugly.

Buffy frowned, and Lindsey thought she actually managed to look adorably frustrated.

"Does Angel's file include everything she's," Buffy glared extra hard at Darla, "done to him since she's been back?"

"Of course," Lindsey confirmed.

"Then I don't need you," Buffy told Darla happily.

She punched Darla in the face, and the other woman reared back, her game face evident. Darla reacted, ducking Buffy's next blow, her leg kicking out to send the former slayer sprawling on the floor. Buffy, however, laughed at this, seeming amused by the fight.

Darla leapt at Buffy, straddling her waist, pinning both of the other vampire's arms above her head. They struggled for a moment, but Buffy never stopped smiling, and her face never changed from its human guise.

"You're pretty strong," Buffy commented. "You're what, four hundred and change?"

"You know how old I am," Darla snapped.

"Yeah, but I also know you're kind of a new model, too. I'm just curious -- are you stronger now than you were before, or weaker?"

"Stronger," Darla assured her, a touch of arrogance creeping into her voice. "Becoming again has given me twice the strength I had before."

"And yet," Buffy said, easily slipping from Darla's grasp. She pulled Mr. Pointy from the waistband of her red leather pants and imbedded it in to Darla's back before the other woman knew what hit her. "I'm twice as strong as you," she concluded, feigned awe evident in her tone. Darla turned to dust.

Buffy brushed her front off as she stood, glancing up at Lindsey. "I can't believe she actually managed to be useful. I've been wondering how I measured up to other vamps that don't happen to hail from the loser side of town. Angel really isn't much of a measuring stick since he's always been a little stronger than the average vamp. Not to mention all that strength he got after he fed off me." As Lindsey continued to stare at her, Buffy raised both her eyebrows at him. "Um, I'm kind of in a hurry, so if you could run along and fetch that file now . . ."

"Gladly," Lindsey said, his gaze quickly darting to where Darla once was. Yes, this girl was powerful. She'd just demonstrated to him and herself just how powerful.

"Oh," Buffy called after him. "You wouldn't happen to know where Drusilla is, would you?"

Lindsey started to shake his head, then stopped. "I could probably locate her for you."

The smile Buffy gave him was brilliant. "That's gonna keep you alive for at least a week, Lin," she said like she was proud of him.

Lindsey left his office quickly. He'd get her the file, then, hopefully, she'd leave. Lindsey was ambivalent about his own death, but he definitely didn't want it to be at Buffy's hands. He had no doubt that she'd make it hurt, and make it last. Lindsey slowed his step. Then he grinned.

The man who'd taken Lindsey's hand was about to get what was coming to him.

~

Welcome to your life
There's no turning back
Even while we sleep
We will find you acting on your best behavior
Turn your back on Mother Nature
Everybody wants to rule the world

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Ecstasy -- i would die for you

~

i would die for you
i would die for you
i've been dying just to feel you by my side
to know that you're mine
i will cry for you
i will cry for you
i will wash away your pain with all my tears
and drown your fear
i will burn for you
feel pain for you
i will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart

~

"Rise and shine, lover."

Awareness returned slowly. Angel had been sleeping the sleep of the dead, not haunted by visions of Vampire Buffy for the first time since her appearance three days before. The first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was the vial of powder -- Corinthian, if Wesley's theory about Darla had been correct -- lying on the bed. The second was the scantily clad blonde on his chest.

"Buffy," he mumbled, moving to touch her, though whether to pull her closer, or push her away, he'd never know. His wrists were bound to the bed.

"Magic shackles," she informed him with a bubbly little smile. "Not even supernatural strength can break them." Her face loomed closer, and she pressed her mouth right against his ear. "We should get a second pair when we work out these difficulties between us."

"Difficulties?" he asked, a bit stunned.

"You know, our issues. The reasons we aren't together."

"You're evil," he said, as though it should be obvious. He was beginning to feel a bit like a broken record.

Her eyes rolled. "Come =on=, Angel, every couple has problems. I have more faith in us than that. My therapist says you're obviously not trying very hard."

"Is this the same therapist you ate?" he asked coldly.

Seemingly oblivious to his tone, Buffy nodded happily. "My first minion," she explained. Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "She's =very= good."

"I didn't think bondage was your style," he commented, trying to find a way out of his current predicament.

"You'd be surprised what my style is now," she replied, shifting against him so that the leather shorts she wore rubbed against his stomach. The matching black bra was a nice touch. "I paid a little visit to someone you know."

Fear seized him. "Who?" God, don't let her have killed another of their friends . . .

"Your sire."

The relief nearly paralyzed him. "Darla," he whispered, a weight he hadn't realized existed lifting from his shoulders. He wouldn't have to do it again. He wouldn't have to kill her. Instead, he'd have to drive a stake through the heart of the only woman he'd ever loved . . .

Buffy misinterpreted the grief that crossed his face. "Don't you =dare= mourn her," she hissed, digging her fingernails into his chest, drawing blood.

Angel bit back a grunt of pain, a small twitch by his left eye the only move he made to betray just how much that had hurt.

"I could smell her on you, you know," she continued in a conversational tone. "The moment I was in the same room with you again, I could smell her all over you. After that, I knew I had to look her up."

"You always were the jealous type," Angel muttered.

"Oh, you have no idea." Her mouth pressed against his jaw. "I want to skin alive every woman who's ever touched you." Her tongue darted out to swipe over his chin. "It's a good thing most of them died a long time ago, or I'd have quite the body count piling up, wouldn't I, Angel?"

He tightened his mouth, trying not to look at her, trying not to react to her being so physically near. His mind knew it wasn't Buffy, but his body was crying out for her touch. Even after that touch had hurt. Maybe because of it. Angelus' sexual appetites were legendary amongst the demon community, as were his preferences. He liked pain, almost as much as he liked pleasure. That wasn't something he'd ever wanted Buffy to know, but it seemed she was destined to learn all of his secrets.

"No matter," she said lightly. "I'll find Drusilla, and any other little whore you've bedded since we've been apart."

"There hasn't been anyone else." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. What the hell was wrong with him? Confiding in her would only give her more power over him than she already had. "Except Darla," he qualified, acknowledging that he really couldn't help himself. She was Buffy, and no one knew better than he did just how much of the person a vampire once was remained.

"Really?" Damned if she didn't look innocent in this moment, he thought dazedly.

"This is insane," he mumbled aloud. "You're evil."

"You know, I'm getting really sick of that," she stated flatly. "Every time we start to fight, you bring up the evil thing."

His mind instantly went back to another conversation, another fight --

="'Danced with' is a pretty loose term. 'Mated with' might be a little closer."

"Don't you think you're being a little unfair? It was one little dance, which I only did to make you crazy, by the way. Behold my success."

"I am not jealous."

"You're not jealous? What, vampires don't get jealous?"

"See? Whenever we fight, you always bring up the vampire thing."=

I can't do this, he thought, feeling panic bubble up. I can't kill her, I love her, and I don't care if she's soulless, I should, I want to, but I don't.

"Can't do what?" she asked, sounding annoyed, and he was dumbfounded to realize he'd spoken that first part out loud. Had he truly lost all sense of self-preservation when it came to her?

"Have this conversation," he lied quickly.

"Tough," she said lightly, "because we're having it. And then . . ." She ran her hand along the length of his stomach, then ran a single fingernail over the patch of skin above his pubic bone.

"So you want to talk first," he said, desperately trying to ignore the sensations she was sending through his body. It really wasn't fair that she could affect him like this.

"You make me sound like such a girl," she groused. A sigh left her mouth. "You're really uncooperative like this."

"I get cranky when I'm being held prisoner," he deadpanned.

"If I unlock you, we won't have sex," she said reasonably.

"We haven't had sex for a long time," he pointed out.

"And I've missed you like that," she informed him, pressing her upper body to his. Her voice turned baby soft. "Haven't you missed me, Angel?"

"I've missed . . . I've missed who you were," he said tightly.

Her mouth pursed, and perversely, he felt badly for hurting her. Huffing, she turned her head from him and laid it against his chest, just below his breastbone. Her cheek pressed against the top of his ribcage and despite everything, his arms ached to hold her.

"Were you all fuzzy when you woke up?" she asked at last, lazily tracing circles around his nipple, a single fingernail occasionally flicking over the slashes that still bled slightly.

If he looked down, his nose would be buried in her hair. How unfair, that she stilled smelled like Buffy, and not some creature he'd have to kill. Darla had smelled different human, but Buffy, while clearly dead, still retained the scent that had always made him long to swallow her alive, that scent that never failed to snap his body to attention.

It would be easy to pretend that he didn't know exactly what she was talking about. It would also be the smart thing to do. Unfortunately, Angel hadn't done the easy thing since before he was turned, and he'd never been good at choosing wisely. He led with his heart.

At the moment, his heart was breaking at the feel of Buffy's flesh against his own.

"No," he answered honestly. "I recognized Darla. I didn't know what I was, but I knew who I was--"

"Me too," she interrupted. "I mean, I even knew what I was, cause, you know, witness my life. I've killed like, a zillion fresh risers, and they were all crazed and confused. But when I first woke up, everything was so amazingly clear, and the only crazed thought in my head was that I was very, very hungry." She punctuated that statement by taking a mouthful of his flesh into her mouth, nibbling on it with blunt teeth, swiping her tongue around his left nipple.

He was furious his hands were chained, but not for the reasons he should have been. He desperately needed to want to kill her, when all he really wanted was to touch her back, to let his hands roam over her body and re-learn all the curves and sensitive spots he'd nearly forgotten. It had been years since he'd touched her on that day that had never been, and longer still since their first time; her first time.

What would it be like now that neither of them needed to breathe . . .?

A groan left his mouth before he could stop it, and she smiled in satisfaction. Bowing her head, she ran her tongue along the slashes she'd made on his stomach. She began to lap at them until they stopped bleeding. Then, her mouth traced open-mouthed kisses around his belly button, down, down, until the blanket that just barely covered his lower body impeded her progress. Whipping it away, she slid further down his legs until she was kneeling between them, her gaze never leaving his.

Buffy had never done this for him, except for once on that day that never was. The first and only time they'd been together, she had been innocent and very new to lovemaking. They hadn't taken a lot of time with foreplay, too desperate to feel one another, to remember that they were alive and here. At the time, they'd thought they'd had all the time in the world to do it right the second time. After he'd come back from hell, they'd been too nervous around each other, too scared of what might happen to test the bounds of his curse too much.

Their lost day was hazy to him, and the more time that passed, the more it began to feel like some fantasy he'd dreamed up, than a reality that had happened, once upon a time. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't made the whole thing up to make himself feel better, to pretend they'd been able to give each other something outside of pain and longing. Sometimes, it made him feel better about himself to think of all he'd given up so that she could live.

He was no longer comforted by that thought. He didn't have time to reflect on all his past sins -- real or imagined -- because in that moment, Buffy's mouth closed around his hard, aching cock, and he stopped thinking of the past entirely.

Her tongue was cool, her lack of body temperature obvious. It should have been a turn-off, but served the opposite effect. Part of him had always been aware of just how dead his skin was in relation to hers. He liked that they were the same now, and he hated himself for it.

Blunt teeth scraped along the head of his penis, nibbled at the foreskin, teased him until he cried out softly. This wasn't right, but he doubted he'd have been able to stop her even if he hadn't been shackled to the bed.

Buffy darted her tongue out, took long, sinful licks around the base of his cock. She circled her tongue around the tip, then laved the whole thing like she was eating an ice cream cone, complete with the little "mmm" noises in the back of her throat.

"Buffy," he whispered after a few moments.

Her mouth released him, and she slid back up his body, shedding the leather bra she wore as she went. Soft, naked flesh pressed against his upper torso and he let out a hiss of want at the sensation, even as her skin irritated the cuts she'd given him. He'd told her once that it felt good just to feel. He hadn't known the half of it then. Apparently, everything she did to him, he craved.

"Yes, my love," she whispered, before bestowing a sinful, open-mouthed kiss to his lips.

His mind dazedly recognized that this was the first time they'd kissed since her sudden appearance four days before. His tongue had already reacted, moving to twine and duel with hers as he lifted his head off the bed as best that he could, seeking more of her taste. Amazing, that she managed to taste the same, too . . .

Again, her hands slithered down his body, but this time they came to rest on the leather that she wore. With a few twists of her hips and legs -- which caused a moan or two to escape from his throat -- the last barrier between them was gone. Her legs twined with his, a knee on either side of his hips. His raging erection was pressed against her wet curls and his gaze was drawn to the sight.

Gently, she placed a hand on his chin and tilted his head back to meet her gaze. A lazy smile spread across her face and she leaned toward him, nibbled on his lower lip, tugged and worried at it until it bled a little. Then, she hungrily lapped at it, let her tongue dance into his mouth again until they were both sharing his blood.

"I want to touch you," he mumbled, incoherent but for the need to feel her flesh beneath his hands. Already, he felt his wrists chafe from all his ineffectual tugging.

"I wish I could trust you, lover," she whispered sincerely. Her mouth moved along his cheek, his jaw, nuzzling his skin. He returned the caress, nuzzling her cheek with his nose like a big cat, taking her earlobe between his lips, sucking and pulling at it with his teeth.

"Buffy," he found himself murmuring softly, like a prayer.

"Until then, though," she added, impaling herself on his shaft with one sharp, sudden stroke, "we'll have a lovely memory to keep warm with during the long daylight hours."

She rode him hard, all pretense of teasing gone. Her nails raked up and down his sides, traced the outline of his ribs, flicked over his nipples. His hips thrust against hers savagely, gaining leverage by utilizing his bound hands as a brace. She opened tiny, shallow wounds all over his upper torso with her nails, and the pain was ecstasy to him.

Somewhere along the way, both their faces changed, morphed, and he suddenly found Buffy's ridged forehead pressed against his. Her hand was on his cheek, then it moved forward, and her wrist was right there, pressed to his mouth. Her gaze caught his before she buried her face in his neck, piercing his flesh with her fangs, suckling hungrily like an infant at her mother's breast.

Barely a moment of indecision ran through him before he ripped into her wrist with brutal force. He'd been starved for her since that night they'd lain on the floor of the mansion, that night she'd saved him so long ago. It might not have been =her= any longer, but it came from her body, and his senses didn't seem to care as he drank from her, long and deep.

They both cried out, high, keening sounds as pain and pleasure, ecstasy and grief ran through them, flavored their blood even sweeter. They stopped drinking from one another at the same time, each licking identical puncture marks closed until they stopped bleeding.

They came down, resting against one another, not panting. Vampires didn't pant after sex, Angel remembered blearily, they just hummed. Every nerve ending, each drop of blood simply hummed with energy. The feeling wanted to make him do something ridiculous like climb a mountain, or go out and slay a demon . . . or do it all over again.

That thought brought the rest of his consciousness back. God, what have I done? he thought, gazing down at the hurricane of blonde hair covering his chest. And how can I still want so desperately to run my fingers through her hair?

"Buffy," he said aloud.

No response.

"Buffy," he called again, a little louder.

Her cheek rubbed against his chest, like a child spread across the full length of his body. That illusion was shattered by her inner muscles lightly contracting around his softened penis, still held within her. She made a soft, "mmm," sound and he felt his head hit the back of the headboard with a muted thud.

The slayer for the side of good, turned evil vampire had fallen asleep.

And his wrists were starting to bleed.

"Fuck me," Angel cursed quietly, then winced at his entirely-too-appropriate choice of words.

~

i will lie for you
beg and steal for you
i will crawl on hands and knees until you see
you're just like me
violate all the love that i'm missing
throw away all the pain that i'm living
you will believe in me
and i can never be ignored

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Consequences -- "Bend Little Willow"

~

Bend, little willow
Wind's gonna blow you
Hard and cold tonight

~

When she was human, acute though her slayer senses were, Buffy had always had a difficult time waking up. In a crisis situation, it only took her a few seconds to focus, but something as pedestrian as the alarm going off, or her mother calling her name from downstairs didn't really faze her. Ten, twenty minutes would pass, and the only reaction Buffy would give that she'd heard anything would be to pull the covers up even further over her head.

From the moment she'd awakened, changed, Buffy hadn't had that fuzzy window between sleep and wakefulness. The moment she became conscious, her eyes would snap open immediately, and she would assess whatever circumstances she found herself in.

Upon waking at this particular time, Buffy discovered soft skin beneath her cheek, skin that, when she inhaled it, brought a smile to her face.

Angel.

Her smile turned into a predatory grin as the memories of the last few hours played through her mind. Best of all, she'd given him a moment of perfect happiness and she wouldn't have to worry about his conscience making him stake her. They could have a real chance now, rid of those stupid souls that had always prompted them to be so selfless, so sacrificing when it came to the world, and each other.

Buffy wanted to be selfish, and she had a feeling her lover's pure demon self wouldn't complain too much.

Stretching like a cat, Buffy let her gaze roam over Angel's chest, past the nearly healed wounds she'd inflicted, all the way up until she met his gaze with her own. He was, unsurprisingly, awake. A quick glance at the clock told her she'd only been sleeping for forty-five minutes.

"How are you feeling?" she purred.

He seemed to consider her question. Then he shrugged. "A little not-quite-chipper. I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him carefully, reached out with every sense she had in an attempt to get a bead on him.

"You still have your soul," she accused.

"Let me check." He screwed up his face like he was doing some kind of mental inventory. "Bloodlust, guilt, yep, there it is, soul's just fine."

Buffy howled, an inarticulate expression of pure rage as she leapt off his body, pacing the floor beside his bed, naked and angry.

"How could you . . . I can't =believe= . . ." She folded her arms over her chest, pursed her lips, and stared straight at him. "How could you have been with me and not lost your soul? It's =me=, the one person you've loved in your whole life."

Angel smiled, a serene, peaceful expression crossing his face. "You're evil," he said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

"If you say that to me one more time, buddy, I swear . . ." Buffy spun on her heel, quickly dressing in the chocolate brown dress she'd worn, electing to leave her leather undergarments here. A thought occurred to her, and she moved back to the bed, leaned in close so that Angel could see straight into her eyes.

"If you make a =sound= to draw attention to yourself up here, I'll kill the first thing that breathes in my path," she hissed into his ear. Then, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and stalked out of the room.

She was angry with Angel, but she wasn't about to give up on him.

She just needed a new plan. And she had a feeling she'd find it in Wolfram & Hart's files.

~

Life, as it happens
Nobody warns you
Willow, hold on tight

~

Angel let his eyes close slowly as he heard the door to his room shut. He let his head drift back against the pillow. His wrists stung, his arms were beginning to ache, and he'd never felt this relieved.

He hadn't lost himself in her. His soul still recognized that she wasn't Buffy, not the Buffy he loved, and as a result, he was still him, tortured, brooding, and desperately conflicted about every choice that he made.

In all honesty, he'd been worried. Loving Buffy had always been as easy as breathing. He should have known that just because he did still love her, that wasn't tantamount to approving of the creature she'd become. Suddenly ceasing to love the girl he'd fallen for at first sight would have been a true danger sign.

For the first time, he felt something of what Buffy must have experienced those months he'd reverted to form. He'd never blamed her for sending him to hell, but he had been upset she hadn't killed him months sooner, before he could take Jenny's life, before he could terrorize her and her friends to the degree he had.

Angel often wished she'd ended things before he'd hurt Giles so deeply. The other man had always been someone Angel had wanted to consider a friend, not only because of his relationship with Buffy, but because they'd had long, enthralling conversations once in Buffy's high school library. His desire to regain Giles' trust and friendship had often made him slightly bitter toward Buffy, and her inability to slay the demon that wore his face.

Now, he was finally able to let the last of that bitterness go. If she'd loved him even a tenth as much as he'd loved her killing him wouldn't have been an option until she was pushed past the point of no return. Human weakness was something a slayer couldn't afford, but Buffy was more human than anyone he'd ever known. Being asked to kill her lover -- no matter the circumstances -- was too much.

It helped that he understood her better now. The more he remembered the Buffy he'd known, the one he'd adored beyond all reason, the easier it became for him to kill the one who'd just left him bound to his bed.

That thought sent searing pain through the soul he'd been so thankful was still there a moment before, and he prayed for Cordelia or Wesley or anyone to get worried and check on him soon.

He wasn't sure he could survive being left alone with his thoughts much longer.

Then there was the panic that was starting to bubble up inside him the more he recalled Buffy's last words.

Panic, and an unmistakable sense of dread.

~

Nothing's gonna shake your love
Take your love away
No one's out to break your heart
It only seems that way... hey

~

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some help?"

Tara smiled at the lovely British gentlemen who worked for Angel. Wesley Wyndam Pryce was much closer to her mental picture of a watcher, like Giles. Polite, proper, and courteous to everyone he came in contact with. He was also doting on everyone he thought more fragile than the rest, and Tara admitted ruefully that she certainly appeared more delicate than she was.

"I think I can handle the arduous task of making hot chocolate on my own," she assured him. "But if I get into trouble, I'll yell loud enough to bring everyone running."

"Yes," Wesley said, "well, as long as you're making hot chocolate for yourself and Willow, would you be so kind as to--"

"I'll put on a couple of pots of coffee, and some hot water for tea," Tara offered happily. It was nice, doing things for people who deserved it, who didn't expect her to because she was the only woman in the house. It was nice having a family she wasn't ashamed to claim.

"Splendid," Wesley declared happily. "If Angel isn't down in another twenty minutes, I shall fetch him and have him make breakfast. He's the best cook we've got, I fear."

"Spike makes a mean western omelet," Tara confided.

"Angel and Spike can make breakfast then," Wesley decided, then frowned. "That's rather a disturbing notion, isn't it, two vampires being able to cook better than the whole lot of us combined."

"Maybe we shouldn't dwell on it," Tara suggested with a smile. He really was adorable, in an excited puppy sort of way.

"I'll leave you to prepare the drinks," Wesley said, taking his leave through the kitchen doors.

Tara sighed, looking around at the grand kitchen of the Hyperion hotel. It was old, and a little dusty in spots, but she could see signs of life in it. Mostly by the refrigerator. And the single burner someone had dusted off. Shrugging, she bent down and rooted around in the cabinet until she found some cleanser and a sponge. Rolling up her sleeves, she went to work, beginning with the counters.

Cleaning up in here would be her way of thanking Angel for letting them all stay here. She'd proposed the idea to Willow as they'd lain in bed the night before, and the other witch had approved, gifting Tara with a bright smile. A Willow Smile, was how Tara liked to think of it, since no one but Willow smiled quite that way. She hadn't seen the Willow Smile since Buffy . . .died . . . and she was immensely relieved. It meant Willow was finally beginning to cope.

"Not a moment too soon," Tara declared out loud. "If we don't all start smiling soon, we're going to go crazy."

"Sounds to me like you already have."

Tara spun around, the sponge and cleanser hitting the floor as they fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

"B-b-buffy," she stammered, her eyes wide with fear as she realized she was alone with what was arguably the deadliest creature walking the streets of Los Angeles.

"T-t-tara," Buffy greeted in return, her voice cruel.

"W-w-w." Tara gulped and shut her eyes tightly. "W-what do you w-want?"

"I had this idea," Buffy told her brightly. "I figured since I already . . . you know . . . " she made a cracking sound in the back of her throat, and jerked her head to the side crudely, "Anya, I decided that I should let her death be the start of a pattern. Can you guess what the pattern's going to be?"

"N-n-no."

"I'm going to kill all my former best friend's significant others," Buffy cried, clapping her hands together once. "Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Not really," Tara answered honestly, trying to find a way out of this.

"Spoilsport," Buffy accused, before she lunged at Tara with supernatural speed.

Tara tried to scream, but Buffy closed her hand around the other girl's throat in such a way that it made speech impossible. As Buffy's fangs descended to her neck, Tara shut her eyes tightly, tears falling silently, and thought of Willow. I'm sorry, she cried silently. I promised I'd never leave you the way Oz did, and now I don't get a choice. My life didn't mean anything until you let me into yours.

Thank you, Willow.

~

Sleep, little willow
Peace gonna follow
Time will heal your wounds

~

"I don't want to wake him if he's actually managed to sleep peacefully," Wesley argued quietly.

"Look, I refuse to let him be Darla'd again," Cordelia said firmly. "He went to bed =at night= with the rest of us, he can damn well wake up in the morning with the rest of us. March," she ordered, pointing a single, elegant finger toward Angel's door.

"Why do I have to wake him up?" Wesley mumbled miserably as he headed for Angel's door. "The last time I woke him up it was most unpleasant," he continued to babble to himself as he gently rapped his knuckles against the door, visions of an angry, naked Angel tackling him to the ground tormenting him. "Angel?" he called out cheerily. A frown marred his forehead. "Angel?" he said louder, feeling a bit concerned.

He turned around and met Cordelia's worried gaze. Sending a short prayer to whatever deity might hear it, Wesley pushed open Angel's door and entered the vampire's room. His gaze found Angel almost immediately. He quickly took note of the panicked expression on Angel's face, noted his wrists bound to the bed.

"Are you all right?" he asked, already backing toward the door.

"The others," Angel called, and Wesley didn't wait another second. He turned around and ran, smacking into Cordelia. He caught her before either of them could lose their footing.

"Wes, what--?"

"Get everyone together. If someone's missing, look for them in groups. Now."

Cordelia didn't argue, just turned and headed for Willow and Tara's room, which was closest to Angel's. Wesley turned back around and moved back to Angel on the bed.

"Magic," Angel explained, jiggling the cuffs.

"Yes," Wesley agreed, inspecting them closely. "How long ago did she leave?"

"Ten minutes," Angel answered. "She said she'd kill someone if I made a sound."

"Good show you, then, for being quiet as a mouse," Wesley congratulated, hunting through the books beside Angel's bed for a spell book that might contain information on how to break a binding spell. Angel was quiet, and Wesley looked at the other man's face. "It is good, isn't it?"

"She said she'd kill someone if I didn't stay quiet," Angel confided softly. "She didn't say she wouldn't kill someone either way."

Wesley felt his heart clench at Angel's words. If anyone was likely to know Buffy's motivations, it was Angel. That frightened the former watcher more than anything else thus far. Angelus had been one of the most vicious creatures to ever walk the earth, and if Buffy possessed even a fraction of his cruelty . . .

"Hurry, Wes," Angel prompted quietly, his voice intense.

"Hurrying."

~

Grow to the heavens
Now and forever
Always came too soon

~

Willow was the one who finally freed Angel. Instead of looking for Tara, whom she'd told Cordelia was in the kitchen, Willow had wandered into Angel's room. After she'd discovered his predicament, she moved to the cuffs, murmured a brief incantation, and Angel had gratefully let his arms drop to the bed. At Willow's embarrassed look, he'd quickly changed into a pair of black pants and a t-shirt, then raced from the room, the witch and the ex-watcher close on his heels.

Cordelia told them she'd walked in on Buffy draining Tara. The former slayer had growled, dropping the witch to the ground. She slipped out the back way, and Cordelia had opted to attend to Tara, rather than chase after Buffy. Her pulse was faint, but there. Xander and Gunn had picked her up and taken her to the hospital. Cordelia was left behind to tell the others.

Angel was the one who made the rule.

"No one stays alone. Not on the streets, not inside the hotel, not even during the day."

Unsurprisingly, no one argued with his decree. Instead, they filed out in groups to the hospital. Spike and Angel went by sewer, the rest in the same van the Sunnydale crew had rented to come to Los Angeles in the first place. Giles drove, and Willow clutched Cordelia's hand the entire way, and the former cheerleader tried to comfort the girl who'd never really been her friend.

Spike said it was a "bloody shame psycho slayer got to the little witch. Girl's always good for a laugh, all bird-like and timid."

Angel was quiet the entire way to the hospital. He was quiet while he sat in the waiting room with the rest of them, waiting to hear anything about Tara. He was quiet when Xander glared at him, quiet when the doctor came out and told them Tara was gone, that she'd lost too much blood. He only spoke long enough to tell Willow that he was sorry, then, ignoring the concerned looks from his crew, he turned and went back into the sewers.

He wouldn't run away, as he might have a few months before. They needed him to protect them, and he'd done a woefully inadequate job of it so far. He would be at the hotel when they came back. There would be food ready, because they needed to eat.

And then they would all discuss how to go about killing Buffy.

~

Bend, little willow
Wind's gonna blow you
Hard and cold tonight
Life, as it happens
Nobody warns you
Willow, hold on tight

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Surviving -- Learn to be Still

~

though the world is drawn and shaken
even if your heart is breaking'
it's waiting for you to awaken
and someday you will
learn to be still

~

It was the food that had surprised him the most.

Giles had always known Angel possessed a remarkable ability to feel compassion for the humans he surrounded himself with. It was a trait he no doubt owed in some small part to the demon -- its ability to feel and feed off its victim's pain and terror was the flip side of Angel's empathy.

When they'd finally gotten enough resolve to leave the hospital, they'd begun the arduous trek back to the hotel. Spike seemed oddly protective of Willow, and Giles made mental note to keep an eye on him, lest he be planning something. It was, after all, what Buffy would have done.

He'd found himself doing that a lot lately. Thinking of what Buffy would have wanted, or thought, or said, then taking her lead. Funny, how he was meant to be her mentor, and she'd taught him more than all the dusty books in England combined.

Xander was against returning to the hotel; said if they'd been staying somewhere not "owned by death," Buffy wouldn't have been able to gain entry. The fact that he was right made it harder to argue with him, but the glares he received from Cordelia seemed sufficient to silence his complaints.

Besides, how to explain to Xander, who'd always hated Angel, that right now, they needed the vampire by their sides? That Angel surely needed them to keep him sane. No one had loved Buffy more than Angel had; that love was a connection to the girl she once was, and the strongest defense they all had against the monster she'd become.

Remembering Buffy, living their lives with the delight she always tried to take in hers, that was the way to survive long enough to see this nightmare to its conclusion.

Which was why, upon returning to the hotel, Giles was pleased to find Angel in the kitchen. He'd finished the cleaning job Willow had mumbled about Tara having the idea to begin. There was a pot of soup, some kind of vegetable stew, Giles thought, as he inhaled deeply. Cooling on the counter was fresh baked bread, the kind that came in one of those little cans that popped and were ready in twenty minutes. Angel had made enough to feed an army, which is exactly what they had.

An army of children who'd lost their innocence in the fight against evil; a fight they themselves were only a part of because they'd loved a girl who'd been chosen with all their hearts.

"Everyone eats," Angel declared, and Giles took note of another saucepan, filled with what appeared to be blood, for Angel and Spike. "Especially if you don't feel hungry," he added, forestalling Willow's automatic protest.

Giles moved to assist Angel in ladling soup into bowls as Cordelia sliced the bread. Spike helped himself to a mug of blood, then, surprisingly, took a bowl of soup and a piece of bread.

"For Red," he explained, casting his gaze downward, embarrassed, when Giles looked at him strangely.

Once again, Giles' hackles raised, but he forced them down. He would keep an eye on Spike, but in the meantime, he'd be grateful that someone was looking after Willow.

Everyone sat in the lobby, pillows thrown down on the floor, foregoing the bizarre couch Giles was secretly appalled at. Angel made a move to leave them, a mug of blood in hand as he turned toward the stairs.

Xander called out the vampire's name, and Angel paused. "It was your rule," the boy reminded him. "No one's alone."

Giles sat up a little straighter, truly shocked, and, if truth be told, immensely proud of Xander. That statement had cost him a lot, but he'd still said it, despite the grief he was feeling.

Angel glanced at Cordelia, and whatever thoughts he'd had of fleeing were put to rest by the stern look in her eyes. Giles actually found himself smiling. Cordelia Chase, Vampire Defender. To have known the girl she was in high school, and to then know the woman she'd become, was truly an honor.

Without another word, Angel took a seat beside Cordelia, Willow to his left. The redhead reached down and took his hand, causing his startled gaze to fly to hers. She squeezed it once, tightly, then let it rest there, loosely. He smiled feebly at her, and they both returned to their meals.

Giles breathed a sigh of relief.

~

we are like sheep without a shepherd
we don't know how to be alone
so we wander around this desert
and wind up following the wrong Gods home

~

"I don't mean to rain on your parade, Giles, but aren't we a little old for story hour?"

Their bellies were full, and they were reclining on the floor, telling stories. Willow had remained understandably quiet, but hadn't seemed put off by the sleepover vibe that was running strongly through the room. They'd just finished regaling Gunn and Spike with the tale of the time the Evil Willow had appeared through a dimensional portal, when Giles had cleared his throat and drawn attention to the book he held in his hands, which prompted Xander's little quip.

"I've just gotten off the phone with the Watcher's Council," Giles said, without preamble, and everyone sat up a little straighter. "A new slayer has not been called."

"That's impossible," Wesley said immediately. "It's been days since Buffy . . .died."

"Maybe there's a glitch in the calling stream," Gunn offered. "Like at the DMV when you're waiting in line forever--" Cordelia was making a slashing motion against her neck, so Gunn let his sentence trail off.

"Buffy died for a minute," Angel reminded them, "and Kendra was called."

Wesley got a funny look in his eyes. "When Kendra died, Faith was called, thus continuing the cycle. There has never been more than one girl at a time to hold the post as chosen."

"A slayer has never been turned, either," Giles added.

"Restoring the balance," Angel murmured.

"What?" Giles asked, feeling a shiver run down his spine at Angel's words.

"The balance was upset when Buffy came back," Angel continued, uncomfortable discussing Buffy's death so casually. "And now, it's using her transformation as a way to right itself again."

"You're theorizing that Buffy's line has already ended," Wesley declared, "with her death at the Master's hands. That everything she's faced . . ."

"Of course," Giles mumbled, removing his glasses. "Given Buffy's predilection for operating outside the norm, I'd say it's a very likely theory, indeed."

Xander shifted against the floor from his position by Spike. "So you're saying when Bat Face killed Buff . . . that was it for her, so far as being chosen goes?"

"This might explain the problems with Faith," Wesley concluded. "Throughout history, there has only been one slayer; to each generation she is born. If Angel is correct, and a balance is being restored, that implies that a balance was upset to begin with; a plan put off course." The former watcher seemed enthralled with the subject he was discussing. "Buffy should have died four years ago, but she . . . "

"She was special," Giles finished for him. "From the very beginning, she's broken all the rules . . . " His gaze rested on Angel briefly, then he continued, "and done things in her own way. It would appear some things never change."

"What's in the book, Giles?" Angel's asked quietly.

"Yes, well, this is for Willow," Giles admitted. "There's a spell in here that will bind the hotel against the entry of any form of evil--"

"Hey!" Spike cut in, offended.

"Evil meant to do harm," Giles added, with a roll of his eyes. "Willow, whenever you feel strong enough, if you wouldn't mind . . . "

She nodded her head mutely.

"What I wanna know is, why didn't anyone notice Evil Buffy sneaking in here this morning?" Xander wondered aloud.

"Buffy was a skilled hunter," Giles began, "and I've no doubt her predator's instincts have only heightened her ability to kill."

"Plus, you know, she was itching to get at Angel," Cordelia chimed in. "Ow!" she cried as Wesley pinched her arm harder than she thought necessary.

"Buffy was here to see Dead Boy?" Xander asked, glancing around the room. Wesley and Cordelia looked nervous, Willow looked sad, Spike appeared bored, Gunn appeared indifferent, Giles seemed curious, and Angel -- Angel looked guilty. True, he always looked guilty, Xander allowed, but at the moment, he looked Super Guilty.

"She came into my room," Angel said, standing, already beginning to separate himself from the group. "Before," he added, choosing not to elaborate further.

Xander looked around the room, and quickly connected a few dots.

"So let me get this straight. While the girl who used to be one of my best buds was murdering my other best bud's girlfriend, you were basking in post-coital bliss?"

"Lay off, Xander," Cordelia said heatedly.

"Don't defend him, Cordy! I'm surprised he still has his soul. Not quite as exciting without a warm body, that it, Angel?"

"Xander, shut up!" Willow, finally, had spoken. There were tears rolling heavily down her cheeks. She rose unsteadily, her chin held high as she approached Angel.

The vampire stood before her, shoulders slumped, prepared to accept whatever she wished to say to him, the temporary reprieve she'd given him earlier forgotten. What he did not expect was her strong hand fisting itself around the front of his shirt.

"Swear to me you'll kill her," Willow said, her voice filled with grief perfectly audible to the rest of the room. "Not because I hate her, and not because I don't want my best friend back more than almost anything else, but because you were right. She should never have to live with this, just like you never should have had to live with Ms. Calendar, or any of the other things you feel guilty for. Swear it, Angel."

"I swear," he repeated numbly, hoping he'd be able to keep that vow.

Willow seemed to deflate at that, and she turned back around. Her legs were unsteady, and Spike rose, offering her an arm to lean on. Gratefully, it seemed, she took it, and he helped her sit on the floor again, though she now leaned against his side, her body simply too tired to go on supporting itself.

"I'm gonna start cleaning up," Cordelia announced, hoping to break some of the tension. "Angel, would you please help me?"

A pointed look from Cordelia was all the prompting Angel needed, and he began gathering plates and bowls, then followed Cordelia into the kitchen.

"Cor," he began, but she put her hand up.

"Repeat after me," she said sternly. "Buffy's evil deeds are not my fault."

"Cordy," he tried again, and this time, she made a violent slashing motion with her hand. The expression on her face allowed no wiggle room, and he sighed. "Buffy's evil deeds are not my fault," he repeated obediently.

"There, now was that so--"

"But they are my responsibility," he added. "Just as mine were hers."

Cordelia felt physical pain for all Angel was going through. "Why do you always have to be so damn stoic and righteous?" she asked quietly.

He actually laughed, a nervous, sorrowful sound. "Righteous," he mumbled, as though it were funny. Judging by the look on his face, he was a million miles away. "Am I a righteous man?" he asked her, sounding lost.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "You are."

"Thank you, Cordelia," he said sincerely, pulling her into a strong hug.

"For what?" she asked, baffled, as she patted his back.

"For always believing in me, even when logic dictated otherwise," he answered. Then, he turned and left the kitchen, effortlessly slipping into the shadows of the old hotel.

"Any time," Cordelia told the empty room.

~

but the flock cries out for another
and they keep answering that bell
and one more starry eyed Messiah
meets a violet farewell
learn to be still

~

"I'm sorry, Will."

Willow looked up at the boy who'd been her best friend as long as she could remember. "It's not me you should be sorry to, Xander," she told him quietly.

"Hey, I'm trying here, but I think apologizing to Dead Boy for a moment of truthful grief is too much to ask. I did have a point."

"So apologize to him for calling him Dead Boy for three years," she suggested dryly. "Apologize for hating him because Buffy loved him instead of you. Try to make amends for telling Buffy to kick his ass."

Xander's eyes widened. He'd never regretted lying to Buffy the day she'd sent Angel to hell, but he'd always felt guilty for the lie itself. "How did you . . .?"

"I'm not stupid, Xander," she reminded him quietly. "Neither is Buffy. But we both understood why you did it. I'd bet Angel would be the first to tell you that you'd done the right thing."

"So what, I should go to Dea -- Angel -- and confess all my sins?" Xander sounded incredulous.

"No," she agreed. "But maybe you could confess one teeny tiny one."

"All right, off you go, no more upsetting Red," Spike instructed, taking a seat by Willow.

"Who died and made you Willow's keeper?" Xander snapped.

"Buffy," Spike answered without hesitation, something hard and determined in his eyes.

Tears came to Willow's eyes, but she looked at Spike gratefully. Xander took a deep breath and tried not to think of how vampires seemed to have a thing for the women he loved best.

~

it's just another day in paradise
as you stumble to your bed
you'd give anything to silence
those voices ringing in your head

~

Angel glanced out into the lobby and breathed a sigh of relief. Cordelia and Gunn were planning to go to a movie, Willow, Spike, Wesley and Giles were sound asleep in the middle of the floor, and Xander was nowhere to be seen. Angel felt ridiculous having to sneak around in his own home, but to avoid a messy confrontation with the boy who'd been one of Buffy's closest friends, he was willing to swallow his pride.

If only Xander's anger toward him had been less justified, Angel mused with an internal sigh, he might be able to muster some righteous indignation on his own behalf. As things stood, however, Angel barely managed to stand up straight in the face of Xander's anger. That irritated him more than anything else. What did this boy possess that he'd been able to get beneath Angel's skin so effortlessly?

The answer, when it had occurred to him so long ago, still managed to leave him a bit stunned. Simply put, Xander had Buffy in all the ways Angel was never allowed to. He got to see her in the sunlight; got to eat crappy food and understand all the little jokes and asides she and Willow traded like baseball cards. Buffy gave Xander her friendship and her laughter, something Angel had felt not nearly enough of over the course of his doomed relationship with Buffy.

"Whatcha doin'?"

The vampire jumped, and finally realized exactly how much he probably scared people when he detached himself from the shadows. He turned and found Xander sitting on the bottom of the staircase, hidden so Angel hadn't spotted him when he'd done his preliminary sweep of the room.

"Trying to take it easy," Angel answered lightly, carefully taking a seat beside the boy, a good four feet between them.

"It's pretty tense right now," Xander commented. "That easy taking can't come easy."

"That it doesn't," Angel agreed.

"I was upstairs, trying to find some alone time. Cordelia found me and yelled at me for not bringing a buddy with."

"She's good at telling you exactly what you've done wrong in excruciating detail," Angel offered.

"Don't forget the shrillness," Xander joked weakly.

"What were you looking for up there?" Angel asked quietly.

"Anya."

Angel frowned. He didn't for a moment believe Xander had actually been searching for Anya's corporeal form, but then again, Xander =did= live on a hellmouth . . .

"Just to clarify . . . you are speaking symbolically, right?"

Xander made a 'duh' face. "It hurts," he said simply. "More and more every second it sinks in that this is for keeps, and she's not gonna come walking in that door, loudly announcing inappropriate things to the entire room."

"I get the impression she was very different, but very special," Angel said, feeling more sympathy toward Xander than he ever had.

"She taught me a lot," Xander began hesitantly. "About life. About what it meant to be a man, instead of a scared child." He stared intently at his shoes. "And about redemption, what it means to change what you once were."

Angel glanced up sharply, more than a little surprised to hear what he thought he was hearing from Xander Harris.

"Will said I owed you an apology," Xander continued. "And I think she's right."

"Xander, you don't owe me any--"

"Yeah, I do," Xander interrupted, extending his hand toward Angel. "I'm sorry for being such a shit to you before you gave me a good reason. And I'm sorry for being way not cool after, when you needed a break more than anyone." He paused for a moment. "You just gonna leave me hangin' here, man?"

Angel shook himself out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into and grasped Xander's hand in his own, shaking it firmly.

"Friends?" Angel asked, uncertain.

"Let's not be too hasty," Xander warned, taking his hand back. "But . . . yeah. I think maybe someday, in the far, far distant future, friends is definitely on the radar."

"Good to know," Angel commented wryly.

Xander heaved a sigh. "Well, I'm gonna get going. Cordy and that Gunn guy asked me to go to the movies with them, and I couldn't stand to disappoint Queen C."

"They're sick of listening to you mope?"

"Said I was starting to depress the plants," Xander agreed easily before hopping up off the staircase. "Uh . . . good luck, with the easy taking," he added as he headed off to meet up with Cordy and Gunn.

"I'm not going to need luck," Angel murmured quietly.

There was only one way Angel would ever be able to take it easy again, and that was when Buffy was no longer a threat to the lives of their friends. He'd intended to discuss strategy with everyone earlier, but emotions had run too high. The others weren't prepared to deal with what was to come. Truthfully, neither was Angel, but the burden of action always seemed to fall to those who could handle it the least.

Right now, Angel had a date with a green demon and a microphone.

~

there are so many contradictions
in these messages we send
keep asking how do I get out of here
where do I fit in?
Though the world is drawn and shaken
even if your heart is breaking'
it's waiting for you to awaken
and someday you will
learn to be still

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Return -- A Demon's Day in Madness Kissed

~

The sun is white with envy
Confusion on the ground
Breathing soft and holy
Temptation's only sound

~

"Ugh. He spent the entire first year he was in Los Angeles helping people. He only started getting really interesting after that Whore Whose Name Will Not Be Mentioned reappeared in his life." Buffy frowned. "Do you think that means she brings out the bad in him? Should I be worried that he'll never be able to tap into his inner dark side without her?

"And this! He seems to have a lot of zeal for helping poor, helpless damsels in distress. Angel told me he hadn't been with anyone but Darla, but really, how honest is he gonna be when he isn't even trying to participate in this relationship?

"Look at this one, here: Rebecca Lowell -- =THE= Rebecca Lowell, Ms. Raven herself -- enlisted his services as a bodyguard. I used to watch that show of hers, and honestly, I always thought she was kind of a dog. Now that I see this picture of her with Angel, I'm sure she's more of a skank. A skank-ho."

"When you use the word 'skank,' isn't that really the inner Buffy trying to deny some negative feeling she has toward herself?"

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "You know, I gave you eternal life, Doc. I've gotta say, being snotty with me -- not the Hallmark way to say thanks." She frowned. "Although, I guess there really isn't a greeting card for this sort of thing . . . oh, but you could go to the store and use one of those create-your-own card machines!"

"I don't like it out in public," the therapist said, "not unless I'm hunting."

"Good point. And something tells me that the local mall isn't the best place to -- hey, did you call me a skank?!" Buffy was suddenly fuming.

The doctor smiled patiently. "I think you called yourself a skank."

A pout appeared on Buffy's lips. "I did not. I called that Rebecca person a skank. I mean, check this out." Buffy began flipping through one of the many files Lindsey had liberated from Wolfram and Hart for her. "Right here, it says that she wasn't even being stalked! It was all some kind of elaborate set up her agent worked out because she was too old to get a decent part!" Buffy cackled. "I could so do her job."

"Granted, you'll never be too old," the therapist allowed, "yet neither would you ever be able to appear in public as an actress. Think of all the pitfalls, common daylight aside."

"Do you even listen to what I actually say?" Buffy asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"I think the question is, do =you= actually listen to what you say?" the therapist asked sagely.

Buffy stared at the other vampire for a few moments. Then, she blinked, once. Then, she went back to Angel's file.

A few moments later, a phrase caught her eye. A beautiful phrase, the best phrase in the world, as far as Buffy was concerned.

" . . . subject appeared to have reverted to his previous form for one night. Cause of transformation was determined to be pharmacological and temporary in . . ." Buffy mumbled aloud.

"Do you wish for a transformation of some kind, Buffy?"

Calm as can be, Buffy reached over, snapped a leg off the chair the therapist was sitting in, and staked her through the heart with it before the other woman could hit the ground.

Once the dust had settled, Buffy sighed.

"I'm so not cut out to have minions."

~

The sign says do not enter
No trespassing allowed
With visions of redemption
I walk against the crowd

~

Dawn had come sooner than he'd hoped. Then again, it always did.

Angel stalked through the sewers, grateful for the hundredth time that he didn't have to breathe. "Of course, if I did breathe, I'd most likely be human and I wouldn't have to travel by way of sewers in fear of bursting into flame," he mumbled out loud.

"Great. Now I'm talking out loud. I'm losing my mind again."

Nevertheless, he traveled on.

He carried his broadsword clutched tightly in his right hand; the long, black coat he wore warming an imaginary chill. There had been a celebrity at Caritas, and in his honor, the Host had been forcing everyone to sing one of his songs when they took the stage. Until, that is, Angel had arrived. The Host had forbidden Angel to sing anything remotely connected to the man Angel didn't even recognize at one of the tables.

That was fine by Angel. He sang a quick, stilted rendition of 'Play that Funky Music White Boy,' shook off the Host's concerned "Angel pie, you're hangin' kinda crazy, kinda sexy, kinda suicidal -- haven't fired anyone lately, have you?" and demanded to know where he could find Buffy.

When he was pointed toward a warehouse on Crenshaw, he didn't spare another glance as he headed for the door. For some reason, the Host managed to stop him by saying his name a certain way. It had gotten under Angel's skin, physically made him turn around to regard the green demon.

"This rainbow's end you're looking for, you plan to end the little girl's life when you find it, yes?" Those red eyes had grown so serious.

"Yes," Angel had answered tightly.

"Then I gotta say, going right now isn't your smartest move. Of course, that hunky, Neanderthal head of yours so rarely takes your smartest move."

"I've got no other choice. She's killing people I care about. Buffy wouldn't want it that way."

"I'm sure Buffy doesn't want to die," the Host had pointed out reasonably.

"That thing is not Buffy," Angel had practically growled.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetie," the Host had said, a little too knowingly for Angel's comfort.

"Buffy is dead," Angel had maintained. "That monster is wearing her face. The demon is not her."

"Tell me, just so I can keep up, because prescient or not, I can get so confused -- are we talking about Buffy, or you?"

"I don't have time for this," Angel had snapped, then he'd turned and walked away without another word.

Angel jumped slightly in the sewer tunnel when he realized he was standing still, staring at a wall. He =really= didn't have time for this. Whatever the Host had been talking about, it could be brooded about later, after he'd finished this.

Finished her; finished the girl who'd once given his existence its only light.

"No," he said aloud. "It's not her. She's dead, she died five days, four hours, and . . . " he glanced at his watch, "forty-nine minutes ago."

It hadn't occurred to him at the time, but he'd actually felt her die. The feeling had been unlike his own death, unlike all the times he'd been run through with a sword, shot, beaten. Her death had happened so quickly, and he'd been so removed from her life, that he'd hardly felt it at all.

It was only later, after she'd made her first 'visit' to the hotel and he'd learned the truth that it had started making a horrible kind of sense.

They'd been in the bar. Wes, Cordy and Gunn had already had a few drinks and were starting to sway. At Wes' insistence, Angel had agreed to match them drink for drink. Being a vampire (not to mention an Irishman) Angel's constitution was a good sight stronger than theirs was. He'd been buzzed, relaxed, almost happy, or at least, as happy as it was safe for him to be.

A demon had gotten up on stage, one of the more peaceful species. He'd spent an inordinate amount of time choosing a song, Angel remembered that much. And then he'd started to sing. It was an older song, something from the seventies. Nineteen-seventies, Angel had automatically corrected himself. When you'd lived in four different centuries, you had to be specific.

When he'd started singing, Angel had realized the demon wasn't a he, but rather a she (an oversight that could easily be forgiven, given you couldn't really see =her= body beneath the layer of fur) -- a she who had an amazing voice. The song she'd chosen to sing was something by Carole King, called "Tapestry." The lyrics had swam around Angel, sinking into an invisible smoke that he inhaled along with table four's heavy cigars.

By song's end, tears had been rolling down his cheeks. It hadn't even occurred to him to think of Buffy. That's how far he'd pushed her -- by necessity -- from his mind. Consciously able to forget her or not, his soul remembered, and it screamed when hers left this earth. It sobbed and raged and took the lyrics from a song that could have been written about Buffy into his heart and made him feel, however subconsciously, that the other half of him was gone.

The time of her death added up, of course. He'd managed to get that much out of Giles, feigning interest in exactly what had sired Buffy. Details didn't matter. The aching in his soul didn't really matter.

All that mattered was the end. And Angel was determined that the end wouldn't include another single drop of innocent blood being shed. He was prepared to take Buffy out, even if he had to die to do it.

After all, his blood hadn't been innocent in over two hundred years.

~

Buffy had just put the finishing touch on her crossbow when the door to the basement burst open.

He stood in the shadows, dressed in black, his broadsword glinting off the room lit by a few dozen candles. Buffy smiled at him in greeting, then frowned when she took a good look at the hard, unforgiving set to his face.

"Stress isn't good for you, love," she warned him reproachfully. "If it actually beat, I'd warn you about heart attacks. A man of your age should =really= be more in tune with the destructive things he does to his own body."

"Enough," Angel gritted out, moving toward her in the room.

"You're being awfully rude."

"I love you," he said softly. "I love the girl you were, I think I even love the demon you've become. I don't think there's a set of circumstances on this earth under which I wouldn't love you."

A brilliant smile lit Buffy's face. "See? I =knew= you'd come around--"

"But this has to end." Angel stared into her eyes and forced himself to remember Willow's tear-stained face; Xander's endless moping; the nightmares he'd had about the last moments of Dawn and Joyce's lives.

"Lover, you know better than anyone that this never ends," Buffy reminded him. "Not this existence, not this struggle, and definitely not us."

"That's where you're wrong," Angel corrected her. "This ends. Tonight. One way or another."

Buffy shrugged. "Fine. But you'd better remember you brought this on yourself, Buster."

She moved supernaturally fast and, before Angel had determined what she was doing, fired the crossbow straight at his chest.

~

Conscience quiet pleading
In the corner of my eye
But seeing is believing
All consequences fly

~

"I feel so weird," Willow confessed quietly.

Xander looked up from the book he'd been not reading. "In what way?"

"Being here," Willow explained, gesturing with her hands, "and expecting Angel to protect us."

"Weird for me, yes, but those reasons are old and tired -- why weird for you?"

"Because . . . the only time I've ever been this scared is when Angelus was threatening to leave our not so alive bodies for Buffy to find. He was a part of us, Xander, whether you wanted to admit it or not. Angel was right there in the thick of things, standing by Buffy, risking himself for her and all of us. And then he just . . . "

"Went away," Xander agreed quietly. "Gotta admit, Angelus is probably the scariest thing I've ever faced, too. That is, if you don't count Cordelia on a bitchy rampage."

Willow laughed, and Xander put an arm around her shoulders. Her laugh turned into a tiny sob, and he held on tighter, feeling his own chest tighten.

"I miss her," Willow whispered brokenly. "She was a part of me too, and now she's just gone. I thought it was bad when Oz left, but at least I knew he was out there somewhere, living. Tara's just gone, and she was all alone when it happened because they wouldn't let me see her . . ."

"I know." Xander glanced at Willow, then toward the ground. "Anya was alone, too. Those were her worst fears. Being alone, and dying. I was supposed to keep her safe. I was supposed to spend my life with her.

"You probably would have," Willow agreed.

"No," Xander corrected, scratching the back of his head nervously, "I was =going= to. Anya wanted to celebrate her birthday on the day she and I met. She said that was the day her life began. I was going to ask her to marry me, I was going to . . ."

Willow bit her lip and gripped Xander's hand tightly as his eyes filled with tears.

"Anya became a different person when she was with you," Willow confided quietly. "She and I never got along, that's no secret . . . but I was really starting to like her these past few weeks. At least, I liked what she did to you."

"What did she do? I mean, I know what she did, but I want to know what you saw."

"She made you Xander again."

"You lost me."

"It happened after Buffy and Angel got really close. Your heart was broken because Buffy didn't love you back, but you tried to hide it. And suddenly, you weren't quite Xander anymore. I can't explain it. It started to get better, after you and Cordelia got together. I =hated= that relationship, but once you stopped hiding it, she was good for you, and Xander started coming back again." Willow stared intently at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. "It's my fault you went away again."

"Our fault," Xander corrected her, referring to their 'indiscretion' with one another that had hurt Cordy and Oz so badly.

"Either way, Xander was gone again. He was hiding in his basement, hoping his parents wouldn't come home that night, or that if they did, they'd drink so much that they passed out before they remembered he was there." Willow pressed a hand against Xander's cheek. "I didn't realize you were Xander, only better, until that stupid troll got released."

"Xander, only better? Is that like, new and improved?"

"Sort of." Willow pursed her lips, searching for the right words. "Anya let you become a man without making you lose the little boy who used to kick people who were mean to me in the shins."

"I'll always kick anybody who's mean to you in the shins," Xander agreed, his voice clogged with emotion. It meant more to him than he could express that Willow had understood why he'd loved Anya so much. And it was really nice that he didn't have to say it was nice; that she'd understand like only someone who'd known you his or her whole life could.

"Me, too," Willow promised. "Only, you know, I'll just use magic."

Xander pressed a quick, friendly kiss to the tip of Willow's nose.

"I love you best, Witchy Poo."

"Me too, Xander."

~

Shocked in silent trances
Our eyes search just to know
What makes flesh and body hunger
For another burning soul

~

"Breakfast," Giles announced as he exited the kitchen.

"Breakfast!" Cordelia echoed. "The sun has been up for over an hour now."

"I'm sure Angel is fine," Wesley tried to soothe, though he shared her concerns.

"He's got sense enough to come in from the daylight," Gunn added.

"Yeah, nothing can kill Dead Boy. He survived a round trip from hell, remember?" Xander looked helpless as a few glares were sent his way. "What?! I was =trying=!"

"Try harder," Willow whispered loudly.

"I hate to interrupt, but I've got a problem, and I need to talk to Angel, like yesterday."

Every head in the room snapped around to stare at the new presence in the room.

"Faith," Giles murmured, shocked, to say the least, at this unexpected arrival.

"That's right, the bitch is back," Faith said glibly. "Talk later. Angel now."

"He isn't here," Cordelia answered stiffly. "Why, you wanted to try and shoot him with your handy crossbow again? Or maybe you just wanted to beat me up and torture Wesley for a few hours. You know, for old time's sake."

"Cordelia," Wesley said in a warning voice, approaching Faith with caution.

Faith's gaze slipped to her former watcher's, her arms automatically curling around themselves. The action was that of a frightened child, and Wesley read something in Faith's eyes that gave him the confidence to close some of the distance between them.

"Angel has told us that he visits you," Wesley said softly.

"Yeah," Faith agreed. "Not for a little while, but then he wasn't really visiting anybody. Not that you all were being too supportive," she added bitterly.

Wesley winced. "Yes, well--"

"It's cool," Faith hurried to assure Wesley. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . ." She shut her eyes tightly. "Please, Wesley, I need to talk to him. I need him to tell me none of this is real."

"None of what?" Giles asked, walking forward until he stood beside Wesley. He wasn't reading any of the hostility he always had in the past from Faith. The instinctual fear he'd always felt in her presence was oddly absent.

"Dreams," Faith said simply. "Fucked up shit I don't want to remember, let alone find out is real. So you need to tell me if they're symbolic, or prophetic, or what, so that I can do something to stop them."

"Excuse me," Xander interrupted, raising a hand. "No offense, I know I'm more snack-finder than task-master, but isn't Dangerous Homicidal Slayer supposed to be in prison?"

"Which one," Cordelia muttered under her breath. "Sorry," she added at the looks she received from Willow and Xander.

"I got paroled," Faith said defensively. "Angel got that cop, Lockley, to talk to the board for me. She came to see me. Said Angel took responsibility for me."

"He informed Cordelia and I that you might be joining us soon," Wesley assured her.

"He didn't tell me," Gunn spoke up, sounding offended. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"Maybe because Faith never tried to gut you?" Cordelia snapped.

"Enough," Wesley ordered sharply. He rarely raised his voice, and the authoritative tone got through to everyone. He turned his attention back to Faith, and his entire face softened. "What dreams?" he asked in a calm, even tone.

"B," Faith said quietly, "with fangs, ripping my throat out, ripping her mom's throat out, 'lil sis . . . and Angel . . ."

"What about Angel?" Cordelia asked, moving to stand at Wesley's right side.

Faith looked nervous. "He was black and white.

"Black and white and about a billion shades of gray."

~

With fever I persist
The rages of your kiss
My reckless heart in fist
And I cannot resist

~

Angel caught the arrow she'd fired at him easily.

"Nice tr--" his words were cut off as she quickly fired a second arrow which =did= make contact with his flesh; the flesh of his right shoulder. "Shot," he amended, wincing.

"Don't worry," she told him softly, "you'll feel all better in a few minutes."

Buffy was right next to him now, and with a flick of her wrist, she ripped the arrow from his shoulder. Grunting at the pain, Angel tried to tighten his grip on the sword, only to find he could barely hold onto it at all. It clattered to the floor, and he reached out with his hand for something to brace his weight on. The table sufficed, and he glanced at Buffy, feeling dread well up inside him.

"What did you do to me?" he muttered, well aware he was slurring his words. Buffy was moving in and out of focus, too. He wished she'd quit doing that. It was giving him a headache.

Then, miraculously, the pain in his head started to fade. Buffy was still blurry, but she was staying that way. Everything was soft. Her palm was pressed against his cheek, and he did not fight the urge to turn into her touch. Why had he been resisting in the first place? There was nothing in heaven or on earth as pure and beautiful as Buffy's touch.

Her lips, her mouth, wet and open, pressed against his, filled his senses to bursting. He let go of his hold on the table and placed his hands on Buffy's hips, letting her bear his weight. Her fingers ran through his hair, scratched lightly at his scalp, woke nerve endings that had been slumbering for what seemed like eons.

"That's right," she crooned as she moved her mouth along his cheek, to his ear. "Good boy."

He was suspended in pure bliss. Tiny hands slipped beneath his shirt, slid along his skin, massaged it with long, easy strokes. Buffy kneaded the muscles along his chest, his abdomen, before slipping around his back, making small circular patterns along his spine. Next, she went to work on a tight knot across his shoulders.

"My poor baby," she whispered, "carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders."

Somehow, his shirt had come unbuttoned, and she was placing soft, whispering little kisses up and down his chest. Her hair was wound around his hands, and he bent his head, inhaling her deeply. How he missed that smell every moment of his worthless existence . . .

Abruptly, Buffy moved away from him, and he automatically reached out to her, trying to draw her back into his embrace. His hands found nothing but air, and she giggled as he stumbled, once again seeking out the table to keep him upright.

"I have a surprise for you," she confided softly, and moved to the back of the warehouse. There, she pulled back a curtain to reveal a young man, naked, bleeding a little, and chained to the wall.

Angel's confused brain tried to process what she was showing him, but it all barely registered. "Buffy," he began, confused.

"You probably don't recognize him, given that the two of you were never properly introduced," Buffy interrupted. "Angel, I'd like you to meet Parker. Parker, this is the man who's going to rip out your heart and feed it to me."

Her voice had been so casual that it took Angel a moment to connect her words with her tone. The boy -- Parker -- was gagged, but his eyes widened, and inarticulate cries and grunts of horror escaped his mouth nonetheless.

"You know I won't hurt him," Angel said with far more bravado than he felt at the moment.

"Won't you," Buffy murmured noncommittally. "Not even when I tell you what he did to me? Although if you didn't really care what Faith had done to me, why would you care if some boy came on to me, fucked me, then dumped me?"

Rage, pure and blinding consumed Angel for a moment. Obviously, this boy had been a lover of Buffy's when she'd been human. Unfortunately for him, he'd apparently made the fatal mistake of hurting her. Human Buffy hadn't used her strength to punish him; Vampire Buffy, on the other hand . . .

"Maybe you care after all," Buffy murmured as she studied his face carefully. "Maybe for all your 'Up with Humanity' talk, soul or no, you'd like nothing better than to tap dance on this idiot kid's spleen."

"I won't hurt him," Angel repeated again.

"But you =want= to," Buffy insisted, moving closer to him again. "Isn't that what you told me, once upon a time? That you could walk like a man, but that you weren't?" Both her hands moved to cup his face between them. "I don't want a man. I want a demon. I want you."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she spun on her heel and paced toward Parker. "Which is why I made a quick run to the all-night drugstore before I picked up Parker," she concluded.

An itching, burning sensation began to spread through Angel's stomach. The fog that had been surrounding him began to lift, and he felt the old, familiar panic begin to set in.

"No," he whispered, an automatic denial springing forth from between numb lips.

"Your file was wicked informative," Buffy told him. "Although I got a slightly more potent variety of the Happy Pills that bitch gave you. It seemed too good to be true, finding out Parker transferred to CSUN after that incident with the beer on campus. I had to celebrate it with you, and I figured you'd be a lot more accommodating sans soul."

"You don't know what you've done," Angel muttered. "He won't . . . I won't . . ."

"You're worried about me," Buffy replied, touched. "Don't be. After careful consideration, I decided not to pull a Faith. I prefer to see exactly what I'll be dealing with before I bring Inner Demon Boy out to play full time."

Out to play, Angel thought, hysteria building up like a bubble in the pit of his stomach. A single pinprick, and he would pop, everything that made him a man dissolving, leaving only the demon that wore his skin.

Horror was the most predominant emotion, but lurking beneath the surface somewhere was a feeling that shamed him. Perverse excitement warred with relief. His demon would meet Buffy's demon with no facades or good intentions; nothing but blood and death and raw, unguarded desire.

"I had to go into the Valley to get him, Angel," Buffy said pointedly after he'd been silent for too long. "The. Valley." She shuddered. "I didn't even stop to snack." Her gaze traveled to the two puncture marks on Parker's upper arm. "At least, not much."

The scent of blood was heavy in the room. Parker wasn't hurt badly, but Buffy had made him bleed. A lot. Most likely to tantalize Angel's senses. Objective achieved, he thought, his skin beginning to tighten and ache, a silent scream starting from the depths of his soul.

This was his worst nightmare. The demon was hungry, starved, really, for the kill, for warm, human blood. Angel denied it, denied himself on a daily basis, and it took its toll. Usually, he was able to keep the bloodlust at bay. Just the thought of being free, of the curse being lifted, however temporarily, had the demon howling with barely suppressed desire.

How he hoped no harm came to Cordy, or Wes, or Gunn, or any of the others. He was terrified his first instinct would be to hurt them. He only hoped Angelus would be too intent on getting to know Buffy's demon to pay much mind to the people Angel loved. He prayed to a God who'd abandoned him to keep his family safe.

And then, with a sudden shift, Angel stopped caring about everything.

Except, of course, for the lovely morsel the woman who'd brought him back had been kind enough to provide.

~

A demon's day in madness kissed
I swear I never had it like this
Forbidden yet I cannot resist

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Crash -- Come Into You

~

You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight, tie me up again.
Who's got their claws
In you my friend?
Into your heart I'll beat again
Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock,
And sweet you roll
Lost for you, I'm so lost for you

~

Apparently, Buffy thought wryly, the instinct to feed was a stronger lure than she was. Poor baby. He =must= be hungry for something warm and tasty after all this time.

"Don't drink too much," Buffy cautioned, "he's probably got a funny after taste."

Angelus either didn't agree, or didn't care, about her warnings. He sunk his fangs into Parker's throat, growling and suckling hungrily. With a shrug, Buffy joined him, vamping out, taking the other side of Parker's neck. One of them pierced his larynx, because his muffled screams became deathly silent almost immediately.

They drained him in short order, then left him to hang limply in the chains Buffy had found half-off in a little shop on Melrose. No need to get fancy with binding spells and charms when the only thing she had to restrain was a weak, spineless weasel.

Blood was dripping down Angelus' chin. His hands were covered in it from where he was gripping Parker's bloodied arms. Buffy felt a thrill go through her at the sight. He was raw, uncaged, and purely, sinfully hers.

"Well, well, well," Angelus murmured, licking his lips crudely, "a slayer turned. You really don't see abominations of nature like that as much as you used to."

"Says the only vampire who spends more time with a soul than without one," she shot back.

"Touché," he conceded, giving her a long, measuring appraisal.

They were circling each other like big cats, each trying to decide which move would be the correct one.

"I've got a bone to pick with you," he remarked casually.

"Do tell," she murmured, watching as he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.

"You staked my sire."

"You staked her first."

"Ah, but I wasn't quite myself at the time," he reminded her, not without irony.

"I haven't been feeling like myself the last few days, either," she countered.

"I think you've got that wrong," he disagreed.

That gave her pause. "What are you talking about?"

The shrug he sent her way made her long to rip his throat out, but she held back. Impulse control had never been her strong suit; it was even less so now that she had no conscience. Ripping her Angel's throat out, however, was unacceptable, no matter how much he might be irritating her at the moment.

"You've done quite a job fucking up my head these past few days," he complimented her as he turned and walked toward the table. He picked up a dagger, tested its weight in his hands.

"Thank you. I did learn at the feet of the master."

"Oh, don't, Buff -- you'll get me all choked up."

"I'd like to choke you," she muttered.

Like she'd been expecting, he finally struck, moving supernaturally fast to grip her upper arms tightly. He still held the dagger, and the side of its blade sliced into the flesh of her left arm. The pain made her wince, but otherwise, she ignored it. If she'd figured out anything about his head -- and she was positive she had -- this was all some elaborate test to see if she was worthy.

"What are you playing at, slayer?" he hissed around a mouthful of fangs. Funny, how she hadn't bothered to return to the human guise she normally wore, either. "What can you hope to win?"

"You," she said immediately. Then, she slashed her nails down his side. He, too, winced, but his grip held her firmly. "Don't call me slayer," she added.

"Right, because you're evil now," he said mockingly.

"I am evil," she spat at him.

"You still love," he countered.

"So do you," she insisted.

His eyes murderously angry, he shoved her away so strongly she actually lost her balance and hit the floor. Nothing hurt but her dignity, but Buffy refused to let it show. The game she was playing had everything she'd ever wanted riding on it. From the ground, she laughed at him, making no move to stand again. Instead, she stretched her body, arching her back, settling against her elbows.

"What's so fucking funny?" he snapped, starting to pace the floor.

"You. Still denying that you love me." The glare he gave her would have silenced anyone who was actually afraid of him. "You loved me so much you tried to suck the world into hell to make it stop," she added.

"Wrong," he snapped, reaching down to haul her to her feet. He gripped the back of her hair tightly in one fist, held one of her wrists prisoner with the other. "I hated myself for loving something that could never be pure enough for me. I had one of the most powerful vampires of all time by my side for over a century," he taunted.

Buffy smiled cruelly. "And it took me less than a minute to shove a stake through her heart," she informed him.

He tried to push her away, but this time, she held fast to him.

"You were never meant for her," she continued. "Darla was a means to an end. She got you to me. That's all there is to it."

Angelus had no retort to that, and Buffy felt her confidence rise a few more notches. He was shirtless -- her preferred state of dress for him -- and she used that to her benefit. She trailed one of her hands over his chest, teasing his flesh until she reached his face.

"It doesn't matter if we have souls," she continued, making a small incision in his cheek with her nail. This time, he didn't so much as flinch. Standing on her toes, she pressed her mouth to the bleeding wound, licking at it until it closed.

With her other hand, Buffy pressed two fingers to the cut on her arm. Then, she brought those fingers to his mouth, but was prevented contact by the vise-like grip he imprisoned her wrist with.

"We were meant for each other, my love," she whispered, undaunted. "I'm right here. I'm yours. You just have to take me, and together, we'll rule this godforsaken world."

"I don't want to rule the world," he growled softly. Slowly, he brought her hand to his lips, then reached his tongue out and cleaned each of her fingers thoroughly.

Snarling, he kicked her legs out from under her, then followed her to the ground, his full weight pressing her onto the cold concrete floor. His hands moved to the flimsy dress covering her and he tore it from her body.

"I want to burn it to the ground," he added, bringing a hand up to cup one of her breasts, using his fingers to pinch the nipple roughly.

"And dance on the wreckage," she agreed, moving her legs to hold his hips to her body. The hand he didn't still hold moved to his belt, ripping it and his pants away.

His head moved to her bleeding arm and he lapped at it, stopped the bleeding. Then, he tore into her flesh anew, only sipping this time.

Buffy cried out and held his head to her arm, her thighs tightening around his hips. Her hand encircled his erection and she began to stroke him firmly, occasionally scratching at his engorged flesh with her nails, just enough to make him moan.

He broke away from her arm, moved his head to her breasts. His lips closed around each of her nipples in turn, pulled and gnawed at them until Buffy thought she would die all over again from the razor sharp pleasure. There was no question as to which one of them was in control this time around, and she reveled in his dominance over her.

Angelus slid his mouth along her stomach, taking mouthfuls of her flesh in as he went. Buffy felt as though she was being eaten alive, and she wanted him to take more of her, to take more of her skin into his mouth, her blood into his body. She wanted more of her flesh against his big, rough hands.

Sliding his palms beneath her ass, he lifted her toward his mouth, his fingers pressed into her hips hard enough to bruise. Then, his mouth was on her clit, his lips and tongue sipping and sucking on every inch of her wet, swollen flesh, and she didn't care about bruises. Rather, she wanted bruises, wanted her body torn and marked by his fangs, his flesh, his seed. Buffy wanted every being -- man or demon -- within a ten-block radius to know that she was his, that he'd claimed her.

A wail left her throat when his mouth left her unsatisfied. With all her pent up arousal, she leaned up on her elbows and tried to glare at him.

"You bastard," she began, sure he was playing with her. Angelus loved games, and it would be just like him to torture her this way, then leave her alone and unsatisfied.

The look in his eyes stopped her. It was half predator, half little boy -- evil, deadly little boy -- both wanting to play. His hands slid away from her hips, to her leg, lifting it higher against his cheek. He nuzzled her inner thigh, then turned his head, scraping at her flesh with the tip of a single, razor sharp incisor.

"Come on, Buff," he encouraged lightly, "beg me."

He thought she had pride? Thought she had a will he had to break? Maybe he just didn't understand how this went, the give and take of it all. How he made her beg, then she made him beg. How they were equal. She'd make him understand before the day was out.

Until then, Buffy had no qualms whatsoever about begging him for what they both wanted.

"Please, Angel," she called hoarsely, "Angelus, please, Angel, please . . ."

He ripped through the tender flesh of her inner thigh with his fangs, while he thrust three fingers deep inside her. He began to pump his hand in time with the long, deep draws of his mouth against her leg.

Buffy howled, every dead nerve in her body suddenly wide awake and humming. Intense pleasure washed through her body, and still, his mouth pulled at her, demanded more of her. His insistent fingers stroked more firmly, knowingly, and a second set of contractions wracked her body. Her back arched off the ground at the feeling.

As the pleasure began to fade, his mouth left her leg, and he slid up her body until his face hovered less than an inch from hers. His hand still covered her, fingers wet and sticky, lightly playing with her clit.

"Is that what you wanted?" he asked coldly, and she could still feel his anger; anger at her, for loving him, anger at himself, for loving her back.

"No," she answered, delighting in the shock that was written all over his face. Her legs cradled his hips again, her nails dug into his back.

"Finish me," she ordered, rubbing her wetness against his throbbing cock.

Growling like a wild thing, he sat up on his knees and spun her around by her shoulders. She landed on her hands and knees, but before she could become acclimated to her new position, he slammed himself to the hilt inside of her, his hips resting heavily against her ass. They both groaned at the sensation, and he draped his chest over her back, his mouth finding her ear.

"Like that?" he whispered sinfully, the devil enticing Eve to take just one bite . . .

"More," she insisted, pushing her hips back at him roughly. "Give it to me."

"What do you want from me?" he muttered, madly pecking kisses and nipping at her neck as he began to thrust inside her, slow, hard movements of his hips.

"All of you," she answered without hesitation, arching her breasts into his hands as they climbed up her ribcage.

He snarled in response, his hips speeding as he began to scrape blunt fingernails over her nipples. The responses he coaxed from her body would have embarrassed her as the young, virginal girl she'd been the first time they'd given in to temptation. Now, the demon she'd become only wanted more; she wanted her pleasure, but more, she wanted his.

Squeezing down on him with her still-slayer-strong internal muscles, she massaged his cock until his thrusting grew erratic, his mouth buried against her neck, incoherent groans and mumbles of pleasure saturating her skin.

Violently, they came together again and again. He gripped her neck with his teeth, not drinking; he did it to keep her still while he fucked her into oblivion. Buffy felt another orgasm quickly approaching, and she pulled his forearm to her mouth, cutting through the vein there easily. He began lapping at the wound he'd made on the back of her neck, sucking at it as he came with a final, brutal thrust into her body.

They collapsed to the floor, and he made no move to roll off of her, which was fine with Buffy. As far as she was concerned, he could keep her pressed to whatever flat surface was available twenty-four hours a day.

"You're strong," she heard him rumble against her ear.

"Duh."

"Stronger," he clarified, finally moving. He ran his hand up and down her back. "Stronger than a slayer, stronger than a demon."

"You noticed that too," she quipped, rolling to her side so she faced him.

Roughly, he hauled her leg over his hip, pressed them together tightly. Already, he was starting to harden against her thigh, and she smiled, a slow, satisfied shifting of her facial muscles.

"How's your stamina?"

"I'd say we've got about nine hours of daylight to test it," she murmured as she rolled him to his back and pressed a hungry kiss to his mouth.

~

You wear nothing, but you
Wear it so well
Tied up and twisted,
The way I'd like to be
For you, for me, come crash into me, oh yeah
Come crash into me, baby
Ooh, touch your lips just so I know
Oh, in your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare-boned and crazy... for you
Oh, and you come crash into me, yeah
Baby, I come into you

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Prophet -- Wings of Passion

~

She looked at me across the room
Emerging from a silk cocoon
Along beneath venetian chandeliers
Against the moon her body rocks
Her eyes were cunning like a fox
The wings of passion fly on all frontiers

~

Of all the sights Lindsey had thought might greet him, the one that actually did certainly hadn't registered high on the old probability meter.

He felt it happening all over again. The mindless devotion he'd had toward Darla was building up inside of him. Lindsey would have had to have been stupid not to see the similarities between the two women. Buffy and Darla. Darla and Buffy. Physically, they were nearly identical -- blonde, petite, deadly, beautiful, intelligent. It was when you dug deeper, looked at the core -- both of the person they'd once been, and the demons they'd become -- those differences began to assert themselves.

Lindsey prided himself on his ability to research with the best of them. He dug so deep into a person's life that he could probably tell you what their childhood invisible friend had been called.

(Buffy's, incidentally, had been Fred. Fred had come to stay with Buffy and her mother when Hank Summers went away on extended business trips. Fred never went away, and always reminded Buffy her father loved her. Lindsey had worked up a fairly accurate psychological profile on Buffy based solely on that tiny nugget of information alone.)

His attention was pulled from his inner musings to the couple on the floor in front of him. The research staff had been working overtime, and he'd located Drusilla. Intensely lacking any sort of self-preservation instinct, Lindsey had sought out the newly turned slayer, hoping to earn her good graces.

To say that finding her astride the man Lindsey hated most on this earth was a shock was putting things very mildly.

"Company," he heard her whisper to Angel.

Angel merely growled, sunk his teeth into Buffy's shoulder, and continued to thrash about beneath her.

Lindsey turned away, unable to look at the sight before him. It made him think of Darla, and Angel and Darla together, Darla leaving, Darla coming back, but only because she wanted to use Lindsey, Darla, Darla, Darla . . .

Moans and grunts and purrs tormented Lindsey's senses until he thought he'd go mad. Then, nothing but eerie silence. Still, he didn't dare turn around. Images he'd rather not have were burned into his brain. Buffy inspired nothing but respect from him. The only desire he felt in regards to her was the possibility of taking something from Angel that he considered his. However, therein lay a greater danger for Lindsey than if he'd actually been in love with her. His desire to see Angel destroyed had become a part of his being over the past two years.

Given Buffy's single-minded devotion to the biggest thorn in Wolfram & Hart's side, however, Lindsey was willing to wager taking her from Angel was highly unlikely.

"Lin," she called airily, "did you pop over for a reason, or did you just sense we needed a snack?"

"You wouldn't like him, love," Angel murmured, and Lindsey could have sworn a hint of Irish colored his voice. "He reeks of humanity. Likes to pretend he's big and bad, when really all he wants is someone to play his mommy, tuck him in and make him feel safe at night. Isn't that right, Lindsey?"

Lindsey turned around sharply then, his eyes widening slightly at the sight that presented itself. Buffy and Angel were both fully clothed, Angel all in black, Buffy wearing red leather pants and -- incongruously -- a large sweatshirt. Angel sat on the table in the center of the room, Buffy on his lap. Her face had returned to its normal human guise, but Angel's still bore the mark of his demon. Which, Lindsey conceded, might have something to do with the fact that Buffy was holding a severed hand covered in blood to his mouth.

"I have the information you wanted," Lindsey said, forcing a calm indifference into his voice he was far from feeling as Buffy flung the hand in the direction of a body slumped against the floor. He wanted to throw up.

Buffy smiled brightly. "Good boy," she praised. "Where is the 'ho these days?"

"Drusilla was last seen crossing the border into Mexico. I've sent a team to locate and retrieve her."

"Why?" Angel asked.

"Silly," Buffy murmured, playing with the cuff of his shirt, "because I have to kill her."

"You'll do no such thing," Angel growled, standing suddenly, dropping Buffy to her feet.

"Uh, pardon me, lover, but you don't seem to get the rules here. She's touched you in the naked, lusty wrong way. That means her continued existence on this planet no longer works for me."

"She's my favorite," Angel insisted, "and I won't have you staking her. What kind of a vampire are you, anyway? You spend most of your time staking our kind. Your sire, my sire--"

"My sire was a loser," Buffy said, beginning to tick off her points with her fingers, "your sire, as I mentioned, touched you, as did Drusilla. I didn't kill Spike, and I had the perfect opportunity."

Angel snorted. "Spike you could have killed," he muttered.

"But he's so hot," Buffy objected.

Angel growled, low in his throat, a dangerous, possessive sound.

"I think I missed a chapter," Lindsey declared, too fascinated by the scene before him to inch toward the door.

"Are you still here?" Angel asked him, sounding bored.

"The last time my people checked in on you," Lindsey continued, looking straight at Angel, "you were seriously bent on staking her, no questions asked."

Angel rolled his eyes. "Yeah, gotta give me credit on that one. You know, I think I might have had the right idea when I told the little witch 'no curse, just stake the bitch.'"

"You don't mean that," Buffy said confidently. Then, a thought seemed to occur to her. "What do you mean 'no curse'? You didn't try to curse me?"

Angel looked at her as though she were deeply stupid. "Did you feel a soul enter your body?"

"I thought you tried and failed," she said, angrily folding her arms over her chest. "So what, you weren't even going to =try= to curse me? I'm changing and growing, and you can't deal, so instead of trying to work things out between us, you were just gonna shove a piece of wood through my heart?!"

"Not me!" Angel tried to defend himself. "Soul boy."

"Same song," Buffy insisted, "different verse."

At this point, Lindsey had taken his seventy-five percent suspicion up to a hundred percent certainty. The demon that stood before him was Angelus, Scourge of Europe, in all his glory. Of course, glory might have been the wrong word, given how, despite his threats to the contrary, the demon seemed extremely devoted to the small blonde vampire glaring up at him.

"I'm beginning to think you're a little bit more trouble than you're worth," Angelus declared as he got in her face.

"And I'm beginning to think I like you better with a soul," she snapped. "Plotting to kill me or not, at least you still love me."

"I love you," he allowed. "I just hate myself for it."

"But I'm evil now!" she declared, as though it made all the difference. "I can understand hating yourself for loving the goody-two-shoes, stuck up former me, but this is Buffy version 2.0." A little frown marred her perfect brow. "I'm all new and improved."

"Why do I even both--" Angelus froze, mid-sentence and clutched at the table.

"Are you dizzy?" Buffy asked.

Angelus shook his head, but didn't attempt to stand without aid of the table. "What . . ."

"The drugs are wearing off," Buffy deduced matter-of-factly.

~

Now upon the bridge she waits
Dreaming of our tangled fates
Her face was like a ghost with eyes of jade
I fell just like a falling star
A victim of this coup d'etat
I could not see behind this masquerade

~

"Then why don't you give me another dose?" Angelus snarled.

Buffy frowned. Her test hadn't really been completed. They hadn't even had a chance to hunt together. Besides, she still wasn't sure which Angel she liked better -- souled or unsouled. Granted, Angel was always walking around, trying to stake her, but Angelus seemed kind of unstable. And =not= in the good way.

Maybe the demon really was driven insane after all that time locked up with a soul, Buffy mused. Cause, the way she figured it, she was as evil as could be, but she wasn't all whacked out like some OTHER vampire in the room who will remain nameless.

Calmly, Buffy tucked her hair behind her ears and opened the desk drawer where she'd put the rest of Angel's 'happy' pills. Psychotic or not, she still owed it to them both to give Angelus full opportunity to show he was more fun than Angel was. Given the way they'd spent the day, she was already willing to concede him a =lot= of points.

Tapping a small capsule into her hand, Buffy made her way to where Angelus was clutching the table. He leaned his head toward her palm, but she moved her arm, bringing the pill out of reach. He glared at her, and she gifted him with a smile.

"What do we say?" she singsonged.

"Give me the pill or I'll rip your throat out," he snarled.

"Close enough," she conceded, feeding it to him.

He swallowed it dry, and within moments, stood upright without the assistance of the table. His face also shifted back to its human guise.

"You know, that's two times now you've clutched that table," she pointed out.

He gave her a condescending look. "I assure you, it's not a sexual thing; the table doesn't have to die."

The scathing retort she was about to deliver -- something involving him wishing that table held some sexual appeal for him if he continued to mock her -- was cut off by Lindsey clearing his throat loudly.

"Am I to assume that given your current circumstances, you won't be requiring Wolfram & Hart's file on Angel any longer?"

Buffy stalked over to where she'd abandoned the file earlier, gathered it up, and slammed it against Lindsey's chest.

"Good as new," she announced. Then, she leaned in to whisper in Lindsey's ear. "By the way, the profile on how to drive him crazy . . . very nice. Your work?"

"Yes," Lindsey confirmed, keeping an eye on Angel, she noticed. Smart boy. Buffy knew if she pressed herself just a little bit closer, Lindsey would have to learn how to breathe with his lungs on the outside of his body.

"Too bad you got one little detail wrong," Buffy noted.

She also noted the genuine irritation in Lindsey's eyes when she discredited his work.

"What's that?"

"The perfect way to torture Angel -- the souled version, at least -- is to torture me." Buffy smiled, getting a little rush. It was fun to pick at Lindsey's work -- something he obviously took pride in -- and show him that he'd never get inside Angel the way she had if he had a thousand years to study. She stepped away from Lindsey and back into the waiting arms of her lover. Those arms wrapped around her so tightly that if she'd needed breath, it would have been deprived. "If you had a prayer of getting close enough to lay a single finger on me, I'd say that would be your best course of action."

"Thanks for the tip," Lindsey said sincerely.

He apparently acquired an ounce of common sense, because he turned on his heel and quickly left the warehouse.

Angelus' face was buried in Buffy's neck. He was sucking at her skin, and she was arching against him.

"I'm bored," she announced.

He pulled her hips back against his body tightly. "Sun'll be down in an hour."

Spinning in his grasp, she pressed herself against him, took his lower lip between her teeth and tugged at it sharply before sinuously rubbing her body against his. Her words drowned out his groan.

"Wanna go look up some old friends?"

~

Sometimes I think I'll never learn
Were all those promises in vain
Do the wings of fire still remain

~

"If this is what B's been going through since the day she was called, I take back every nasty thing I ever said about her whining about the burdens of slayer-dom."

"I take it, then, that you've never experienced a prophetic dream before?"

Faith stared into Wesley's eyes. "Is that what this was? Cause I thought they were just some intensely bad nightmares. Food in prison, you know, it'll give a girl indigestion. Worse than cold pizza before bed."

Faith sat on the couch in the Hyperion's lobby. Giles and Wesley sat on the coffee table in front of her. Both watchers were taking turns debriefing her after her rather cryptic comments about Buffy and Angel's appearances in her dreams.

When she'd been told about Buffy being turned, Faith had seemed unsurprised. Heartbroken, saddened, even guilty, but not surprised in the least. Angel's absence for the past day had put her more on edge, if that had even been possible.

"It's like the nastier parts of the Bible," Faith added quietly. At the looks both watchers gave her, she shrugged, and continued, "It's the only thing there was always a copy of on the book cart."

"Could you try to describe Buffy and Angel's roles in your dreams in more detail?" Wesley asked.

"Angel's easy. One minute he's like an avenging angel with a sword, cutting down the wicked, the next he's an animal, ripping anything that bleeds apart with fists and fangs. B . . . she's harder to pin down. I can't get a bead on her at all."

"Angel is transitory by nature," Giles began. "For as long as you've known him, he's walked a very fine line. Whereas your mental image of Buffy is one of . . ."

"You can say it. Goodness and light, purity and honor, everything I'm not." Only a hint of bitterness remained in Faith's tone, for which she was proud. The year she'd spent incarcerated had given her plenty of time to think. Using that time wisely, Faith had begun to ferret out her inner demons and make like a good slayer with them.

"It doesn't matter," she announced out loud before either watcher could stumble out some response. "The point is what I'm seeing is an apocalyptic battle. Not the last of all time, in fact the read I get on it says it's just the first of the new century. Sort of a 'are you ready for the millennium?' blowout, courtesy the PTB and all the minions of hell. Who knew when they got together they'd throw such a killer rave?"

What Faith didn't tell them about her dreams was of an extremely personal nature. For the past month she'd been dreaming of a man, a man she'd never met, but whom she recognized. In her dream, she never saw his face; only his eyes. Shrouded in darkness, his beautiful blue eyes beckoned to her, teasing her with promises of home and peace.

Nope, no way was she sharing that nugget of information with the stuffy British guys. Maybe when Angel got back, she'd unburden herself to him. The big guy would understand about lofty, idealistic fantasies about a supposed soulmate she'd never actually met, only glimpsed from afar.

Faith also didn't tell them about how truly frightened she was. The graphic, horrific detail of nightmarish battles that would someday occur in a future that she would no doubt take part in -- to say she was massively wigging was an understatement. It had taken a considerable amount of self-control to show up at AI to begin with. Her terror had nearly sent her running straight from the prison to the first bar that would serve her.

"There's more," she said quietly, thinking of something good, something she could tell them.

"I shudder to think what more there might be," Wesley commented honestly.

Faith smiled at him. "I see people I've never met before who feel like family," she began hesitantly. "But I don't know if they're =my= family, or just . . . family." She shook her head. "I can't explain it. Everything's so jumbled and fucking dire . . ."

"I suspect you're finally feeling the full burden of being the slayer," Giles pronounced quietly. "Buffy's final death -- her rising the next night notwithstanding -- has shifted the balance, as Angel called it, back into order. You are the only slayer, and I believe that now, finally, are more mentally open to the workings of the universe."

A tear slipped down Faith's cheek. "So then . . . my calling wasn't a wrong number?"

Wesley placed a comforting hand on Faith's knee. "I'd say not," he murmured softly. "Faith, if our theory is correct . . . your past instability might be in part due to your being called while Buffy still fought as the slayer."

"I thought no one wanted me," she whispered. "Not God, not the council, not any of you, because you had Buffy, and she was twice the slayer, twice the friend that I was. I've always felt that way . . ."

Wesley squeezed her knee until she looked at him. "We want you, Faith," he assured her in a firm, steady tone.

"More than that," Giles added. "We need you."

~

"Mr. McDonald, I'm not quite sure what you're asking me to research--"

"Damn it, Lydia, it's not that hard. I want you to find me a spell, or a ritual, or a binding that will restore a soul, but NOT that fruity gypsy curse that was used on Angel."

Lydia took an involuntary step backwards. Ever since Ms. Morgan's death, Mr. McDonald had grown more and more unstable. Office gossip placed his breakdown within the month, his 'termination' from the company a week beyond that. It was too bad, really. Lydia rather liked Mr. McDonald. He wasn't the greatest boss in the world, but he was certainly the upper crust around this place.

Sometimes, he let her have afternoons or evenings when he wouldn't require anything from her off. If Lydia hadn't known him better, she might have called that sweet. No doubt he had an agenda for it, perhaps trying to weasel his way into her good graces so that if he ever asked her to do something like this -- something the senior partners would no doubt find fault with -- she'd do it without thinking of what it might mean for her continued existence on this planet.

Lydia hadn't lived for sixty-four years -- twenty-three of them as a secretary for Wolfram and Hart -- by feeling sympathy for people who gave her an extra hour off every now and then.

"Mr. McDonald, far be it for me to question you--"

"But you're going to question me, aren't you, Lydia?" That half smile he got sometimes, the one that almost made her believe he had a soul flashed across his face before quickly disappearing.

"It could mean my job," she implored. When anyone at Wolfram and Hart implied that their jobs could be on the line, they really meant their lives. It was all the same in this cursed building.

"It won't," he assured her softly. "If this all blows up in my face, that's just what will happen -- it'll blow up in =my= face. I won't even mention your name. I just need you to research other avenues while I make some calls. Please, Lydia."

Lydia felt her resolve weakening, and she kicked herself for it. So he had a pretty face and something resembling a conscience. Had she really been working for these devils so long that she confused one for an angel?

"Look, the senior partners have a plan for Angel," he continued when she remained silent. "They want to drive him crazy. Every attempt that's been made so far has failed. However, I had--" and he smiled, big and wide at this "-- an epiphany today, Lydia."

"An epiphany," she repeated.

"If Angel is so consumed with keeping Buffy Summers from spinning off the edge, he won't have =time= to interfere with Wolfram and Hart's plans. And if seeing her in pain is the final straw that slips him back into madness?" His smile turned into a sneer. "Bonus."

"Bonus," Lydia echoed, wondering idly if she'd ever have an independent thought again.

"So I want you to find something that'll stick a soul to a body's ribcage like superglue."

"Yes, sir," Lydia said, watching as he stalked down the hall to his office.

Once inside, Lindsey took a seat behind his desk, loosening his tie as he began to flip through his contact book. There were half a dozen sorcerers and wizards who owed him a favor -- surely one of them would have a no loophole soul restoration.

Another slight grin crossed Lindsey's face. Once Buffy had her soul back, she wouldn't even consider staking Angel. After all, she was well aware that his transformation was only temporary, an effect of the drugs she herself gave him. In the end, he was giving Buffy something she'd no doubt thank him for -- Angel, gift-wrapped. His soul might not be as permanent as hers, but hey, at least he wouldn't be trying to stake her anymore.

Maybe Buffy might even be able to give the old thorn in Lindsey's side a little pick-me-up.

After all, Lindsey mused, not without irony, what was a moment's happiness in the grand scheme of things?

~

From this fire there's no returning
No escape your heart is burning
Love becomes a lethal weapon
No one is too smart
In affairs of the heart

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Original -- Dear Diary

~

January 29th, 2001

Is it really possible for me to be this messed over being left by a couple of guys? I mean, I loved A. With all my heart, I loved him. When he left, I couldn't remember how to breathe. If it hadn't been for my slay-time activities, I think I might have died. Riley was different. Riley, I was so deep in like with I didn't even notice it was hurting him until Xander pointed it out. I wish so much that I could have another chance with Riley. I wish I could try to love him the way I loved A. A. I just realized I keep writing A, like he's the Artist Formerly Known as Angel. Why do I do that? His name is Angel. Angel. Now I'm crying, just staring at his name. I guess that's why I always write A. You know what those wacky watchers say -- a weepy slayer is a . . . something bad, slayer.

~

"What are you reading?"

Willow glanced up at Wesley with a weary smile. "It's Buffy's diary."

The former watcher raised a single eyebrow. "And this is somehow more imperative than the spell Giles asked you to cast around the hotel?"

"I'm not really feeling at a hundred percent," Willow explained, a little angry at herself. "And if there's one thing I've learned, no heavy magic unless you're completely focused."

"Of course," Wesley said immediately. "You must forgive me, I'm . . . quite distressed at this turn of events. I fear Angel's disappearance and Faith's reappearance has left me feeling quite adrift."

"Cordelia told me what happened. With Faith," Willow added. "She hurt you pretty bad."

"Unfortunately, the physical scarring wasn't the worst of it."

"I can relate," Willow sympathized.

"So," Wesley said, changing the subject, "why are you reading Buffy's diary?"

"Trying to read," Willow corrected him as Spike returned to his perpetual perch beside her, a mug of blood in his hands. "And it's all for a good cause, I swear."

"You still fretting over that blasted diary?" Spike asked with a disgusted sigh.

"It's private," Willow insisted. She turned back to Wesley. "Buffy's diary was like her other best friend. This is the one she kept over the last year. The one she vented about Dawn in, talked about Riley and Angel in. I thought that maybe if we could understand where she was before she was turned, it might give us an idea on how to stop her."

"However, your respect for Buffy's privacy is preventing you from doing more than staring at the cover," Wesley deduced.

"It just seems . . . unethical, like I'm stomping on 'best friends' by reading it," she confessed quietly.

"I'll do it," Spike said easily, snatching the book from Willow's grasp before she could protest.

"You have no shame," Willow declared, before moving closer to him so she could peer over his shoulder.

Spike scooted further away from her on the couch. "Oh no you don't, you little witch. You didn't have the stones to begin with. No fair playing at it over my shoulder."

Willow stuck out her tongue out at him.

~

February 15th 2001

Spike loves me. =Spike= loves =me=. How deeply screwed up is that? I mean, taking the whole 'evil soulless murdering fiend' thing out of the equation, he's still =Spike=. Once I got over the knee-jerk revulsion reaction, another fun thought (note my sarcasm) occurred: even if Spike weren't so repugnant, things would never work out between us. Sooner or later, the whole slayer/vampire thing would take its toll. He'd get pissed at me for killing one of his friends who owed him money, I'd have to beat him nightly over some cruel, smartass remark he'd made . . . Evil things just don't mix with non-evil things. I knew it from the beginning. If life with Angel taught me anything, it taught me that. No matter how much you love someone, no matter how much you want to change who you who are for them . . . in the end, everything stays the same. You're still destined to kill every member of your love's race. Maybe if I ever get to the point where I can be in the same room with Spike without wanting to hit him 'til he bleeds, I'll tell him that. Maybe it'll even make him feel better.
It doesn't make me feel better. Honestly, it makes me mad when I think about it too much. It makes me want to take a bus to LA, crawl into Angel's arms and forget that everything stays the same for awhile. Only the inevitable gut wrenching pain and angst keeps me safely tucked in my own bed.

~

The fluidity of a good kill, the artistry that embodied a soul's last breath -- those were the little things that made unlife worth living.

Angelus watched the shift and pull of Buffy's body as she flirted with the boy at the drive-thru window of a filthy McDonald's in downtown Hollywood. Her every movement spoke of immeasurable grace and confidence. Occasionally, she would bring a finger to the boy's face, caress the tip of his chin with it, her lilting laughter carrying on the wind. Buffy used such skill with her seduction that Angelus was willing to bet the kid had temporarily forgotten he worked at a place so vile that people didn't want their cars near it, let alone their appetites; that such a magnificent creature would never deign to speak with him.

People believed what they so desperately needed to. Human souls had been doing it for centuries, convincing themselves their lovers hadn't been unfaithful, that their children didn't hate them, that they were happy in their jobs. The whole thing made Angelus sick. Their weak, pathetic souls wouldn't allow their true natures to assert themselves.

Pure passion did exist in the human world: murder, rape, torture . . .it all lurked in the darkest corners of every human psyche. Most people would tell you they never thought about their deepest, baser instincts, but Angelus knew better. Vampires were only demons in the strictest sense of the word. Physical affectations and aversion to sunlight notwithstanding, they were no more demonic in spirit than your average serial killer.

When a vampire became, the demon merely fed on every ounce of goodness that dwelt in the heart of the person it now inhabited. The better the man, the purer the soul, the more vicious the demon.

Angelus did not have it in him to be anything young Liam hadn't been capable of. Admittedly, the likelihood of Liam going on a drunken rampage and obliterating his entire village was slim; the boy hadn't had enough drive to do more than fall down after too much ale. His thirst to see the world, to be more than what he'd been born to was something deeply entrenched in Angelus' being.

Liam had never been in love. He'd loved his sister with the manly protectiveness of a fine Irish lad of his time. His mother he'd respected, though he'd spent more time with the scullery maid than he had with her. The father whom he'd always disappointed, whom he loathed and sought approval from in equal measure had certainly shaped the demon's lust for suffering, but hadn't done much to affect his heart.

Never having fallen victim to the charms of the lovely lasses who made routine trips to his bed, Liam had never the inclination, nor the opportunity to fall in love with one of them -- they simply didn't stick around long enough. The demon, having no real frame of reference from its human host, had therefore been unable to love.

Angelus was amazed now at how many vampires had never loved as humans. Truly, deeply loved, to the point that it was able to transcend such a wondrous metamorphosis.

Therefore, contrary to what she'd have liked to believe, Angelus had never loved Darla. He'd never loved anything, not when he'd been weak and mortal, not after he'd regained his soul in those cursed Romanian woods.

But then, at the time, the soul had never laid eyes on Buffy Summers. It had not yet loved her so completely that even after it had gone again, it left echoes of her inside his skin.

Angelus loved her against his will. It had been intolerable when she'd been alive, the very embodiment of everything he was meant to hate. Now, though it wasn't nearly as embarrassing, he still felt unsettled about it.

The Scourge of Europe, loving a little blonde thing barely two decades old; loving anyone at all, for that matter.

Oh, but she was flawless; so young, but so capable already, in her beauty, her cunning, her skill . . . Her vicious nature, her darkness nearly equaled his own. In time, she might even surpass him. Darla's darkness had inspired lust and fear inside his being in equal measures. Despite her protests, however, he didn't believe she'd loved him anymore than he'd loved her. Her human heart, the same as his, had never known love before she was turned.

After she came back again, that was a different story. Angelus was willing to believe that she, when forced to view their history, their relationship through human eyes, had fallen in love with him. That love infected her even after the soul was blessedly removed again.

Before that, though, his relationship with Darla had been a tempestuous thing. A lesson he'd learned not a decade into it with her was that he could never turn his back on her. No matter how long they'd been together, no matter how many times he made her come, hunted by her side, or promised her an eternity, he'd never felt safe enough to let his guard down.

At any moment, Darla might have abandoned him -- as she did when he'd been cursed -- and that sure notion had influenced Angelus' thoughts and actions every moment of their hundred and forty some odd years together.

Maybe it had been love, of a kind. But it hadn't been real, or lasting or . . . a smirk curved his lips. Eternal.

Another of Buffy's laughs drifted to his attention, and he narrowed his eyes, wondering how long she intended to play with her food. Oddly enough, he wasn't concerned with whether she intended to return to him or not. He knew with certainty that she did. There was humanity in him now, emotions that weren't based in evil for this goddess in her red leather pants.

That was what made his hate for her nearly surpass his love. Angelus forced himself to do something he never had before -- curb the instinct to destroy whatever it was that gave him pause. For destroying this beautiful creature might truly be the stupidest thing he'd ever chosen to do, stupider even than accepting Darla's gift of that gypsy girl.

Trust was possible with Buffy. He'd never trusted another demon before. It might be nice, to have a partner in this world, one he wouldn't have to constantly keep tabs on. An equal to hunt with, sleep with, torture with, fuck with -- an eternal mate in the truest sense.

A loud crash drew his attention back to Buffy, and he watched as she ripped the boy through the window, his excited smile turning into an expression of pure panic. Effortlessly snapping his neck, Buffy dragged him to where Angelus waited in the shadows, safely concealed from curious eyes. Not that the eyes in this part of town were all that curious.

Such delightful human behavior, Angelus thought again as Buffy tossed the boy's lifeless corpse at him.

"I got it to go," she declared cheerfully. A concerned look crossed her face. "You didn't want fries with it, did you?"

Angelus smiled. Maybe it would be nice, indeed.

~

"'Dawn found out she was the key today. I feel horrible for even thinking this, but I'm so glad Riley isn't here. Explaining how I'd lied to the rest of the gang had been bad enough. If I'd had to soothe Riley's wounded ego . . . hell, he'd probably use my not telling him about Dawn as another excuse as to why I was constantly pushing him away. Not that his accusations were the most groundless I'd ever heard. He had ground, all right. I didn't let him all the way in. But I let him in as far as I could; as far as I was capable. I gave him everything I had left, and it still wasn't enough. Why can't they see that'--" A disgusted noise came from the back of his throat.

"What? Why'd you stop?"

"She's bloody moping about Angel again," Spike said, slapping Buffy's diary against his knee. "Girl can't go two whole bleedin' pages without moaning and groaning about some damn thing that's reminded her of Angel. Even when she doesn't expound upon the beauty that is the poof, she finds a way to work his name in somehow, being all 'Angel once told me,' or 'I wonder what Angel would do?'" Spike trailed off as he realized his impression of Buffy wasn't entirely appreciated by the rest of the group.

"Am I the only one who feels reading Buffy's private thoughts aloud is quite reprehensible?" Giles muttered from his place on the opposite end of the room.

"You've mentioned it once, or maybe eight billion times," Cordelia assured him.

Everyone was gathered in the lobby, listening to Spike read Buffy's diary. While he'd attempted to stick to his guns where Willow chickening out was concerned, he'd found half the things Buffy wrote so damned heartbreaking, and the other half so bloody amusing, that he'd had to share it with the rest of the class.

The other slayer was sitting to his left, the little witch to his right. Giles sat as far away from them as he could get, feigning interest in one of his old diaries. Spike wasn't fooled, though. He knew the old man was every bit as interested in what his girl had had to say before her untimely un-death.

That other bloke, Wesley, was sitting next to Willow, and Cordelia had taken the floor at his feet. Gunn was sitting in the exactly same position on the floor in front of Faith, and Spike had been nauseated watching the idiot play footsie with the cheerleader for the last ten minutes. If they thought they were fooling anybody, they were desperately stupid.

Xander was sitting in-between Giles and the group, staring at his hands a lot, being very quiet. Quiet was definitely not a word Spike would have used to describe the little wise-ass, and if he'd cared, he might have been worried about the bloke.

Given that he didn't care, he picked Buffy's diary back up and began to read where he'd left off.

"All right, blah, blah, Angel takes up too much of my heart, yadda, yadda, yadda, I miss him so much when I think about how nice it would be to go to him and tell him all about Dawn, oh, Jesus bleedin' Christ will it never end?" Annoyed, Spike skipped back several pages until he reached a diary entry she'd made nearly a year before, when this journal began. "Hey, now this looks good."

"What?" Willow asked. "And is it really important? I mean, we're only doing this so we can get where she was coming from right before . . . it happened--"

"It's about you, ducks," Spike said to Faith, eyeing her for a moment.

"Me?" Faith asked, and her voice sounded choked.

Spike cleared his throat and began reading. "'Faith stole my body. Faith was in my body. Faith did things in my body. Faith slept with my boyfriend. In my body. I feel like if I keep writing it down it'll somehow cease to be. That it'll be some weird trip my brain took without my consent, and I'll wake up and everything will go back to normal. I'll have my normal demon-hunting boyfriend who's sweet, and loving, and can't even fucking tell the difference between my soul and Faith's. That was so an uncontrollable outburst, and if I weren't writing in pen, that puppy would be history. But I promised myself emotional honesty, at least in my diary, and it stays, even though I do have a handy bottle of white out right here. The thing is, I keep having this thought, this horrible, unfair thought that if only' -- oh, I don't fucking believe this!"

"What?!" Every voice in the room -- Giles and Xander included -- shouted at once.

"She's bloody talking about Angel a-goddamn-gain!" Spike tried to calm himself down. "'If only it hadn't been Riley who Faith was trying to seduce. If Angel was still in my life, if she'd gone after him, I know he would have been able to tell us apart. He would have KNOWN me, no matter what, even if I was trapped in Faith's body. At least, that's what I tell myself. We've grown so far apart now, sometimes I wonder if I'd still feel him, inside, when he's near.'"

"God, what a whiny bitch I was," came a voice from the outer lobby.

"You said it, not me," another, deeper voice answered.

All those gathered rose from their seated positions, unwilling to believe the thought that clouded their minds. It couldn't be. Angel had just gone somewhere to brood for awhile. He wasn't -- he wouldn't have . . . They were all thinking the same thing, and each of their hopes were dashed as the couple strode lazily into the lobby.

"What was wrong with me, wallowing in freakish misery?" Buffy continued, arm in arm with Angel. Outwardly, he looked like a gentleman escorting his lady. "All that angst and woe when all I had to do was get loose and be reborn."

"To become is an art, love," Angel agreed. "You have to give it the proper time. I only wish I could have been there when it happened."

"You and me both," Buffy muttered. "If you'd been there, there's no way I'd have to own up to that loser of a sire."

"Angel," Cordelia whispered.

"Guess again," he smirked.

"Oh, but don't stake him," Buffy warned. "It's only temporary. Well, temporarily." She giggled at her own joke, then fell silent when everyone -- Angelus included -- stared at her. "Jeez, everyone's so uptight," she muttered.

"What do you . . . that is . . .temporary?" Willow stuttered.

"Slipped him a little happy pill," Buffy confirmed. "He'll be back to his brooding self by morning."

"Like what happened with Rebecca Lowell," Wesley murmured quietly.

"That's where I got the idea!" Buffy cried happily. "Kudos, Wes. I see your time clocked working for Angel has improved your ability to think and reason."

"What do you want?" Giles asked, taking a protective stance in front of the 'children.'

"You, I really want to turn," Buffy said honestly. "You would not even believe how many times I've thought 'I should ask Giles . . .' about this 'n that."

"Yes. That's very . . . sweet." Giles shook his head, looking totally ill at ease with the conversation.

"Come on, love," Spike said, turning to Faith. "We can take 'em."

"Yes, but how many of you will we get to first?" Buffy asked innocently.

"Don't much care," Spike admitted easily.

"You care about this one though, don't you?" Buffy said, reaching out a hand and grabbing Willow faster than the human eye could perceive. "My best friend," Buffy murmured against Willow's cheek.

"Buffy," Willow whimpered, tears filling her eyes.

"I think I'll turn you, too," Buffy mused. "It's gotten so tedious without having someone to talk to. And remember that other evil skanky gay you? Oops." Buffy pretended to feel bad. "I guess she wasn't all that different from you after all."

"You're not her," Xander said as he moved to stand beside Giles. "You're not Buffy anymore than he's Angel and you can't hurt us like this, not after everything you've already taken."

"Funny," Buffy said, "because I think I =can= hurt you." She applied pressure to Willow's throat, and the redhead gasped. "I =can= hurt you."

"Temper, temper, love," Angelus murmured from behind her. "If you plan to turn her, snapping her neck is out of the question."

"You're right," Buffy said, visibly fighting for control. "You'll enjoy her," she added, licking the side of Willow's face. "I think we both will."

"That's 'bout enough of that," Gunn said, stepping into the thick of things.

"Oh look, Angel, someone else wants to play," Buffy said with genuine enthusiasm.

"Let her go," Gunn ordered.

"Now, be fair -- what will you give me if I do?"

"How 'bout a cherry oak chair leg through the heart," Gunn said with a shrug.

Buffy frowned and contemplated him for a moment, before smiling brightly. "You know what I want? I want you. Because I've been thinking about this, and it's really not right."

"You'll trade her for me?" Gunn clarified.

"Gunn," Cordelia hissed.

"Deal."

Gunn moved toward Buffy, and she threw Willow to the floor with one arm, while grabbing Gunn with the other.

"Much better," Buffy agreed, making sure she had a firm grip on her new hostage. "A lot more equal, too. About time one of Angel's little friends bit the big one, don't you think?" she asked conversationally. "I've been awfully selfish, only taking care of my needs in this relationship, don't you think so, honey?"

"Absolutely," Angelus agreed, moving closer to Buffy until he could run his index finger down her upper arm. "But you don't get to kill this one."

Buffy pouted. "But--"

"But nothing," Angelus insisted. "This one's mine. He's always challenged my authority, from the very beginning. Matter of fact, when I went through that existential crisis bullshit a few weeks back, this one was the least understanding of the bunch. No, if anyone's going to kill him, it's going to be me."

Buffy stared at Angelus for a moment, then shrugged, tossing Gunn to her lover as though he were a rag doll. Angelus mimicked the hold Buffy had on Gunn a moment before, and let his gaze wander the room, taking in the exact positioning of various Scooby Gang -- current, and former -- members. Then, he looked up at Buffy, a tiny smirk on his lips.

"Guess what, lover?"

Returning his smile, Buffy let herself reflect on how good it felt to have him by her side. "What?"

"Drugs have worn off."

Before she had a chance to process his statement, Angel hurled Gunn toward the rest of the group, then lunged at Buffy.

Shocked though she was, Buffy recovered quickly, dodging the punch he threw at her head, and returning it with a well placed kick at his ribs. The assembled gang watched as Buffy and Angel exchanged blow after blow, each anticipating, then matching the other's moves before they made them.

"They've shared blood," Giles said, looking a bit dazed.

"Not to mention that uber creepy soulmate thing they had going on before," Cordelia added.

"They appear to be evenly matched," Wesley commented.

"So what, we've got two super vamps to handle?" Xander cried. "One of which, I might add, is good, then he's evil, then he's good, then he's kinda evil, then he's good--" A smack from Willow to the back of his head stopped his flow of words. "Shutting up now."

Angel grabbed a huge handful of Buffy's hair, ripped her head back, and slammed her face first into his knee. Everyone present -- Angel included -- winced, then winced again when Buffy delivered a well placed blow to Angel's crotch while she was by his knee.

Buffy must have reached the same conclusion Wesley had, for her gaze began darting around the room while she took a defensive stance toward Angel. The group blocked the front door, and while she might be able to make it, one of them might get lucky with a stake. With a final, savage roundhouse kick to Angel's face, Buffy spun and sprinted up the stairs.

Angel didn't miss a beat, and followed quickly at her heels.

Everyone but Faith made a move to follow Angel. The brunette slayer stood stock still in the center of the room.

"She's going out a window," Faith said with an eerie surety.

"Are you sure?" Willow asked.

"Outside," was all Faith said as she headed out the door.

~

February 17th

Sometimes when I'm fighting, it's like I don't exist anymore. Me, Buffy, goes away, and I feel something take over inside of me. Ever since we did that spell and I faced the First Slayer, it's like I can feel her pulsing through me, animating my bones, existing in the action of death she spoke of through Tara. My life is so much more than that, yet when I'm fighting, it's all that exists for me. As I stalk a vampire through the cemetery, I'm not thinking about hitting the Bronze with Will and Xan, I'm not thinking about getting Giles a life. I don't wonder if Dawn's safe, I don't miss Angel or Riley, and I'm not even thinking about the fact that my mom almost died. That scares me, and it makes me think way too much about what Dracula said, about what I've felt from the moment I found out I was the slayer.
What =am= I?

~

Angel caught up with her before she reached a room on the second floor. They burst through the door together, a tangle of biting, kicking, scratching limbs. The intense mating they'd shared earlier briefly flashed through Angel's mind, but he determinedly pushed it away -- now was most definitely not the time; not if he was to see this through.

"I gave you a pill before we left," Buffy spat, springing away from him, both of them falling into a defensive crouch three feet apart.

"A pill," Angel repeated. "Concentrate. The arrow was pure and it went straight into my bloodstream. We were sharing blood after that, so it never quite filtered out. But when we fed on that kid earlier . . . " He forced the guilt down; another something that could be dealt with later.

"My mistake," Buffy said easily as they moved at the same time, she for the window, he to impede her progress.

"Gotta admit," Buffy continued, as she dodged a right hook, "it was fun while it lasted."

"Not my kind of fun," Angel insisted, wincing as she kicked him in the shin. That was Buffy, never afraid to fight dirty.

"You're not ready to kill me," she told him softly, ceasing her movements. She stood still, a few feet separating them.

"I'll never be ready to kill you," he confessed quietly, also stilling, his arms hanging limply at his sides. "But I wasn't ready to die, two hundred some odd years ago, either. I wasn't ready when I was forced to live with a soul; I wasn't ready when it was taken away. I wasn't ready to love you when I did, and I sure as hell wasn't ready to lose you either, any of the times I have. In my life, I don't get to be ready."

Buffy stared into his eyes, and knew with a quiet certainty that he was done; that he would kill her, even if the price was his own life.

"Bummer," she said aloud, a moment before she lunged for a window.

~

It had been sprinkling for days, but as the assembled group exited the hotel, the skies opened up and pelted the streets in earnest.

They'd been outside barely a minute, gazes riveted to the upper floors of the hotel, when one of the windows shattered, and Buffy and Angel -- gripping each other's arms -- plunged through it to the street below.

"Déjà vu," Faith murmured stiltedly.

The two vampires stood again, and almost immediately resumed their fight. Every time Buffy tried to run away, Angel pulled her back.

Xander watched Faith and Spike watch the spectacle in front of them for a moment before he cleared his throat loudly, and shouted into the wind and rain, "Little help for Angel?"

Faith shook her head, and yelled back, "Angel's fighting her one on one. He's got a rhythm going. Plus, B does better when she's got her attention divided between two or more."

"She always was a good multi-tasker," Willow commented. The stress of the past few days was beginning to show on her and she wasn't sure how many more unpleasant surprises she could take before she cracked.

"I need a stake," Angel called out loudly, once again, preventing Buffy's escape by throwing her to the ground by her hair.

Not a single one of them had thought to bring one out with them.

"Oh, Buffy would be so pissed at us," Xander chastised.

"Believe me, she is!" Buffy called snidely as she sent two, sharp jabs at Angel's nose.

Cordelia noticed a crate slowly filling with water by the steps of the building. She ran to it, and snapped an appropriately sized piece of wood off.

"Here," she called, tossing it to Faith who was closest to the action.

Faith waited until Angel was close enough. She turned him, and slapped the makeshift stake into his right hand.

His eyes widened in confusion. "Faith?"

"Later," she advised, spinning him back toward the fight just in time to avoid a nasty kick from Buffy.

Blood was mixing with the water flowing freely down both their faces, matting their clothes to their skin. Both had several broken ribs and were beginning to show the fatigue of the fight. There would no doubt be bruises later, Angel thought, supernatural healing abilities or not.

But not for her.

His soul weeping the entire time, Angel imbedded the stake into her chest. She saw it coming, though, and was able to move the fraction of an inch it took to save her unlife. Then, she laughed, a low, mocking sound.

"Heart's a little lower, Angel. You of all people should know. Of course, given that you're trying to KILL ME and all, maybe you don't even HAVE one." That barb was followed by a vicious backhand to his jaw.

The stake was still protruding from her chest as they continued to do battle. Angel had to admit that he found the image of the only woman he'd ever loved with a large piece of wood sticking out of her chest more than a little disturbing. He didn't give himself much time to ruminate on it. Thinking led to second-guessing, and second-guessing led to the deaths of people he cared about.

=You mean like the little girl in front of you?= The Host's voice was clear in his head, and Angel shook it off. No time for this, never enough time to think about what had to be done . . .

Catching her with a surprise hit to her side, where he'd heard a rib crack, Angel ripped the stake from her chest, raised his hand and was about to deliver the killing blow when she fell to her knees. Lightning cracked, thunder rolled, and the skies dried up in the space of a heartbeat.

Buffy raised her head, blinked up at Angel from her place on the ground, the expression on her face a mask of confusion, blood and water drying on her cheeks like teardrops. Angel's chest clenched tightly, and he was grateful he didn't require oxygen to breathe, because he was positive his lungs had forgotten how to function.

"Angel?" Buffy asked, her voice catching on the last syllable of his name, just like it always used to. "What's going on?"

~

February 18th, 2001

Lately I've been patrolling more than I've been sleeping. I've always gone without the z's in favor of stalking the undead, but before, it was always because I wanted to keep people safe. Now, it's almost like I'm trying to find out why they are how they are. Spike's stupid words come back to me. I'm not in love with death, unless you count Angel, which I so don't. I just want to know what it's like to not feel anymore. To make the pain and the confusion go away. There's such clarity in evil, and I hate that I recognize it. I wonder, sometimes, what would happen if I let it swallow me, just like Spike said I would one day. I think that it would be so nice not to love, or miss, or grieve. To not be burdened by all the things I've lived with since I was fifteen.
Then Dawn bangs on my door, and mom yells at me to come down for dinner, or Willow calls to mentions some sweet thing Tara did for her, or Xander tells one of his dumb jokes and I think, yeah, my life doesn't suck beyond the telling of it. So what if I wonder sometimes?
I'm only human.

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Fractured -- The Hippest Way

~

Blue, songs are like tattoos
You know I've been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Blue, here is a song for you

~

There was no confusion in Angel's mind, no doubt as to what had just taken place. Shock was present, but he pushed it aside, forced a single, clear objective to the front of his mind:

Get her inside the hotel before she remembers.

Wesley kept tranquilizers in one of the closets in the lobby. In their line of work, there was almost always a need for one. Oz had called a few weeks ago, talked of visiting in the summer. Cordelia had bought the gun with darts the next day, 'just in case wolf-boy isn't as Zen master during the full moon as he thinks.'

"Wes, the gun," Angel called out, recognizing the fear and confusion in Buffy's eyes. "It's okay," he added quietly, moving toward her like he would a wild animal.

"The Gunn?" Wesley asked, helplessly looking to Gunn for clarification.

"Oh God," Cordelia said from the ground.

Xander did a double take. "What are you doing down there?"

"Vision," Cordelia muttered. "She's Buffy again. Her soul . . .it's . . . she's got her soul. Wesley, the dart gun . . . Oz . . ."

"Right," Wesley said, making a mad dash for the hotel.

"She's what?" Xander whispered, his gaze immediately straying to Buffy again as Gunn helped Cordelia off the ground.

"Angel," Buffy whispered again, and he placed his hands beneath her arms, lifted her up like a child until she could stand.

"It's all right," he soothed. "Buffy, I'll explain, but I need you to come inside first where it's warm and I can get you dried--"

"I'm not cold," Buffy said, but then a shudder passed through her body. "Or maybe I'm too cold," she added, clutching his forearms tightly. "Angel . . ."

"Come on," he said firmly, placing an arm around her shoulders as he steered them toward the front door.

Buffy gave no resistance, letting him lead her without question. Her confusion was only bested by her terror, and Angel felt his heart break at the misery he knew was to come for her.

Xander beat them inside, and beelined for Wesley.

"What's that?" Xander asked the former watcher.

"Enough tranquilizer to put a small elephant to sleep," Wesley replied.

"She's a slayer-vamp," Xander pointed out.

There was a pause, then:

"I'll double it," Wesley agreed.

"Why are we even bothering with tranquilizers?" Xander asked. "If she's got her soul back, we don't have to be afraid of her."

"Angel isn't afraid of her," Wesley said grimly, "he's afraid =for= her."

Whatever Xander's reply might have been was cut off by an inhuman scream from the center of the lobby. Buffy was pulling against Angel's hold on her arms, screaming and shaking like someone was shredding her soul.

In a way, Xander thought, they were, if those were memories coming back to her. He felt momentary satisfaction that she'd remember what she did to Anya . . .immediately followed by a deep sense of shame. It hadn't been Buffy that hurt Anya, and even if it had been, Buffy's pain did nothing to ease his own.

"Wes!" Angel yelled above Buffy's animal keening.

Taking aim, Wesley fired the dart at Buffy's upper thigh.

Buffy pulled at Angel's clothes ineffectually, sobbing now as she clawed at him. "I can't breathe," she whispered as her lids began to droop. "What have I . . . Why can't I . . .?" Then she was unconscious, and Angel swept her into his arms, cradling her head carefully against his shoulder as he swung her knees over his other arm.

The rest of them could do nothing but mutely follow as Angel headed up the stairs with an unconscious Buffy in his arms. He took a right at the landing and headed straight for his bedroom. Foregoing the bed for a moment, he set her in an armchair, wanting to get her dried and changed before he slipped her between the sheets.

His hands fluttered ineffectually over her forehead, her shoulders. The numbness was starting to set in now and he couldn't make his legs move, couldn't get the towels and a change of clothes for her. Instead, he let his fingertips trace over her still features, her hair, reflecting that it was really Buffy his hands were passing over, not just a shell something evil wore like a Halloween mask.

"She needs something dry," Angel managed to say, though his voice cracked. "She needs to be warm," he added, mostly to himself, as he felt the lack of heat to her skin. Rationally, he knew she was cold because she had no body temperature . . . but 'rationally' wasn't exactly in Angel's vocabulary at the moment.

"Here," he heard a moment later, and Willow was beside him, a pair of flannel pajamas that had a pattern of pigs jumping fences on them. "Cordy had them here."

"She's cold, Willow," he whispered, and he felt her hand on his forearm, stilling his nervous hands against Buffy's skin.

"Angel," Willow interrupted firmly, "I'll do it."

He nodded once, and looked at Willow with enormous gratitude in his eyes. He was too raw for this, too split wide open to casually strip an unconscious Buffy naked, clean her wounds and dress her in a pair of pajamas with little pink pigs on them.

He would have laughed if he hadn't felt so much like screaming.

"I'll help," Faith added quietly.

Willow looked like she might protest, but pursed her lips and nodded mutely.

The rest of them filed out of the room quietly, wondering what the hell to do now.

~

Ink of a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in

~

Angel's fist made a satisfying 'crunch' sound as it hit the wall, causing a large crack to span from the floor to the ceiling.

"That's marble," Cordelia said faintly.

"It wasn't supposed to happen to her," Angel muttered, absently licking the blood from the backs of his knuckles.

"None of this was," Giles reminded him firmly. "But it has, and as her . . . as Buffy's family, it's up to us to give her whatever comfort and assistance she requires."

"I just wish . . ." Angel trailed off, shaking his head.

"What?" Cordelia asked, placing a hand over Angel's, dabbing at it with the antiseptic gauze he was beginning to think she carried around with her.

He pulled away from her and paced to the other side of the room, away from the unsurety and concern in their eyes. His gaze was riveted to the city below, cloaked in darkness and the lights people put out to keep the monsters at bay.

"I'll be with her, help her, no matter what," Angel said firmly, well aware everyone was staring at the back of his head. "It'd just be nice if I could get a sign from the powers that said . . ."

"You want permission," Wesley declared quietly, "permission to save Buffy's soul."

"After everything that happened with Darla . . ." Angel trailed off. "It'd just be nice," he repeated again.

"No," Cordelia said firmly.

"Cordy," Gunn said, shocked at her lack of tact.

"No, no, no, no!" Angel, however, had recognized the different cadence to Cordelia's voice. He caught her before she'd moved more than a few inches, her reaction to a vision as violent as ever.

"What?" Angel asked, and there was hope in his voice, guarded and tiny though it was.

"There's a group of teenagers in trouble," Cordelia wheezed, "at the corner of. . . Hollywood and Vermont . . . demons, blue and scaly with a little crescent moon shaped thing on their foreheads."

"Oozaki demon," Giles said quietly. "Fairly easy to kill, but you need Ito root extract--"

"I'll go to the shop on Melrose," Gunn said, already halfway out the door. "Dog, I'll meet you at the hot spot."

Angel nodded absently, looking worriedly at Cordelia. "Are you all right?" he asked softly, noticing she was perspiring -- because Cordelia =never= sweated -- more than usual after a vision.

"Fine," she muttered, "but if the PTB send two visions so close together again, I quit."

"Two visions?"

Her smile was gentle, and she squeezed his hand. "I saw that Buffy had her soul back, Angel. You have your cosmic consent form. Now go save people."

Angel was so relieved in that moment that he kissed Cordelia hard on the mouth, before racing down the hall toward the staircase.

"Neither of them knows how to mix or apply the root," Wesley commented as he took Angel's vacated place beside Cordelia, holding her steady.

"I'll go," Giles announced.

"G-man . . . you don't want to . . . " Xander trailed off uneasily, glancing toward the bedroom where Willow and Faith were tending to Buffy.

Giles shook his head slowly. "Not yet," he said shortly. Then he paused and glared at Xander. "And do =please= stop calling me that."

~

Well there's so many sinking now
You've got to keep thinking
You can make it through these waves

~

"So . . ." Willow's mouth was set in a tight line.

"So," Faith echoed nervously, "you take her feet, I'll take her head?"

"I hope you're not being literal," Willow muttered.

Faith sighed, but refrained from comment. They moved to Buffy, Faith none-too-gently removing her little black tank top while Willow went to work on the red leather pants.

Five minutes later, Willow was still struggling to get the pants past Buffy's hips.

"Damn, rain must've shrunk the leather," Faith commented. "I hate when that happens."

Willow glared. "Little help?"

Each taking one of Buffy's legs, they began to tug on the pants, but they wouldn't budge.

"You're supposed to be a slayer!" Willow shouted.

"Slayer means strong, not magical!" Faith countered. "You're the witch -- can't you just . . . you know . . ." she wiggled her fingers, "Bibbity, bobbity, boo! it or something?"

"It doesn't work like that," Willow snapped. "Though why I should expect you to--"

"To what?" Faith asked, dropping Buffy's left leg and wincing slightly when her foot hit the ground with a muted 'thud'.

"Be careful," Willow cried out, tears beginning to fall down her cheeks again. She took both of Buffy's feet and placed them on an ottoman. "You'll hurt her," she added, digging her nails into Buffy's leather encased leg.

"Hey," Faith cautioned, using as gentle a tone as she could manage. "We're all kinda raw right now and--"

"I'm not KINDA raw," Willow snapped, glaring up at Faith through tear-stained eyes, "I'm so raw that I'm bleeding over everything. I lost my best friend and my lover over the last five days, and right now, I have the chance to get one of them back, but it's complicated and I don't know if I'm going to hate her after she wakes up, so please, you of all people can spare me platitudes and just help me get her FUCKING PANTS OFF!"

Faith stood very still as Willow sat back on the floor like she'd just deflated. Xander and Cordelia burst through the door a second later, obviously concerned.

"What'd you do to her?" Xander accused immediately, glaring daggers at Faith as he hurried to Willow's side.

"Nothing, I didn't . . . I didn't do anything," Faith stammered.

"We can't get her pants off," Willow whimpered from the floor.

"You're all a bunch of whiny whelps," Spike declared as he walked into the room. He whipped a pocketknife out of his leather jacket and bent to Buffy.

"Get the hell away from her!" Faith yelled, grabbing Spike by his bleached hair to pull him off of Buffy.

"Watch the hair," he snapped, slipping out of her grasp. "I'm not going to hurt her, even if I wanted to. I can't, remember? Little electron things making sure Spike doesn't bite the nice people anymore?"

"He won't hurt her," Willow whispered from the floor.

"Yeah, see," Spike sneered at Faith before turning back to Buffy. A few slashes of the knife and the pants were in ruins around Buffy's body, leaving her clad in a tiny little bra and an almost nonexistent pair of panties. Spike felt his mouth go dry.

"You should cut up those pink pants of hers," Willow mumbled, semi-incoherent at this point.

"I like the pink ones," Xander said quietly from where he sat, his arms around Willow protectively.

"You would," she replied, almost smiling.

"Okay, thanks for the assistance, everyone in the room with a penis can leave now," Cordelia announced.

"Why don't you guys take Willow with you," Faith suggested, "the cheerleader and I'll take care of B from here."

"I could help," Spike protested before going silent at the combined glares of everyone in the room.

Supporting Willow between them, Xander and Spike left Faith and Cordelia to tend to Buffy.

"So," Cordelia said hesitantly.

Faith actually laughed.

~

Acid, booze and ass
Needles, guns, and grass
Lots of laughs, lots of laughs

~

"You're doing it all wrong," Giles complained.

"Look, I don't need some old white dude to tell me how to do this. I've been fighting demons for a long time now."

"And how long have you been mixing magical ingredients, five minutes?" Giles snapped. Then, "I'm not =that= old."

"Whateva', G, but my man's gettin' his ass kicked over there."

"His confrontation with Buffy exhausted him," Giles concluded, none-too-subtly shoving Gunn out of the way as he mixed the solution himself.

A particularly loud crunching sound caught both their attentions briefly, and they turned to see Angel smashing the hood of a car against one of the demon's heads until it came off.

"Good show, Angel," Giles murmured to himself as he went back to the solution.

"Gotta give him that, dude knows how to improvise," Gunn commented.

"Yes, it's something he no doubt picked up from Buffy," Giles noted ruefully.

"They were tight," Gunn said, half statement, half question.

"Yes," Giles answered shortly. "And if you're looking for something more concrete than that, I suggest you ask Angel." He paused for a moment. "Or Cordelia, God knows she can't keep her mouth shut to save her . . . " Giles trailed off when he got a good look at Gunn's eyes.

"It done yet?" Gunn asked, stone in his voice.

Briefly, Giles was happy Cordelia had found someone strong enough to stand up to, and for, her. Then, he focused on the mission at hand.

"Apply it directly to the crescent," Giles instructed, handing over the solution to Gunn.

In a matter of minutes, all three demons were reduced to melting blue puddles of goo.

Well, except for the one Angel had decapitated with the car hood.

~

"I'm not acting like myself," Willow confessed quietly.

"What makes you say that, pet?" Spike asked softly from beside her.

"I swore," Willow said as though it should be obvious. "I never swear."

"'Bout bloody time you started, far as I'm concerned," Spike said, dismissing her concerns easily.

"But I lost my temper. And I mean, I know, Faith, so it's not entirely out of character, but still."

"The bitchy slayer'll get over whatever you said to her," Spike assured her.

"You didn't hear?" Willow asked hopefully.

"Nah, we mostly just heard your loud shrieking banshee cries," he said, genuinely trying to make her feel better.

Willow was prevented from forming an answer by Wesley's arrival.

"Tea," he pronounced softly, setting a cup in front of her.

"Thank you," she said, subdued now that her tirade was over.

"Where did Xander go?" Wesley asked as he took a seat on the other side of Willow.

"Said he needed some time alone," Spike said vaguely. He hadn't really been paying attention when the boy left. "I'm gonna . . . check on the girls," he said, slipping out of the room before either other occupant could protest.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments and sipped their tea.

"What if I hate her like everyone hated Angel after he came back from hell?" Willow blurted out suddenly.

Wesley blinked, and looked at Willow carefully. "I was rather new to the group dynamic then . . .but if I remember correctly, after my arrival, you were the only person who didn't entirely object to Angel's reappearance in Buffy's life. After he saved your life during that rather embarrassing incident with Mrs. Post that brought me to Sunnydale, you seemed to accept him again."

"I did," Willow assured Wesley. "I mean . . .it really wasn't Angel's fault that he had a curse and all. But he . . . I mean, I really liked Ms. Calendar. She was my friend and I respected her and she taught my favorite class, but . . ."

"It's not the same as losing Tara," Wesley guessed, giving her a sympathetic wince.

"It took Giles months before he could be in the same room with Angel without clenching his fists all the time," Willow confided.

"I have abundant faith in your ability to look beyond the madness surrounding her and see Buffy at her core," Wesley said softly. "We will all see our way through this, Willow. You most of all."

"Thank you," Willow whispered, "I really needed to hear that."

"Drink your tea," Wesley added, feeling the weight of the situation weigh heavily on his soul. "Tea has restorative powers, you know."

~

She was already half dressed when he'd peeked in.

Spike had gone straight from comforting the little witch -- who didn't seem to need him that much when the other watcher arrived -- to Angel's room where Buffy had been. The other slayer and the bitch had already tended to Buffy's wounds and done her up in those bloody awful pajamas by the time he'd gotten the door open a crack.

Heaving a sigh of disappointment, Spike had been heading outside for a smoke when he heard what sounded like someone punching the ever-loving daylights out of someone else. Always up for a good spot of violence, Spike had followed the rhythmic pounding until he reached what looked like a training room Angel had set up.

Standing in the center of it, beating the stuffing out of a dummy, was Xander Harris.

He nearly turned and left right then. Of all the things he did not need in his unlife, dealing with a bitter, angry, grief stricken human boy certainly ranked right up there with 'sunlight,' 'stake through the heart,' and 'a chip that tells me when to bloody piss, too.'

Something about the set of Xander's shoulders, the barely controlled violence shimmering under the surface of every fluid movement of his body kept Spike rooted to the spot. Buffy was going to have an awfully hard time readjusting to life. Chances were, she'd be even more down than Angel, and that was hoping she was having a good day. It'd only make it harder for her if anything happened to another of her friends.

Plus, Red wouldn't like it, and though he was loathe to admit it, Spike had grown rather fond of the little witch over the past few days. Watching over her, making sure she didn't do something stupid . . . it felt good. It felt good to know he was doing something for Buffy, something she might have thanked him for.

Bugger all, he thought, walking further into the room.

"You trying to beat up the scarecrow?" Spike drawled smoothly as he strode further into the room.

Xander glared at him. "Get the hell out of here, Spike. You don't know anything about this."

"I don't, do I?" Spike asked carefully, dangerously. "I don't know about hate so pure and clean that it wipes away all trace of love in your heart?"

"I don't hate her," Xander insisted in a choked voice.

"You don't =want= to hate her," Spike countered.

Xander bowed his head, but didn't answer.

"Well you're not going to get any satisfaction out of hitting that useless thing," Spike continued, shrugging out of his coat.

"I don't really have much of a choice," Xander mumbled. "At least Angel got to go out and beat up some demons."

"What am I, chopped liver?" Spike asked, genuinely a little hurt. He =was= still a demon.

Xander actually laughed, a chilling, disturbed sound. "You want me to beat you up?"

"No, I want you to spar with me," Spike corrected. "The slayer's the only one with carte blanche to beat the ever living hell out of me."

"Just cause you can't stop her," Xander taunted, but moved closer. "You can't hit me back," he reminded him.

"I can if I don't intend to hurt you," Spike assured him. "And I'm gonna have to go awful bloody easy on you to avoid that," he added, and the two men fell into silence as they sparred in the basement of the Hyperion hotel.

Until, of course, Spike burst and shouted "How the bloody hell have you survived the past five years hitting like a five-year-old girl?!"

~

Well everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go
Well I don't think so
But I'm gonna take a look around it though
Blue, I love you

~

They arrived back long before dawn.

Angel went to see Cordelia briefly to inform her they'd all returned home, safe and relatively unscathed. He'd shaken off her offer of First Aid. There would be time to tend to his wounds after he'd taken care of Buffy.

The rest of them were given only one strict order: no one was to come into Angel's bedroom until he'd come out. Buffy was in a very fragile state, and it was best that the only person she was confronted with be as strong as she was, and able to understand exactly what she was going through.

So here he sat by her side, petting the blonde hair of the girl who'd captured his heart when she was fifteen, aching for the screaming he could hear from her soul even in sleep, and guiltily enjoying the sight of her in his bed.

He moved only once during the night, to get some blood from his fridge. He'd be no good to her if he didn't start healing, and the process would go much faster if he fed. Angel drank a pint, then another in quick succession. The blood tasted metallic and bitter going down his throat, and he let himself remember how it had tasted from her vein, both when she'd been alive and after. After. He thought of how the pull of her lips against his throat had brought him to a level of ecstasy he hadn't known before, not with Darla, not with any of the others.

To shake these musings away, he thought of how easily he could lose his soul with her now, now that he would no longer feel guilty that he was taking her away from sunshine and children and boys. If it were her wish, he would keep her here with him for the rest of eternity. He doubted that even now she'd want to stay with him, though. Buffy had been a sexual creature as a human; add to her nature that of the demon inside her . . . It might well be moot, at any rate, for didn't Buffy now have the same burdens on her soul that he had carried for over a century?

That didn't stop you with Darla, he reminded himself. True happiness was something Angel was convinced only occurred with Buffy. If the same was true for her, she might very well choose to spend eternity without him, and find some measure of peace, rather than chain herself to someone who couldn't touch her without fear of unleashing two of the fiercest demons who'd ever lived on an unsuspecting world.

He smelled the sunrise as her sable brown lashes fluttered against too-pale cheeks. The memories came to her in a rush as she tried to breathe and found it harder than it should have been. Her face crumpled and a sob escaped her throat. He moved to the bed, placed his hands on her shoulders, and attempted to hold her.

"I know," he whispered.

Buffy leapt away from him, sliding her heels against the soft cotton of his sheets. "How can you touch me?" she hissed. "Knowing what I've done, what I am . . ."

"You touched me," he responded quietly. "You loved me anyway."

A moment passed, the infinitesimal ticking of a clock before her nails dug into his shoulders, tugging, clawing like a wild thing possessed, drawing him onto the bed as she sob-stuttered into his chest.

Her hold on him was suffocating, but luckily for them, he didn't have to breathe. Weak, she was so weak, but still a slayer-vamp and she cracked one or two of his barely mended ribs. The blood had helped, but not nearly as much as holding her, inhaling her hair, feeling her small body curl into his large one, seeking comfort.

Comfort he could give her. This was something, finally, that he could do, that he could give her, a gift so meaningless in the face of all he had cost her. But this he could do, and do well.

There were things broken in here, too. The really bad cuts and breaks he could do nothing for but stroke and hold and whisper, but the others, the ones he'd inflicted himself earlier in the night, those he could help her to repair.

"You need to heal," he whispered into her ear.

"I'll never heal," she cried into the side of his neck.

"You need to drink," he clarified, reaching for the pint he'd brought for her.

Again, she pulled away from him, a horrified look passing over her face. Horror, and unmistakable hunger.

"I can't," she denied, even as she swayed closer to the sticky sweet liquid.

An intense look passed between them and he measured her resolve. No, he thought, she was not ready to civilly drink pig's blood from one of the Baskin Robbins containers Cordelia stored it in.

"Then take it this way," he offered, bringing his palm to her cheek, his wrist to her mouth.

"You're warm," she whispered, her lips fluttering over his wrist.

"I just fed," he answered. "If this is easier for you, Buffy . . ."

Another long look, then the shift of her face as the ridges appeared, as her teeth grew into fangs and the beautiful hazel of her eyes glowed gold. Her tongue, soft and wet and pink came out, ran over the shape of her fangs inside her mouth. Tears came to her eyes, but she did not allow them to spill over. She shut her eyes tightly, and he was thankful because it was easier to remember hazel when he wasn't staring at gold.

One more tick-tock of a second passed between them, and she latched onto his wrist, fed greedily as the scent and taste hit her senses.

The entire time, he softly stroked her hair as though she were a child.

~

Blue, here is a shell for you
Inside you'll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
This is your song from me.

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Dealing -- Antique Love

~

"Do you want me to wag my finger at you and tell you, you acted rashly? You did, and I can. But I know you loved him, and he has proven more than once that he loved you. You couldn't have known what would happen. The coming months are going to be very hard -- I suspect on all of us. But if you're looking for guilt, Buffy, I'm not your man. All you will have from me is my support . . . and my respect."

~
Giles
~

Willow had gone in to see Buffy an hour ago. All she'd said was that it "hadn't gone as bad" as she'd feared. That gave Giles little comfort, and he admitted finally, to himself at least, that he was terrified to enter that bedroom, to face the girl he thought of as his daughter, and see nothing but a demon.

"Hey, G-man."

Giles didn't bother to chastise Xander this time. Just moved over on the small bench that sat in one of the Hyperion's many hallways, giving the boy room to join him. They sat in companionable silence for a few long minutes, until Xander started babbling about snack food, or some such nonsense, and Giles snapped.

"Was there something you wanted?"

Xander looked down at the floor nervously. "Have you seen her yet?"

"No," Giles answered shortly.

"Will did," Xander continued. "She said it went fine. No, she didn't say 'fine,' she said it hadn't--"

"Gone as badly as she'd feared, yes, so I've heard," Giles muttered.

"I don't think it's possible for it to go as bad as I'm fearing it will," Xander confided.

"Why do you say that?" Giles asked, glancing at Xander from the corner of his eye.

"'Cause my worst case pretty much involves me treating her the way I treated Angel after Jenny, and there's no way I can do that to Buff."

"Yes," Giles murmured in agreement, briefly flashing back to holding a crossbow to an obviously depressed Angel's chest a day or so before Christmas . . .

"I'm scared I'll look at her and all I'll see is Anya," Xander continued, more to himself than to Giles, "that all I'll think is 'I'll never kiss Anya again,' and 'Anya will never embarrass me in public again,' and that it's all Buffy's fault. Giles . . . I'm scared I'll =say= that to her."

Xander's frightened gaze turned to Giles', and he wished to God that he had the words to calm the boy's fears.

"So am I," Giles whispered.

And with that, they lapsed back into silence.

~

The door made what was to Giles' ears an atrociously loud creaking noise as he opened it.

Inside Angel's bedroom there was no light. Windows were blocked against the coming dawn, even though there was several hours of darkness left yet. Giles left the door open, the bright chandeliers from the hallway giving him enough light to see well enough not to go bumping into things.

Buffy's form was clearly visible on the bed, curled into a near fetal position, blankets pulled all the way up to her blonde head, as though fighting off an imaginary chill. Her appearance was one of deep slumber, and Giles thought it slightly odd that she was sleeping again so soon. Of course, she'd spent most of the past two days sequestered away in this room, unable -- or afraid -- to face them.

Angel was the only one who saw her for the first day, and at the time, Giles had thought that for the best. If any of them could understand what she was feeling, what the best thing to say and do for her was, it would be the =other= souled vampire on the premises. Feeling as he had been all day, however, as though he'd abandoned his slayer when the going got tough, Giles was beginning to wonder if Angel's orders had been the wisest after all.

The bureau in the corner was overflowing with clothes, and Giles moved to it, giving his nervous hands something to do -- he began folding pajama sets, sweaters, jeans, tank tops, and slacks that the girls must have picked up when they went shopping. It was good of them to think of it, Buffy needing clothes. It was something he certainly hadn't thought of.

When he reached her undergarments, Giles turned away quickly. He would die for her, live away from England for the rest of his natural life, even eat those disgusting things Xander referred to as 'sno balls' if she asked him to -- but he would =not= fold her underwear.

"They don't bite, you know."

He spun around quickly, more disconcerted than he cared to admit to find Buffy's hazel eyes staring at him. There was no confusion in her gaze, no fogginess. Buffy hadn't been sleeping, and Giles wanted to ask her why she'd bothered to pretend at all.

Here was his moment, then. As he looked into her eyes, this was his true test as her Watcher. He had taken a sacred oath, that should something like this ever happen to her, he would stake her the moment she became a threat. Unable to, unwilling to, he'd shirked his responsibilities to the demon who'd loved her, possibly more than Giles himself did.

Watchers weren't supposed to become emotionally attached to their charges. That was why he'd been fired, and that was why, no matter the cost to the world, that he was totally unable to plunge a stake through her heart.

And as he looked into her terribly sad, lonely eyes now, he wondered how on earth he'd ever imagined he could hate her.

"Yes, well, I'd just as soon not go pawing through them, thank you," he said at last. "People talk enough about the young girl always hanging around the dapper English gentleman old enough to be her father. No use adding fuel to the fire."

"That's okay," Buffy said quietly, "I like my men to have had at least one bicentennial, anyway. You're just too young for me, Giles."

"I'm sure Angel will be quite relieved," he assured her, moving closer to the bed. He stood by it, looking down at her, and she'd never looked more like a scared child than she did when she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"You and Angel . . . you're getting along?"

"Quite well, actually," Giles confirmed.

"You're not . . . mad at him anymore?"

What she was trying to say became clear to Giles, and he knelt down on the ground, brought a hand up and gently brushed the hair from her face.

"I'm not mad at him," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eye, "I respect him, and consider him a trusted friend and ally."

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. "And you still love him as much as you ever did?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

The bark of laughter Giles let out was something he couldn't have contained if the world had truly depended on it. Given their lives, that possibility wasn't as absurd as it seemed.

"My darling girl," Giles murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Giles," she whispered, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt, "please . . . please . . . tell me . . ."

"What?"

"I don't know," she whimpered.

Giles put an arm around her shoulder, pulled her close and began gently rocking her as he patted her back, the gesture only mildly awkward. Despite all they'd been through, Giles still wasn't entirely comfortable with physical displays of affection. Buffy, however, depended on them, and right now, he'd give her anything she needed.

"Everything will be all right, Buffy. It'll all work out as it's meant to in the end."

~

"Why didn't the Watchers give fuller accounts of it? The journals just stop . . ."
"I suppose if they were anything like me, previous Watchers just found the topic too . . ."
"Unseemly? Damn. Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."
"Painful. I was going to say."

~

"I've been letting things fester. And I don't like it. I want to be fester free . . ."
~
Willow
~

"Cordelia and I went shopping yesterday. We bought you some pajamas and sweaters. Angel said to get you anything you might need, so we did. I got some of that Stilla lipstick you love, you know, the -- the Robin . . .

"Oh, and you wouldn't believe how Faith is being. All 'Ooo, I'm the slayer now, I'm having dreams, aren't I cool?' And Wesley is being really sweet to her, which is big of him, considering how she almost tortured him to death. Did he tell you about that? Oh, I guess he wouldn't have, considering you guys never really talked, and then since you've been in L.A. . . .

"That guy, Gunn, who works for Angel is really nice. Totally gone on Cordelia, which, I know, is like -- =Cordelia=? But she's different now. I mean, she's still the same old Cordy, only nicer. And she's psycho-protective of Angel, but in a different way than you were psycho-protective of him. I think that maybe we're becoming friends, real friends, instead of forced friends like we were before. Not me and Angel, but me and Cordy.

"Not that Angel and I aren't getting along! Because, I mean, we are, we totally are. But we always kind of did. I always thought of Angel as a friend, not just as your Angel, but kind of like our Angel, not like Xander is our Xander, but . . . maybe more like Giles, actually. Angel's been great to talk to, actually, he helped me see some stuff about you, and . . . I mean, he helped me to understand . . . you understand why we weren't going to curse you, right? Are you mad about that? Oh, God, never mind, I shouldn't have even asked!

"Here, I got you some silk ones, and some cotton ones. I got lavender, because you always liked lavender, and pink cotton ones with little cappuccino cups on them, cause, you know, foamy-goodness, and I got these, they're supposed to be periwinkle, but I think they're just light blue, although I guess that's sort of periwinkle . . . right?"

"Thank you."

Willow deflated like a balloon. Thank you? All she was getting was a thank you? And a sullen, withdrawn one at that, while Buffy kept her gaze cast downward, huddled on Angel's bed in one of his dark, 'I am the shadow' shirts and a pair of sweatpants, picking at the button on one of the many pairs of pajamas she'd just been given.

"You're welcome," Willow said quietly, subdued. Granted, she hadn't been Casual Girl since she came into the room, but at least she was =trying=. And here Buffy was, not even looking at her--

"Do you hate me?"

"No!" Willow approached the bed finally, sat down on the edge, wincing when Buffy looked cornered and scared. "No," she repeated again, vehemently.

Tears were coursing down Buffy's cheeks, and there was a hitch to her voice when she spoke.

"Because I wouldn't blame you if you did," she whispered. "I hate me, and I have to live with me. You get to do a drive-by loathing. Hit and run."

"You're my best friend," Willow finally sobbed, tears leaking from her own eyes as she moved closer to Buffy, gripped the both of her hands tightly.

"I hurt you," Buffy whispered, "I hurt you all so much . . . you guys are my family, and I . . ."

"It wasn't you," Willow protested weakly.

"Yes it was," Buffy insisted, her eyes wide, "it was me, it was. I can remember everything I felt, why I did the things that I did . . .Will, it was me, and I can't . . ."

"Well, then, okay, it was you, and . . . and I forgive you. So there." The words were filled with bravado, but when she looked deep inside herself, Willow saw the truth in them. This was Buffy, who'd saved them all a thousand times, who would have given her life for any one of them. This was her friend, and Willow forgave her.

"You can't," Buffy began.

"But I do," Willow interrupted, her tone firm. "And it doesn't get to be your decision, Buffy Anne Summers."

"I love you, Will," Buffy whispered. "I don't deserve you."

"I think you do," Willow disagreed easily, "but I won't argue with you about it right now." She looked down at the blanket for a moment, then back to Buffy. "I'm still hurt," she began hesitantly.

"I know things aren't right yet," Buffy said quickly. "And I know that they'll never be the same again." Her gaze was drawn to what Willow assumed was the pint of blood Angel had told them Buffy had refused to drink. Beside it, sat a pale white rose. "They can't be," she added under her breath. "But, Will, I'll do anything -- =anything= -- to make it up to you."

Willow squirmed a little, really not wanting to do this, but if they had any chance, total honesty was a must . . .

"Buffy, nothing you do is ever going to make this up to me," she said softly.

The stricken look in Buffy's eyes prompted her to continue quickly.

"Tara was inside my heart," she continued, "so deep inside that I can't get her out, even though she's not with me anymore. It's like Oz. I think that maybe it's just how I'm built. Once someone's in here, they're stuck with me for life."

"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered.

"Don't," Willow said kindly, "I don't want you to apologize. I don't want that. I just … I want you to understand why you can't make it up to me. It's not like spilling wine on my favorite sweater."

"I knew you were still pissed about that," Buffy muttered, then covered her mouth in horror.

Willow, however, laughed softly. "See, it's okay," she said soothingly. "We'll be okay, Buffy."

Gradually letting her hand fall back to the bed, Buffy looked nervous about something. Finally, she met Willow's gaze again and smiled slightly.

"Tell me more about Tara?"

Vivid, sudden images flashed through Willow's mind, of being held all night long, of full, soft lips pressing between her shoulder blades, those same lips calming and loving against her own, her forehead, strong, capable hands holding her face, brushing away her tears, a voice softly telling Willow stories to put her to sleep . . .

"She saved me," Willow confessed quietly. "After Oz left, I thought I'd never be able to love anyone again. I thought that I'd had my shot at true love, and he'd left me for my own darn good. And then I met Tara. And she showed me places I'd never seen before. Being with her, loving her, made me realize that Oz wasn't my whole world. That no one could be my whole world, because there was too much of me for anything to be that narrow."

"I'm so glad you had her," Buffy said. "I'm so glad you found that."

"Wasn't Riley like that for you?" Willow asked without thinking.

Buffy looked at her sadly, and shook her head. "No," she said, very quietly, and Willow winced.

"Buffy, I'm sorry," Willow said, wanting to kick herself.

"Why, because I sucked Riley dry, left him in a cemetery, and moved on to Mom and Dawn?" Buffy shook her head. "=You= have nothing to be sorry for."

"It was so stupid of me to have brought it up," Willow insisted. Stupid, stupid -- hadn't Angel asked them all to go easy on her for awhile? Hadn't he specifically said NOT to mention any of the people Buffy had killed unless she brought them up first?

"Thank you for the clothes," Buffy said, subdued again. "I'm really tired, Will. I'd like to . . ."

"I could ask Angel to come back," Willow said hopefully.

"I'd like to be alone," Buffy said, her gaze once again focused on the container of blood on Angel's nightstand.

"Okay," Willow said quietly, gathering up the clothes she'd bought and plopping them in the drawers Angel had cleared for Buffy in his bureau.

"I'll just . . ." Willow sighed, realized Buffy couldn't even hear her, and shut the door as she left the room.

"Leave you alone," she finished in the empty hallway.

~

"Well. He's a fool. He's just a big, dumb jerk person if you ask me. And, I mean, he's a super-maxi-jerk to do it right before the prom."
"That's not his fault. He's 243 years old. He doesn't get the prom."
"But he should. If he--"
"Will, it's okay. You don't have to make him the bad guy."
"But -- that's the best friend's job. Vilifying and grousing."

~

"Sometimes I envy you so much it chokes me. And then sometimes I think I've got the better deal. To be that close to her and not have her . . . To be all alone even when you're holding her, feeling her, feeling her beneath you, surrounding you, the scent of -- no, you know what, you've got the better deal."

~
Spike
~

"Hey, when he gets back, tell your watchdog he's slipping."

Buffy's eyes widened, and Spike got a kick out of it.

"Spike?!"

His gaze ran over her body appreciatively. She was sitting on top of the covers, wearing a pair of rose colored pajamas that -- in his estimation -- were way too baggy. The slayer looked shaggable all covered in demon goo, but put her in one of those fetching little tank tops with those leopard print pants of hers--

"What are you doing here? What part of me beating you unconscious is failing to grasp your attention?"

"Do you know how hard it was to get in here?" Spike asked, completely ignoring her snarky remarks. "Peaches has been militant about you the last four days; won't let anyone he thinks will upset you in. Only reason I got around him is 'cause Xander wanted to show him something."

"Xander wanted to show Angel something?" she asked, choking on her words a little. "It wasn't a pointy, wooden something, right?"

"Nah, the two poofs are getting on like old mates lately." Spike rolled his eyes. It was disgusting, watching the two of them share a laugh, or a sympathetic glance. The very second they realized what they were doing, they froze, and the mood of friendship was broken, and it went back to being wary-not-quite-hostility. It was better than watching the bleedin' news reports that interrupted Passions, though, so Spike kept his thoughts to himself.

"I'll have to talk to Xander about that," Buffy murmured absently.

"Yeah, assuming he'll talk to you," Spike said cheerily.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Just that he's having the hardest time with the whole thing. You turning evil and all." Spike shrugged. "Don't get the hang-up, myself, but he's been moping around more than the rest of 'em, like you done something to him personal, besides, you know, whacking his girlfriend."

"You're the most vile thing on this earth," she said seriously, then grimaced. "Except, of course, for me."

"Oh, hey now, don't be so rough on yourself," Spike insisted. "So you went a little evil there for awhile. Got it good and out of your system, didn't you? You were always pretty uptight, Summers. Maybe you needed this."

"Are you making money as a motivational speaker on the side, Spike?" she asked snidely.

"Fine. You don't want my help--"

"I've =never= wanted your help, not even when I paid for it--"

"I'll just get out of your hair, then!" He turned to leave.

"Good riddance," she called sweetly.

"No, you know what, I'm not going yet, not until you bloody listen to me."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "What exactly is it I've been doing for the last ten minutes?"

"You know what absolutely bloody =galls= me, Slayer?" he asked, once again ignoring her.

"What?"

"That some two-bit pot-head got to you first."

Her entire body froze up. Showing more drive than she had in the last two days, she sprung up from bed, stalked over to Spike, and slammed him against the wall; held him there by his throat.

"Come again," she said, her tone filled with steel.

"Some idiot vamp got lucky, just like I said they would. Had himself a real good day. Caught you in one of your mopey, woe-is-me, no man loves me enough to stay moods and took you out of this world, then brought you back. Probably thought he'd make a place for himself in the vampire hall of fame, turning a Slayer--"

Abruptly, she turned from him, let him fall to the floor. There had been a look on her face, though, a look Spike had caught because he always noticed those things, the subtle, hidden secrets people didn't want others to know.

"Just go," she said tightly.

He thought about pursuing the topic, but she was already sawed off at him, and given her current mental state, he wouldn't put it past her to dust him with a chair leg.

"I been taking care of Red for you," he said at last. "Watching out for her, making sure she doesn't fly off the deep end. I even made sure she was eating right."

She still didn't turn around, but he watched as she wrapped her arms around her middle.

"I did it for you," he added, as though it would matter. It didn't, of course, and somewhere inside him he knew it. That didn't mean he could just stop trying, though. He loved the bird, didn't he? He was obsessed with her, and you didn't just give up on obsession because it was hopeless.

"Thanks," she said finally, but from her tone, she was a million miles away. He could have been the other girl, the cheerleader, for all Buffy knew right now.

"Yeah," he muttered, heading out the door, "pat Spike on the head but heaven forbid you tell him he's a good dog . . ."

He'd go see if the little witch was all right; make sure her confrontation with the slayer a couple of days before wasn't still bothering her. Then he'd go find a quiet corner to smoke in.

God knew Angel would have his head if he so much as thought about lighting up around the bloody humans.

~

"Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace . . . Part of you is desperate to know . . . What's it like? Where does it lead you? That's also a warrior's question. A warrior's curiosity. The only reason you've lasted as long as you have is, you've got ties to the world. Your Mum. Brat kid sister. Scoobies. They tie you here but you're just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it and the second, the =second= that happens, I pray to God I'm there. I'll slip in -- have myself a real good day."

~

"I know what it's like. You think you matter -- you think you're part of something, and you get dumped. It's like the whole world is moving -- but you're stuck. Like those animals in the tar pits? You're sinking a little deeper every day, and nobody even sees . . . "

~
Faith
~

"You're not helping her," Faith told him flatly.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Angel said coldly.

"I don't know," Faith muttered, almost laughing. "That's rich. Angel, the King of Pain is the only one who gets this, right? Bullshit. You can't coddle her, Angel. You can't protect her from what she's done, and you of =all= people should know that."

"I'm not trying to protect her from it," he said quietly, and Faith paused for a moment.

Giles had gone back in to see Buffy a few times, but none of the others, besides Angel, had been into a return trip. Not even Spike. Faith had been dreading her eventual confrontation with the other Slayer. Angel had been like Captain Courageous, protecting the poor, innocent girl from her moustache twirling friends. In Faith's book, that wasn't doing Buffy any good.

Tracking Angel down to the kitchen, confronting him while he made everyone dinner -- maybe that wasn't the nicest thing she could have done, but it was the only thing she could think of. B had to get better. Faith felt like she owed it to the other girl to help her.

"So what's your deal, then?" Faith asked finally.

Angel opened one of the ovens, put several pans of chicken and something that smelled good in to bake. He turned to Faith and looked at her for a minute in that penetrating way he had that always made Faith feel naked, but =not= in a good, sexual way. In an exposed, he-can-see-all-the-dirty-parts-and-they-don't-scare-him way.

"I know exactly what she's going through right now," Angel said, and Faith thought she detected a tinge of anger in his tone. "I may have had to remember a hundred and forty odd years of it, but it's the same, at its most basic level. She remembers perpetuating evil, and =liking= it." He shook his head. "That's the worst part, you know. Remembering how much you liked it."

"Yeah," Faith agreed, folding her arms over her chest. That really was the worst part. Thinking about how you got off on someone else's pain. "You didn't treat me like some delicate flower," Faith insisted.

"Because you wouldn't have tolerated it," Angel countered. "You're different people, Faith. Not better or worse -- just different. I'm not going to handle Buffy the same way I handled you."

"Are you sure this isn't just because you love her the way you do? 'Cause man, the way you've always been with her, you'd cut off a limb before you'd hurt her. And . . . getting to the meat of all this . . . it's going to hurt her."

"You act out," Angel said, pacing across the kitchen, "Buffy folds in on herself. You strike, she huddles. Right now, Buffy has closed in on herself in a big way. What I need to do is reinforce to her that I'm there, so that when bottling up doesn't work for her anymore, she'll act out =at me=, and then maybe I'll have a chance at helping her."

"You passive aggressive bastard," she said with appreciation in her voice.

"I know Buffy," he said quietly, turning back to the stove where he started peeling a few potatoes.

Faith thought that maybe he did. But she knew her too. You didn't spend all that time out in graveyards with someone and not get to know them.

And Faith had a few things she wanted to say to Buffy the Vampire.

~

"Hey."

Buffy looked at her from her place on the bed, took long, measuring glances until Faith felt her skin starting to crawl.

"Hey," Buffy said at last, going back to reading.

"What's that?" Faith asked, stepping further into the room.

"My diary."

Faith winced, but Buffy wasn't looking at her so she missed it. Thank God for small miracles, Faith thought grimly. If Buffy found out they'd all been reading it like pulp fiction, she'd probably go nuts and beat them all unconscious.

"Giles told me how Spike was reading it aloud," Buffy continued, and Faith nearly bolted from the room right then. "It was smart of Will to think of that. It might have helped you kill me."

"I've been having the dreams," Faith blurted out, then cursed herself silently. That wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.

"You're the slayer," Buffy said calmly. "The one and only, if what Giles has been telling me is true."

"It's just a theory," Faith said lamely.

"A good one," Buffy insisted. "Congratulations. I hope you do the job the way I always believed you could."

"I'm sorry," Faith said, and once again, that hadn't been what she'd intended to say. "I really am sorry, B."

Buffy looked confused. "Are you apologizing to me?"

"Yeah, I was hoping you'd gotten over that 'I will beat you to death,' thing," Faith said, trying to smile.

"Faith, you killed a man," Buffy said carefully. "You stole my body, slept with my boyfriend, tried to kill Angel . . ."

"I know all this," Faith began, feeling the helpless rage build up again.

Buffy leapt off the bed, and stalked up to Faith, got right in her face. "I remember what my mother tasted like," she said clearly, right in her face. "You do not have to apologize to me ever again."

That said, she turned and climbed back into bed, set her diary aside, and pulled one of the pillows against her chest, hugging it tightly.

Faith, having run out of words for once, quietly left the room.

~

"You're all about control. You got no idea what it's like on the other side, where nothing is in control, nothing makes sense. There's just pain, and hate, and nothing you do means anything . . . and you can't . . . even . . ."
"Shut up."
"Tell me how to make it better."

~

"Willow . . . she told me to tell you . . ."
"Tell me what?"
"Kick his ass."

~
Xander
~

Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. What had he spent all that time doing? There was the moping, sure. And Cordelia and Gunn had taken him out on one of those dates they didn't have to call dates so long as there was a third party accompanying them. He'd talked Will down from a metaphorical ledge after she had her encounter with Buffy. Guilty didn't begin to describe how she felt for bringing Riley up.

Xander knew he was going to triple her guilt quota with his own. He could be such an ass when he was hurt and scared, and dealing with vamp Buffy -- even souled vamp Buffy -- was about the most hurt and scared he'd ever been. Add angry to the mix and no one was safe, not from Xander Harris, King of Cretins.

"Are you going to pace out here all day, or do you want to go see her?"

Jumping, Xander glared at Angel. "I am =so= gonna tie a little bell around your neck," he said warningly.

"I'm sure she'd like to see you," Angel told him quietly.

"Yeah. But not after I actually see her." Xander grimaced. "You know what I mean."

"It won't be like it was with me," Angel offered.

"Says who?" Xander snapped, noticing for the first time the small tray Angel carried. "You only killed Jenny. It hurt Giles more than it did me. Anya was . . ." Xander stopped himself. He had no words for what Anya had been to him.

"You never liked me," Angel insisted. "We had issues that extended far beyond the vampire thing."

"Buffy loved you," Xander agreed.

"Just go see her, Xander," Angel suggested softly. "I'll go in with you."

With a sigh of resignation, Xander held the door open and let Angel precede him. Buffy wasn't on the bed, and Xander started glancing around the room, trying to find her.

"Probably in the shower," Angel told him without turning around. He exchanged the tray beside the bed for the one he held. Walking to the door, he knocked once, firmly.

A few moments later, Buffy emerged, her hair damp, wearing a pair of light blue pajamas.

"You have a visitor," Angel told her gently, and her gaze moved to Xander, where he stood by the door, ready to bolt.

Great job at being comforting, he thought morosely.

"Hi," she said, and Xander wondered if she knew she looked like she was about to burst into tears at any moment.

"It'll be dawn in an hour," Angel said as he left the room. "Xander, when you're done, talk to Willow and Wesley, they're out in the garden, ask them when they'd like breakfast."

"Alone at last," Xander commented nervously.

Buffy's eyebrows were drawn together. "Everyone keeps visiting at weird times," she said slowly. "I know why I'm not wandering around during the day . . . but why is everyone else . . ."

"We haven't been keeping normal schedules since . . ." He trailed off, assuming she was bright enough to piece that together. "Angel's been really . . .good. About keeping us fed."

"Yeah, he's good at making sure you're . . . fed," Buffy agreed, looking uncomfortable as she abruptly turned and began pacing the floor. "When did you and Angel get all buddy, buddy, anyway?"

"We're not," Xander disagreed immediately, then stopped himself. They =had= been slowly working toward a wary peace, and he supposed they'd had some good conversations lately . . . "When we got here, he didn't act like we had no right. He just let us stay, let us into his life and helped in whatever way he could." Xander shrugged. "He kinda . . . grows on you."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed, and she looked like she was remembering something good. "I didn't like him at first either," she shared ruefully. "But then I really, =really= liked him."

"So don't need the visuals," Xander assured her.

"I don't know how to apologize to you," Buffy said abruptly.

"'I'm sorry, Xander,' is probably what I'd go with." He tried for flippant, but he feared it came out angry.

"'I'm sorry' seems like a slap in the face after what I did," Buffy confessed. "Or maybe a knee in the groin."

"Are you?" Xander asked, surprising himself with the question.

"Am I what?"

"Sorry."

Now it was her turn to look horrified. "Xander, how can you even . . . of =course= I'm sorry! I . . . you'll never know =how= sorry . . ."

"Yeah, I just . . . I needed to hear it. I'm sorry. For needing to."

He shook his head and started pacing the room. It didn't seem right, her having to say she was sorry when he never had. There were a lot of things he should apologize to her for. The thing with Angel and Acathla -- he wasn't sorry he'd done it. Even given hindsight, he'd do it again, not tell her about Willow trying the curse. Buffy was blind when it came to Angel, and Evil Angel would have used that. If he'd felt her trying to stall him, he probably would have killed her.

He couldn't apologize to her for that, though. Willow said they both knew, and had forgiven him already. The other things, the way he'd been about Angel, about her leaving that summer . . . those things he didn't feel he could apologize for, either. He was sorry he'd hurt her, but he still firmly believed she'd been selfish the way she'd handled things.

The anger itself wasn't the problem; it was the way he'd handled it. That was something he'd come to terms with over the years. All part of growing up, growing into your own skin, he supposed. But now he was expected to look at Buffy, and see nothing but his friend, and forget what she'd done to Anya?

No, he argued with himself. That's something he'd been doing a lot of, ever since he got split into two. It's not about forgetting, he thought. It's about forgiving. Forgiveness would be easy if you could really forget whatever sin had occurred -- but it would be meaningless. The real meaning of forgiveness occurred in remembering all the bad, and wanting someone in your life anyway.

"I loved you for a long time, Buff," Xander said quietly.

Buffy winced, looked awkward. "I . . . I know."

"I think that's what's hardest to deal with," he added. "The way I loved you . . . with all my young, naïve boy's heart. It's different, separate from how I love you now. Like a sister, or a fellow soldier."

There were tears in her eyes. "Xander, you don't know how many times I wished I could have loved you back the way you wanted me to. I think my life would have been so much easier . . ."

"Yeah, but . . . maybe not better," Xander said gently. "Easier doesn't mean better." He shut his eyes for a moment, and prepared to say one of the hardest things he'd ever had to. "I never could have loved you like he does," Xander said finally, feeling no need to explain who 'he' was. There had only been one 'he' in Buffy's life that mattered, anyway, no matter what they'd all tried to pretend.

"Don't sell yourself so short," she said lightly.

But Xander, for the first time in his life, didn't want to be light. He wanted to be dead serious. He'd tried it out a few months back, after Riley left. He'd thought that was best for Buffy then. He always just wanted what was best for her, even now, after everything that had happened.

"It's got nothing to do with me," Xander countered, "it has to do with you. I can love someone as much as Angel loved you -- I loved Anya like that. But I could never love =you= that much. This is a major breakthrough for me, you know."

"I know," Buffy assured him, something like awe lighting her eyes.

"He's been through as much as any of us over the past couple of weeks," Xander continued. "And uh . . . that's all I can say about him that's nice at once, so I'll stop talking now."

Buffy approached him hesitantly, and when he saw what she was trying to do, he opened his arms wide and hugged her tightly.

"You finally grew into a man, Peter Pan," she whispered into his ear.

"Yeah," he agreed, thinking of Anya as he held Buffy, his next words meant for her as much as the blonde he currently held. "Thanks for your help, Wendy Lady."

~

"If what he needs from you just isn't there -- for God's sake, let him go. But if it is? If you can go deeper . . . Let him get to know that raw, unguarded heart you tried to put away . . . Maybe you'd better risk something too."

~

"I saw you before you became the slayer. I watched you, I saw you called. It was a bright afternoon, out in front of your school, you walked down the steps . . . and I loved you."

~
Angel
~

In the late evening, he brought her roses, the color of faded antique lace.

Buffy never had the energy to rise before sundown. Angel did, and he often left her to sleep in the big bed she'd begun to think of as theirs. It seemed to be a given that they should share their lives, even if the curse that bound his soul to his body still, after all that had come before, prevented them from sharing their bodies. Of course she had a brand spankin' new curse of her own, so putting it all on him wasn't entirely fair anymore. Damn gypsies.

There had been an incident, several nights before, when she'd still been sullen from Spike's visit earlier in the day, which still brought a tear to Buffy's eye when she recalled it. They'd been reclining on the bed, and he'd been reading to her, something old, Dickens maybe. Whatever the novel, his voice had been low and soothing, lulling her to sleep like the lullabies her mother once sang to her as a little girl.

It was the thought of her mother that had done it, Buffy was sure now. Thinking of Joyce, or Dawn, or any of the others never failed to dredge the ever-present guilt to the surface, to make it raw and palpable again, choking her with the bitter taste of her crimes.

What she'd attempted that night had been cruel and insidious, more so, one could argue, than all the death she'd perpetuated soulless. For this she did with a ruthlessly silenced conscience.

Her arms crept around his shoulders, and she felt him tense, then relax. Touching each other hadn't really been big on their 'to do' lists. Both had been remembering times past, awkward goodnight hugs, stilted, worried pecks on the mouth. Desperate embraces were something other couples got to share. Forbidden lovers were gifted with intense stares from across too-wide distances, not late night snuggles.

But Buffy was starved for him, starved to feel something besides the unending, bitter regret that had permeated her mood from the moment her memories had cascaded over her. She was numb, unable to shed a tear or express a single moment of rage, save the times she was confronted with her crimes in the physical manifestation of her friends. And so her hands had crept beneath the collar of his shirt, and her mouth had pressed small, loving kisses to the nape of his neck as she sought to lose herself in him.

The automatic stiffening of his muscles had begun to ease with gentle brushes of her lips, soft caresses of her hands. It had been so long since she'd made love to him, centuries, surely, since the night of her seventeenth birthday. Mindless sex didn't count, even the mind blowing kind they'd had as demons. It did nothing to stave off the ache that steadily built for him, in her heart, in her womb.

Turning in her arms, his own had crept around her, cradled her body against his until he'd pulled her into his lap. Big, rough hands had touched her everywhere above the satin of her pajamas. His tongue had swept against hers, made love to her mouth while his hands had sifted through her hair, blazed a trail along her back and pulled her closer still.

It was only when her hands finally crept too low, moved too dangerously that he had pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Buffy, we can't," he'd said sadly.

"Why not?" she'd asked sullenly. "It's not like there's any big danger."

His confusion had been clear, but she'd ruthlessly denied its existence at the time.

"I don't do it for you anymore, remember, Angel?" she'd said harshly. "I'm just a cold, dead thing. No living warmth for you to be drawn to, no sacred destiny for you to guard. There's nothing here for you anymore. You managed to nail Darla without saying adios to your soul, and you guys were a thing for what, this side of a century? I've got nothing to compete with that, so we should be good to go."

Buffy would have been ashamed of her actions, whatever the reaction from Angel. Then, she'd expected a burst of anger in return, or worse, stony silence followed by his hasty departure from the room. That was how they'd always handled their blowouts in the past -- one of them would leave until the other had cooled off, upon when they could have a rational conversation about their 'issues.'

Those being the only eventualities she'd prepared for, Buffy had been totally shocked to feel his palm press against her cheek; so shocked that, when he'd dropped a baby soft kiss onto her forehead and moved to pull her back into his embrace, she hadn't even struggled.

By the time her paralysis had worn off, her back had been spooned to his front, his arms had been wrapped around her, and his mouth had been moving softly against the side of her face as he quietly quoted sonnets from memory.

"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body . . ."

The verse occurred to her now, because he was reciting it again, because she'd told him that she liked it. They were once again curled up on their bed, not his, not Angel's, theirs. He rested on his stomach, she on her back, and one of his arms rested unobtrusively over her middle, his hand gently rubbing her belly. His face was next to her ear, and his voice, whiskey-soft like liquid gravel, filled her senses.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."

Suddenly, the intimacy of the moment was too much for her, his love, the words he spoke that so echoed her every feeling about this man beside her . . . what had she done to deserve this? This feeling of contentment, of belonging, it wasn't right. It should be harder than this, she deserved more pain, more punishment for what she'd done . . .

She hadn't even realized she'd leapt from the bed, began pacing and speaking her thoughts aloud until he was there again in front of her, gripping her arms, forcing her to look at him, shushing her in his liquid gravel tones.

Now, though, she could not be silenced.

"You treat me like I'm some kind of glass doll, like I'm precious to you, and I'm =filthy=, Angel," she hissed, stalking over to the bedside table, snatching up one of a half dozen roses he'd brought her from the garden outside. "Wesley plants these beautiful roses, you all take care of them, and you bring them to =me=?" Savagely, she hurled the rose at the wall, watching as a few of its petals fluttered to the ground behind it.

"I bring them to you because you need as much beauty in your life as possible right now."

Oh, that was so like him. Say the perfect thing and expect her to deflate. Well, that was the old Buffy. The pre-blood-drinking Buffy.

"Beauty?" she spat. "There is NO beauty in my life. There's nothing but pain, and rage, and betrayal. I'm =disgusting=, Angel. I'm worse than Spike, because at least he's got a good sense of humor about it. I can't keep doing this, I can't keep feeling like this--"

"Well guess what," he snapped, stalking over to her, grabbing her arms in a vise-like grip, "you have to. This is your life now, Buffy, this is your existence. You have to deal with it."

"How do I deal, Angel? Dealing implies acceptance, and I don't accept that this isn't some kind of really bad dream I'm going to wake up from."

"I promise you it's not," he said. His voice was cold, but there was such warmth for her in his eyes . . . the last of her control snapped, and she lashed out at him, beat against his chest with every word she shrieked.

"Don't you get it?! I hate being a vampire! I hate remembering what my mother TASTED like! I hate not being able to go out in the sun! I hate knowing that Willow and Xander are miserable BECAUSE OF ME! I hate that I'll never have a normal life! I hate that I can't make love to you! I hate that this pig's blood doesn't taste as good as Dawn's! I hate that I can tell the difference! And I hate the way you're looking at me right now." Her last sentence was delivered quietly as she collapsed in on herself, a tiny sob pulled from the depths of her very real, very beaten soul.

"How am I looking at you?" he whispered into her ear, one hand moving to cradle her head, the other running up and down her satin-clad back.

"Like you love me anyway," she whimpered. "Like I'm not ugly. Like I'm something worth fighting for."

"And you say you can never tell what I'm feeling just by looking at me," he chided softly.

She began to sob in earnest at that, dug her nails into the skin at the back of his neck, let him lift her until her face was pressed securely in the crook of his neck. Then they were back on the bed, and she curled her legs around his, pressed herself as close as she could get while she cried out a thousand hours of sorrow into the velvet coolness of his skin.

After she'd gained a semblance of control over her emotions, she looked up at him, found his eyes to be nothing but open and loving, and a little bit sad. The way he held her, so naturally, so carefully, gave her the courage to tell him something she wasn't sure she'd be able to tell anyone else.

"He wasn't going to turn me."

Angel shook his head a little. "I don't under--"

"The vamp that killed me. He was just going to drain me. I don't even think he knew I was the slayer. Isn't that just the saddest thing you've ever heard? A slayer being taken down by some idiot vamp who didn't even know she was the slayer?"

"Not the saddest thing," he said quietly, fingers stroking through her hair, against her scalp, eradicating the headache she hadn't even realized she'd developed.

Nothing had ever felt more right than lying in Angel's arms, and letting him listen to all the secrets she'd never thought she'd be able to say out loud.

"I was ready to go," she continued quietly, keeping her gaze on his. She wouldn't chicken out and look away. She'd face whatever scorn he felt for her head on. And maybe, just maybe, if he understood, she'd see that, too. "I was saying goodbye to Mom, and Dawn, and all the others . . . I was ready.

"But then all of a sudden, it hit me that this was it. I was going to die. No more me. And I grabbed his wrist, and I tore into it, and I drank from him. I didn't think about what I'd be coming back as, I didn't think about what I might do, I just . . . I had to live.

"So it's my fault. Everything that happened to Mommy and Dawn . . .my dad . . . to Anya and Tara . . . all the others. =I= made myself what I am. With you, at least Darla was responsible . . . and then the second time, it was my fault . . ."

Angel seemed uncomfortable with the second part of her statement, so she didn't continue, but nor did she take it back. Buffy always had, and always would, she suspected, feel responsible for making Angel go away, for bringing forth the demon that lived so close to his skin.

"You try to resist," he began quietly, "because you know it's unnatural and wrong . . . but you can't. Because in the end, when you're staring at death, and it's opening its jaws to swallow you whole, you'll do anything -- kill, claw, scream -- =anything= to keep it from you.

"You're a survivor, Buffy, more so than any person I've ever known." He brought one of his hands to her face, began gently tracing over her forehead, her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw with the tips of his fingers. "You couldn't let go, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. You didn't want anyone to die, yourself included."

Her desperate hands clutched him even tighter, and she tried not to think about how badly she wished she could pull him on top of her, strip him naked and let him feel the vast, aching emptiness inside of her bones.

"Xander told me a long time ago that I hid myself away ever since you left," she whispered into his throat. "And I do, but I can't help it. I'm so scared of loving like I loved you again and being hurt. Left. I won't even let myself love you again, the way I did, and I feel like I've loved you my whole life, even before I knew you."

"I know," he answered after a moment, his arms and legs holding her tighter against him. And she thought that he really did know, that he'd been hurt just as much as she had when he'd had to leave. It didn't help the pain, but it made it a little easier to trust him.

And she did trust him. More than she used to.

How could you not trust the only thing in the world that made you feel safe?

~

"Buffy, this is worse than anything we've ever faced. It's the only way."
"I can't watch you die again."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"Nothing can change that. Not even death."

~

END Book 1