Archive of Our Own

Bittersweet Legacy: Book II - Part 1
by Vatrixsta Cruden

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Naked -- Storybook Love

~

Come my love, I'll tell you a tale
of a boy and girl, and their love story,
and how he loved her oh, so much,
and all the charms she did possess.

~

"I should just eat the food, and have some wine. They're going to look at me funny if I . . you know . . ."

"Drink blood from a wine glass?"

"Ha, ha." But she didn't sound amused.

"Spike and I will both be drinking =and= eating some of the food. You won't be the only one."

Buffy sighed and flopped back on the bed dramatically. "Can't I just stay up here?"

"I've been bringing you breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed," Angel chided softly, giving up the battle he was waging with his cufflink to join her on the bed, stretched out on his side. They'd all agreed dressing up a little was appropriate for the evening, and while he'd opted for a dress shirt -- black, as usual -- he was drawing the line at a tie. "You haven't left this room for a week. They come to you, more frequently now, but still you never make the first move."

"What if they don't want to see me?" she asked in a small voice, nervously smoothing the dark green halter Cordelia had bought her over its matching ankle-length satin skirt.

He covered her hand with one of his where it twitched over her stomach, and she wiggled it beneath his until their fingers twined. She held their clasped hands to her belly firmly and he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.

"They love you," he assured her quietly. "They miss you."

"They miss what I was," Buffy insisted. "They can't . . . they aren't ready to deal with Vamp Buffy. Which, by the way, is why I should =not= drink with dinner tonight."

"Even if you're right -- which I'm not saying you are -- that's exactly why you =should= drink."

"Your logic is making the kind of sense that doesn't. Which is odd for you. Usually all that wisdom you've acquired over your long, long, long, long, long life has at least --" she trailed off, softly giggling as he mock-growled at her and nipped her mostly-naked shoulder playfully.

"They need to get used to you the way you'll be for the rest of their lives," he said seriously after a moment. "Might as well start tonight."

"Can't we just stay up here and pretend there are no riders in our curses?"

"Buffy," he said warningly, withdrawing slightly from her.

"We have to talk about it, Angel," she reminded him seriously. "We've been avoiding it while I was having such fun being messed twenty-four seven, but we have to deal with it."

"I know," he agreed reluctantly. "But do you really want to have the sex talk before dinner with the entire family?"

His raised eyebrow made her want to punch him in the face. Even more so because he was right.

"You're right," she grumbled out loud. Then, she snatched his wrist back and quickly fixed his cufflink. He acquiesced to her, then let her fix its mate.

That simple task completed, she flung herself off the bed, still holding firmly to his hand as they headed out the door.

"After dinner is plenty soon for a sex talk," she added as they crossed the threshold, and she grinned at his groan.

~

"Would you be careful?! I really doubt Angel, Buffy and Spike want anything but very, =very= rare steak."

"I do recall how to cook, Cordelia," Wesley said tiredly.

"Maybe we shouldn't cook theirs at all," Willow mused aloud. "I mean maybe we could just, you know . . ."

"Plop a big 'ole slab of raw meat down on the table in front of them?" Cordelia suggested snidely, then sighed. "Tried and failed. It makes Angel all squirmy."

"Learned that on his last birthday," Wesley added sadly.

"Yeah, I guess Buffy would probably be kind of uncomfortable eating raw meat in front of all of us, too," Willow conceded.

"Spike probably wouldn't have a problem with it," Cordelia suggested thoughtfully.

"Oh, who cares about Spike?" Willow made a few emphatic gestures with her arms. "I'm worried about Buffy wigging. Spike doesn't care what people think of him; Buffy does."

"More to the point," Cordelia began subtly -- subtly for =Cordelia= -- "Buffy cares what you, Xander and Giles think of her."

Willow looked hurt. "I'm not going to do anything to make her feel uncomfortable. I was the one who suggested steak tartar, remember? Me! Tartar."

"I don't believe Cordelia's accusing you of anything," Wesley said with a stern glance sent in Cordelia's direction.

"Not at all," Cordelia agreed. "I'm just afraid poor Buffy's gonna pull up a chair, and =you're= gonna be the one wigging. Or Xander. Giles seems to have it together, thank God for small miracles."

Wesley cleared his throat loudly to cease Cordelia's speech without smacking her. He found it utterly fascinating that the longer the residents of Sunnydale stayed at the hotel, and the more time she spent with Xander Harris, the faster her newfound tact seemed to leak from her pores.

"What I believe Cordelia is =trying= to say," Wesley interrupted at last, "is that you may not be as comfortable with the situation as you believe you are."

Willow was prevented from forming an answer by Spike's entry into the kitchen. He made his way to the fridge, where he removed two bottles of blood, fresh from the butcher. Willow looked positively queasy.

"Like that," Cordelia pronounced smugly.

"What's this then?" Spike asked, looking between the three humans.

"I . . . that is . . . I mean . . ."

"Complete sentences, Willow," Wesley encouraged kindly.

"I should be used to it!" she spat out. "I mean, Angel's always drunk blood, and Spike's been around us for so long now . . . why is it so weird?"

"Because you're not used to Buffy on a liquid diet," Cordelia pointed out simply. "It's a different set of rules, and something you're just gonna have to deal with."

"Yeah, and you'll deal fast," Spike added, easily getting what the subject of conversation was. "If you don't want Buffy to hide up in the pouf's bedroom for the rest of her eternal life, you'll keep your eyes forward, and your conversation normal-like when she takes a sip of the red stuff." To illustrate his point, Spike tipped the bottle to his lips and took a swig. "There now, does that give your skin the crawlies?"

"Yeah," Willow admitted, "but that's 'cause it's dribbling down your chin."

"Right." Spike wiped his chin with his fingers, then licked them clean. "All better now, love?"

Willow's answer was a decidedly worried little squeak.

Spike shrugged and left the kitchen. Cordelia put a friendly arm around Willow's shoulders.

"You'll do fine," she assured the redhead. "Because if you don't, you'll have to deal with me in rare bitchy form, 'cause if Buffy goes catatonic, =I= have to deal with Cranky Angel, and I can promise you I've so had enough of that this year."

"Cordelia Chase, humanitarian," Wesley declared dryly.

"Weren't you doing something?" Cordelia said pointedly.

"Bloody hell," Wesley hissed as he liberated a pair of steaks that were most assuredly well done now.

"Those can be for Xander and I," Cordelia offered helpfully.

~

"Hey, hey, chop-chop, Slayer'll be down in a minute," Spike chastised as he came through the kitchen into the dining room.

"You know, why don't you bite me, Blondie," Faith snapped, then placed a hand over her mouth in mock horror. "Oops, I forgot. You =can't=."

Xander snickered and put the last plate on the table. Seeing he was done, Faith moved to the drawer that held Angel's silver. Angel's =old= silver. It looked like it had been around almost as long as he had.

"Keep yapping," Spike warned ominously as he filled three of the wineglasses on the table with blood. "You'll get yours, kitten."

"You'll get yours sooner than you think you don't stop calling me kitten," Faith warned through a gritted smile.

Spike narrowed his eyes, but didn't comment further. Damned if he wasn't nervous on Buffy's behalf, and he slipped out the back to grab a quick smoke before the festivities began.

"Am I supposed to do a fancy fold with these?" Xander asked, holding up one of the napkins.

"Willow didn't tell us to, and if she'd wanted one, I think she probably would have been explicit," Faith noted wryly.

"Yeah, Will has been kind of 'Sir, yes, sir!' about this dinner," Xander conceded.

Faith moved left at the same time Xander moved right, and they bumped into each other. Her gaze darted away from his quickly as things she'd rather forget ran through her mind. It wasn't the sex, nor any lingering attraction she felt toward him. They'd never been attracted to each other. He'd been there when she was horny, and having been a virginal teenage boy himself, he was always horny.

No, Faith's awkwardness stemmed from something she desperately needed to say to him.

"Sorry I tried to strangle you that time," she said suddenly.

Xander glanced up from the napkin he was busily folding into a paper plan. "No problem," he said sincerely. "Just more bloody water under the burned out bridge."

~

Now this did happen once upon a time
When things were not so complex,
And how he worshipped the ground she walked.
When he looked in her eyes, he became obsessed.

~

"Wow, guys . . . this is . . . Wow." Buffy smiled tightly, looking over every inch of the elegantly decorated dining room.

"Wow," Willow agreed, her voice overly cheerful.

Everyone stood behind the chair they would occupy during the meal. Wesley and Willow had already dished out portions onto everyone's plates. The steaks on Buffy's, Angel's, and Spike's plates were bloody, but not raw. While no one had been looking, Cordelia had drizzled some of the blood from Angel's stash over the vampires' steaks. It was something she'd been doing for Angel for quite some time, and he always seemed to enjoy his meal with them more, even if he wasn't quite sure why.

"It really does look quite . . . elegant," Giles stated, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Very civilized," Wesley agreed.

"The food smells great," Xander declared boisterously.

"Yeah, looks like you did a good job, English," Gunn added.

"Xander folded everyone's napkin into a little paper airplane," Faith said brightly.

The awkwardness and uncertainty spread through the room like a bad smell. Everyone stood at least two feet from everyone else. They were running out of pleasant things to say about the room, or the food without actually tasting it, yet no one seemed willing or able to make a move to sit down.

"Guys," Angel began uncertainly, "maybe this wasn't--"

"Oh no!" Willow held up a hand. "Don't say it wasn't a good idea. Because it was. It's fine, look, everything's fine, we'll just sit down and let things be fine."

"Willow, dinner was a wonderful idea," Angel assured the little witch. "I just mean that maybe eating it in here, with the silver I haven't seen since I moved into the hotel might not have been the best choice."

"What do you suggest, then?" Giles asked curiously.

"One of the rooms upstairs is large enough to accommodate everyone," Angel said easily, "and there's a TV up there."

"Bloody hell, I =knew= you were hiding a telly around here somewhere," Spike burst out. "I been watching Passions on this little portable I swiped from that pawn shop 'round the corner--"

"Yes, as delightful as hearing of your criminal exploits is, I for one am quite starved," Wesley cut in smoothly. "Shall we adjourn to the entertainment room?"

"Everyone grab a plate," Buffy ordered as they all hurried to balance glasses, plates and paper airplane napkins, along with silverware in their arms. Those gifted with supernatural agility were kind enough to help those prone to falling down while attempting to walk and chew gum at the same time, and soon everyone had made the trek up the Hyperion's grand staircase to the room Angel indicated.

The entertainment room was nothing special -- a thirty-two inch TV, VCR, and DVD player Cordelia had talked Angel into buying one night while they were hunting a demon that had gone incognito at a Circuit City. Gunn and Willow left the room briefly in search of soft things to lay out on the floor, and returned quickly with their bounty.

"Since we've got the hook-up -- Dead Boy, you got anything good?" Buffy tensed at Xander's 'nickname' for Angel, but there was a smile on his face as he said it, and Angel didn't look at all offended. The rancor often present in Xander's voice when he spoke to Angel was oddly absent, and she relaxed.

"Cordelia bought some DVDs," Angel answered, "but we've only watched 'The Shawshank Redemption.'"

"We thought it would be good for him," Cordelia added, smirking at Angel. Wesley and Gunn wore much the same expression.

He rolled his eyes at her and went to the cabinet where the DVDs were stored.

"Nothing heavy," Buffy called out. "I've met my quota of angst and woe."

"For the next century, at least," Willow agreed.

"Nothing serious," Faith added. "Some action'd be good."

"I somehow doubt the pouf has any decent T and A," Spike said snidely as he shoveled a large mouthful of steak into his mouth.

"Loser," Faith hissed, smacking the back of his head. "I meant something where somebody's getting beat up."

"I picked up on that," Angel assured her.

"Oh, maybe something romantic, too," Willow requested sweetly.

"Nothing heavy or serious, filled with ass kicking and romance," Xander mused. "You know what that means."

"'The Princess Bride,'" Buffy, Willow, Cordelia and Xander said as one.

"You do have it, right?" Xander asked Angel.

"I believe it was one of the many things I couldn't possibly live another day without owning," Angel answered, and it was clear to everyone in the room he was quoting Cordelia.

They had all scattered around, getting comfortable; having tossed blankets and pillows down on the floor of the mostly bare room. Faith sat furthest to the left, Spike beside her. Willow sat beside Spike, Wesley just in back of them. Xander was next to Willow, and Buffy sat to Xander's right. Angel took his place behind Buffy, letting her balance both their plates on her legs while he hooked his chin over her shoulder to eat. Cordelia and Gunn sat beside them, once again engaged in a rousing game of footsie they thought no one else noticed. Giles sat next to Angel, behind Willow and Xander.

The story opened up on an electronic baseball game, and Angel heaved a sigh.

"The book's better," Angel noted.

"Much more ironic," Giles agreed.

Buffy looked between the two of them with great interest. "You've both read 'The Princess Bride?'"

"Why are you so surprised?" Angel countered.

"Willow did give it to me for Christmas," Giles added.

"Never thought you'd read it, though," Willow said. "It's not really Giles-y, but I figured you needed to be silly more."

"What about you, Mr. Tragic Poetry Boy?" Buffy asked, turning in Angel's arms to get a look at his face.

"Wes gave it to me as a 'thank you for paying me to fall down a lot' gift," Angel answered with a smile at the 'rogue demon hunter.'

"Angel," Cordelia scolded, a little surprised, ready to leap to Wesley's defense.

"No, I actually wrote that on the card," Wesley assured them all.

"Well, I think the movie's better," Xander said firmly.

"Me too," Buffy agreed.

"Besides, Robin Wright's a hottie," Xander finished with a grin.

"Hoo boy," Willow agreed.

"Is that all you two think about?" Buffy asked with a smile.

"Yes," Willow and Xander answered as one, causing a ripple of laughter to spread around the room.

"Well I've never read the book, or seen the movie, so can we get on with this?" Gunn asked after a moment.

Everyone was in agreement, and they stopped talking and concentrated on the movie.

Once they were through with dinner, the rest of the evening progressed as they watched -- and interacted with -- 'The Princess Bride':

"'Do you know what that sound is, highness?'" Xander quoted with manic glee. "'Those are the shrieking eels! If you don't believe me, just wait. They always grow louder when they're about to feed on human flesh.'" Before the word feed got out of his mouth, Xander lunged at Cordelia, causing her to screech as he tickled her sides.

"Idiot," she declared around a giggle as she punched his arm.

"I'm still hungry," Buffy said quietly to Angel.

Not quiet enough, however, because everyone in the room was looking at her. Buffy felt like she was under a microscope, and she wanted to curl up and die. Her friends, however, proved to have more class than she'd given them credit for.

"'Inconceivable!'" Xander shouted at her, a smile firmly spread across his face.

"'You keep using that word,'" Willow parried easily, "I do not think it means what you think it means.'"

"I'll get you something," Angel whispered into Buffy's ear, a half smile on his lips. He was gone for barely a minute, and when he returned, he once again slipped in behind her, bracketing her body with his big legs, his arms wrapping around her torso. In his hand was a glass, and for the moment, Buffy pretended it was filled with fruit punch.

"I died that day!" Buttercup declared on the screen. "And you can die too for all I care!"

As Westley went stumbling down the hill, calling out 'As you wish,' before Buttercup could deliver her next line, Cordelia gave Wesley a mighty shove, then leapt after him, saying Buttercup's next line with her: "Oh, my sweet Westley! What have I done?!"

"She had some wine before dinner," Willow explained as they righted themselves. "And with dinner. And a little bit after dinner."

Cordelia giggled.

"Death cannot stop true love," Westley declared as he and Buttercup shared a tender embrace. "All it can do is delay it for awhile."

Buffy couldn't help it. This movie always made her silly and sappy and she brought Angel's arm more firmly around her, held their joined hands tightly against her middle. The firm, moist pressure of his mouth against the side of her neck made her feel as though everything was right with the world.

Willow and Xander took great delight in quoting the entirety of Miracle Max and Valerie's interplay:

"'Liar! Liar! Liiiaaaaarrr!!'"

"'Get back, witch!'"

"'I'm not a witch, I'm your wife! But after what I just heard, I'm not even sure I wanna be that anymore!'"

And when the time came for Westley, Fezzik and Inigo to have their exchange on the bridge, Buffy, Willow and Xander, respectively, delivered their dialogue flawlessly. Willow didn't do a bad Fezzik, and Xander's horrible Spanish accent was pure poetry.

"'Why won't my arms move?'"

"'You've been mostly dead all day.'"

"'We had Miracle Max make a pill to bring you back.'"

"'Who are you? Are we enemies? Why am I on this wall? Where's Buttercup?'"

"'Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Buttercup is marry Humperdinck in little less a half a hour. So all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess, and make our escape. After I kill Count Rugen.'"

"'That doesn't leave much time for dilly-dallying.'"

"How many times have you watched this movie?" Angel asked, sounding mildly disturbed.

"Will and I watched it for most of our childhood," Xander confessed, sheepish.

"And it was a regular fixture on post-slayage-movie night," Buffy added.

"Sweet Charles," Cordelia slurred, drunkenly leaning her head on Gunn's shoulder.

Wesley obnoxiously mouthed 'Charles' at Gunn, which caused the black man to scowl. His arm wrapped around Cordelia's shoulders, though, and she seemed to snuggle into his side happily.

"Tequila is evil," Wesley declared.

"Too bad she was drinking a whole honkin' lot of red wine," Willow giggled, bumping shoulders with Wesley.

"Yeah, and you're Sober Sally," Spike cut in dryly.

They were quiet for a time, enjoying the movie without comment. Angel was running the tips of his fingers lightly across the tiny patch of skin Buffy's halter top left bare, just above the waist of her skirt. Cordelia was beginning to snore on Gunn's shoulder, and he didn't look too unhappy with it. Willow was giggling, seemingly taking over for Cordelia in the lush department for the evening. Faith and Spike were bickering about what they should watch when the 'lightweights' passed out. So far, they had it narrowed down to 'Fight Club' or 'Die Hard.'

Wesley was trying to coax the glass from Willow's hand, though whether it was to prevent her from further intoxication, or because he'd finished his own and didn't want to get up for more, no one was certain. Xander was completely enthralled with the movie, and Giles watched them all with a look of contentment on his face.

No one had quoted a line in some time, so when it happened, everyone was a little startled.

"Hello!" Xander shouted exuberantly, causing everyone to jump slightly. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

"You prepare to die," Cordelia muttered, having been woken. Gunn slipped an arm around her waist to keep her from physically attacking Xander.

When the movie was at an end, Willow, Cordelia and Buffy sighed as the title song played over the credits.

"This is my favorite movie," Buffy declared happily. "Well, this or 'Return of the Dragon.'"

"I'm gonna drive Cordy home," Gunn announced, sweeping the semi-conscious girl up in his arms.

"Mmm," she mumbled against his shoulder, winding her arms around his neck.

Everyone said goodnight then, until it was just Buffy, Angel, Giles, Faith and Spike in the entertainment room.

"I suppose we ought to carry this mess back down to the kitchen," Giles mused.

"Yeah, that's my cue to go have a smoke," Spike decided aloud, disappearing.

Faith cackled a little. "While Blondie's out, I'm puttin' on 'Die Hard' before he can start whining."

Buffy shook her head at the antics of her fellow slayer, and followed Angel and Giles out to the kitchen. Between the three of them, they would only have to make two or three trips.

Everyone else being drunk made Buffy happier than it should have. It meant they weren't scared of her. At least, that was the theory she was going to stick to. Because scared people didn't get intoxicated around the very thing that scared them. They also didn't get knock down drunk with someone they were, say, still mad at.

Denial, Buffy decided, was sometimes a lot more fun than reality.

~

My love is like a storybook story
but it's as real as the feelings I feel
My love is like a storybook story
but it's as real as the feelings I feel
it's as real as the feelings I feel

~

"I did it, didn't I? I was good, right?"

Wesley frowned slightly as he helped Willow into her room. The little witch was swaying unsteadily and he was half-afraid she'd go tumbling down the stairs without his support. He was a bit buzzed himself, but at least he hadn't yet started to see two of everything.

"You were perfect this evening," he assured her, hoping that was the right thing to say.

"I didn't start crying when I was in the kitchen," Willow continued. "I almost did. I saw the spot where she died. Angel cleaned it up before we got back, but I can still see it."

Heart clenching, Wesley gently shut Willow's door behind her and helped her to her bed. Once she was seated on the end, he knelt before her and began removing her shoes, one at a time.

"Willow," he began hesitantly, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"It's like there's this echo of her still there," she continued, her voice far away. "I can feel her inside me, and it gets stronger when I'm in the kitchen. Like she's still there." Her eyes were filled with tears. "I don't know whether that makes me want to run away from the kitchen, or set up a little cot in there."

"It's always hard, living without someone we love," Wesley said lamely. What comfort could he give her? What were you supposed to say when someone's heart was broken?

"Tonight was fun," Willow declared, switching tracks again. The tears seemed to dry in her eyes, and she smiled, though it was a wobbly smile at best. "It was fun, right?"

"Very," Wesley agreed, helping her out of the little sweater thing she had on, leaving her clad in a pair of loose slacks and a tank top. "And now it's time for all little witches to be in bed."

"Do you think Tara forgives me?" she asked, her voice quiet and scared, as he pulled the covers over her.

Now it was his heart that was broken.

"I believe that Tara would think it ridiculous that you felt there was anything to be forgiven for," Wesley answered her quietly.

"You saw her last, before . . . " Willow swallowed, and looked up at him through bleary eyes. "She seemed happy. She always seemed happy with me. Was she . . . was she happy? Because if it wasn't for me, for my life, she wouldn't . . . she'd still . . ."

"She seemed quite happy," Wesley said honestly. He sat on the edge of Willow's bed, a bit uncomfortable. It wasn't exactly proper, but then, 'propriety' wasn't a big concern at Angel Investigations. "Tara seemed to belong with you all. You've told me a bit about her over the last week. About what her family was like. Despite how her life ended, I don't believe Tara would wish to change a day of how she lived it."

Willow graced him with another of her wobbly smiles. "Thank you, Wesley."

Leaning over her, Wesley pressed a kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, she was already snoring. He smiled. Whether she remembered the details of this conversation later, he hoped she held onto the emotion behind it.

Mostly, he hoped she found some peace.

~

This love was stronger than the powers so dark,
A prince could have within his keeping;
His spells to weave and steal a heart
Within her breast, but only sleeping.

~

Lindsey glanced around the crowded boardroom. Normally, he was asked to meet with one or two shadowy Wolfram and Hart partners, and that was the end of it. There must have been twenty in the room now, but only one of them, the guy who looked as much like a gothic vampire as any Lindsey had ever seen, was staring at him with an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Good of you to join us, Mr. McDonald," he said blithely.

"There was an unavoidable delay," Lindsey lied smoothly. In reality, he'd been sitting in his office, reading the copy of the soul restoration they'd used on Buffy. Sure enough, an old friend of his had come through -- a practicing wizard in Tibet. The spell was an ancient Chinese blessing, unused in ages, but Lindsey's intelligence reports assured him it had worked.

If only he could do something about the feeling that had been gnawing him for days, the one that reminded him suspiciously of guilt.

"The shamans Wolfram & Hart keep on staff all agree," Gothic Vampire in a suit said. "The next apocalypse is coming, within the year. The scrolls all agree that Angel's going to be front and center. We cannot afford to have him playing against us."

"We've stepped up our plans for Angel," another, one of the short weasels in suits Lindsey despised nearly as much as he despised himself, piped up.

Lindsey sat up straighter in his seat. "I was under the impression the board had taken my recommendation on this matter."

Slow and relentless, that was the only way to drive Angel mad. The son of a bitch was too strong for anything else. Try to take his soul away by force, and his little friends would only zap it right back. It'd start to resemble a Ping-Pong match if they weren't careful.

A sinister grin crossed Lindsey's face. He was willing to bet Angel was positive the gypsy curse was the same as the one used on Buffy. And really, he had no reason to think otherwise. As far as they knew, the Romany were the only wielders of such ancient, vengeful magic. Nothing could be crueler -- or more fitting a punishment -- than to make a creature feel true remorse for the horrors it had committed.

It was the bedrock principal behind rehabilitation, and something not likely to be found in any correctional facility. Most of the people who changed behind bars were capable of it without a tiny cell. To force remorse into the mind of something that had existed without a shred of conscience . . . a perfect punishment, indeed.

Lindsey found true, ironic beauty in the fact that they'd be so consumed with the unfairness of it all, that they'd never guess the truth about Buffy's soul.

The Chinese magicians who'd first cast the restoration a few hundred years before were uninterested in vengeance. At the time, they'd worked hand in hand with the Watcher's Council. Their intent was to save the world. To locate all the vampires walking the earth and to determine whether they were worth the effort. Those deemed unworthy were staked on sight.

In time, the Watcher's Council grew uneasy with the Chinese magicians. Slayers were fighting hand in hand with souled vampires. Demons were waging war on demons. That had been the day the black ops section of the Council had been activated.

With extreme prejudice, they had exterminated the souled vampires, run the Chinese magicians off the Continent, and destroyed the Soul Blessing that had been created.

At least, they believed they had.

From there, the story got even more interesting. Lindsey wondered if Buffy knew that the entire time she'd been mooning over Angel, their entire desperate, close-but-not-too-close affair, that the very Council whom she'd trusted had had the answer to her every problem.

Buffy. Beautiful Buffy with her long blonde hair and vicious nature. His intelligence file told him that she was the strongest slayer the world had seen in centuries. The mere idea of that much power being harnessed and used for evil purposes . . . it was enough to send a chill through Lindsey, and he worked side by side with some of the evilest creatures that currently lived every single day.

He wished he could say he was falling in love with her. But he'd always sworn he'd be honest with himself, even when he lied to the face of the world. She reminded him of Darla, and she belonged to Angel. That was enough incentive to want to take her from him. Not that he thought for a moment he could. Take her, that is. At least, not while Angel was still =Angel=.

His inner monologue -- which was beginning to uncomfortably remind him of a Snidely Whiplashesque trip into cartoon cutout evil -- was interrupted by that gothic fucking vampire.

"Your findings were taken under consideration, but given Angel's ability to cope in the past, the senior partners have decided to take more drastic measures."

"To what end?" Lindsey asked, surprised he cared.

"A new player has entered Angel's life, as you well know. Buffy Summers being turned couldn't have happened at a more opportune moment. An apocalypse is coming, and Angel is primed and ready to fight it. Long term planning is unacceptable."

"You're going to use Buffy against Angel. I get that. What I want to know, is how?"

"That's the beauty of it, Mr. McDonald," he said calmly. "We merely have to light the match. Angel will let it burn until it consumes them both."

~

He said, "Don't you know I love you oh, so much,
And lay my heart at the foot of your dress?"
She said, "Don't you know that storybook loves
Always have a happy ending?"

~

"Thank you for making me do the scariest thing I could think of tonight."

Angel smiled gently, shut their bedroom door behind him. "No regrets, then?"

"Not today," she said, her voice subdued.

"Hey," he chastised gently, "remember your place. I'm the brooding half of this duo."

His comment garnered the smile he'd been hoping it would, and she sat gently on the end of the bed, looking up at him. It was time for The Talk. As much as he'd like to crawl into bed with her and wrap her around his body for the next century or so . . . come to think of it, that was exactly why they needed to have this talk.

"So," Buffy said quietly, staring down at the bed.

"Maybe we could try--" he said at the same time she said, "You slept with Darla--"

"What does Darla have to do with--" "What could we try--"

Angel held up a hand before either of them could speak again. When he was relatively sure Buffy would remain silent, he ran that same hand through his hair.

"You go first," Angel decided at last.

Buffy narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Why?"

"Honestly?"

"I doubt we're going to survive the next -- oh, I don't know, ETERNITY -- if we don't make a pact, here and now, to be nothing but honest with each other."

"=Honestly=," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice, "I don't think I've worked up the nerve to say what I was going to say yet."

"I know how that feels," Buffy muttered. Then, she sighed. "Okay, fine, I'll go first. Darla."

"Darla," Angel repeated, wary as he leaned against the doorframe opposite the bed. He hadn't had the glass replaced yet.

"You slept with her," Buffy continued. "I mentioned, in an evil, possessive sort of way that I could smell her on you, but I wasn't exactly interested in a major let's-share-our-feelings talk about it."

"And now you are."

"I wouldn't go that far," she mumbled under her metaphorical breath. Then, fortified, she met his gaze head on. "But we need to. Talk."

"There isn't much to say," Angel hedged.

"Considering you =screwed= her, I kinda think there is," Buffy snapped. "Cordelia told me a little bit about it the other day. But all she'd say is you weren't . . . you weren't 'okay' for awhile there."

"I was . . . lost that night. Lost, and cold, and about as far from 'okay' as you can get. I hadn't been 'okay' in months." Angel shut his eyes tightly and tried to block the pain that came from remembering the last time he'd seen Darla.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice quiet and sincere. He remembered all the talks they'd had so long ago, all the times he'd listened to her talk about school and homework and her mother, simply because he'd loved the sound of her voice. She'd accused him of humoring her, and he hadn't known how to tell her that all the trivial things in her life sustained his soul.

"I was depressed," he said simply. "And that night . . . it got worse. I'd been trying to make amends, and it had all crashed down on me that I never would. I couldn't save Darla, and when that happened, I thought that I couldn't save myself, either." A hollow laugh escaped his throat. "I told you once that loneliness was just about the scariest thing there is. It's not. Hopelessness is. Without hope, there's nothing. You're just waiting around for it to end. Without hope, all you can feel is the cold."

Buffy stood and moved toward him until she could place her hands on his chest. Slowly, she slid them up to his neck, then let her palm run up the side of his face, running her fingers through his hair. Her thumb traced over his cheekbone.

"But you found hope again," she half asked, half commanded.

"I did," he confirmed. "Sex with Darla was . . . enlightening."

"So you became Epiphany Boy, hooked back up with Cordy and Wes and Gunn, got yourself back on the right path, and then I came along and screwed everything up for you again."

"Buffy." She tried to pull away from him, but he captured her face between his palms, forced her to look him in the eye. "I won't pretend that everything you did without a soul didn't hurt. You know it did. It hurt me, and everyone else that loves you."

"Great pep talk," she snapped.

"But I don't regret for a second that you're in my life now," he said firmly, ignoring her outburst. "And I don't regret for a second that you'll be staying in it. The only thing I regret is everything you'll never have, and always want." He released her then, and stalked over to the table, angrily shoving a pile of her CD's off the end of it.

Her hand was a barely there pressure against his back, but he stiffened nonetheless. Her other hand moved to his shoulder, and without exerting even half the strength she had, she forced his body to turn toward her. There were tears in her eyes, and he hated himself all over again for making her cry.

Then, her small hands were on his face, her fingers pressing against his skin, almost as though she were memorizing the feel of him. The look in her eyes was half crazed as she pulled him closer, until their faces were a mere inch apart.

"No matter how bad things get . . . when you were walking around soulless, threatening to kill me . . . after you came back from hell, when I told you I couldn't see you anymore, when you fed off me, when you =left= me . . . Angel, you have always kept hope alive in my heart." Her little hand pawed at his chest ineffectually. "You give me hope when I don't think I have any left. You give me hope now, in a situation that would be utterly and completely bleak if it didn't have you in it."

Angel swallowed, and tried to form a coherent sentence. To say she'd left him speechless was an understatement. He'd never believed he'd brought her anything but misery. Their desperate, forbidden love had been a source of agony for her. Hearing her say that he'd been a strength for her, when all he'd ever seemed to bring her was pain . . .

Well, it was a good thing this knowledge was tempered by the fact that he couldn't make love to her. Otherwise, his curse would be busting at the seams with the sense of perfect joy bubbling up inside him.

"Eternity, huh," he murmured quietly when he could speak again. "You sure you wanna spend it with a skulking reticent guy with a penchant for noble acts that cause the woman he loves more than her fair share of angst?"

"Only if he stops being afraid to touch me."

"I'm not--" he began to deny automatically, but she covered his mouth with two of her fingers.

"Put a CD on," she instructed gently. "Something soft."

Something soft, Angel thought as he did as he was told. He bent to the floor and picked through the CDs he'd taken his rage out on earlier. There, in the corner, he found one that made him smile. The soundtrack to 'The Princess Bride.' A quick check to the back of it confirmed that it was mostly instrumental, and he popped it in. It made him feel good to see the smile that crossed her face when she recognized it, though neither of them commented.

"What were you going to say earlier?" she asked finally, moving toward him again. "Before I interrupted you."

"That uh . . ." Bite the bullet, Angel. You're not a wimp. Stop acting like it. "That maybe we could try testing the bounds of the curse more."

"You used to freak when I took my sweater off," Buffy reminded him.

He winced. "It was . . . I was too raw, back in Sunnydale. Everything had . . . I hadn't even really made peace with Giles yet, and . . ."

"You don't have to explain," she assured him quietly. "I get it. Better than I ever wanted to."

"I don't know how far we can go," Angel said softly, choosing to ignore her guilt for now. The only thing that would really ease it would be the passage of time. "And I know I'm not ready to try . . . anything too intensive."

"But?" she asked, obviously sensing there was a but.

"But," he agreed, nodding his head a little, "we've been sleeping side by side for the last two weeks. And I want to hold you. Really hold you. Without wondering if I'm crossing some imaginary line. I can't . . . I can't do all the things I really want to do, but at least . . ."

"You'll never leave me," she said, steel in her voice. "No matter how hard things get, no matter what happens, we never leave each other. We kill each other first. Swear it, Angel."

One of his hands cupped her cheek, the other pressed itself against her collar bone. He stared straight into her eyes and saw their souls, nestled behind her hazel warmth, so totally immersed in her that he couldn't distinguish between his and hers. Leave? It had taken the last ounce of strength he had where she was concerned to turn that perfect, beautiful day back . . .

"I swear," he vowed softly, pulling her closer. A tear escaped her left eye and he kissed it away on his way to her mouth.

His promise seemed to let her make a decision, and he felt her hand at his wrist, undoing the cufflink she'd fastened for him earlier. His left wrist followed, and then her tiny, delicate fingers were slipping every button down the front of his shirt from their holes.

He swallowed, half of him protesting this, scared to death of where it would lead, and another part wishing she'd go a little faster.

The rest of him was content to feel her cool hands against his chest, to revel in the sensation of her mouth pressing fleeting kisses over his upper torso. He felt a moment of sorrow, tucked securely inside the small measure of peace he was beginning to feel.

It was the greatest irony of an existence that had been nothing but ironic from its conception. He could fuck anyone but the one girl he'd be making love to.

Obviously, she sensed the direction of his thoughts, because she placed her hands over his once she'd removed his shirt, slipped them around her waist and led his fingers to the tie on the back of her top. With only a moment's hesitation, he began to slip the knot free.

"We'll start slow," Buffy whispered, her mouth pressed to his jaw as his fingers divested her of her top. "No barriers, and we can hold each other . . ."

He pressed his mouth to her temple in silent agreement, and felt her hands at his belt. It took her a moment, because she was shaking, but she finally was able to slip the belt off his waist, then turn her attention to the loose black pants he was wearing. A button and the loud hiss of a zipper later, and she was kneeling before him, pushing his pants down to his ankles.

She motioned for him to sit in the chair, and he did, and she removed each of his shoes, his socks, then pulled his pants the rest of the way off.

As she stood again, he moved to his feet, honestly stunned by how beautiful she was. Her breasts were firm and pale, not at all how he remembered them from before. She'd grown into her body in the last few years, and as much as he cringed away from admitting it, the paleness of her skin only made her more breathtaking.

He'd seen her just two weeks ago, of course, but this was different. This was so much more than what they'd shared as demons.

Moving his hands to her waist, he found the side zipper on her skirt and lowered it, let his palms skim over her legs until it pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it, and he smiled to realize she'd been barefoot all night. They stood facing each other wearing nothing but underwear, and Buffy finally started to look a little nervous.

"Maybe we should leave these on," she said, fingering the band of her panties. "You know, just to help nip temptation in the -- suddenly thinking that maybe I shouldn't talk about nipping things."

He pressed his mouth to hers to stop the flow of words, and his hands moved to the waist of her white satin underwear. He slipped them down her legs, then moved her hand to the waist of his gray cotton boxers.

"You said no barriers," he reminded her, his voice more than a little husky.

She nodded, and his underwear joined hers on the floor.

They stared at one another for a moment, close but not touching. Then, Angel held out his hand to her.

"Dance with me?"

"Like it's even a question," she answered with a smile as she folded herself into his arms.

His hands could not remain idle, and he smoothed them over her back, traced the indentation of her spine, let his palm briefly caress the firm softness of her rear. Her hands returned the favor, tracing the A on his tattoo, and he thought that there was no more perfect a sensation than her breasts pressed tightly against his ribcage.

"We should have been dancing naked for years now," she murmured after a few moments of nothing but skin and music.

He had to agree, and he did something he hadn't thought possible -- he pulled her closer. There was a tiny layer of sexual frustration underneath the bliss he felt, but it was nothing compared to what not touching her at all felt like. To be able to have this, at least . . . it had the very real possibility of making an eternity filled without being able to make love to her bearable.

"I hereby decree that from this night forth, we spend at least one night a week dancing naked," she continued, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

Angel smiled against her temple, held one of her hands to his chest with his own as he rested his cheek against her hair. His answer was a whisper to accompany the music, and it didn't matter if she heard it or not. It was a vow he made to himself, as much as to her.

"As you wish."

~

Then he swooped her up, just like in the books,
And on his stallion they rode away.

~

End Author's Notes: For those of you who haven't seen 'The Princess Bride' (Good GOD, what's WRONG with you?!) -- 'As you wish,' was what Westley always said to Buttercup, no matter how much of a bitch she was being at the time. From the moment I got hooked on Buffy, it's always seemed a very Angel-esque thing to say, and since this is my fanfic, and I'll do what I wanna, he says it. So there. ((g))

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Wheel -- If the Sky

~

when the night has come
and the land is dark
and the moon is the only
light we'll see

~

He came home covered in demon goo to find Buffy sitting on their bedroom floor, clutching a tattered and torn Mr. Gordo against her bent knees, staring at nothing, a stream of silent tears weeping down her cheeks.

Unsurprisingly, the day had started out better.

Any day that started out waking up next to Buffy, he considered to be the best of his life; throw into the mix a =naked= Buffy, her back spooned to his front, her arms holding his as she slept in his loose embrace . . . well, that was damn near perfect.

The only light in the room had come from the small patch of daylight that crept in beneath the secure curtains over the patio window. There was no danger from it, for the tiny shred of afternoon sunlight was several inches from the side of their bed.

Unhurried, at ease for the first time in years, Angel let his hands drift up and down her arms. He let his lips place the tiny, fleeting little kisses they'd longed to over the back of her neck, her shoulder blades, every patch of skin he could reach without removing his arms from around her. She made little humming noises of satisfaction in her sleep, and turned in his embrace. She slid a leg between both of his and wrapped her arms completely around his back, joining her fingers over his spine.

Her upturned face begged for attention, and he was unable to deny her anything of late, so he pressed a chaste kiss to her nose, which made it crinkle like a confused kitten. A soft chuckle built in his chest as she blinked her eyes open, glaring at him indignantly. Since Buffy had never been a graceful riser, this sight only caused his mirth to increase. The kitten metaphor continued as she pursed her lips, then pawed at her face with a single balled up fist.

Once that ritual was complete, her arms returned to their original position behind him, and she stared at him through half-open lids.

"If you think you're getting away with that sorry-excuse-for-a-good-morning-kiss, you've got another thing coming, Mister," she informed him in that sleep-roughened voice that made him long to tumble her into the sheets until they forgot their own names.

Setting that unattainable desire aside for the moment, he gathered her into his arms further, anchored his leg a bit more firmly over her hips, and pressed his lips to hers. Securing one hand at the base of her skull, he slid his tongue over her lips, coaxing them open. After a moment of token protest -- it had always been one of Buffy's favorite games to pretend she was mad at him -- she opened for him and moaned deeply as he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue.

Blunt teeth clashed together lightly as she brought one of her own hands to the back of his head, pressing it against his neck in the impossible effort to get closer.

Kissing like this was a lost art, one he'd engaged in far more as a boy than he ever had as a man. The girls in his village had been chaste until he'd discovered tavern whores. But every last one of them had appreciated being kissed as if they were the only girl on the planet.

The difference now, he mused, tilting his head to the side to get a taste of the corner of her mouth, was that to him, Buffy =was= the only girl on the planet. He was positive the distinction showed in the way he kissed her; the way her soft kitten tongue eagerly played with his; the way his mouth slip-slided curiously over her chin, before dutifully returning back to her lips.

He'd been about ten seconds from drifting back to sleep while he luxuriated in the perfect softness of her mouth when an obtrusive shriek had sent them leaping apart, both grabbing for bedclothes to maintain some level of dignity.

"Are you trying to get us all killed?!" Cordelia demanded, standing just inside the doorway with a tray in her hand.

"Cor," he sighed, "nothing happened." At least, not yet.

"Oh, yeah, the two of you naked in bed is =nothing=." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

"What's wrong?" Willow asked, skidding into the room, Wesley at her heels.

"We heard screaming," he added.

"Oh dear," Willow declared, getting a good look at an obviously naked Buffy and Angel.

"Have you no shame?" Cordelia asked them dramatically.

Angel couldn't help it. He laughed. From the way Buffy was vibrating beside him, he guessed she was having about as much luck as he was at containing her amusement. That suspicion was confirmed when she rolled back toward him on the bed and buried her face between his shoulder blades.

"I hardly think this is a laughing matter," Wesley declared stiffly.

"Hey, compadres, what's with the loud? I could hear Cordy from the -- Geeyah! Naked! Why with the . . . naked?"

"Shut up, Xander," Buffy sighed, wrapping the sheet around her as she stood. "Guys, nothing happened."

Angel snagged his robe from the foot of the bed and hastily tied it around his waist. Buffy pulled off a rather impressive maneuver with her own robe, letting the sheet drift down to the floor once she was covered. Angel assumed it was all that practice she got removing bras from beneath clothing.

"I will not shut up," Xander said once he'd found his voice again. "Or have you forgotten the murder spree Angel went on the last time you got groiny with one another?" He looked at Angel. "No offense."

"None taken," Angel said dryly.

"Not to mention you've got a double your pleasure, double our death rate thing going," Cordelia added. "Who would be able to stop BOTH of you if you went all evil? We were all like gibbering idiots -- the other SLAYER included -- when you guys strolled into the lobby before Buffy got all souled."

"Yeah, honestly not having a lot of faith in Faith," Xander agreed.

"How are the words 'nothing happened' failing to grasp your attention?" Buffy snapped.

"Buffy, you have to understand our point of view. And . . . and we just got you back. I couldn't stand losing you again." Willow looked ready to cry.

"Yeah," Cordelia agreed, looking at Angel. "It would totally suck to have to stake you."

"Could we have a moment alone with Angel?" Wesley took Cordelia's arm, addressed his question to the other occupants of the room.

"That sounds like a good idea," Buffy declared. She sent Angel a reassuring glance, then grabbed Willow and Xander's hands. "Come on, we'll have breakfast."

"I brought breakfast," Cordelia grumbled. "I was trying to be nice."

"It was very nice," Angel assured her. He passed Buffy one of the two Baskin Robbins containers on the tray, smiling slightly when he opened the lid of the other. "Cinnamon?"

"Vanilla powder," Cordelia sniffed.

~

"Guys, it's no big, I swear."

Buffy, Willow and Xander had ducked into one of the nearby, vacant rooms. The carton of blood was clutched tightly in Buffy's hands, and she was trying very hard not to gulp the whole thing down right in front of her friends. They hadn't seemed disgusted at dinner the night before, but they'd had alcohol then.

"Look, we kinda figured you guys would hook up again," Xander began. "It's logical. We dealt. Then you started sleeping in the same bed. Again, not of the comforting nature, but we forebear."

"You keep saying 'we'," Buffy noted. "Just who is 'we'?"

"Me, Will, Giles . . . "

"You've =discussed= this?" Buffy asked, feeling irrational anger creep up.

~

"Of =course= we've discussed it!" Cordelia huffed. "I've been there every time you've went through a downward spiral, buddy, and the way you and Slay Gal are all over each other absolutely screams Repeat Performance."

Angel sighed and absent-mindedly took a sip from the cup she'd brought him, hoping that maybe if he ignored her, she'd go away.

"And don't bury your nose in a cup of blood and expect me to go away," she snapped.

"How the hell--" Angel snapped his mouth shut. No, he wouldn't ask how she knew him that well -- she might tell him, and he was pretty sure he didn't really want to know. "What happened before . . . neither one of us would ever let it happen again."

"Angel, it's not a question of either of you wanting it to happen," Wesley began hesitantly.

~

"It's more uncontrollable passion," Willow explained. "You used to tell me how Angel made you all gooey inside. Has that changed?"

"Of course not," Buffy answered sullenly. They had a point. She knew they did. It's what made this entire situation unbearable. Were she and Angel kidding themselves about being able to make this work? Were they just setting up the table for a big game of 'crush my heart beneath your boot' all over again?

"So you're gooey, he's gooey, and you get gooey together and everybody's having a really bad day," Xander summed up.

"It's not--" Buffy set her container down and began whipping her arms around in an effort to be heard better. "It's not that simple," she finally said. "We're . . . Angel and I are trying to--"

~

"--Build some kind of life together." Angel ran an irritated hand through his hair. "It's not easy. We both know that. But it's gotta be easier than trying to do this alone."

"Not to rain on your reunion parade, but neither of you are what I'd exactly call 'alone,'" Cordelia reminded him. "You have us, and Gunn, and Psycho Slayer, if she decides to stick around. And Ex-Cop Gal, if she ever gets back from that extended vacation she took."

"And Buffy has a rather loyal network of people who love her dearly," Wesley added. "Giles mentioned to me just the other day that he might have to consider going back to Sunnydale soon. He does have a business to run. Willow has college. Xander has a job. They can't remain here in limbo indefinitely, and I doubt Buffy's ready to lose them."

Angel looked down, unwilling to concede that particular point at the moment. Fear of losing Buffy was an ever-present sensation he'd grown accustomed to, like guilt and sorrow. They'd made a decision last night, one he knew she would stick to. This irrational fear was just that -- irrational. They weren't going to leave each other this time. How could they, when they were the only two beings on the planet capable of understanding one another? They were the same. That knowledge rocked Angel. He'd thought about it, of course, but at the moment, it became clear.

They were the same now. He and Buffy were =exactly= the same.

~

"Buff? Yo, Buff, we boring you here?"

"Huh?" Buffy shook her thoughts away. "Yeah. No. I mean, I'm listening."

"Where did you go?" Willow asked quietly.

"You know how it was for Angel and me back in Sunnydale," Buffy said quietly. "How we were so in love it hurt to look at us, and we were so different, and so doomed, that it hurt even more?"

"Yeah," Willow agreed, getting that glassy-eyed look. "Every time I saw you guys in the same room together, I always just wanted to grab Oz and hold him until I forgot that feeling it gave me to just look at you two."

"So much of what brought that massive pain on is gone," Buffy said passionately. "The curse is still there, only now it's a two-way street." He couldn't leave her for a better life now, because he'd just be abandoning her into the darkness. "We just need to be closer to each other, Will," Buffy whispered.

"But--"

"No buts, Xander," Willow interrupted, her gaze never leaving Buffy's. "You're being careful?"

"I swear," Buffy confirmed.

~

"And you're not--" Cordelia made a complicated gesture with her hands Angel didn't want to attempt to decipher -- better to just nod and hope that was acceptable.

"Of course not," Angel soothed. "We wouldn't . . . even if I were to be so stupid, Buffy is the one person in this world who knows better. What I put her through . . ."

"Hey, hey, I'm making sure you don't go evil, that isn't a license to brood," Cordelia interrupted, folding her arms over her chest. "I'm out of arguments. Wes?"

Wesley straightened. "Yes. Well. I have to say . . . I trust Angel." Angel felt his throat constrict -- it was the first time Wes had said that since that incredible stupidity with Darla. "He and Buffy have lived through things we ourselves most likely couldn't survive hearing about. They've survived death. I trust them to be able to survive life."

Angel had smiled at his friend. The smile only lasted for a second, though, because Cordelia had doubled over with a vision. With barely a minute to dress, Angel had gone flying down the halls, literally running into Buffy.

"Vision?" she'd asked with a little smile.

"A pregnant woman being attacked by a Puka demon down on Le Brea," he'd confirmed. "If I take the sewers, the sun should be down by the time I get there."

"Be safe," she'd said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he hurried away.

That had been three hours and one rescued woman ago. He was almost afraid to ask what had turned the light-hearted girl he'd left this morning into the clearly depressed one he was now faced with.

Approaching her warily, Angel squatted down on the floor next to Buffy. He didn't try to touch her yet. That would come after he'd determined what happened.

"Buffy?"

No response.

"Sweetheart?"

Less response.

Sighing, determining there was no other way to bring her out of this, he reached out and gently took Mr. Gordo away. Buffy's head snapped around, and before he realized that she'd moved, she had him pinned on the ground, her body holding his down, her hands over his where they still clutched the little pink stuffed pig.

"The last person who took Mr. Gordo from me ended the encounter capable of fitting in a Zip-Loc bag," Buffy said menacingly.

"I believe you," Angel assured her honestly. "I promise, it's nothing personal with the pig. I was just trying to get a reaction."

"Congratulations," she muttered, snatching the pig back as she rolled off his body.

They both moved to sitting positions, though he noticed she scooted further away from him. He frowned, but didn't comment. Whatever was bothering her apparently went beyond melancholy thoughts of childhood toys, or even the vampires stupid enough to try and steal a memory.

"Giles brought it," Buffy mumbled. "He didn't tell anyone, but he went back to Sunnydale after the movie last night. He got back just after you left. He brought Mr. Gordo, and some of my clothes, and CDs and the little umbrella they gave me at Prom . . .Xander fixed it, you know, after this vampire bitch broke the handle my first week at college."

Angel didn't know what she wanted him to say, so he remained silent. He wanted to touch her, to gather her in his arms and rock her until all the pain went away, but he knew that wasn't an option. Not only did he firmly believe it wouldn't work, but he wasn't sure she'd let him touch her right now.

"He thought having all my stuff in my new home might make me feel better." Buffy laughed, but it was a brittle sound. "It did, too, for a minute. I mean, he was giving us his blessing by doing this. He was telling me it was okay for me to be with you."

As big, salty tears began trailing down her cheeks again, Angel had to dig his nails into his palms to keep from reaching for her. The way she held her body fairly screamed 'DON'T TOUCH ME, I MIGHT SHATTER.' It broke his heart (for the hundredth time in a month) to see her like this.

"Did I ever tell you why I loved Mr. Gordo so much?"

Angel shook his head. "No. You were more concerned with making sure everyone understood the unpleasant ramifications should any harm come to him."

She almost smiled, but the sob that caught in her throat prevented the expression from flourishing.

"I don't know where he =really= came from," she began, "but Dawn gave him to me. He was hers, and she was scared of thunderstorms, and one night she came into my room -- she couldn't have been more than three -- and it was raining so hard. Dad wasn't home and Mom had been sick. She climbed into my bed and asked me if I'd keep Mr. Gordo safe. I was nine, I had no idea what was ahead of me in life, and all I wanted was to protect her.

"Of course, while I'm reliving this touching moment, it occurs to me that Dawn never really existed and I could have won Mr. Gordo at some county fair when I was sixteen for all I know. Hell, maybe Mr. Gordo doesn't even really exist, but those monks thought it was such a sweet memory, they spun him into creation along with Dawn's N'Sync CDs and all her diaries.

"And then when =that= fun thought train pulled into the station, I started wondering whether it mattered if she was really my sister or not. I told her it didn't, that I loved her, that she =was= my sister, no matter what. But when I think about killing her . . . when I remember how scared she was . . . I killed my little sister, Angel, and she wasn't even real and I don't know what I feel worse about."

Cautiously, Angel moved closer to her until he could wrap an arm around her shoulders. She didn't pull away, and he tucked her against him, pressed a kiss against the side of her head.

"I wish I could say something to make you feel better," he said honestly. "I wish there were magic words to make everything right again."

"But there aren't," she snapped, abruptly pulling away from him as she jumped to her feet. "There never have been in my life."

Slowly, Angel rose to his feet. "You've had it rough," he agreed, wincing at his own words, momentarily thinking of Whistler. 'She's gonna have it tough, that Slayer.' The word 'understatement' surely must have been invented so it could be applied to Whistler's words.

"Rough," Buffy echoed hollowly. "Yeah. I've had it real =rough=, Angel. My whole world collapsed in on itself when I was fifteen. I lost =everything= that mattered to me. I got shoved down into a pit of darkness and the only advice anyone gave me was to poke at bad guys with a pointy stick. My father decided I wasn't worth it, you decided I wasn't worth it, I've made my friends' lives miserable and that was BEFORE I got turned into a bloodsucking fiend and murdered the people they loved."

He moved toward her warily. Treating her like a wild animal was the only course of action he had at the moment. In all honesty, she =was= a wild animal. She might have a soul in her body, but the demon was strong and about as vicious as they come. He knew the truth in that intimately.

"Buffy," he whispered softly, bringing a hand to her cheek. He tried to find better words, but there were none. There was =nothing= he could say to make this better for her. Instead, he opened his arms to her and hoped she'd take the invitation.

Her hands moved to his chest and she clawed at his sweater. She looked about thirty seconds away from total meltdown.

"I don't want to do this. I just . . .I just want to be human. I just want to be a girl again. I want to be the Slayer again. I'll never complain about not being normal ever again, I swear, I just want to be human again . . ." At least, that's what he thought she meant. Considering she was sobbing and gasping and her voice was muffled against his throat, he could only guess.

After a moment, she seemed to come back to herself, and she pushed him away roughly; turned toward the window that overlooked the dark Los Angeles night and wrapped her arms around her middle.

"Sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"Just go away," she ordered, steel surrounding her tears.

That floored him. Over the past two weeks, the one thing she hadn't done that he'd expected was try to push him away. With the exception of that first night, when she'd been terrified of his reaction, she'd held onto him tighter than he'd believed possible. Most of the reconnecting they'd done, so far as their personal relationship went, had been at her prodding.

"Buffy," he tried again.

"Angel, please. My whole life is crashing down around me -- as usual -- and I can't handle letting you make me feel better about it right now."

Something in her posture irked him. Her voice wasn't filled with simple sorrow any longer. There was something like defeat in the way she held her shoulders, and something akin to self-pity in her tone.

Against his better judgment, Angel started to get a little angry with her. On her behalf, as well as his own. Faith's words echoed in his mind. '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.'

He did know that. Loving her, wanting to shield her from every ounce of pain that came her way, had corrupted that knowledge. He'd forgotten how hard it was to claw your way up the rocky slope of redemption when there was someone coddling and indulging your bouts of self-pity. Yes, he'd been right when he told Faith Buffy hadn't been near ready to face up to everything before.

But she was now. And if she didn't face it soon, if she didn't confront what she was, what her life must by necessity entail for the rest of her existence, the damage could be irreparable.

"You think I don't want it too, more than anything?" His words were quiet, uttered to the back of her head as she refused to look at him.

The words had been screaming in his brain from the moment that she'd begun her rant. While it might be best to approach this conversation from another angle, he felt gutted by her seeming total disregard for how deep she could cut him with her words. Buffy had always had the tendency to be self-involved. It wasn't something he scorned her for; it was merely a single layer to the woman he loved.

She spun around to face him, and he ignored the stricken look on her face. For her sake, he had to.

"Do you think there's not a day I don't wake up and wish I was groggy from sleeping too late? That I don't want to hear my bones creak as I head to the bathroom because I'm getting older? Do you honestly think that I don't spend at least twenty minutes out of the day trying to remember what food tastes like when you're alive?"

"Angel," she whispered.

"No," he said firmly. "Answer me. Do you think that you're the only one who feels this way?"

Numbly, she shook her head.

"Do you think I don't understand you?" he continued, relentless as he stalked toward her slowly. "Do you think I don't understand the things that you've done, the guilt that you feel, the emptiness you're doing battle with every second?"

Again, she shook her head, and managed a hoarse "No," in response.

"You're not the only one who can remember what your family tasted like. What their faces looked like before you killed them. The way they screamed . . ." He felt his own eyes water, and he tried to control it. This wasn't about him, but she =had= to understand . . .

"Angel, I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"I don't =want= you to be sorry," he shouted. "Not to me. You never have to be sorry to me."

"What am I supposed to do?!" she yelled back. "I've already apologized to them. What more can I say? They seem to forgive me, but my life is never going to be the same again! I'm never going to be like I was!"

"No, you're not," he agreed. "You'll never be like you were before."

Now, she looked like he'd hit her. There was more betrayal in her eyes than there had been after he had hit her when he'd been defending Faith. He tried to draw comfort from that memory. That had been the worst encounter they'd ever had with each other, and they'd survived it. They'd survived Sex, His Demon, Hell, Lack of Sex, Faith, Separation, Faith again, Soldier Boy, Her Demon, and more death than any one soul should have to face. They could survive anything with each other.

"Right." She laughed hollowly, and it looked to Angel as if the reality of her situation crystallized for her at that very moment. Was it possible she really hadn't let the truth of it all hit her until now? "Well, I guess this is good, right? The final Kiss of Death to all my hopes about being a normal girl. Man, and I thought I had it freaky before."

"Is this what you want?" he asked, changing gears.

"I think it's fairly safe to say that NONE of this is what I want," she snapped.

"No, I mean is this how you want to spend the rest of eternity?" He stared her down. "Because if it is, you're right, we should get a jump on it now."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Wallowing in self-pity. I spent roughly a hundred years bemoaning the unfairness of my existence. You wanna go another hundred with me? I won't be able to give you a real good brood through some of it, because I'll have to venture out and save some of the people in Cordelia's visions. You remember those people, don't you? The ones you were chosen to protect?"

"Stop it," she mumbled.

"Why? So you can sink into a pit of depression? I've been there, Buffy. I've done that. I've filled my quota for the year. You've been putting on a great show for the past two weeks. You even had me fooled, and I thought I was the one person you couldn't lie to." In reality, he hadn't been fooled -- he'd been in denial. He found himself rather uncomfortably shoved into Cordy, Wes and Gunn's shoes. Were these the same thoughts they'd entertained when he'd begun to spiral out of control? Had they convinced themselves he'd be all right if they just left him alone, let him work out his inner demons by himself?

"Gee, you're really the Poster Boy for Mental Stability too, aren't you, Angel?" she countered. He ignored the sneer in her voice, and focused on the fire in her eyes. That fire gave him hope. "You and your three month binge with 'I don't give a crap,' culminating with =Darla=," she spat the other woman's name, "in your bed. In OUR bed. God, do you know how much it creeps me out to be sleeping in the bed you nailed her on?"

"If you want a new bed, by all means, there's a twenty-four hour furniture store a few blocks from here. Let's go get a new bed."

"Okay," she agreed, folding her arms over her chest.

Angel came up short for a moment. "Okay?" he parroted dumbly.

"You want me to accept my life and my existence. You want me to stop with the self-pity and . . . and you're right. I should. Well, my life is going to be with you. And I'm not going to spend another day in that bed when I know you were with her on it."

"Okay," he repeated again. "I'll . . . I'll get my coat."

"We only have a couple of hours," she called over her shoulder, her voice dispassionate as she headed into the bathroom. "Come here."

He followed her and nearly jumped when she threw a wet washcloth at his face.

"No mirrors, but if I look half as puffy as you do . . . well, no need to draw even more attention to ourselves than necessary," she mumbled.

Wiping his face quickly, he moved toward her and took the second washcloth from her hands. Gently, he pressed it to her cheek, then her closed eyelids, reverently erasing all evidence of tears from her face. With a smile, she returned the favor, finishing the inadequate job he'd started on his own face.

"We had a fight," he said quietly. Way to state the obvious, he thought irritably.

"Yeah," Buffy said, her voice equally subdued. "Gotta say, though, if that's as bad as it gets, an eternity of someone caring about me as much as you do doesn't seem that scary."

"I don't think that's as bad as it's going to get," Angel said softly. Buffy looked up at him, and he hated the fear he saw in her eyes. "Somehow, I doubt that even scratched the surface."

"Can't I have even a tiny little =shred= of denial to cling to?" Buffy groused as she took his hand.

Pulling her along, he shook his head. "Sorry. The sooner you start living in the real world, the sooner you'll see it's not as bad as you think."

"A likely story," she muttered as they headed for the door, hand in hand.

"Why do we only have two hours?" Angel asked as he shut the door behind them.

"'Cause Giles wants a tribal council about how I got my soul back. Any theories you'd like to share with the class?"

Angel grimaced. "One or two."

~

no, I won't be afraid
no, I won't be afraid
just as long as you stand
stand by me

~

"What's the rule about sitting in a dark room all alone?"

Xander smirked at Cordelia. "Ah, you forget. There's no Psycho Buffy on the loose anymore, so the 'bring a buddy' rule is null and void."

"I'm not talking about Angel's rule, dorkus," she assured him, moving to sit beside him on his bed. "I'm talking about my No Brooding Zone policy."

"I'm in my own room," Xander defended. "How can you make a policy in my room?"

"Because I'm Vision Girl," Cordelia said like it should mean something to him.

Shaking his head, Xander tsk'd at her. "That only works with Angel."

"Oh, you think so," she said, and something about her tone made Xander sit up straighter.

He regarded her warily for a moment. "What?"

"Just that we have no idea what kind of freakish Carrie-like powers I might have now. The visions might just be the tip of the iceberg that sank the Titanic."

"Jack and Rose had it easy," Xander muttered.

Cordelia looked like she wanted to laugh. "God, do you remember when we all went to see Titanic together?"

"Unfortunately, it's a memory I've been unable to burn from my brain no matter how many flaming torches I've used."

"I think it's the only time -- with the exception of the Prom, and that just ended up majorly depressing for Buffy and Angel -- that we all went out together just to have fun."

"Yeah, but remember while we were walking through the parking lot--"

"I know, I know, a bunch of the mayor's vamps jumped out at us. But they were no match for the combined Vampire Death Squad of Buffy, Faith and Angel."

"Remember when Jack died and Oz cried? Still didn't make an expression, but he cried."

"Willow was blubbering all over him," Cordelia recalled. "Angel and Buffy just looked sad the entire time."

"I kept thinking about how much I missed you," Xander confessed.

"Xander," Cordelia murmured, genuinely surprised. They NEVER talked about their breakup unless they were sniping at each other.

"It was nice, having you hang with us even though we weren't together. It kinda proved you really cared about the group."

"Of course I cared," Cordelia said hotly. "You guys . . . you were my friends. I didn't deserve you, and I certainly didn't appreciate you, but you were the best friends I'd ever had. I just didn't fit in there."

"You seem to fit pretty well here," Xander noted.

Cordelia smiled. "Yeah. I think I belong with Angel."

Xander's face screwed up in extreme distaste. "Oh, please don't tell me--"

"What? Eww! Not like =that=. Jeez, you are such a dork."

"Hey, you're the one talking about how you =belong= with Angel--"

"He's my family," Cordelia said, stressing the word 'family'. "The same way Buffy and Willow are yours. Only I've never kissed Angel. Except that one time, but I hardly think that counts."

Xander stared at her for a moment. Then, he said seriously, "Never tell me."

"Deal." A sigh escaped her mouth. "So what are you doing up here?"

Matching her sigh, Xander reached under his pillow and pulled out a frilly pink scarf. "It was Anya's," he explained. "While Giles was in Sunnydale, I asked him to drop by my apartment and pick up a few things. He grabbed it by accident. I've been swimming in near suicidal depression ever since."

Biting her lip, Cordelia looked from Xander, to the scarf, then back again. "Giles is making us talk about Buffy's soul," she said helplessly.

Surprisingly, her comment seemed to perk Xander up a little, and he smiled at her. "Yeah, Will told me I'd better not be late. She's gotten really bossy lately."

"Wesley said the same thing this morning," Cordelia noted. "I think it makes her feel better to be in control of something, even if it is just us."

"When did you develop insight into other humans?" Xander asked, genuine amazement in his voice.

"When I started getting skull crushing visions that also come with the extra added bonus of letting me feel whatever the person in danger is feeling," she said simply.

"Well, the caring human being look -- it works for you."

"Thanks," she said shyly.

Xander almost had a coronary at the thought of Cordelia Chase being =shy=. "I guess Giles will probably also wanna talk about when we're all going back," he said, trying to change what was to him a very disturbing subject.

"Right. Sunnyhell. Because God forbid anyone move away from there."

"Actually, I've been thinking about it," Xander confessed. "There are just . . .too many memories everywhere. Of how it used to be with Buffy, of Anya . . . of everything."

"Just don't think that if you move here, you can horn in on all my dates with Gunn," she warned him.

Grinning, Xander slid closer to her on the bed. "Are we calling them dates now?"

Cordelia blew out an annoyed puff of air and stood, grabbing Xander's hand and pulling him with her. "Come on. Let's find others for you to annoy."

~

if the sky that we look upon
should tumble and fall
or the mountain should crumble
to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry
no, I won't shed a tear
just as long as you stand
stand by me

~

"Where have you two been?"

Buffy grinned at the expression on Giles' face. He hated when anyone was late for a powwow.

"Buying a bed," she replied cheerfully.

"They're delivering it in the morning," Angel added.

"Okaaaaay," Xander said, "since everyone's here, can we get started?"

"Yes, well, I've been in contact with several of the patrons of Caritas, and the word on the street--"

"The word on the street?" Gunn interrupted, raising an eyebrow at Wesley.

The former Watcher glared back at him.

"At any rate," Giles interjected, "Wesley and I have worked out a number of theories--"

"When are you guys going back to Sunnydale?"

Everyone stared at Buffy. They were gathered in the lobby of the Hyperion, once again scattered around the floor. Angel and Buffy had taken a seat on the couch, and Xander and Willow were seated on what was once the check-in desk, letting their legs swing back and forth from where they hung over the counter. Giles and Wesley were standing in front of a chalkboard and Angel was silently curious to know where they'd obtained it. The board was blank. Spike and Faith were sitting on bean bag chairs Angel didn't remember buying, and Cordelia was leaning next to Gunn against the wall, near Willow and Xander.

"Gee, Buff, didn't realize you were in such a hurry to get rid of us," Xander said with cheerful sarcasm.

"I'm not," Buffy denied immediately. "It's just . . . I know you're going to leave eventually, and I . . . I don't know how I'm going to make it without you."

"Well . . ." Willow glanced at Xander and Giles. "I can't speak for anyone else, but you might not have to make it without me."

"Will?" Buffy asked, carefully controlled hope in her voice. Her hand, however, was squeezing Angel's hard enough to break normal human bones. Luckily he'd probably only have a slight bruise until he fed again.

"Giles called UCS for me, to tell them about Tara's death. The Dean said he'd inform Tara's family. Like they'd care," Willow muttered bitterly. "I talked to my parents last night and said I'd be taking a leave of absence for the rest of the semester. When school starts up next fall . . . Buffy, I was thinking of applying to UCLA."

"But Will," Buffy objected automatically, "Sunnydale is your home."

Willow smiled gently at her friend. "Buffy, I only stayed there instead of going to the billion other colleges I was accepted to because of you and the slaying."

Buffy stared down at the ground, her hold on Angel's hand tightening fractionally. She'd known that, of course, but to actually hear Willow say it . . .

"Yeah, and you know, Buff, I can pretty much practice my magnificent carpentry trade anywhere," Xander added. "And I couldn't let my best buds live in this big bad city all alone."

"What are we, chopped liver?" Cordelia asked haughtily. But her tone lacked any real venom. It was teasing, and Xander rolled with it.

"How could I forget the shrieking harpy put on this earth to make my life a mortal hell?" he said, smiling sweetly at Cordelia.

Cordelia merely stuck her tongue out at him; Gunn casually -- if casually meant really obviously and possessively -- slung an arm over her shoulder.

Next, Buffy's gaze strayed to Giles. The smile he gave her nearly made her forget how depressed she'd been crying over Mr. Gordo earlier.

"The shop does quite well in Sunnydale," he commented, "and from what I've observed of Los Angeles' paranormal activity since we've been here, I can only assume business would fairly triple in a larger environment. Besides . . . as your Watcher, whatever the current circumstances you find yourself in, my place is with you."

Buffy's heart flipped over in her chest.

"And I can help you get settled before school starts," Willow chimed in.

"Don't forget Wood Boy," Xander added, then paused as everyone looked at him oddly. "Oh, please! Get your filthy minds out of the gutter! I meant that I'm good at molding wood with my hands . . . you know what, I give up, I don't care how you're looking at me."

"As fascinating as this discussion is," Wesley interrupted, "I believe we have matters of more urgency."

"Wes is right, but first, just so I'm totally clear -- you're all staying?" Buffy's eyes were hopeful as she glanced at her family.

"I'm staying," Spike said, a bit too eagerly.

Buffy scowled at him. "I wasn't asking you."

Willow looked from Xander, to Giles, then back again, and spoke for the three of them: "We're staying." She glanced at Angel, a little shy now. "Think you can put up with us awhile longer, at least until we find places of our own?"

"Stay as long as you like," Angel assured her, bringing Buffy's palm to his mouth for a kiss. They exchanged a loving glance, and he silently reminded her that everything was going to be all right now.

"Now that this matter is settled, kindly direct your attention to the board," Wesley instructed. Giles flipped the chalkboard over to reveal a series of scenarios written in bright white chalk.

"Wesley and I spent several hours this evening working out a list of likely suspects involved in cursing Buffy," Giles informed them.

"Is that Harm's name I see in the upper left hand corner?" Spike asked, the expression on his face a cross between horror and amusement.

"We can't very well rule her out simply because she . . ." Giles trailed off.

"Lacks the intellect of a horny fruit fly?" Spike offered.

Wesley ignored Spike's outburst. "Using simple deductive reasoning, we have been able to narrow the list to five likely candidates. Given motive, means, and opportunity, we are reasonably sure that--"

"Angel thinks those evil lawyers cursed me," Buffy interjected. The wind seemed to go out of Wesley's sails as he looked at her. Buffy smiled. "We talked about it while we were shopping for beds. I think we were bouncing on a California King when he mentioned it."

"It seems the most plausible explanation," Angel added. "Especially after the way you taunted Lindsey," he added, looking pointedly at Buffy.

Buffy frowned. "Sure, bring up my evil bitchiness."

"Well, seeing as Angel has plucked out of thin air the conclusion it took Giles and I three exhaustive hours to reach, I suppose the meeting is adjourned," Wesley grumbled.

"Hey, no hard feelings, English," Gunn consoled. "You two did a bang up job with the board."

"Yeah, the drawings are wicked accurate," Faith added.

"It's like a wheel," Willow declared.

Wesley frowned, and looked from her to the board and back again. "Actually, it's more of a graph--"

Willow waved him off. "No, not the board -- us. I was just thinking about all of us sitting here, after everything we've been through, and how we're talking about starting up fresh in a new place, but with all of us, still . . ." She looked around the room, gesturing excitedly. "We're cycling back again. Gathering together to fight the forces of darkness. We Wiccans believe in circles, and that's what this is -- a big old wheely circle."

"You mean how big bad evil keeps getting way up in Buffy and Angel's faces, and they keep knocking it back to hell where it belongs?" Cordelia asked.

"That, sure, but also . . . us." Willow gestured to everyone present. "We're -- we're a circle. It breaks, and we . . ." Her eyes filled with tears for a moment. "We lose sections, but it always grows back again. Like the spokes of a wheel."

"Spokes don't grow back," Cordelia insisted.

"Metaphorical spokes do!" Willow snapped.

"It's a neat metaphor, Will," Buffy assured her best friend. They shared a smile. "I don't think I would have survived this long without you guys."

"I know I wouldn't have," Angel agreed, sending Cordelia a comforting smile.

"And the meeting is not adjourned," Giles piped up.

"Why the bleedin' hell not?" Spike snapped. "Survivor's on and I think they're going to eat the little one tonight."

"They don't eat people on Survivor," Faith said, looking at Spike like he was nuts.

"What would you know about it? You've been locked up like a canary for the past year," Spike sneered.

"Enough," Giles said firmly. He hadn't raised his voice, yet everyone in the room -- even Spike -- reacted to the authority in it. "There's still a rather pivotal detail that I believe has escaped everyone's attention."

"Angel broods too much?" Cordelia offered.

"Cordy's an evil minion of hell?" Xander added.

"William the Bloody needs to get his ass kicked?" Faith cooed sweetly.

Giles' gaze was planted firmly on Buffy. "We don't know =why= Wolfram and Hart cursed Buffy with her soul."

Angel winced. "Yeah, about that . . ."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. "You're squirming. You never squirm."

"I don't know for sure," Angel began, "but I have an idea."

"Please, do tell," Giles invited.

"For the past few months, that firm has done nothing but try to drive me out of my mind. It worked for awhile, but thanks to an epiphany, I pulled out of a serious downward spiral at the last minute." Angel ran a hand through his hair and avoided looking at Buffy. "I think -- due in part to a comment Buffy made to Lindsey while we were both soulless -- that Wolfram and Hart gave Buffy her soul back to push me over the edge."

"Hold on," Buffy interrupted, sounding peeved. "They're just using me to drive you wacko?" She made a scoffing noise. "I tell ya, what ever happened to the good old days, when tormenting a Slayer was an end unto itself?"

"Those glory days are gone," Xander agreed. "In today's fast paced society, it's all about getting a twofer."

"In that case, I hope your suspicions are correct, Angel," Wesley said.

Angel frowned. "Why?"

"Because we have ample ability to fight another attack on your sanity from Wolfram and Hart," he explained gently. "It's any other front they might choose that worries me."

"Okay, we're not going to get any further on this tonight, right?" Buffy asked, already pulling Angel to his feet with her.

"No," Giles agreed. "In fact, I'd dare say without determining a way to get some inside information on Wolfram and Hart, we're fighting blind."

"Well, since you've had experience with being blind, you get to be in charge, Giles," Buffy announced cheerily. "Angel and I have to go burn a mattress. And some sheets."

Faith hooted, causing everyone to turn toward her. "Burning mattress," she said as though they should get it.

Spike did, and he grinned. "Think their delicate sensibilities are up for it, pet?"

"Up for what?" Willow asked nervously.

It was Xander who finally answered with an enthusiastic shout:

"Bonfire on the roof!"

~

"So glad you could join us again, Mr. McDonald," the guy who'd taken over for Holland Manners greeted. "And it only took you an hour after we called to arrive. It's good to know where your priorities lie."

Lindsey ignored the sneer in the man's voice. He'd been contemplating all the files he'd received on the Watcher's Council, Buffy Summers, and the long and tangled history between vampires, Slayers, and the Council that no one -- least of all the Council -- wanted anyone to be aware of.

While he definitely didn't want to admit it, after becoming immersed in the tale of a young Slayer who'd lived nearly four hundred years ago, Lindsey was beginning to suspect that itching feeling he'd been ignoring was his conscience.

His gaze was drawn to a dark corner in the boardroom. Something was definitely off about the energy there. Before he could contemplate it much longer, his curiosity was satisfied and he shuddered as her voice echoed through the room.

"I was visiting the seaside. Strawberries and suntans under the moonlight. Nasty brutes had to come and spoil all my fun. They brought me back here to play with Daddy. He doesn't like to play with me anymore. Don't they see?"

The chair spun, and Lindsey swallowed. Darla had been a vicious, beautiful predator, but when he'd looked into her eyes, he'd always seen . . . something. Whenever he looked into Drusilla's eyes, the emptiness scared him shitless. Crazy people were terrifying; there wasn't a word for what a crazy, psychotic =vampire= was.

He'd put this into motion. Back when Buffy had asked him to, he'd cast the die to locate Drusilla for her, to have her brought back. He'd never followed up on it, but it didn't surprise him that someone else at the firm had.

Every time Lindsey considered going to Angel, to his little band of merry men with what he knew, his prosthetic hand felt a little too heavy and the rage burned bright and hot. Staring into Drusilla's empty black eyes, his fake hand felt lighter than it had in ages.

"Drusilla," the other lawyer in the room began, "my name's Philip Strickland. I'm an associate of Mr. McDonald's--"

"Eyes like the sea," Drusilla declared, staring a hole into Lindsey's forehead. "Oh, you're the one, aren't you?" A mad laugh erupted from her mouth. "Isn't it delicious? You've been invited to the party, but it's lost in the mail."

"Buffy Summers was turned recently," Lindsey began. He felt like he had to talk, that if he didn't, he'd be swallowed up into her emptiness.

Drusilla frowned. "I felt it. Oh, she was a bad girl. Daddy would have punished her 'til she screamed for how bad she was." A little of her emptiness was filled with the profound sorrow of a lost child. "Except Daddy never punishes us anymore. He left us, he comes back, but it's never for always anymore."

"Buffy and Angel both have souls," Lindsey began, but her insane laughter brought him up short.

"Little sprites whispered to me about her goodness," Drusilla mumbled, rolling her head against the back of the chair she sat in. "They said she couldn't ever be without it, not like my Angel. His goodness I could rip away with a single slash." She made a clawing motion with her hand. "The little girl with all the power gives it back to him. Take it away, give it back, take it away, give it back . . . makes my skull ache."

"Wolfram and Hart have come into possession of a very ancient magic," Strickland declared.

Lindsey frowned. "I wasn't made aware of that."

"Perhaps if you paid more attention to your work," Strickland snapped. He turned back to Drusilla. "It's a spell that only an extremely powerful witch -- or someone with your particular sight -- can cast." He moved closer to her, but not =too= close, Lindsey noted with a sneer.

"It'll bring your Daddy back to you. Forever."

~

and darling, darling
stand by me
oh, stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
whenever you're in trouble,
won't you stand by me?

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Happy -- The Hand of a Devil

~

I have climbed highest mountain
I have run through the fields
only to be with you
only to be with you

~

"Buffy, are you sure about this?"

"Hush, you. I said, 'next vision, I call shotgun' and I meant it."

They were walking around the Hyperion to Angel's car. It had been a week since he'd found her curled up on the floor with Mr. Gordo. In that time, he'd watched her make a series of baby steps to rejoining the world full time. Slowly but surely, she was regaining a sense of self. He'd lost his own sense of self so long ago, he couldn't remember exactly when. He only knew that he'd finally started to find it again, here in this city full of lost souls he was meant to help.

How he hoped those same souls might help save Buffy's.

Their new bed had been delivered, as promised, the very morning after they'd ordered it, and they'd spent their first day's sleep in it together. Buffy had insisted on purchasing new sheets, and it had taken them several minutes to decide on colors -- both had been against patterns -- and the first of many compromises were made as they finally settled on black satin, blood red flannel, pale cream silk, and lavender cotton.

Something Buffy had quickly discovered about being a vampire -- they loved textures. Temperatures and tastes weren't appealing because the frame of reference was all wrong -- nothing was the same as it had been when the body was alive. But textures . . . supernatural senses heightened the brush of silk, or the soothing quality of flannel. They'd actually found the sheets first, and Buffy thought it was kismet that they fit The World's Perfect Bed (Buffy's words).

It was an antique; 'Just like you,' Buffy had declared saucily when they'd first seen it. Four poster, larger than any bed he'd ever slept in, it evoked images of belonging and home, images Buffy herself conjured up inside him every time she smiled or frowned or did much of anything.

The urge to 'christen' it properly had weighed heavily on them both after they'd crawled beneath their brand new down comforter just after sunrise. They'd grown accustomed to touching each other, to practically living on top of each other, which was a relief to them both. Angel had always felt comfortable without clothes on, especially when it came time to sleep. It had something to do with the demon, he was sure. While he'd always had a taste for the finer things in life, something deeply basic and animal rebelled against civilized things like clothing in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Buffy apparently agreed. As a young woman, he'd always known her to wear large pajama tops with shorts, or soft little nightgowns to bed. Now, she seemed equally comfortable without a stitch on, and it made him happy -- though not =too= happy -- that she felt free enough with him to indulge like that. Although, if he had to watch her do another set of Yoga stretches completely nude like he had three days ago, without being able to ravish her silly afterward, his libido might explode.

Two days ago, resting comfortably in their new-but-already-worn-in bed, about to fall asleep when the rest of the world was waking up, Buffy had first brought up the idea of helping him with his 'mission.' She didn't feel 'chosen' anymore, but she had all this power, and she desperately wanted to use it to make the world a little safer.

"Besides, I don't like the idea of playing the little woman to your conquering soldier gone off to war," she'd groused from her position, stretched out full length on top of his body.

Without his consent, she'd decided to get a little more 'intensive' while they tested the bounds of the curse. Her theory was, if things did get out of hand, she was strong enough to tie him down until Willow re-cursed him, and vice versa. Thus far, Angel had been unable to argue with her logic. The fact that she'd been nibbling at the skin around his left nipple no doubt influenced his thinking at the time.

"I'm not insinuating you can't handle yourself," he'd assured her. And he wasn't. Honestly, nothing would have pleased him more than having Buffy fight by his side. It was the timing that was giving him pause. He didn't want her in an intense situation until he was sure it wouldn't do her more harm emotionally. His thoughts had been diverted then, and he'd held back a moan as Buffy's mouth had moved lower, as her tongue had dipped into his belly button. "Buffy," he'd warned her.

His warning had gone unnoticed, and he'd ended up having to physically pull her up his body until her pouting mouth was on the same level as his. Master of self-control or not, he had been unable to part with the feel of her cool skin covering his like a blanket, and he'd tucked her head beneath his chin; wrapped her securely in his embrace and they'd drifted to sleep, the matter of her helping him, as well as their mutual lust, temporarily put aside.

The vision had hit Cordelia during a cutthroat game of "Outburst" a few minutes ago. They'd divided into two teams -- Angel's and Buffy's -- and Angel's team had been ready to kill him for his lack of certain pop culture knowledge. That is, until he'd bailed their asses out with the category "Famous Russian Composers."

It had been a good night. Before the game, Buffy had pulled him aside while Willow and Cordelia made snacks. That was when he'd first noticed the brightness emerging behind her eyes, and he'd given her a smile for it. When she'd explained why she was regaining a sense of self, he'd been unable to muster as much concern for her well being as he had the last time she'd proposed her idea.

Buffy believed that by 'getting back into the action,' she might discover where her place in the world was supposed to be. A few minutes ago, he'd been able to put aside his concerns, not only because she seemed so sure, but also because he'd wanted her with him so bad. However, as they slid into his car, actually about to confront something big and bad, he wondered if her over-confidence combined with his selfishness wasn't about to hurt her even more.

Despite how worried he was that Buffy might be too raw to jump into battle, in the long run it didn't really matter what he thought. Buffy had made up her mind, and no one -- not even Angel -- was going to try to talk her out of it. At the very least, he knew he didn't have to worry about her physical ability. Buffy had been capable of handling herself in any situation before she was turned. As things stood now, he highly doubted there was any creature on the planet -- living or dead -- that had a prayer of defeating her.

"So what are we slaying?" she asked as she fiddled with his radio.

"Vampires."

"Just like old times," she murmured, settling back against the passenger seat as she found a beat that, to Angel's ears, was loud and pounding, like a migraine.

"Cordelia saw a cadre of them laying waste to a bar on Santa Monica," he added, switching the station on the radio when they came to a red light.

"Is there a specific victim, or are we supposed to protect all of Gotham, Batman?" She turned off the Blues station he'd found and put on something Techno.

"She said we were to prevent general badness, Robin." For the first time, he was glad he'd watched all that TV in the sixties. At least he'd always "gotten" the Batman references. He began shuffling the radio stations again when a chorus of voices screamed something that sounded suspiciously like "LIMP BISCUIT!"

Buffy screwed her face up in distaste. "I'm not the sidekick," she declared vehemently.

"Batgirl, then?" Ah, Miles Davis. Much better. Buffy was not in agreement, and her fingers were on the radio's knobs the second his left them.

"What about Catwoman?" What the hell? When did Cher start singing bad dance shit? Apparently Buffy didn't care for it either, because as soon as she realized what it was, she changed it again.

"Catwoman was a villain," Angel reminded her. She'd settled on Janis Joplin. He could do Janis Joplin.

"No, she was misunderstood," Buffy countered, bopping her head along with 'Me and My Bobby McGee.'

"She tried to kill Batman and Robin a dozen times," Angel insisted, slamming down on the breaks to avoid hitting a woman jaywalking with her little girl. Some people shouldn't have children, he thought darkly.

"Catwoman never even met Robin," Buffy mentioned, flipping the station yet again when a loud, falsely happy advertisement for suntan oil came on.

"What?" Angel asked, genuinely confused. Granted, it had been a few decades since he'd watched the show, but he HAD paid attention.

"Catwoman died before they introduced Robin in the third movie, which, by the way, blew, but nowhere near as much as the fourth." She sighed. "George Clooney was hot, though."

"George Clooney?" Angel asked helplessly.

Their conversation came to an end, because they'd arrived at their destination. At least, he thought it was at an end -- it had been awhile since he'd patrolled with Buffy.

"You know, hunky ER doctor turned caped crusader?" Buffy offered helpfully as they started toward the door. "Did Cordy say how many there were?"

"Eight or ten." Angel held the door open for her. "I think we've hit a generational barrier again, Buffy."

"Whatever. You should call me Catwoman because she and Batman always had a thing for each other."

"Only when she was Julie Newmar or Lee Meriweather," Angel argued. "Eartha Kitt never liked him much."

"But Michelle Pfeiffer was totally in love with him."

Angel stared at her for a moment. She stared right back.

"Generational barrier," they both agreed out loud.

No sooner did the words leave their mouths, than a woman screamed at the far end of the bar. Cordelia's cadre had just vamped out. Buffy and Angel moved to opposite sides of the room, fluidly leaping into action.

~

I have run
I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you
But I still
haven't found
what I'm looking for

~

"They're right in front of you. What are you waiting for?"

"It's no good if the clock's broken."

Philip Strickland rolled his eyes. Man, this chick was nuttier than the company fruitcake. If his superiors hadn't assured him she was the only way to achieve their objective -- neutralizing Angel -- he'd be as far away from this loony bat as he could get.

Damn McDonald, anyway. This should have been his gig. How dare he go all high and mighty, and blow off the company like this. He was probably just sitting in his office, staring out that goddamn window, reading those files he'd been buried under for days. Little shit. You survive one lousy massacre, and you think you're invulnerable. Well, the Senior Partners would show Lindsey McDonald a thing or two. Mealy mouthed redneck asshole.

Strickland heaved a sigh and leaned against the far corner of the bar. Drusilla seemed pretty adamant earlier that neither Buffy nor Angel would sense her presence in the shadows with the dozen or so other vampires on the premises. At least, that's what he hoped she had meant when she'd babbled something about the moon not having eyes.

Shit, he hated this contract work. After Lilah Morgan died so soon after Holland ate it, the upper brass at Wolfram and Hart had decided Lindsey needed a keeper. Not a moment too soon, as far as Strickland was concerned. McDonald had always been proactive -- sit around and wait for something to happen. Always observing, always watching things -- never got that 'things' didn't happen at the firm unless you =made= them happen.

Sure, Strickland had a family once -- his wife, Mara, had been a witch, a refugee from Haiti. It had been love at first sight, and she was the one who'd originally turned him onto the supernatural things in the world. Didn't see him letting that interfere with business though, did you?

He'd been working overtime at a sleazy little law firm on the low-rent end of Wilshire when he'd stumbled across a friend of hers. Some kind of demon, Lokdon, if he remembered the species correctly. Mara had been convinced there was some kind of 'very dark power' or some shit like that about to befall their family. They'd had a little boy, he remembered. His name had been Sam, and Strickland had been the first person to hold him after 27 hours of labor had left Mara unconscious.

Shaking off the unpleasant memories, Strickland focused on the task at hand.

"I don't know about your clock, sweetheart, but mine reads quarter to midnight. There's a full moon. You don't get this done before it's tomorrow and you don't get it done for another month. Got it?"

Damn, he was losing it. This loony bitch was bringing up his New Jersey roots. It had taken him two years of speech lessons to lose the accent, and three times that long to lose the mentality. He'd burned his Yankees baseball jacket, moved his parents to a penthouse apartment in Manhattan, and cut off contact with every one of his childhood friends. The man he'd once been didn't exist anymore. He'd stripped his outer skin away, and all that remained now was the sleek lawyer who worked for Wolfram and Hart.

He hadn't called anyone 'sweetheart' this side of a decade. His accent was starting to reassert itself. What the HELL was this crazy bitch doing to him?

The two 'heroes' were dusting vampires like it was going out of style. Buffy had gone up the left side, nearest the bar, Angel the right. At some point, they'd met in the middle and switched without missing a beat. Hapless almost-victims had already fled. He was the only human being left in the place. Was he still human? He'd been working for Wolfram and Hart so long, he'd forgotten.

"You had a bouncing baby boy."

He flinched, looking at Drusilla. Her hands were starting to glow. That was good, right?

"Pardon?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound cultured. He was =cultured=, damn it.

"He had chubby cheeks. Until you put him in a circle with flames and dust." There was an amused smile on her face. "He still cries for you, Daddy."

Strickland turned from her, found a dark corner, and ejected the contents of his stomach onto the already filthy floor. This wasn't right, he thought as he looked for something to wipe his mouth with. He settled on his sleeve. He didn't feel guilt. He didn't feel happiness. He didn't feel =anything=. It was one of the great luxuries of working for Wolfram and Hart. Why was he suddenly remembering Mara, and Sam, and times when he'd been happy? Happy but poor and ultimately =nothing=. Happiness wasn't worth the price.

Five vamps left on the battlefield. And two of them were kicking the shit out of the other three.

"Tick tock, tick tock," Drusilla singsonged quietly.

~

But I still
Haven't Found
What I'm looking for

~

Soft light streamed unobtrusively about the room, bouncing off tile and appliances. Dozens of stout votive lilac scented candles covered every available surface in the kitchen. Lilac scented had been Tara's favorite. She'd always had candles and incense, bath gel and perfume, lotion she used to let Willow rub into her back . . .

Willow shook her unproductive thoughts off and tried to focus again. An hour ago she'd entered the Hyperion's kitchen, her mission clear: raise Tara's spirit from where it was trapped.

Drunken ramblings with Wesley aside, Willow honestly believed she could feel Tara's presence in this room. In the place she'd been killed. She'd died at the hospital, but her life had ended in this kitchen. The little witch shied away from those words. They were ugly and real and made her chest tighten, and she couldn't afford a tight chest right now. She had to think.

Something wasn't working right. That was obvious enough. Tara had once teased Willow about her power. Called her 'The Big Bad Wicca,' and Willow had laughed her off. At the time. Now, she was calling on every ounce of strength she had inside her mind, body, and spirit.

The séance, despite her best intentions, was proving fruitless. Inside the circle of candles she sat, chanting, praying, calling upon every Goddess she could remember, calling upon Tara's very essence . . . to no avail. Her lover was in pain, and all Willow's power meant nothing.

"Damn it, I need you!" she screamed into the empty room. Savagely, she grabbed one of the candles in the circle and hurled it against the wall. The force of her throw put the fire out before it shattered, but the circle was broken. Willow began to weep.

"Hush, Darling."

Jumping, Willow spun around, knocking more candles out and over until she stood face to face with a ghost.

"T. . . Tara?" she asked, unsure and hopeful, crystal tears cascading down her cheeks.

"I'm here."

"I knew you were," Willow said, moving closer. "I could feel that you had . . . you know, ties to the world, that you weren't at rest. It's because you can't let go of this plane, you can't let go of . . . of people here. 'Cause of your ties."

"I do have ties," Tara agreed. Her voice didn't sound strange or ghostly. The form she took was the same as it had been when she died -- except she was wearing that dark green skirt she'd always said was her favorite, with one of Willow's pink sweaters. It didn't match at all, but somehow, it fit.

"It's really you," Willow whispered to herself, moving close enough to touch. Tara's next words, however, stilled her arms at her sides.

"But it's not me that's unable to move on."

Deep, aching sadness ripped through Willow's heart, as she understood Tara's meaning instantly. "Oh God!"

"Willow," Tara tried to soothe softly.

"It's me! I'm doing this to you! I'm anchoring you to this realm for an eternity of sorrow because I can't let go of you! I didn't mean to anchor you to this realm for an eternity of sorrow!" Willow sobbed.

"Shh," Tara whispered, wrapping Willow in an embrace so cold, it sent chills up and down her spine. The temperature didn't bother Willow at all, and she clutched the somehow corporeal form of her dead lover tightly. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," Willow insisted. "You're right. I didn't want to let you go. I wanted you to be here. I didn't want you to leave me . . ."

"I never have," Tara vowed quietly. "I never will. Do you accept that?"

Willow sniffled loudly and pulled back enough to look Tara in the eye. "Yes," she answered with all the enthusiasm of a child, caught doing something they know is wrong.

"You have to mean it, or I'll never be at peace," Tara said gently. "I love you too much to leave you without your consent."

That thought made the empty, aching chasm in Willow's soul lighten almost imperceptibly. But it was there. She felt it. And it gave her hope.

"I want you to be free," Willow said clearly, meaning it with every fiber of her being. "I'm happy you'll be free now."

Tara smiled. "And I'm happy you'll be happy."

Confusion marred Willow's forehead. "I'm not happy. Not really. I don't know if I'll ever be truly happy again. I don't know if I remember how."

Shaking her head, Tara brushed her hand against Willow's cheek, then pressed their mouths together, soft as the swish of a butterfly's wings. "You'll see, my love," she vowed quietly against Willow's mouth.

"I miss you," Willow said around a sob, her eyes shutting tightly. "I miss you forever."

Again, Tara shook her head, her own heartbreak visible in her every movement. "Not forever, Darling," she promised. "In the grand scheme of things, it's only a minute until I'm holding you again."

Willow's eyes snapped open to an empty kitchen. All the candles she'd accidentally extinguished earlier once again burned bright -- almost blindingly bright -- save the one she'd hurled against the wall. Licking her lips, she could almost taste Tara there.

"Only a minute until I'm happy again," she whispered to the quiet.

~

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire

~

"Well, aren't you the heartiest of the bunch," Buffy declared as she and Angel circled the last remaining vampire.

"Very spry," Angel agreed. His knuckles were bloody from the sheer volume of vampires he'd hit tonight. That made him cranky.

"Look . . . dudes . . . maybe we can work something out," the vampire they'd cornered cajoled.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "God, what it is with me? Is there a 'stoner vamps welcome' sign on my back?"

Sensing he had a chance, the vampire moved suddenly, ramming straight into Buffy. The shock that coursed through her at such a blatantly stupid move paralyzed her long enough for him to get her down. However, she quickly shook off her paralysis. Her leg shot out with a vicious kick that knocked the vampire flat on his face. Then Angel was there, and Stoner Vamp was nothing but a pile of dust.

Angel held out a hand, a tiny, teasing smile on his face. Buffy reflected how good it was to see it there as she placed her hand in his, allowing him to haul her to her feet.

Energy crackled around them where their palms touched, and Buffy let her fingers twine with his. Once she was on her feet, she stepped closer to him, pressed the full length of her body against his, then slowly began to rub against him. God, she thought, he felt so good. Why hadn't she ever noticed how GOOD he felt? Of course she'd =noticed= but she hadn't done nearly enough about it. Why did a second exist in the day when she wasn't in his arms?

For his part, Angel seemed to be just as enthralled with her.

"Your hair," he murmured, burying his face in it. "It smells like sunshine. You haven't been in the sun in weeks. How can it still smell like sunshine?"

Buffy hummed against his throat in response. Her system was too busy trying to figure out what kind of soap he'd used today to pay whatever he was saying any attention. Ivory? No, this had more of a tang to it. Oh, God, maybe it wasn't the soap. Maybe that was Angel flavoring the soap. Buffy felt her mouth begin to water and she darted her tongue out to lick his skin. Tasted like Angel. Theory proved correct. New mission: discover whether the rest of him tasted the same . . .

Wait. What was that sound? Abruptly, Buffy pulled away from Angel, totally oblivious to the clueless, befuddled look on his face. It was as though he couldn't quite process that she was no longer in his arms. Shaking it off, he followed her.

A jukebox! Buffy hadn't played a jukebox in ages. Not one like this, at any rate, all fancy and vintage, looking like it came straight from the 50s. It wasn't playing 50s music, though, which was fine with Buffy, because she didn't really like 50s music. Unless it was at a sock hop or something. Sunnydale High had a sock hop during her senior year. Angel had taken her. It was before he decided to leave her. Buffy frowned. That wasn't a happy thought. It was also ludicrous. Angel would never leave her.

Glancing behind her sharply, Buffy sighed in contentment to find Angel at her back. Plastered against her back, to be more accurate. His face was buried in her hair again, and his hands were running up and down her hips, her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. Mmm, happy thoughts. Angel's hands all over her. Nothing could be better than that. Except maybe--

"Stevie Nicks! Angel, look, it's my favorite Stevie Nicks song!" Spinning in his embrace, Buffy looked up at Angel expectantly. "Do you have a quarter?"

He smiled at her. A beautiful, simple smile that warmed her dead heart. It was the smile he used to give her when he couldn't bring himself to say 'I love you.' Now that he could say it, the smile meant even more, because it was like an added bonus smile.

"In my pocket," he murmured.

Grinning, Buffy slid her hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. She took longer than was absolutely necessary to locate his spare change -- and there was lots of finger wiggling -- but she emerged victorious eventually. Sliding the quarter into the slot, she played the song, and sighed again as the music began to swell.

The place was deserted. As soon as the vampires had shown their true faces the human clientele -- the bartender and waitresses included -- had fled. It was like their own private dance floor. Just like their bedroom. Only they weren't naked here. Why couldn't they be naked here? It was always good to be naked with Angel.

Before she could pursue that thought further, the subject of her internal debates pulled her body against his tightly and began swaying to the beat. This was good. This was really good. He had a thigh pressed between both of hers, and his arm was securing her hips against his, holding them both up as they moved to the music. His other hand was cradling the back of her head.

Buffy wrapped both her arms around his neck and hung on for dear life, letting her fingers play with the hair at the base of his skull. Hungrily, she stretched up to his mouth. He tasted different here. Wet and cool, like the blood they'd drank this afternoon, and the breath mints they'd popped soon after. It masked the scent of blood from all the others, but not from each other. Their senses were too acute for that.

Her breasts were mashed up against his chest, and she had to rub against him, because it was the only thing that felt =right= in this whole world. Obviously, he felt the same, because the hand in her hair wandered down between her shoulder blades to pull her to him tighter.

Still kissing him intently, Buffy started sniffing around his face again. Willow and Xander had been eating chocolate ice cream. After they'd lost a round to Angel's team, Willow had flicked some off her spoon at Angel. It had hit him in the cheek, and the little redhead had looked genuinely frightened of his reaction for a moment. Then he'd laughed, and leaned over to Buffy, who'd licked the offending bit of chocolate off his face.

It hadn't tasted the way it was supposed to, but it was cold and faintly sweet. For some reason, it had been comforting. Buffy's mouth moved along his face until she reached that same spot on his cheek. If she tried, she could faintly still taste the flavor of it, once again, blending with Angel's distinctive taste. Was there no scent or taste on earth that wouldn't go good with Angel?

"I want ice cream," she pouted, leaning far enough away from his upper body to look into his eyes.

Angel shrugged agreeably. "Okay. Baskin Robbins?"

"Sounds good."

They abruptly broke away from each other and headed out the door.

~

I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still
Haven't found
What I'm looking for

~

By the time his beat up truck reached the bar on Santa Monica, Lindsey was convinced that he'd finally lost his mind.

He was just having another crisis. That's all this was. He'd talked to his sister the night before. She was starting college in the Fall. She was counting on him to pay her tuition. Otherwise she'd have to work in some greasy spoon diner just so she could have a good education. She'd have to put up with leering customers, asshole bosses, and a dozen other nasty elements his hometown was famous for.

Why hadn't she listened to him and tried to get into a school out here?

Their conversation replayed itself in his mind.

"Linny, I =like= it here. You used to, too. Until Dad lost the house."

"Lost the house with a goddamn smile on his face," he'd snapped.

Her sigh of disapproval had transmitted itself nicely over such a long distance. "You know how I wish you wouldn't swear."

"I'm sorry, Darlin'," he'd apologized, unconsciously slipping into the slight drawl he'd lost after a year in Los Angeles. "I'm just under a lot of pressure at work."

"That firm," she'd muttered darkly.

"Don't start again," he'd begged. Not only wasn't he in the mood to hear it, he was half-afraid in his current mental state, she might be able to convince him to quit.

He'd hung up soon after that. No one quit Wolfram and Hart. They all pretended like they had a choice, but once you were in, you were family. It was worse than the goddamn Mafia.

There were just as many stool pigeons within the organization, too.

Lindsey had gotten Strickland's secretary to sing like a patron at Caritas as to her boss' whereabouts tonight. And now Lindsey found himself parking outside a bar on the seedier end of Santa Monica Boulevard, in search of two good vampires, one crazy vampire, and a human lawyer who'd perpetrated more evil than all three of them combined. Strickland had been with the firm for nearly a decade. Angel and Drusilla might have four centuries between them, but they'd never had the far-reaching power an employee of Wolfram and Hart did.

"Quiet now. Listen. You can hear his screams."

Snapping his head around when he recognized Drusilla's voice, Lindsey cut across the parking lot to where he now saw Strickland and the insane vampire emerging from the bar.

"I didn't know," Strickland sobbed, "I swear, I didn't know he'd still be feeling anything."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Lindsey snapped at Drusilla.

She frowned. "His mind is weak."

"God, make it stop," Strickland cried. "I can still hear him . . ."

"Hear who?" Lindsey asked. "Angel?"

"He's gone," Strickland said. "Everybody's fucking gone. And her freaky voodoo is making me CARE."

"It's perfect," Drusilla pronounced.

"It's insane," Strickland insisted, looking around them wildly.

Lindsey was confused now. "I thought you were all for this hocus pocus bullshit?"

"They're off to have ice cream," Drusilla said happily.

"Baskin Robbins," Strickland added, cackling as he did.

Lindsey began to wonder if Drusilla's lunacy was communicable.

"Sticky sweetness now . . ." Drusilla grinned in mad, carefree abandon. "And sticky sweetness later. Daddy can't keep his hands off his sunshine anymore."

"What did she DO to them?" Lindsey hissed, getting way up in Strickland's face.

"It's the way it works," Strickland said reasonably. "The way the magic works. That's probably why I'm like this now. Oh, yeah. Jeez, I feel better now, you know? I was getting worried there. This isn't me. It's just the magic. I was right next to her while she was casting. This is great. I'm not really growing a soul. It's just the magic. It's just the magic."

"No effect for them now," Dru continued, "only cause."

Lindsey did the cliché movie thing and slapped an increasingly hysterical Strickland. "Damn it, Philip, =focus= with me here. What does the spell do?"

"It's a veil. A pretty white lace one that covers their eyes."

Ignoring Drusilla, Lindsey concentrated on Strickland; hoped an ounce of sanity would leak into the other man's brain.

"It leaves them loose and free. Uninhibited. It doesn't simulate bliss, like that drug in Angel's file. It's not temporary. It doesn't make them do anything." Strickland giggled, and the sound disturbed Lindsey in ways he couldn't name. "Don't you see? It's perfect! It's just what you said in your report. Angel will do it to himself. By doing HER because he doesn't have the sense not to."

"Wolfram and Hart found methods of making Angel lose his soul before," Lindsey reminded him. "It was deemed sloppy. They'll just re-curse him. You have to make him WANT to be dark."

"That's the beauty of it," Strickland insisted, still laughing a bit unstably. "We checked and double checked. This magic . . . it leaves a residue. Whatever curses or spells Angel's currently under can never affect him again after this. We've just given him immunity to the gypsy curse." His laughter increased.

Drusilla began looking at the giggling Strickland hungrily. Lindsey backed away from them. The last thing he saw before he turned and ran for his truck was Drusilla vamping out. Strickland's laughter stopped before Lindsey had the key turned in his ignition. He had to get back to the office. He had to clear out all his files, get all the research he'd found on the Soul Blessing, on the Watcher's Council and a half dozen other 'records' he'd kept. After this particular shit storm hit the fan, Lindsey was sure he'd need all the blackmail and bribery he could get to keep both the Senior Partners, and Buffy from killing him.

He wasn't stupid enough to stop whatever was going on between Buffy and Angel. Chances were, if this magic was half as potent as Strickland's bubbling insanity lead him to believe, one of the two 'carefree' vampires might rip his head off for trying to put a stop to their mating.

A quick trip to Strickland's office was in order. Lindsey would call his friend, the same one who'd done the Soul Blessing, and ask him to look over the spell Drusilla had cast tonight. He'd be armed with answers when he faced certain death at the hands of the only Slayer to ever be turned.

Absently, as he drove way over the speed limit, he prayed his baby sister could forgive what he'd become.

~

But I still
Haven't Found
What I'm looking for

~

"Hey. Have you seen Cordy?"

Wesley glanced up from the bed of roses out in the garden. The moon shone full and bright behind him, and he found planting at night, with all that energy, invigorating. Given that the hotel was populated by a group of people afflicted with insomnia to some degree or another, Wesley felt lucky that he enjoyed the night as much as he did.

"She and Gunn have gone on another of their outings," Wesley replied, wiping his hands on a nearby towel.

"They're calling them dates now," Xander mentioned.

"Will wonders never cease," Wesley murmured with a tiny smile.

"Great roses," Xander said after a lengthy pause.

"Angel usually cares for them at night, but what with all the extra responsibilities he's undertaken recently . . . "

"Keeping Buffy from going over the edge is a full time job," Xander agreed.

"Was there a specific reason you were looking for Cordelia?" Wesley asked at last, after another lengthy silence had fallen over them, and Xander showed no signs of leaving.

"Yeah." Xander sighed, and took a seat on the stone bench near Wesley. "I was talking to Will earlier."

"Ah."

"Ah?" Xander parroted in what Wesley thought was a snotty British accent.

"Ah," Wesley explained, "meaning 'I see.' You spoke to Willow about her encounter with Tara earlier this evening."

"How did you--"

"I also spoke with Willow," Wesley said simply. He dug into the ground a bit more forcefully than was absolutely necessary. He'd actually tracked Willow down earlier to speak with her about a personal matter of his own. There was something comforting about the little redhead. During his stay in Sunnydale, he'd been much too bogged down in superiority to notice the incredible light she gave off. Every inch of her shined from within, even in her time of crisis.

"So you know," Xander said, and something in the boy's tone sounded off to Wesley.

"I know that she's found a sense of closure," Wesley said. "I'm quite pleased she was able to come to terms with Tara's death."

"Me too. I'm happy for Will. Super happy," Xander insisted. "It's just . . ."

Wesley stopped digging in the dirt for a moment and turned to regard Xander. Again, something in the boy's tone struck a chord with him. Sorrow more distinct than the lingering pain everyone in the hotel seemed to be feeling lately.

"Something on your mind, Xander?" Wesley asked politely.

"Anya," Xander confessed quietly. "Willow gets this great closure with Tara, and all I get is this stupid scarf!" Digging into his pocket, Xander pulled out the frilly bit of pink silk; let it sift through his fingers. "This is all I have left of her. There's all the stuff at her apartment in Sunnydale, but . . ." He glanced at Wesley out of the corner of his eye. "This still smells like her," he confessed. "She left it at my apartment after we celebrated my first solely independent Carpenter Guy job not given to me by a close friend or family member."

"What you're feeling is perfectly reasonable," Wesley assured him. "Your pain is just as real as Willow's."

"Yeah, but . . . Tara loved Willow so much that her . . . spirit, ghost, whatever, couldn't physically leave without Willow's permission. It just . . . it makes me wonder . . ."

"I only met Anya briefly while I was in Sunnydale," Wesley admitted, "but from what Willow has told me she loved you very much. Weren't you the first mortal she attempted contact with?"

Xander nodded his head. "I know she loved me. I mean, I'm not that stupid, whatever Cordy's told you. I'm just not sure if she loved me the way that I loved her. That's all. The way Tara loved Willow, so much that death couldn't keep her from saying goodbye. The way Buffy loved Angel, so much that when she was evil, she still wanted him."

Sighing, Wesley knelt until he could pull himself on the bench beside Xander. He hunched forward, folded his hands and let them dangle between his knees.

"I've learned many things I'd never considered before since I began working with Angel," Wesley began. "The single most important lesson, though, has been that everything -- every single seemingly insignificant moment -- happens for a reason. Angel's adopted a pet theory . . . he believes that there is no grand plan. And if there's no grand plan, that means that all the seemingly insignificant moments, events, coincidences become singularly important. They become everything."

"And that relates to me because . . . "

Wesley smiled kindly. "Even evil, Buffy loved Angel to the best of her ability. No matter what sorts of tortures they've inflicted on one another, they've both remained true to the simple notion that they love each other beyond reason.

"Tara's spirit remained in the earthly place of her death because she =knew= Willow would be unable to accept her death until she'd said goodbye. As Willow no doubt explained to you, when Oz left her, being unable to say goodbye is what crippled her so deeply. When he came back into her life briefly, she was given the chance for closure, and she was able to move on with Tara. And so, in turn, Tara gave her that very same thing.

"Buffy and Angel are vampires, able to understand and communicate with one another in ways I doubt you and I will ever understand. Tara and Willow were extremely intuitive people, with a great deal of power and magic in their souls. The very roots and tenets of witchcraft lived at the very heart of their connection, and Tara was able to use that to say goodbye.

"And you . . . you are a mortal -- albeit extraordinary -- young man who has somehow managed to obtain possession of a piece of silk that smells like the woman you've lost, even though you're currently residing in a city she'd never set foot in."

Xander stared down at the scarf in his hands for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet Wesley's. There were tears in his eyes.

"You know . . . you're a LOT cooler now than you used to be. Which, granted, not saying much, but--"

"Yes, it's quite all right to simply stop talking," Wesley assured him dryly.

Another silence fell over them, before Xander sighed and stood, walking toward the small rose bush Wesley was about to plant next to the rest.

"What's this called?"

Wesley glanced down at the bush Xander was referring to. "It's a rose called 'Love,'" the Watcher explained. "Angel tracked down a specimen through one of his contacts. He was planning to plant it tonight as a gift for Buffy, but after Cordelia's vision, he asked me if I'd do it for him."

Xander studied the blooms on the bush, the hybrid red, white and silver.

"It's going to be here forever," Xander said, staring down at it. "Angel and Buffy . . . they'll be around forever now, and if Batman was doing this as a gift for Buff . . . it'll be here forever."

"I'd imagine so," Wesley agreed.

Smiling softly, Xander knelt down and let Anya's scarf pool at the bottom of the hole Wesley had dug earlier, ready for implantation.

"Show me how?" Xander asked, indicating the rose bush.

Returning Xander's smile, Wesley got down on his knees and offered Xander a pair of gloves. Together, they planted 'Love' in Angel's garden.

~

I believe in the kingdom come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
Bleed into one
Well yes I'm still running

~

"Mmm, ice cream."

Angel hooked his chin over her shoulder. Buffy grinned. He wanted a bite. Obligingly, she held the spoon to his lips.

"That's not cookie dough fudge mint chip," Angel declared after he swallowed.

Buffy stared down at the ice cream. "Oh. You're right. I think he gave us plain cookie dough instead."

When she turned to face her love, the mournful expression on his face broke her heart.

"But . . . I wanted cookie dough fudge mint chip," Angel said, and the tone of his voice was so pathetic Buffy felt the broken pieces of her heart shatter further.

Frowning, Buffy glared past his shoulder into the Baskin Robbins window. Bastard, she thought, staring at the pimply faced teenage kid spooning Rocky Road onto a cone. Someone should kill him . . .

"Where are you going?"

Blinking, Buffy focused on Angel. Apparently, she'd taken a few menacing steps toward the door.

"Nowhere," she chirped happily. Why was she thinking about killing some kid? Angel was right here in front of her, and she firmly believed the power lay within her to make him feel better about some stupid ice cream flavor they didn't have.

Grinning, she leapt into Angel's arms, her legs going around his waist. Her cup of ice cream fell to the ground unnoticed, and she unceremoniously shoved her tongue down his throat.

He didn't seem to mind. Kissing her back eagerly, his hands blazed a trail up and down her back, re-familiarized themselves with her rear, the backs of her thighs, and the tiny indent on her lower back that had always been ticklish. Buffy giggled against his mouth, and after a few more minutes of heavy petting, she let her body slide down his until she was standing again. Her arms were still loosely slung around his neck.

"I love you," she murmured happily.

"I love you," he replied easily.

As he bent his head to kiss her again, Buffy gave his chest a mighty shove, then slapped his arm soundly.

"Tag! You're it!" she yelled, before turning tail and running.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn't chasing her. Looking behind her, she saw him standing there, looking confused. She sighed. Damn. Not =another= generational barrier. Kids had been playing tag since the dawn of time, and he wasn't =that= old.

"You're supposed to try and catch me now!" she called back to him.

The light dawned, and faster than the human eye could perceive, he was after her. Luckily, Buffy was just as fast -- if not a wee bit faster -- than he was, and she took off, giggling again.

Though there weren't many people out on the street this late, the few that were present gave them odd looks. That is, they gave them odd looks when they slowed down enough to be perceived.

Finally, when Buffy made a last ditch attempt at getting away by hiding behind Angel's car, he caught up with her.

"Gotcha," he whispered as he caught her around the waist, his arms imprisoning her in a cage she never wanted to escape from.

Spinning in his embrace, Buffy stared up at him, feeling . . . what was she feeling? Dreamy. Like this was all a dream. A wonderful dream she never wanted to end. Everything was of the good here.

"I want to make love to you," she said boldly. The declaration neither surprised, nor embarrassed her. It was what she felt, and telling him everything that she felt was the most natural thing in the world.

"Me too," he replied quietly. They kissed softly, tenderly, and she felt him begin to lower her to the hood of his car.

A smile broke out across her face, and, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth, once, she released him, and shoved at his chest again.

"Race you back to the hotel! Last one there has to sleep in the wet spot!"

His growl turned into a carefree laugh, and she heard his feet pounding on the pavement as he gave chase after her.

~

You broke the bonds and you
Loosed the chains
Carried the cross
Of my shame
Of my shame
You know I believed it
But I still
Haven't found
What I'm looking for

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Glove -- Like a Magnet

~

Do you always trust your first initial feeling
Special knowledge holds truth bears believing
I turned around
And the water was closing all around
Like a glove
Like the love that had finally, finally found me
Then I knew
In the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like clear water fountain
Drove me like a magnet
To the sea

~

They snuck inside the back of the hotel, giggling ((and groping and sighing and fucking =aching= for her)) like teenagers cutting fifth period to go to a concert.

Their bedroom was tucked at the end of a long hallway, near the emergency ((not like the elevator worked anyway)) stairwell. The door closed and locked behind them, Angel slid his arms around Buffy and backed her into the wall. His hands moved to the back of the little ((indecent, non-existent)) top she wore; undid the strings that held the tank together. She wore no bra, and once the scrap of brown cotton had fallen to the floor, she stood before him bared from the waist up, staring at him through half-closed ((drugged, like I feel, always drugged on her, lost in her)) eyelids.

Dear God, she was beautiful. Blonde hair falling around impossibly porcelain pale cheeks, single golden locks obscuring the milky white of her skin from his gaze. His hands traced a path up her hips, over the rough denim of her jeans until his palms felt nothing but soft flesh. Up, up, up he moved, until he reached the cascade of hair that covered her. Hands sliding smoothly, lost in the feel of Buffy ((sunshine and perfection and beauty and salvation and home)) beneath his hands, he pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

As he gazed at her half-naked form ((breasts that perfect and beautiful should be a sin)) Angel's entire body throbbed with the desire to be closer to her, to be a part of her. Men died ((sometimes three or four times)) for a single taste of everything Buffy was. Surely by now, he was entitled to a tiny slice of heaven. Buffy apparently agreed, because her tiny hands found the hem of his sweater and she pulled it roughly over his head.

Angel understood everything that had gone on before. He knew all the pain they'd felt, the endless, aching years they'd spent being unable to touch one another the way they'd longed to. It just didn't seem to apply to this very moment, where all he felt ((touched, tasted, smelt, wanted, needed, loved)) was her skin ((her heart, her soul, her whole being belonging to me, only me, always me)) and all he wanted was to make love to her in joy and have her remember it.

Remembered sadness was bittersweet at best in that moment ((like dark chocolate and preferably crunchy peanut butter)). It was as though he simply couldn't summon the proper amount of pain that normally accompanied his memories of that lost ((perfect, so fucking perfect like her skin on mine, her breathy, needy-kitten sounds of want)) day.

His decision to take it all back ((away)) was one that had weighed heavily on his mind ((heart and soul)) over the past year and a half. Sometimes he couldn't quite believe it had been that long since he loved, and touched, and tasted her with only the pure white stain of love and happiness to fuel his need.

In recent weeks, he'd had the opportunity to gorge himself on her body and her blood. He'd been tied up the first time, so one could argue he hadn't been able to get his fill of her then. The second time, though . . . they'd been trapped inside by the sun all. damn. day. He knew the hot buttons on her body better than he knew his own. Still, as intense as it had been, there had been an element missing, the very thing he craved now most of all.

Happiness. Joy. Pure, perfect love.

There was a certain poetic ((tragic, unfair, goddamn EVIL)) irony that the source of his greatest joy, and his most agonizing pain, should not only come from the same woman, but that she also had no earthly idea the depths of it all. Being the only man ((beast, demon, animal, there was no difference, was there?)) to remember the entire world they'd formed on his soft sheets for one perfect afternoon was sometimes more pain than his tired soul could carry. If he'd known then what he knew now, how it all would progress, would he make the same choice again?

He knew his thoughts at the time had been simple. Her life ((her life, my life, they were the same)) was the most precious thing in the world to him. Her life ((my life)) was worth more than all the chocolate kisses ((sticky fingers on my belly, fairy laughter against my throat, warm, wet comfort all around me)) in the world. Even Buffy's chocolate kisses. Besides, he'd thought at the time, the burden couldn't be as great as it seemed.

After all, what was one more weight to an already unbearably heavy load?

All that pain and worry seemed to flit through his mind faster than it took his fingertips to trace the edge of her collarbone.

Then, miraculously, it was gone.

When he tried to focus on all the thoughts ((and pains and guilts and regrets)) in his head, he found not a single one of them substantial enough to hold form. Doubts, sorrows, insecurities -- all slipped through his fingers like cool water until he was left with nothing but his want ((need, lust, indescribable love)) and his joy ((rapture, ecstasy, unadulterated bliss)) for, in, with and because of Buffy.

There's only joy here, he thought, bending to sip at the silk of her throat. There's only bliss in her arms.

Those arms were wrapped around his back, pulling at his shirt until it came free of his pants and she could pull it away from his body. Tiny hands clutched and pulled at his back, his hair, and her perfect, cool, wet mouth met his again, and again, soft, long, sipping kisses that seared his soul. His hands moved to her waist, teased her belly, and he smiled against her laughing mouth as she half-heartedly tried to escape his tormenting fingers.

He felt as though he could gladly spend eternity listening to her laugh.

Soon, though, the need for more -- more of her skin and her laughter and her want -- consumed him and his hands moved to the button on her jeans. The fly was stuck, and they both laughed until she'd had enough and ripped the zipper open with a burst of inhuman strength.

With a groan, he sunk to his knees before her, pulled at her jeans and bright purple bikini briefs as he nuzzled his face into the soft skin of her stomach. His love . . . his Goddess. God did not want him, and so Angel decided in that moment, he would worship Buffy. He would pledge love and fealty at her feet. Daily, he would give thanks for her, show her all the ways she filled up his empty shell of a being. He would show her that she made him see things he'd been blind to before. With her in his life, it made him realize that THIS was what all the poems were written about. THIS was the point to it all, the reason for everything . . .

Brushing his lips against the sodden curls below her stomach, Angel felt the depth of emotion in every sonnet, every love song, every pure expression of love and want the world had ever known. Human, his taste buds had been stronger, and the act of sipping the juices that fairly wept from her body had been ambrosial. He hadn't been able to smell her like this, though.

His predator's senses were screaming at being overpowered by the sweet, musky scent of her arousal. He took his time inhaling her, brushing his cheeks back and forth over the fronts of her thighs, her bristly hair, the indent of her waist. His tongue came out to play and he began tasting her skin, tiny licks like she'd taken of her ice cream earlier.

Buffy freed one of her legs from the jeans pooled at her ankles; ran her calf up and down his side; brought her little foot between their bodies and curled it around the erection tenting his pants. He growled against the sharp point of her hip, then nibbled at it. Her toes proved nearly as dexterous as her fingers. They wiggled up and down his cloth-covered erection until he was purring against her.

Angel became lost in sensation, until the scent of her broke through the haze of pleasure consuming him. Taking her calf firmly in hand, Angel slung it over his shoulder until he could press his face to the very inside of her thigh without doing more than turning his head. He lent her balance by gripping her rear end in his hands and, without further preamble, brought his mouth to her cool, wet folds.

Her soft cry pierced the air as he laved her with his tongue, and tiny toes dug into the skin of his back. There was something almost soothing about this, he thought, something calming about giving her pleasure without the fog of his own need clouding the issue. Honestly, he could spend eternity here, too, suckling at her clit, lapping up the abundant juices she gave off like a river, with nothing but the wet sounds his mouth made and her breathy cries that sounded a little like his name as accompaniment.

Minutes passed and Angel couldn't be bothered to notice. Buffy's hips were restlessly thrusting against his mouth, her leg tightening and loosening over his shoulder. Her hands had found purchase in his hair, her nails digging into his scalp, and her once breathy little cries of pleasure had become high, keening expressions of need.

Amazing, how he could feel her come. The night of her seventeenth birthday, he'd been able to detect her pulse, her heartbeat, with his keen, superhuman senses. He'd known the moment of her climax by the rapid increase of blood flowing through her veins. On that day that never was, as a human being, he'd been too focused with how different everything felt now that he was ALIVE to notice whether or not he'd been able to feel her orgasm as clearly as he felt his own.

The other two times they'd mated in recent weeks, there hadn't been anything much more than raw, animal lust connecting them.

But this . . . this was exquisite. Her pleasure washed over him in waves, and the wetness she gushed into his mouth was flavored slightly sweeter than it had been before. It was amazing, and Angel wanted to make it happen again, so he refocused his efforts. His tongue concentrated on patches of her drenched flesh he'd only glossed over earlier. In no time at all, he brought her to another peak, and sure enough, her pleasure washed through his body as it washed through her own.

It wasn't as intense as an orgasm; rather, it was like that feeling just after the climax has passed. A warm, tingly feeling that spread through his entire body, head to toe, and if it felt this good to HIM, what must she be feeling?

He was about to go for a third time, when Buffy had apparently had enough. Her leg slipped off his shoulder and knocked him off balance so that he fell to the floor. With a growl, she leapt after him, straddled his waist, and ground her crotch against his trapped cock.

Groaning, Angel thrust against her. Her hands closed around his wrists and kept his arms pinned above his head. There was a mischievous grin on her face, and Angel felt happier than he could ever remember being. Buffy slid up his body, and Angel mourned the loss of her against his throbbing shaft, but her wetness was seeping out all over his belly, and she was rubbing herself against him and . . . what had he been thinking about?

Her mouth found his and he opened for her, accepted her temporary dominance with an excruciating amount of pleasure. She was making love to him, and he tried to remember if he'd ever been made love to in two hundred and forty-eight years. He couldn't recall a single occasion, neither before nor after he was turned. Of course, considering he'd never loved anyone but Buffy, that wasn't entirely surprising.

And every time he and Buffy had been together -- when she hadn't been evil -- he'd been in control of things. She was always so inexperienced that she'd been afraid of taking the lead. Now, though, she seemed more than eager, and Angel felt a silly grin spread across his face. She wanted to make love to him.

"Whatcha smilin' about?" she asked adorably, brushing their noses together.

"You're making love to me," he said softly, wonderingly. It didn't seem possible that someone as pure and perfect and beautiful as her would want to love him.

"That's the plan," she confirmed around a giggle. Her mouth attached itself to the side of his neck and he nearly came from her blunt teeth pulling at his jugular.

All too soon, she moved away, and as she dragged her open mouth across his chest, her hands moved his captive arms lower and lower.

When she reached the waist of his pants, she grinned up at him, then bent her head to him. Her teeth closed around the buckle of his belt, and she tugged. Miraculously, after a few minutes of the most pleasant torture he'd ever endured, her chin bumping against his near-painful erection as her jaw worked at his belt, it came free and she seemed inordinately pleased with herself.

The tight button on his pants proved more difficult, and after a few moments' valiant effort, she seemed to admit defeat.

"Keep them there," she ordered quietly, abandoning his wrists to undo his button with her fingers.

Once she'd rid him of his pants and boxers, her mouth returned to him. Her lips pressed tiny, fleeting kisses to every inch of his skin. She worked down his legs, to his feet and calves, swirled her tongue between his toes, then moved back up to his hips. Finally, she placed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss over the head of his cock. Her tongue darted out to lick up the moisture that wept from the tip, and Angel's obedience saw its own end.

Growling softly, his hands found her hair, and he tugged her up his body. Her eager mouth plundered his, and he gave as good as he got. His erection was nestled between the cheeks of her ass, and she was moving up and down, stroking him.

"What do you want, my love?" she whispered into his ear, darting her tongue out to lick at the tender shell.

"You," he grunted. "Only you. Always you."

"You have me," she assured him as she sat back, hovered above his cock. Her hand was stroking him softly. "Always."

That unexpectedly brought tears to his eyes, because he could remember a time when he'd wanted her to belong to him, just as he'd belonged to her; a time when she hadn't; because he hadn't been able to claim her. He was so damned happy that time had passed, and his joy only grew as she sank down on him with one, fluid motion.

Now he was surrounded in her, consumed by her, and consumption had never felt so liberating. Her hands moved to his again, and she twined their fingers together, held their arms out to balance herself as she oh-so-slowly began to rock against him. Up, down, back, forth, circle; up, down, back, forth, circle. His fingers squeezed hers tightly, and she took pity on him, brought their joined hands to either side of her hips and let his rest there.

Her own hands she brought to his chest. Her fingers dug into his pectorals just as his dug into her hips, and the rhythm of their lower bodies increased pace. Her hair had fallen across her chest again, and every time she thrust forward, her nipples peeked at him, taunted him. He was in no mood to be teased, and he rose, brought his knees up to support her back and bent his head to her chest.

Buffy cried out softly as his mouth closed around one of her nipples and tugged at it roughly. Their new angle forced his penetration of her deeper, and he snarled against her flesh. Her hands left his chest and sunk into his hair; held his head to her breast as their lower bodies continued to writhe. There was no separation for them now; their bodies were fused together, grinding against one another, refusing to be parted.

He would never be separated from her again, Angel thought dazedly. There was no need. She was his, he was hers, and that's all there was to it. What point would there be to his new religion if he couldn't worship at Buffy's altar daily?

Their mating went on and on, both striving for completion, both secretly never wanting to attain it. It was the wanting that was so addictive, and so much of their relationship had been made up of the endless, aching need for that which they could never have. There was an added pleasure, knowing they could take their release at any moment, but instead choosing to wait so that they might prolong this blessed agony.

Borrowed blood called to Angel from beneath Buffy's skin. It rushed to the surface, giving her the illusion of blushing. Her skin was sticky and it had always fascinated him how dead things could still sweat. His mouth released its captive prize and trailed up her breastbone until he found the jugular that no longer beat with her life, but enticed him all the same.

"Please," she whispered, pressing her palm to his head. "Angel, please, please . . ."

His face shifted and it was the most natural thing in the world to sink his fangs into her butter-soft skin. And, God, she still tasted the same. It didn't seem possible that she could, but somehow, Buffy managed it. Her ambrosial blood coursed down his throat, and his pleasure was complete when he felt her own fangs sink into the side of his neck.

They were wrapped around each other, the fronts of his thighs to her backside, her legs wrapped securely around his waist, his cock so deep inside her, he swore he could feel it moving from where their stomachs touched. One of his hands was buried in her hair, the other running up and down her back as the pleasure became so intense, he feared he might black out. Her hands returned the favor, and she was moaning and screaming against the side of his neck (or maybe that was him) and if he thought feeling her come had been an experience worth dying for, they could stake him right now after knowing this tiny shred of paradise.

He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next clear sensation he felt was Buffy's little tongue lapping at the wound on his neck. Emerging from his stupor, he mimicked her actions, his arms wrapping around her back to hold her closer as he attended to the tiny hurt he'd caused.

This only served to make things worse, however, because feeling Buffy's tongue anywhere on his body had him hard as a rock again in minutes.

Tightening his hold around her back, he managed to stand without dislodging her, and she didn't seem surprised or at all worried about her current position -- instead, she crossed her ankles behind his back, and held onto him like a monkey. The motions of her mouth on his neck ceased to be soothing, and she started doing a Hoover impression instead.

Angel barely made it to the bed. Only the thought of taking her in what he'd begun to privately think of as their conjugal bed propelled him forward, instead of simply drilling her up against the nearest wall. He'd belonged to her, been married to her, since the night of her seventeenth birthday. It was something he'd never told her he felt in his heart, and as he crashed to their bed with her, he silently vowed to do so at the next convenient moment.

At some future point when she wasn't massaging his cock with her incredibly flexible inner muscles.

The sheets were cream colored silk, and as he propped himself up on his elbows, he took a moment to admire the beautiful contrast with Buffy's stark white skin. His hands moved up to frame her face, and he pushed her hair back so his view was unobstructed. Her eyes were wide and unafraid, filled with so much love he thought he might turn to dust, right here in her embrace.

There was nowhere else in the world he'd rather die.

"You make me feel . . ." He dropped his head to the pillow, nuzzled her cheek with his own softly.

"What?" she cooed, her hands moving up and down his back. Her touch was demanding and soothing in equal measures. Always such confusion between them, such conflicting desires. Speed up, slow down, love, kill, more, too much . . .

"You make me feel alive," he answered softly as he moved his head to regard her solemnly. "You make me feel human."

"Me too," she whispered, tears leaking from the corners of her sea-storm eyes.

His lips and tongue caught every one, swallowed them as the consecration he had been denied for a hundred years now. Tears fell from his own eyes, and he felt her soft little mouth over his cheeks, his closed lids, until all evidence of them were gone. He was healed and blessed and died in her arms, only to be re-born a man, a =real= man as he began to make love to her anew with all the joy in his resurrected heart.

~

How the faces of love have changed turning
the pages
And I have changed oh, but you . . . you remain
ageless
I turned around
And the water was closing all around
Like a glove
Like the love that had finally, finally found me
And I knew
In the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like clear water fountains
Drove me like a magnet
To the sea

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Encore -- Precious Pain

~

Everybody's got a hunger
No matter where they are
Everybody clings to their own fear
Everybody hides some scars

~

Buffy was having the most delicious dream.

The mood was soft, like you'd get from a room lit with a hundred candles. Silk sheets rubbed against her back, and Angel was on top of her, spreading adoring kisses to every part of her body. His hands swept over her flesh in long, unhurried passes, and his lips whispered sonnets against her skin.

Peace and contentment blended with satisfaction and belonging, meshing into a perfect lassitude that settled gently over Buffy and Angel's bodies. Buffy couldn't distinguish between the two of them any longer. They were One, at last and finally, inseparable as they moved together in perfect harmony.

"You make me feel alive," he whispered, his eyes full of tears and love and the same complicated mix of bliss and want she was feeling. "You make me feel human."

"Me too," she replied, her voice soft. Such inadequate words, but they were all she was capable of. He meant =everything= to her and there just weren't words enough for that.

In her dream there was nothing to be afraid of, no monsters ready to leap out from under the bed at them. In her dream everything was quiet and still, and the only thing that mattered was the joy she and Angel were taking in each other's arms. In her dream, Angel whispered that he loved her, and he called her his wife.

In her dream, she couldn't move her arms anymore . . .

"Well, I guess you were right. I got you tied up pretty damn fast. I thought that maybe we could play for a little while. But looking at you . . .Buff, you look pretty soulful to me. Plus, the things you've been whimpering in your sleep . . . not exactly the stuff violent, bloodthirsty dreams are made of."

"Oh God," she whispered, refusing to open her eyes. If she kept her eyes closed, this wouldn't be real, =couldn't= be real . . .

"No," he assured her, leaning close to her face, "not God."

"Angel," she almost-sobbed, forcing her eyes open. Some part of her was still hoping to find warm chocolate in his gaze.

All she found was icy blackness.

"Now you've got it!" he congratulated heartily.

"What happened?" she muttered, more to herself than to him. Out of reflex, she tugged at the bonds holding her wrists to the bed -- he'd used the same magic shackles she'd tied him with. Angel always had been a fan of irony . . .

"Actually, I'm still kinda fuzzy on that myself," he admitted, his tone casual. "Of course, that's the norm for coming out of hibernation." He slapped his knees. "Y'know, after the ripping pain of that pesky soul leaving my body had passed, I looked over and saw you next to me, and damned if I didn't get a little hot and bothered. I figured the burden of being so stalwart and true had finally gotten to us and when you woke up, you'd be ready to party. I'm still not too clear about last night. Fuzzy, remember? But I do remember being =awfully= happy." He clucked his tongue against the back of his throat. "Lookin' at that horrified expression on your face, Buff, I'm thinkin' last night wasn't as good for you as it was for me."

"You really love to hear yourself talk, don't you?" she asked snidely. Regain composure. This is not your lover. This is the demon that wears his face . . . except now, Buffy knew just how much of Angel this demon really was. He =was= Angel, minus the conscience and add a few psychopathic tendencies . . .

What a difference the little things made.

"I know what they're all going to be thinking," he continued, as though she hadn't spoken. "Not THIS again. First Buffy, now Angel? They sure don't make souls like they used to." He traced a dangerously gentle trail along her cheek, touched, but did not wipe away, her tears. When had she started crying? When did she become seventeen again? How could it be the morning after the first time she'd ever made love, take two?

"This can't be happening," she whimpered, trying to pull away from his touch. Her bonds, however, were secure, and he gave no ground when he was in the mood to play.

"I'll show them, though, my love," he confided quietly, once again ignoring her. "I'll show you. I'll make you all remember that whatever viciousness you might have shown them was but an echo of what lives and howls inside of me." He smiled, almost pleasantly. "Which one of them do you think I should kill first? The little witch, maybe? She just hasn't been the same since you took a bite out of her special friend."

A few more tears rolled down Buffy's cheeks, and she didn't think she could stop them if she tried. She'd stopped trying a few minutes ago. This was unreal. What had happened last night? All she could remember was . . . She kept a hysterical giggle from vocalizing itself.

Perfect happiness.

"Oh, Buff . . .baby, I've missed this." He pressed his lips to her jaw. "You were a deliciously wicked demon, and I admit, you won me over. I was really willing to give it a shot. I even forgave you for staking my sire. Do you know what a big no-no that is?"

"Penalty can't be too severe," Buffy quipped, "you're still here."

He made a tsking sound in the back of his throat, but if she'd actually wounded him with her comment, he hid it well. His expression was intent as he bent toward her face.

"I'd almost forgotten how goddamn =good= your tears taste." He lapped gently at the tiny rivulets of agony that slipped silently down her cheeks. "Your sorrow . . . " He inhaled deeply. "It's like a fucking art form unto itself. No one hurts like you do, Buff. You feel pain with your whole body, and I gotta tell you, it's a better aphrodisiac than all the scented candles and oyster dinners in the world combined."

"Bastard," she spat, trying -- and failing -- to regain her composure. What composure? some hysterical voice inside her head wailed. You've had composure when it comes to him? Ever?!

"I've missed you, Slayer," he murmured fondly. His hands trailed over her body, and with a sigh of regret, he stood. "But I've gotta run. You know. Places to go, people to kill. My love to the family." He winked. "Soon, love," he added, before he slipped from the room.

Buffy didn't bother to scream for help. No doubt Angel remembered what she'd said to him when their positions had been reversed.

She only hoped her inactivity didn't yield the same results.

~

Precious pain
Empty and cold but it keeps me alive
I gave it my soul so that I could survive
Keeping me safe in these chains
Precious pain

~

He always drew the short straw.

Xander hovered outside Buffy and Angel's bedroom door. He =really= didn't want to walk in on Naked Buffy and Angel again. The images were burned into his brain, and no matter how hard he tried to exorcise them -- and he'd TRIED -- it was futile. It always seemed that the stuff you wanted out of your brain the most was the stuff that Super Glued itself to your memory. Try to remember your girlfriend's birthday, or your parents' anniversary, and all that hard-fought for memory sifted through your metaphorical fingers like grains of sand.

The breakfast hour had come and gone without word from Buffy and Angel. Cordelia insisted that -- his Darla-obsession notwithstanding -- Angel had always been a stickler for checking in after he'd gone off to fight some unspeakable evil. Given that it had been Buffy's first outing since her . . . Xander shied away from that topic. Thinking of Buffy dead -- even =living= dead -- was way creepy.

It didn't stop him from loving her, though. Yet another thing he got down on his knees and thanked Anya for. Her presence in his life had taught him so much about tolerance. He was sure that, had he never loved an ex-vengeance demon, he never would have been able to forge an almost-friendship with Angel, let alone come to terms with one of his bestest buds being a newly souled vampire.

A smile tugged at Xander's mouth as his thoughts drifted to the little rosebush he'd planted earlier. Wesley assured him it would flourish in the relatively secure environment of the garden. There were dozens of different species of rose -- and other flowers -- already thriving, and Xander liked it. He could also appreciate the irony of a dead guy keeping such beautiful, living things all around him.

Wesley had surprised Xander. His best memories of the Watcher had centered around the Englishman falling down, because it had made Xander laugh. He'd still been hopelessly in love with Cordelia, and since Cordy seemed so hung up on Wesley . . . well, Xander would have hated him if he'd been The World's Coolest Guy. His predisposition to hate any guy Cordy was interested in at the time would have made even an Oz Level Cool guy loser material in Xander's book.

The fact that Wesley turned out to be a bumbling, pompous blowhard who tried to tell Buffy what to do was a bonus.

However, the man who'd so kindly helped him mourn Anya in Angel's garden last night . . .that man was someone Xander was proud to consider one of the team. It galled him to no end to grudgingly admit that it was Wesley's association with Angel that had no doubt influenced the Watcher's growth as a human being.

"Better living through demon loving," Xander muttered to himself.

None of the above helped him get through the damn door.

"Suck it up, Harris," he ordered quietly. "What's the worse that can happen?"

Visions of Angel on top of Buffy . . .Buffy on top of Angel . . .naked flesh . . .all ran through Xander's brain. Oh, dear God, why did he have to draw the short straw? He just =knew= Willow used some kind of hocus pocus to make her straw longer . . .

Before he could stop it, Xander raised his fist to the door and knocked, once, firmly. He repeated the action three times before he started to get seriously worried.

"Buff? Angel? Look, I don't want to interrupt naked time, but--"

"Xander?" he heard Buffy's voice call from inside. Had she been crying?

Putting aside his own delicate sensibilities, Xander flung open the door and barged inside. As he took a long, hard look at Buffy on the bed, he wasn't sure if he was disappointed or thankful there was a sheet covering most of her. The parts of her that weren't bound to the headboard, that is . . .

"I never thought I'd say this, but -- Buff, please, PLEASE tell me that you and Angel are playing some kind of kinky non-sexual sex game."

Buffy's eyes were puffy, and she looked like she might burst into tears at any moment. Xander watched as she took a deep breath -- which he found odd, considering she didn't need to breathe anymore -- and regarded him gravely.

"Get Willow," was all she said.

~

Everybody's got a reason
to abandon their plan

~

"The King of Swords is coming to lead his lost lambs home."

"That's nice," Lindsey muttered absently.

Drusilla sat in the corner of his office. He hadn't bothered to be either fearful or surprised when she'd walked in, still licking her lips. Absently, Lindsey hoped Strickland hadn't suffered more than the poor bastard already had. Part of Lindsey hoped Drusilla had come to finish him off, but much to his consternation, she'd sat down on the darkest patch of floor in his office and had been mumbling about the King of Swords ever since.

Lilah's files had been destroyed before her body had grown cold. All the files the firm had known about, at least. The former co-head of Special Projects had been determined to live long enough to make partner at Wolfram and Hart. Short of that, Lilah had planned to take the whole place crashing down with her if she fell.

People talked around this place, even though office gossip around here was likely to get you killed. They couldn't resist. The allure of the dangerous, the forbidden . . . it spoke to everyone. Hell, wasn't that why half the staff had chosen this particular law firm in the first place? It was also the reason the more enlightened employees had a few insurance policies that weren't company endorsed.

It was Lilah's foresight Lindsey was in part counting on to save his own hide.

His own files were extensive, but coupled with Lilah's, they were deadly. He'd made a quick detour on the way to the office. There hadn't been a safe deposit box, or a bank vault, or anything so boring for Lilah. No, she'd kept her evidence someplace a supposedly soulless lawyer would never think to look.

Inside the carousel at Griffith Park, tucked inside a lion's head, were several small disks bursting full of incriminating data about Wolfram and Hart's criminal dealings. Everything they'd done to take advantage of that Anne woman, the conspiracy surrounding Bethany Chalk, Russell Winter's many varied depravities, the plot to murder three, innocent children because they were cursed with the gift of sight -- it was all contained in Lilah's backup files.

To say nothing of everything Lindsey possessed in his own files . . .

Lindsey didn't fool himself into believing he'd be able to take Wolfram and Hart down. No, that fantasy was reserved for Angel's naïve hero's heart. But it might just be enough to buy his life back. And not just from Wolfram and Hart.

"He's coming," Drusilla declared, then laughed softly. "Oh, he's coming for me at last."

Asking 'who?' never even crossed Lindsey's mind. Instead, he focused on the beep coming from his desk. Intercom. Lydia.

"What?" he asked, roughly punching the speaker button.

"Mr. McDonald . . . there's a vampire on the premises."

No? Really? Ya think? Mr. King Of Swords himself . . . "And?"

"He's killed four security guards. He walked right in the front door. They never even touched him. He asked where your new office was. Then he . . ."

"What?"

"He disemboweled the man who told him where to find you."

Drusilla got a silly little grin on her face at the word 'disemboweled.'

Lindsey fought back a wave of nausea. "Is that all?"

"Mr. McDonald, I don't think you're taking this seriously enough--"

"I get it, Lydia," he assured her. "Thanks for the warning. Let me offer you one in return -- get the hell out of here before the elevator doors open. Take the back stairwell. There's some money hidden behind the emergency glass just beyond the exit door. Take it, and run the hell away from this house of horrors." He cut the extension and began rifling through his hard copies.

"He's going to gut you, too. Like a fish out of water."

Lindsey almost smiled. "Might actually be a relief to be all the way dead at last, Darlin'."

~

How can I think of tomorrow
With my sorrow in hand

~

The lobby was once again filled with frightened, sorrow-filled people.

Buffy sat to the side, apart from the rest of them. Spike had approached her, but the venomous glare she'd sent his way had obviously penetrated his normally thick skull. He'd taken a seat near Willow.

Willow seemed scared, and she didn't even seem aware that she was digging her fingers into Wesley's hand.

Xander looked like he was about to regress to sophomore year of high school.

Cordelia looked like Buffy felt.

Buffy . . . felt nothing. She was numb, from head to foot. The single refrain that managed to drown out everyone else's voices rang through her mind on an endless loop: This is not happening. This is not happening. This is NOT happening.

Giles was acting as the levelheaded member of the group:

"This is possibly the worst news we could have imagined."

"Not =the= worst," Wesley insisted.

"About as close as you can get without touching," Xander counted.

"I don't know what everybody's freaking out for," Faith interrupted.

Xander stared at her like she'd sprouted an arm out of her neck. "You've read up on Angelus, Scourge of Europe, I assume. Well, the last time Angel went all Repressed Hostility Boy, he seemed a little crankier than your average homicidal maniac."

"Yes, it's a pet theory of mine that the years of being forced to live with a soul, of being denied very basic instincts and desires, has actually driven the demon quite . . . mad," Wesley mused.

"Great," Gunn muttered, "so we've not only got an incredibly powerful evil vamp out there, but he's an incredibly powerful, evil, =crazy= vamp?"

"I don't believe he's completely mad," Giles mentioned. "I think he's more . . . unbalanced."

"Yes," Wesley agreed. "He does retain a certain level of coherency, but I'd hesitate to call him sane."

"Angel's soul balances him," Buffy said quietly.

No one in the room seemed to hear her.

"Look, I still don't see the problem," Faith insisted. "Wicca Girl over here works up her mojo, says the magic words, and poof, Angel's back to his usual, brooding self."

"We'll curse him," Buffy said, as though the thought had just occurred to her. Truthfully, it had. The numbness began to wear off, and she felt her soul get imperceptibly lighter. Of course they could just curse him again. Why hadn't she known that?

"I don't want to rain on anyone's parade, and God knows it kills me to say this, but . . ." Cordelia sighed. "Angel specifically requested to be staked if this ever happened again. I promised him I'd do it."

"Cor, I swear, I'll take full responsibility," Buffy said dryly.

"That's not the point," Cordelia insisted.

Willow stood up and slowly, warily approached Buffy. The redhead took her best friend's hand, and Buffy tried not to flinch at how warm Willow was.

"Buffy . . . Angel . . . he told us some stuff when you . . . before you . . .you know."

"Willow, please, just . . . whatever it is, just . . ." Buffy really thought she was about to start sobbing. There was no cause for sobbing.

"He's almost free right now," Willow said gently. "The reason he didn't want to curse you . . . is because he never wanted you to have to bear the burden of your demon's sins. And . . . I know he sort of wishes I'd never re-cursed him. He said he didn't blame me, but I mean, how could he not? I just . . .I don't think it would be right. Cursing him again. I think that . . . I think that maybe we should let him go. I think that =you= should let him go."

"Willow," Buffy began, but the redhead held up a hand.

"No, Buffy . . . don't just be all dismissing me out of hand. We have to be in hand here. I've learned a thing or two about death and souls and moving on . . . Buffy, he's been dead for over two hundred years. Don't you think it's time he had a little peace? Don't you think he deserves it? He tried so hard to give you that . . . doesn't he deserve the same in return?"

Buffy stared up at Willow, giving her best friend's words careful thought. Each person in the room seemed focused on Buffy, and for once, she was glad of their scrutiny. It was important that every single one of them heard and understood exactly what she was about to say.

Buffy smiled softly. "Angel is the most heroic man to ever walk this earth, and the person who sells him the shortest, is him. Angel's also the most selfless person I've ever known. I don't want to see him live with more guilt, with more memories of death than he already has. I would give almost anything to spare him a moment's pain. Once again, he was willing to let me go, because it was best for me, and I can't imagine a more pure declaration of love than that.

"But I'm not as good as he is, Will. I'm selfish. I've never been anything but when it comes to him. Maybe he'll hate me for the rest of eternity, but at least he'll be here to do it and I refuse to apologize for wanting that." She glanced around the room; made sure each person present read the iron determination in her eyes. Her attention refocused itself on her best friend.

"Willow, curse him."

~

Each road that I walk down
Reminds me of you

~

The Scourge of Europe struck a damn impressive pose casually leaning against the doorjamb, the only accent on his form the dim lights that echoed through the deserted hall outside Lindsey's office.

A predatory gleam lit his eyes, and Lindsey felt genuine fear mix with an abundant amount of relief. This, then, would be the end of it. All his struggling, all his desire to succeed, to prove he wasn't a fool like his father, all the despicable things he'd done in the name of power, all washed away by what would no doubt be a killing blow from someone he'd foolishly (as foolishly as his own father) thought of as an arch enemy.

Superman to his Lex Luther; Batman to his Joker. Had he truly boiled the whole thing down to such ridiculous stereotypes in his own mind? Lindsey was willing to concede in this, his final moments, that he had. He'd spent his entire life trying to prove he wasn't an idiot the way his father had been, and in the end, he only proved to surpass the old man in every way.

Of course, the evil thing in his doorway wasn't a hero anymore. The archetypes had become more muddled with Strickland and Drusilla's interference. Perhaps they were now playing at two nefarious gentlemen, each getting the comeuppance they deserved at each other's hands. Would there be suffering for Angelus, though, in this scenario? Lindsey doubted it. Angelus' justice would come at the hands of a tiny blonde girl who loved him.

Darla would be laughing at them both if she were still here. Lindsey almost thought he heard her anyway. He saw her sometimes, when Drusilla grinned a certain way. He saw her how she'd been human, when Angel did something decidedly heroic. How he hated to realize how wrong he'd been all this time about a man who could have been a friend.

Bizarrely, Lindsey's indifference to death had been waging war with his newly emerging desire to live. He had first felt that intense urge to live the moment he'd realized what Strickland was planning. His knowledge of the Soul Blessing, coupled with the diaries of that Slayer who'd lived so very long ago . . . as he'd been madly copying all the research and blackmail, he'd rediscovered something he'd lost a long time ago:

Hope.

His earlier relief at being allowed death began to wane. This wasn't like being trapped in the wine cellar with all those doomed people. Then, he hadn't had anything but more evil, more misery ahead of him. The only thing he had to live for was another day at the office, another hour long scalding shower in the evening in the fruitless effort to cleanse his soul of his many sins.

Funny, how when there was hope, one couldn't keep on feeling ambivalent about one's impending death.

"I really should thank you," Angelus said to him from the door.

Then, he did the last thing Lindsey expected of him. He smiled at Drusilla, the expression almost paternal in its affection. Assuming one's father was a deranged sociopath who could snap your spine like a twig.

"Come on, Precious. Time to go."

The slight brogue was back, Lindsey noted, as Drusilla rose, a delighted grin on her face. She all but floated to Angelus' side, and the two turned to leave the office.

In the hall, a doomed security guard told them to freeze. Angelus' back was to him, but Lindsey could see the amused smile spread across the vampire's face. Had the demon had this much fun in years? Lindsey wondered idly.

Angelus began to walk, and the guard charged him. At the last second, the vampire spun around, extending an arm out. The crook of his elbow caught the guard's throat sharply, and Lindsey winced at the sickening sound of bone breaking; larynx collapsing.

Once again, Angelus extended his arm, and Drusilla tucked hers into the crook of his elbow. Calm as can be, the two vampires strode down the hall toward the bank of elevators Angelus had originally emerged from.

"Shit," Lindsey swore quietly.

Then, he turned back to his work and quickly finished copying files.

~

Precious pain
Empty and cold but it keeps me alive
I gave it my soul so that I could survive

~

"Just say it, Giles. I'm about to jump out of my skin waiting for the lecture."

Giles sighed, regarding his Slayer warily. They stood to the side of the lobby, away from the rest of the group. Cordelia and Wesley were assisting Willow as she set up for the curse. Gunn had returned with an orb of Thesula a few minutes ago. Xander had gone into the back room and returned with the other ingredients for the spell. Giles was absently impressed with how well stocked Angel Investigations was in matters of the paranormal.

"I don't mean this cruelly, and I hope you don't take it as such," he said finally, looking closely at Buffy's profile for a reaction. She refused to look at him, and he sighed again. "I just want to remind you what happened the last time you refused to stake Angel. For that matter, what happened the last time Angel failed to stake you."

"I get it, okay?" she snapped, turning her head sharply to look at him. Her eyes shut tightly, and he watched her force deep breaths through her dead lungs. He was perversely fascinated that she still used that particularly method to calm herself, and made mental note to quiz her (and possibly Angel, he hoped with guarded optimism) on how it felt to breathe when one didn't need to.

"I know how much you love him," Giles began hesitantly.

"I kinda doubt that," Buffy muttered.

Giles took offense at that. "Buffy, you can't believe that you hold the patent on true love."

"Of course not," she agreed. "But . . . Giles, it's different with us. I'm not . . . he isn't . . .we don't just . . ." A few tears began to leak down her cheeks. "I made him lose his soul," she whispered harshly. "Twice." Something that was supposed to be a laugh, he was sure, escaped from her throat. "That's gotta say something, right?"

The little spark of righteous anger in him burned out easily. The simple truth was, Buffy and Angel =did= have something the rest of the world didn't possess. Doomed, fairy tale love that so very rarely ended with an 'and they lived happily ever after' in real life. They lived extraordinary lives without the specter of their forbidden love to cast a shadow; Giles was willing to concede that the loves they each held close in those lives should be nothing less than something from a child's story-book.

Perhaps, eventually, things might work out for them . . .

"Buffy," he began hesitantly.

"You're right." She held up a hand to forestall him. "I know you're right. It's just . . . I can't do this without him, Giles, and that's beside the point, anyway. Willow's going to try the curse right now, and it just . . . it makes it easier for everyone, Angel included. How many people could he have killed in three hours during the day -- you know what, let's both pretend not to think about the answer to that question."

"Buffy," he tried again, only to be interrupted once more.

"I know, Giles," she whispered, "just please . . . please, let her curse him."

Her tone was pleading, but they both knew there would be nothing he could do to stop Buffy once she was set on a certain course. He did appreciate that she cared enough to pretend his opinion mattered. Perhaps she even believed that it did. Giles nodded, once, giving his consent, and placed a comforting hand on Buffy's back while Willow began to chant.

Two hours, and no 'cool glow thing' later, and Buffy began to worry.

"I'm sorry," the little witch whispered, looking totally drained as she panted with Xander and Wesley sitting at her side. "I just . . . I can't. It won't work."

"Perhaps it wasn't meant to work," Wesley said gently.

Buffy began to feel more ill than she had earlier in the day, awakening to a touch that should have been loving and protective, and had instead been mocking and deadly.

"Buffy, I think you need to face facts," Cordelia said quietly. "I don't like it anymore than you do, but he doesn't . . . he wouldn't =want= to . . ."

"B, if you can't . . . I mean, you don't have to. I'll do it for you. For him."

"He'd snap you in two before you knew what hit you," Buffy hissed, directing her anger at Faith.

"Fine," the other Slayer snapped. "Then you're gonna have to suck it up and take care of your boyfriend yourself."

"I =can't=!" Buffy cried. "Don't you get it?" Her wild gaze tracked each person in the room in turn. "This isn't a matter of should, or want to -- I =can't= kill him again, good or evil."

"Is it Angel, or is it Memorex," Xander muttered quietly. A deadly glare from Buffy shut him up.

"And none of you -- Spike and Faith included -- have the skill," Buffy concluded softly.

"Maybe not in a fair fight," Spike muttered, sounding a bit hurt at Buffy's casual dismissal of his prowess.

"We could gang up," Faith agreed. "Two against one may not be sporting odds, but if the occasion calls . . ."

"How can you sit there so casually and talk about killing Angel?" Buffy asked, horrified.

"Look, I'm the last one who wants to see him dust," Faith said flatly, "but, B, you've gotta get this -- your boy's gone bad. And there's a whole lotta bad in him."

"I don't know why you're all refusing to accept this very simple principle," Buffy said softly, her tone deadly. "I need him. I sacrificed him for the world once before. You can't . . . you can't ask me to do it again. I won't. Find another way."

"Buffy--"

"Find. Another. Way."

That said, Buffy turned and practically ran up the stairs, hoping to find a moment's solace amongst the things that smelled and felt like Angel.

The room was deathly quietly for a moment. Then, from the corner, Gunn spoke up:

"Hey . . . so this whole soul rubber band thing -- Angel gets happy with Buffy, his soul does a swan song, and we've got the Scourge of the Powdered Wig Days to deal with, right?"

"Essentially," Giles agreed, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose.

"So then I s'pose it's safe to say the whole thing works in reverse."

"If you have a point, feel free to come to it," Giles snapped.

"My point," Gunn said, glaring at Giles, "is this: Buffy got down with Angel last night, and only one of them walked outta here with a yen to do some serious damage to the human population of the city. Now, either Buffy didn't get hers last night -- which don't say much for Angel's rep -- or there's something mighty strange goin' on."

Again, the deadly quiet spread through the room. Then, Cordelia hit upon an idea:

"Duh!"

"Oye! " Xander quipped. Faith smacked him.

"What is it, Cordelia?" Wesley asked.

"Someone who'll give us that other way Buffy's got her heart set on."

~

Keeping me safe in these chains
Precious pain

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Wind -- Fields of Gold

~

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields gold

~

"Slayers aren't welcome here. This is a sanctuary."

"Look, if I was here to make trouble, you'd already be on the floor, Tonto."

"Is there a problem, my lovelies?"

"She's a Slayer," 'Tonto' whined.

"And you're ugly," Faith snapped, taking a menacing step in the bouncer's direction.

"Okay, neutral corners," Cordelia snapped, shoving Faith away with one hand, while she placed another on the rather impressive chest of the demon bouncer at Caritas. He was big and blue, and sort of reminded her of the Judge, in a far less I'm-gonna-destroy-the-world sort of way.

"Here without your cohorts I see," the Host noted. "And I was so hoping you'd slaughter another Queen song."

"No tequila, no singing," Cordelia assured him. "I'm here to vouch for her." She tilted her head toward Faith.

The Host looked the Slayer up and down. "Interesting," he murmured.

"What?" Faith asked, looking uncomfortable.

"This 'n that," the Host said, running his gaze up and down her body. Were it anyone -- thing -- else, it might have seemed lecherous. "You're singing," he said.

"No," Faith answered at the same time Cordelia said "Yes."

"One sec," Cordelia said sweetly as she took Faith's arm and pulled her aside.

"Watch it, Prom Queen," Faith snapped, wrenching her arm away.

"I was not Prom Queen, I was May Queen," Cordelia snapped. "And unless you want me to tell Buffy you refused to do this one little thing to help Angel that he would do for you in a =second=, by the way, you WILL get up there, and you WILL sing your little jailbird heart out."

Faith was stonily silent for a moment. Then she made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "I'm doing this for Angel," she muttered, heading straight for the stage.

Cordelia allowed herself a satisfied smirk as she walked over to the table the Host occupied. Taking a seat next to him, she propped her chin on her hand and stared at him until he turned his attention toward her.

"Haven't seen Handsome in here since last week," the Host commented.

"Angel came here last week?" Cordelia asked, puzzled. He hadn't told them he was visiting Caritas . . .

"Wanted to update me on the sitch with his little blonde thing," the Host remarked. "Gotta say, this tiny blonde is much healthier for his aura than the other tiny blonde."

"That's almost hard to believe," Cordelia muttered.

The Host looked at her carefully for a moment. "You've been awfully hard on him," he mentioned.

"Yeah, well, he deserves it," Cordelia said stiffly.

"No arguments," The Host conceded. "Baby did bad. He slipped. Nearly fell too far for saving. Good thing you've never done something you later wished you hadn't. Helps keep you up on that high moral ground."

"Hey," Cordelia began, but the Host held up a hand to forestall her -- Faith was singing.

"You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you. You'd be like heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived. And I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you."

"Fabulous selection," the Host murmured. "Especially, you know, considering." He stared at Cordelia for a moment. "Oh, I guess not being prescient yourself you wouldn't know, would you?"

"I have visions," Cordelia said, a little haughtily.

"Not quite the same, though, is it, sugar?" The Host patted her hand consolingly.

"What are we supposed to do about Angel?"

The Host frowned. "What's wrong with Angel?"

Cordelia sat back, feeling smug. "Mr. Prescient doesn't know Angel went over to the dark side in a major way?"

"It's not like anyone bothers to keep me informed," he groused quietly for a moment. Then he sighed. "I was afraid that's what I was reading off of him. I was kind of hoping he'd just taken to wearing leather pants. Couldn't be helped, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"It's all a crapshoot, you know. The whole thing."

"What thing?"

"Life, my dove. The stumbles, the highs, the sorrow, the ecstasy -- none of it is pre-ordained, and yet all of it is meant to be. Angel never should have turned his back on his path, yet there was =nothing= that could have stopped it from happening. If you'd all been a little more supportive, it just would have taken him longer to hit the ground. Everything's in motion around us, sweet. We're just scrambling, trying to do what feels right, and praying we don't suck the world into hell."

"I need you baby, and if it's quite all right, I need you baby to warm a lonely night. I love you baby. Trust in me when I say: Oh pretty baby, don't bring me down I pray, oh pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. And let me love you . . . oh baby let me love you . . . "

"Now she's got a beautiful set of pipes," The Host continued, ignoring Cordelia's somewhat dumbfounded look. "Big things on her radar, too."

"Like what?" Cordelia managed to ask. She didn't like having deep thoughts. Ever since she'd started working with Angel, though, they'd been unavoidable. Damn vampire.

"When Little Ms. Hates the World is done, she should head to Wolfram and Hart. The One Handed Boy has the answers she needs."

"Wolfram and Hart =bad=," Cordelia hissed. "That stupid law firm almost cost us Angel, whoever the hell's fault it was. THEY are majorly responsible, and I don't want Unstable Girl anywhere near them, and especially not anywhere near Lindsey McDonald."

"I'm just telling you what I see," the Host insisted. "I've never read a Slayer before," he mused. "Unless you count what I got off the little blonde one from Angel."

Now, Cordelia felt mildly curious. "You got a clear picture of Buffy and Angel?"

The Host laughed. "Oh, those two crazy kids. Quite the ride ahead of them."

"Ahead of them?" Cordelia asked wearily, thinking of the long, long, long trail of bodies they'd left =behind= them. "Is it an angsty, bloody ride?"

Faith was stepping off the stage to thunderous applause. The Host stood, but spared Cordelia a few parting words over his shoulder:

"Nothing's ever for certain, but with those two, I guarantee it'll never get boring."

~

"No way, no how, I'm not playing this time."

"Xander, do stop being such a child--"

"I am NOT being a child! It's just that Willow's a dirty cheater and I won't play with her anymore!"

"I am not a cheater. You take that back, Xander Harris!"

"Every time we draw straws, you use your witchy-fu to make yours longer! I always get the short straw because Giles cuts them and he cheats too."

"Now hold on, I take offense to that--"

"Actually, you do sort of cheat, Giles."

"Willow--"

"Guys, this isn't solving anything. One of us has to go up there and talk to Buffy, and since I drew the short straw earlier, and Giles basically sucks at confrontation--"

"I do not--"

"AND SINCE WILLOW CHEATED -- I think the witch wins."

Three gazes exchanged glares with one another, before the redhead sighed and reluctantly headed for the stairs.

~

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of the barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

~

"Hey."

"Hey." Buffy tucked something beneath a pillow, then patted the bed beside her in invitation.

Willow crossed the room, and flopped down beside her undead best friend, the evil version of whom had killed Willow's lover. The redhead winced at her own thoughts, but they couldn't be helped. Saying goodbye to Tara had helped ease a lot of sorrow, but she still felt the distinct lack of her love's presence.

"Uh, there's not a really delicate way to say this, so I figured I'd just jump right in and . . . well . . ."

"Just say it, Will," Buffy sighed.

"Why the hell did you and Angel get sweaty lusty with each other?!" She paused for a second. "Do vampires sweat?"

Again, Buffy sighed. "Will, I swear, I still don't know how it happened. Well, I know =how= . . . " If she'd possessed the ability, Buffy would have blushed at the memory of Angel's hands and mouth on her body the night before. "I don't know how we let it happen," she said at last. "Everything's still sort of muddled in my head, but . . . "

"What?" Willow asked gently.

"We weren't . . . lucid," Buffy said at last. "I mean, we knew what we were doing, and how much we wanted each other . . . we were coherent. But it's like nothing mattered last night except whatever we wanted. And what we both wanted, more than anything else, was to be together."

Buffy had numbly told them all earlier that Angel had lost his soul. She hadn't explained further, but given that Xander had found her tied naked to the bed, no one had been that confused as to how it had happened.

"You can't remember anything else that might tell us how you could have let this happen?" Willow implored softly.

"Will, the only thing I keep remembering . . ." Buffy stared down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. "God, all I can remember is how incredible it was. How perfect it all felt, how perfect HE felt . . ."

Putting an arm around her friend, Willow stroked Buffy's soft blonde hair a bit awkwardly. She hadn't offered her best friend comfort like this since Buffy came back from the dark side.

"I know you've had a lot on your mind, so you probably haven't thought about this," Willow began hesitantly, "but Buffy . . . you're still Buffy."

Furrowing her eyebrows together, it took the Slayer a few moments to understand what Willow was trying to tell her. Then, her eyes widened.

"I still have my soul," she mumbled numbly.

Nodding, Willow winced a little. "Yeah. I mean, was it not -- you know . . ."

"Um, hate to break it to you, but there's definitely something even stranger than we thought going on, which means research, 'cause I'm kinda really sure I was perfectly happy several times last night."

Now, it was Willow's eyes that widened. "Several?" she squeaked, looking surprised, impressed and jealous at the same time.

"I lost count after four. I'm muddled, but some things, you just don't forget."

"Wow."

They sat in silence for a moment, before Buffy made eye contact again, big, liquid tears threatening to spill over her lashes at any moment.

"We have to get him back, Will. I won't make it without him again."

"We will," Willow promised, although she wasn't sure if she believed it. She wanted to, though. For Buffy's sake, and, despite what Angel had told them, for his, as well. He might have wished they hadn't cursed him before, but this time, Willow thought it was different. Angel wouldn't abandon Buffy in her new state of being without a guide.

Willow just hoped he got a choice in the matter.

~

The door had barely clicked shut when Buffy snatched up the small, leather bound journal she'd tucked under the pillow upon Willow's arrival.

She felt only a twinge of guilt as she cracked it open and flipped to the page she'd left off on. Angel's private thoughts were just that -- private. Buffy tried to tell herself she was only reading them under the same guise everyone had used to read her diary. The truth was, she didn't need insight into Angel's psyche, especially not his evil demon's psyche. It used to scare her how well she understood the nature of the beast. It didn't anymore.

No, the truth was, she simply needed to form a connection with him; with his soul. And this was him, in his purest form, boiled down to words and memories written out in a long stream of consciousness. Sometimes, it took her a minute to realize what he was referencing, his thoughts were so jumbled. The sheer breadth of his life no doubt accounted for a lot of his subject jumping; after nearly three hundred years of life, it was probably hard to think chronologically.

At the moment, he was waxing poetic while he'd still been in Sunnydale. From the entry, she'd guess it was a couple of weeks before Prom; before he'd decided to leave her. He'd already been considering it, though. The idea that he was holding her back had apparently weighed heavily on his mind since his return from Hell. Angel admitted in his journal that only his own intense need to be near her had prevented him from 'doing the right thing' that much sooner.

Buffy had known he'd possessed the deeply held belief that he wasn't good enough for her. What she was surprised to learn, spelled out in explicit detail in Angel's private musings, was that his feelings of inadequacy, his desire for her to have a normal life, while certainly guiding forces in his decision to leave, hadn't been the main reason for his departure.

His bone deep terror had.

Angel spoke of loving Buffy beyond reason in some of these passages. At times, his writing would cease to be to the diary, and he would refer to her in the second person, almost as though he were writing to her. He described the first time he made love to her in aching detail, and Buffy felt through his memories what that night had meant to him, no matter what came after.

She'd shed tears for his loss, and hers, until she'd thought herself empty of any moisture; then, when he talked of his fear, she proved herself wrong, and wept.

Perfect happiness was not synonymous with 'orgasm,' Angel had written, and Buffy thought, 'I could have told you that.' Further, perfect happiness didn't even mean 'orgasm with the one you love,' and again, Buffy thought of Riley, whom she had loved, even if it had lacked a certain blinding intensity. But never, not once, had she felt perfectly happy with him.

Again, Angel's words spoke the truth in her heart.

'It's freedom, Buffy. More and more while I examined my feelings for you in Sunnydale, I came to realize that perfect happiness means being totally free and at ease with who you are, and the person you're with. It means pulling the drain on pain and guilt and letting it swirl away until all you're left with is the warm-water-bliss pelting down on your skin, washing your sins away.

'That comes so close to happening for me just by sitting quietly in the same room with you. What would happen if I woke up beside you? Would there be too much happiness one day, would I forget again, for an instant, my eternal suffering, and damn us both? Faced with the certain knowledge that if I gave you half a chance, you would surely ease my pain, how could I have done anything but leave you to some chance at normalcy?'

With the very tips of her fingers, Buffy traced the loopy scrawls of his ls, the smooth flow of his words.

Buffy had told Willow the truth; last night was fuzzy, and she had no clear memories of why she had wanted him the way she had, or why neither of them had been able to think rationally about the curse.

But she did remember the emotion. There had been total freedom in his arms, and the bliss had washed her clean of all the filth she'd perpetuated soulless. He had made love to her, and her to him, and for the second time, she'd set his soul free. Hers was still firmly tethered to her body, and Buffy refused to believe it was because she hadn't found the exact same place he had.

Sighing, Buffy shook off thoughts of the curse for the moment. The others were no doubt researching up the wazoo downstairs. Right now, she needed to ground herself, and nothing else in her life had ever given her more clarity than listening to Angel's words of wisdom.

Hell, maybe she'd even gain a few insights into his character she hadn't known before. She'd already read his thoughts and feelings about the whole Darla mess -- nothing could be more shocking than that.

~

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in fields of gold

~

'It's been three days since Buffy didn't lie in my bed; three days since I never made love to her. Seventy-two agonizing hours where I've remembered in excruciating detail never eating fresh strawberries from strategic parts of Buffy's anatomy. I went out and bought a gallon of Cookie Dough Fudge Mint Chip. Cordelia looked at me strangely when I yelled at her for opening it. It wasn't fair of me, but given how very =fair= my life has been lately, I think I'm entitled to be a little irrational.

'While I know it's only the first foray into madness, I swear I can smell her on my sheets. I wake up in the evenings, my nose buried in the pillow she never slept on, and for a second of time in-between sleep and consciousness, I can feel my heart beat the way it never did three goddamn days ago.

'I'm beginning to worry that I've created this beautiful fiction in my mind. There is no evidence of it, save the shattered pieces of my heart from watching Buffy disappear from my life once more. I confided in Doyle, and now he's dead, and I'm positive that's contributing to the rawness I feel, the pain, the rage. His death, him being the only one to know of my time with Buffy, makes me all the more protective of it. I don't want to tell anyone. I don't want to ease the burden of =knowing= everything that might have been had Buffy's life not been at risk. I want to hoard memories of a perfection I never thought I'd attain. Plus, I know that if I keep them to myself, no one will be able to tell me they aren't real.

'They =are= real. It never happened, but it's still =real=.

'Right now, I've decided to sit down and write this all out while I know I'm still sane. God knows I've invented enough impossible scenarios involving Buffy in my mind over the years. Soft, ridiculous, magnificent lies that gave me the strength to continue fighting, continue living my cursed existence for another day, another hour, another minute.

'I realized, when I asked the Oracles to take back that day, to take away my mortality, my salvation, my chance at pure, perfect happiness, that I was dealing my sanity a blow it might never fully recover from. My fear for Buffy's life, the certainty I felt in my marrow that other innocent people might die as a result of my selfish wants, overrode my equal certainty that holding all I've ever wanted in my hands, then losing it, would destroy something inside of me.

'Here I wait, feeling that jagged, broken thing inside me now. I'd call it innocence, if it were possible that a hundred and forty some odd years of death and another hundred of sorrow hadn't wiped any trace of innocence from my being. I want to call it the death of hope, but I still feel that, burning somewhere deep, deep down inside, untouched by an entire world I live and relive in a tiny corner of my brain.

'Instead, I think that broken thing is a notion I've carried with me since I was a child. In the end, even when I knew better, I always had an inherent belief in the world being a just place; somewhere that the good guys won, where love conquered all, and we really did live happily ever after.

'That belief finally died in the instant it took Buffy's tears to dry on my skin, her litany of promises to never forget still under the icy glare of her unaware righteous indignation. A bright flash, and the Mohra was dead, and with him, the death of a dream I hadn't allowed myself to truly consider, it was so outside anything I could possibly hope for.

'Buffy walked out of my life again, and something inside me died.

'What I didn't realize, not until just now, as I look inside myself, is that something just as precious was born in that same moment.

'The good guys don't always win. People who shouldn't die, do. Friends come and go, no matter how much we love them. Sometimes wanting someone with your entire being, loving them, isn't what's best for them.

'But we're still given the chance to fight, no matter the outcome. We are blessed to have friends and loves come into our lives, and it doesn't matter how long they're there, or where the ultimate destination lies; it's the journey that counts. We're still allowed to love.

'And somehow, a vampire with no right to ask for a moment's mercy, was shown a lifetime's grace for twenty-four perfect hours that =did= happen.

'Doyle's dead. Cordelia's falling apart. I refuse to lose my mind, because she needs me. Because there are others who need me. I refuse to let the memories of the day I spent as a human being be something that cripples me. I choose now to wear them as a badge of honor. Whatever the future may hold, I was loved, truly and completely, by my heart's only light, and the fact that I'm the only being on this earth that remembers is incentive enough to remember it well.

One last time, Buffy has saved me again without even knowing it.

~

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon a the fields of the barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold

~

"It's horrid."

"I'd have to agree, princess. But it's only temporary. Everything's only temporary."

Angelus smiled as Drusilla slowly walked the length of the abandoned warehouse he'd found. It stank of rats, and if there's one thing Angel swore to himself he'd never smell again, it was vermin. But concessions had to be made in order to win the war, and a few nights spent in a place clearly beneath him was a small sacrifice indeed, when one kept an eye on the big picture.

"The wind is changing," she murmured. "Gathering, gathering, the multitude. Blow us around. Mix us up. Lead us home."

He tamped down the urge to roll his eyes. That had been Darla's response to Drusilla's ramblings, and more than once it had cost them dearly. A grin he couldn't contain spread across his lips as he remembered setting his two lovelies on fire a few short months ago.

"Naughty," Drusilla chastised, sliding closer to him. He wondered briefly if she could read his mind.

"You do know me so well," he said softly, running the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. Drusilla hummed her appreciation of his touch, and he thought about throwing her to the ground and pounding into her until all thoughts of tiny undead blondes fled his brain.

Nah, he thought. It just wasn't fun without Spike around to be driven nutty by it.

Nonetheless, he caressed the curve of her hip and was shocked when she pulled away from him.

"She's still inside of you," Drusilla hissed.

His mouth tightening, Angelus didn't bother to ask her who she meant. Lord, how he wanted to grab Buffy by her hair, tie her up and beat her until she bled. Then he wanted to fuck her until she screamed; drink from her until she was dry; let her replenish her strength with the blood that ran through his own veins.

And then, he wanted to start again from the beginning.

"It's different now," Angelus insisted, and even he recognized the uncertainty in his voice. "=She's= different now."

"She's like you were," Drusilla said. "More human than beast. Are you my beast again, Daddy?"

"Of course, Dru," he soothed, cupping her cheek in his palm.

Her head shook. "No. You're not. Daddy's heart doesn't work right. No humanity in that one."

A low growl left Angelus' throat. Oh, yes, he would make the little bitch pay for causing him to love her. Buffy, with her wide, innocent eyes that held a vicious demon caged behind them. Buffy, with her soft, fuckable curves and high, keening moans. He was hard as a rock just thinking about her, and Dru was giving off a distinctive 'don't touch' vibe. He could probably wear her down, but it didn't seem worth the effort. Only Buffy would be enough to satisfy his hunger; her body, her blood, her soft, luscious mouth . . .

"You have a plan," Drusilla singsonged.

Thankful for a distraction from his thoughts, Angelus motioned for Dru to follow him to a slab of concrete risen from the center of the floor. They sat, and he put a paternal arm around her shoulders. She snuggled happily into his side. Apparently, so long as he was playing the part of a doting father, she didn't mind his touch.

"Once I've found a way to rid Buffy of her soul--" and apparently screwing her six ways from Sunday wasn't going to cut it "--we're going to build a new family, sweet."

"You're bringing all your girls home to stay," Dru said with delight.

"Yes, my lamb. Perhaps we can find a way to unburden young William of his chip."

Drusilla shook her head violently. "My Spike is lost to me. He's all full of them. Little sprites have whispered it to me. He's all full of the Slayer and the witch. He wants them to be his family now. He doesn't want us anymore. I showed him that the toy soldiers were all in his head, but he's still all full of them. The wind has taken him from me. You won't let the wind take you again, will you, my Angel?"

To say he was disturbed was putting it mildly. Granted, Dru had been nuttier than a fruitcake since the night he turned her; but this was a few stops past 'nutty'. Drusilla sounded seriously disturbed, and not in her usual way. There was fear in her voice, fear that hadn't even been present when he'd overheard her sobbing to Darla after he'd set them on fire.

"I'm here for good, precious," he soothed gently. "And we'll find you a new prince, one worthy of you this time."

Her big, glassy eyes begged him to mean everything he said. Gently, he wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"After all, my princess gets whatever her heart desires."

~

I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in fields of gold
We'll walk in fields of gold

~

"What's a Mohra demon?"

Giles looked up from the book he'd been reading in what had once been Angel's office. When he'd questioned Wesley about it, the other man had seemed uncomfortable. Buffy now stood in the doorway, looking somehow more upset than she had earlier.

"I'm not sure--"

"Well, while you're looking it up, also check on whatever Oracles are."

"Buffy, we do have a great deal to research already--"

"Giles." Buffy seemed to be exerting a great deal of effort to keep her tears at bay. "I need to know everything you can find me on Mohra demons and Oracles. I need to understand why . . . how he . . ."

"He?"

"Angel. Look, this has nothing to do with our current problem. But it has everything to do with Angel and I. Please, Giles, just try."

Giles sighed, then gave her the only answer he'd ever been able to when confronted with how dearly he loved her, and wished to keep her happy.

"Of course, Buffy, whatever you need."

~

"What did the Host say?"

"A whole lot of nothing," Cordelia said stiffly. She was still smarting from being chastised about HER treatment of ANGEL. Didn't anyone see that she was the wronged party? Wasn't it enough that she took him back into her life, that she was trusting him again, loving him again, treating him like family again? Sure, there had been a rough start, but she'd been the bigger person.

And there wasn't time for this right now. Whatever his faults, whatever her faults, Angel was family, Cordelia loved him, and they had to work to get him back.

"He said a little more than nothing," Faith insisted.

"Ignore Clearly Suicidal Girl," Cordelia snapped.

"Yo, could you guys stop scratchin' each others eyes out long enough to tell us what the Jolly Green Giant said?" Gunn requested.

"He told me I had to go to Wolfram and Hart," Faith answered.

"I know I'm not really familiar with them," Willow began hesitantly, "but I'd like to vote for any of us going to visit the evil lawyers as a very, very bad no-good idea."

"Seconded," Wesley announced.

"Hey, I was just saying it was a bad idea for She Of Anger Management Issues to go," Cordelia protested. "If the Host is sure there are answers at Wolfram and Hart, I believe him. Besides, something funky is going on, and they're usually responsible for funk."

"These are the same people Angel believed responsible for Buffy's soul," Giles clarified.

"Without perfect happiness clause," Xander added.

"We don't know that," Wesley argued.

"Well, girl's still got a soul, and Angel doesn't, so I'd say it's a pretty safe bet," Gunn cut in.

"Or, perhaps Buffy simply didn't achieve perfect happiness," Wesley offered.

"No, Buffy insists she was perfectly happy," Willow said. "And . . . I believe her. I mean, it's Buffy with Angel. I may not have always thought he was best for her, but there's no denying they made each other happy when all the other bad stuff wasn't in the way. And now she's upstairs, and she won't come down, and we're all really worried and I don't think there's any way she wasn't perfectly happy." Willow sniffled, and seemed to be unsuccessfully trying to hold tears back.

"Agreed," Giles said. "The only conclusion I can come to is that whatever ritual was used to give Buffy's soul back to her was different than the curse that affected Angel." Wearily, he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And I fear we've nearly exhausted half of Angel's books without a glimmer of hope."

"Aha!" Cordelia crowed. "Which means we're going to have to seek answers elsewhere."

"Which means I'm taking a road trip to pay a visit to some evil lawyers," Faith concluded.

"Not yet," Wesley implored. "Give us time. A . . . "

"Another hour," Giles finished for him. "By then we will have worked through most of the oldest texts."

Faith blew out a reluctant gust of air. "Fine. One hour, then I'm out of here like lightning."

Everyone returned to research, and Spike, who'd been lurking in the shadows the entire time, crept up the stairs.

~

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold

~

"Whatever it is you're here to annoy me with, I suggest you turn around and leave right now, because I swear, Spike, I'm no mood to put up with your endless bullshit."

"I just came up here to tell you your gang's goin' half off their rockers worryin' about you up here, mopin' and cryin' 'bout the bloody wanker. Now normally, I wouldn't give two shits about the whole lot of them. But . . ."

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "But what?"

"Red's cryin'," Spike said, staring down at the ground. "She's just gotten to the point where thinkin' about the other little witch doesn't set her off on a sobbin' jag, and now you're upsettin' her and I don't like it."

"Spike, I don't know what you're trying to prove to me by pretending to care about Willow--"

"I'm not bloody pretending," Spike snapped. "I do care about her. I care about her because you cared about her, and 'far as we were all concerned, you were as good as dead for a spell there, pet."

"I will never love you." He looked confused, and she held up a hand. "I'm about to say something nice to you, and I needed to preface it with that." He shrugged, and she continued, "if you truly do care about her . . . Thank you, for taking care of Willow. God knows with everything she's been through the past few weeks . . . whatever your motives, Spike, I'm glad she had someone with her when it counted."

"Yeah, well . . . no skin off my nose, right? I mean, what the hell else do I have to fill the boring arse time with? Vampire cannot live by 'Passions' alone."

Again, Buffy narrowed her eyes as she watched him carefully; noticed the way he was starting to fidget. His feet were shuffling a little. He looked nervous, and he was trying to slowly back toward the door without looking like he was slowly backing toward the door.

"Oh my God," Buffy muttered, torn between twisted amusement and revulsion, "you're in love with Willow!"

"Am bloody not!" he denied quickly and vehemently.

"Are bloody too!" Buffy insisted, leaping off the bed to stalk toward Spike. "God, I can't tell if this is creepier than you being in love with me or not," she muttered.

"Bloody hell." Spike cursed something else under his breath. "This just isn't fair, you know? You were bad enough, but at least you had some darkness to you. Little witch is all light and bubbles and fuzzy pink sweaters. What the hell is wrong with me?!"

"That's what I'd like to know," Buffy mumbled.

"It'll be different," he said quietly after a moment. Buffy regarded him seriously; the expression on her face told him he could continue. "For one, there's no way in hell she's ever gonna find out about it. I'm consumed with her, but it's . . . it's not like with you. I don't want to go through her underwear drawer, or build a little shrine or anything."

"Thank heaven for small miracles?" Buffy echoed wearily.

"I knew going into it that there was no chance of you ever loving me back," Spike said slowly, "and I also know that there's even less chance of her feeling anything but pity, and maybe an occasional twinge of gratitude toward me. I get that, Slayer, so you don't have to ram the point home -- with your fists or anything else."

"You're not gonna be able to keep this a secret forever," Buffy said flatly. "You're like, the least subtle . . .person . . . on the face of the earth. You started chain smoking around my house. You snuck into my basement and rifled through my drawers for underwear and pictures. You--"

"Look, I already said it's not gonna go down like that with Red. Besides, my excuse for bein' around her is already in place -- I'm takin' care of her. Don't worry about her, Buffy. She's never gonna know a bloody monster's in love with her."

Something in his tone stopped the instinctual flow of objections, angry words and accusations Buffy was about to make. There was emotion in his eyes, something beyond obsession and lust. Could it be? she wondered half crazily. An evil, soulless creature possessing the capacity to love a human girl?

"If you hurt her," Buffy began menacingly.

"I won't hurt her, pet," Spike vowed softly. "I won't make a move on her, I won't so much as blow a kiss in her general vicinity." Buffy nodded, about to say that was a good idea, when he continued, "but I will be with her, in whatever way she needs."

Buffy refused to acknowledge how much he sounded like Angel right then.

Of course, the thought occurred, and before she could stop herself, the tears were coming, hard and fast, the momentary distraction of hating Spike and worrying for Willow passing as quickly as it came. Dragging her tired body back to the bed, she laid herself out on the soft silk sheets that still smelled like THEM, clutched Angel's diary to her chest and let her mind spin memories she wasn't allowed to possess. Borrowed memories of strawberry kisses, human warmth, and the cold hearted generosity of Powers that allowed such grace, such agony and ecstasy exist in the same precious moment.

She didn't notice when Spike quietly left the room.

~

"What's this, then?" Spike asked as he descended the stairs to find just about everyone present standing off with each other.

"I'm going to Wolfram and Hart," Faith gritted out.

"Faith, we just need a little more time to gather research," Wesley implored quietly.

"Angel may not HAVE time," Faith snapped. "I gave you an hour. You guys were the ones who said this Host guy had all the answers."

"It's just . . . Wolfram and Hart . . ." Wesley sighed. "They nearly destroyed Angel--"

"And I for one ain't about to let them do it again," Faith interrupted firmly. "Now I'm going to visit a certain one-armed man, I'm gonna get whatever he has that we need, and then I'm gonna come back here and let Witchy Woman work whatever mojo is needed to get Angel back."

"Right then. I'm goin' with you." Spike strode through the lobby.

"You can't be serious," Giles stated.

"No way, no how," Faith said firmly, glaring at the blonde vampire.

"I can smell Dru all over this," Spike said quietly. "If you can't feel her hangin' around, you're all bloody worthless. I wanna know what she's up to, and I'd wager this bastard lawyer's got the answers I need."

He and Faith stared each other down for a moment, then she shrugged. "Whatever."

They both strode outside before anyone could stop them.

~

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold
When we walked in fields of gold
When we walked in fields of gold

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Family -- Out of the Multitude

~

I spent a year in the mouth of a whale
With a flame and a book of signs

~

There was nothing quite like the smell of worn, shitkicker boots.

Bundled into a pile in the corner of Lindsey McDonald's expansive office were a thousand-dollar suit, and a pair of fine Italian loafers. He'd always kept an extra change of clothes in the bottom drawer of his desk. It was cleansing, the act of pulling on his wifebeater, flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. The shedding of one skin, to find the man he'd once been waiting for him beneath the pretense and greed and fear.

It was freeing, coming back to himself in this room where he'd bargained away his soul. Briefly, he recalled Angel kicking him in the gut while he sincerely apologized for not trying harder to save Lindsey. Had he been salvageable then, when he'd helped Angel betray Wolfram and Hart so long ago? Or had he needed Darla, all the baggage that she brought, to send him falling all the way down before he was able to break free?

If Lindsey were the kind of man who believed in 'what ifs?', he might have taken a moment to ponder how different the last year might have gone if only he'd told Holland to shove it that night that seemed like a century ago.

All his copying was done. Should Wolfram and Hart -- or anyone else, for that matter -- decide to end Lindsey's life, copies of both his and Lilah's files would be automatically emailed to every major newspaper in the world. He'd sent an inner-office memo to his superiors stating just that. Word was out, and the ball was in their court. If they let him walk out of here tonight, that meant he was free. If they didn't . . .

There was still Buffy and her band of merry men to contend with.

Lindsey didn't have the strength to talk fast enough to save his own hide at the moment, so he snatched up the bottle of cheap whiskey he kept with his clothes in his bottom desk drawer, threw himself into his chair, propped his boot-clad feet up on his desk, and took a long, satisfying swig.

Perhaps today would prove to be a good day to die.

~

You'll never know how hard I've failed
Trying to make up for lost time

~

"I don't even know why you came," she hissed for the third time in twenty minutes.

"I'm beginning to bloody wonder myself," Spike muttered.

"You're just going to get in my way," Faith declared as they approached the offices of Wolfram and Hart. "Only reason Buffy didn't tag along is those freakin' vampire detecting shamans crawling all over the place."

"Yeah, and you go in there all alone, they kill you, and we still don't have any intel."

"Intel?" Faith mocked.

"Shut up," Spike snapped, angry with himself. He'd spent too much time with the Slayer's cardboard cutout boyfriend before the idiot had taken off.

"Heard another fine young man dumped Buffy on her ass. Looks like she really wouldn't sleep with you, even if you WERE the last man on earth."

"You're about two seconds from something very unpleasant."

"Watch it, Billy Idol. I've dusted newly turned vamps a hell of a lot more frightening than you, and they didn't annoy me half as much."

"Yeah, well, I'm guessing those fresh risers hadn't taken out two Slayers in their day."

"You insinuate you can kill me one more time, I might just have to get physical with you."

"You don't shut your trap, I might just have to make it three."

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"I got a new plan."

That said, Faith snatched Spike by the lapels of his black leather coat, and hurled him through the glass lobby doors of Wolfram and Hart.

~

Once I believed in things unseen
I was blinded by the dark
Out of the multitude to me
He came and broke my heart

~

The silver lining of this whole 'now I'm a vampire' thing, Buffy thought, was that she finally understood why Angel brooded so much.

The air in their bedroom had grown too oppressive to breathe. Normally that wouldn't bother her, not having to breathe herself, but for some reason, the desire to flee, to roam the streets, to be truly alone with her thoughts had been irresistible.

Buffy had grabbed one of Angel's shirts from the hamper -- he'd only worn it for a few hours, so it held his cool, musky scent, rather than his stronger, stinkier sweaty scent. Not that she minded the latter -- in fact, some of her favorite memories involved Angel and sweat and she was supposed to be organizing her thoughts, not indulging in unproductive daydreams.

With a sigh, Buffy began kicking a tin can in front of her.

It hadn't been the air or the temperature of the room that had driven her out. She hadn't felt a burning desire to get her thoughts straight, either. The simple truth was, Angel's presence was stamped on every surface. Even the bed she slept on evoked images she was as grateful for as she was driven mad by. There was too much of him in their room, yet when she'd sought to escape it, she'd donned one of his shirts, because she couldn't bear to have nothing of him at all.

For the last couple of years, she'd had what felt like nothing of him at all. Reading his journal, she'd come to realize nothing could be further from the truth. He had always been hers, body and soul, even if some cruel twist of fate forbade her to claim him. It was comforting, even now, knowing that they had always -- would always -- belong to each other. Separation didn't sever their bond; the loss of a soul couldn't break them. No matter whose soul, or how many times it went away. Death -- even final death -- wouldn't stand a chance. That knowledge helped some of the fear abate. It allowed Buffy to focus.

She would never lose him. He could die, turn to dust and blow away, and she would still feel him in a phantom heartbeat she no longer possessed.

Because she knew that so surely, it became all that much easier to be sure she would get him back. To know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was not the end for them. It would be so easy to let this be a final blow. Simple, to let the evil, demon side of Angel win. No one would blame her. They'd just say she couldn't fight for her love all over again.

But she would fight. She'd fight for their future, and in memory of their past. She'd fight because she needed him, and because he'd fought for her. She'd fight so that the smug bastard Angel had been turned into wouldn't win, and she'd fight because if she didn't, she'd probably curl up and die.

She'd fight because she wanted answers about a day she didn't remember in his diary.

Forcing a sigh out of her dead lungs, Buffy abruptly sat down heavily on the nearest convenient resting spot -- as it turned out, a bus stop. There were so many other thoughts that deserved to take precedence over her relationship with Angel. An entire day had gone by, and Buffy hadn't thought of Tara, or Anya, or Dawnie (her brain shied away from 'mom' -- even now, her conscious mind shied away from the fact that she'd murdered her own mother -- that way lay madness) once. Now, as her mind became convinced they would find a way to bring Angel back, her guilt kicked into high gear.

How could Willow and Xander stand to look at her, let alone act the parts of the true blue friends they'd proven themselves to be?

Anya had always gotten on Buffy's nerves. She'd gotten on =everyone's= nerves, even Xander's at times. Honestly, Buffy hadn't thought things between Xander and Anya were all that serious. Xander had always seemed to barely tolerate Anya when they weren't having sex, and Buffy and Willow had privately concluded that, once the physical, lusty draw wore off between them, that Xander would move on to someone less . . . ex-vengeance demon-y.

In the same vein, Xander and Buffy had spoken about their confusion and -- however un-PC it was to say -- shock at Willow's new life. The friend Buffy had known for years (and Xander, his entire life) was just =not= gay. What had her relationship with Oz been, then? Willow and Buffy had talked a great deal, and she'd always expressed those tingly, lusty thoughts for the male of the species. For Buffy, her confusion had meant it was harder than it should have been to get close to the person in Willow's life whom she loved, and who loved her.

Eventually, they'd all managed to overcome whatever obstacles had been erected between each other. Buffy still wasn't sure how Willow ended up gay, or even if she =was= gay -- Buffy only knew that she'd loved Tara, and Tara had loved her, more than most couples out there. And Anya had been annoying and more outspoken than any one person had a right to be until the very end, but many months before her death, she had ceased to be a temporary fixture in Xander's life; someone the rest of them merely tolerated. The entire group had become family. They accepted each other, differences, idiosyncrasies, flaws, strengths, weaknesses and all. Their band of friends were as close to each other as Buffy had been to her mother, her father, and Dawn.

And Buffy had killed them. She'd killed dozens of people after she'd become a vampire, but five had been family. Five she'd loved. Five she mourned, in a personal, separate way, different from how she mourned the rest.

Finally, she began to understand the pain Angel had carried around all his life. His mother, his father, his sister, his friends -- everyone he'd ever known human. His weight was so much greater than hers, and he'd carried it for nearly three centuries. Then, just when he'd begun to form new human connections, to love, to let himself be loved, that terrible time in high school had fallen, and along with Jenny Calendar's death went Angel's chance to find a home with them.

That was something Buffy hadn't been able to admit to herself the entire year after Angel's return from hell. He would always have a home with her, but it hadn't been the same amongst her friends after his stint as a psychotic killer. Jenny's death had been the nail in the metaphorical coffin. It had taken Giles a good long while before he'd been able to sit in the same room as Angel without that vein in his forehead throbbing. Only after Angel left town, and Giles saw how much he'd loved Buffy, had he finally let go of the last of his resentment.

He hadn't told her so, of course, but Buffy wasn't as blonde as she looked, and Giles was easier to read than he thought he was.

Angel had found a new home, though, here in Los Angeles. He'd found a family with the people who'd always been outcasts in Buffy's life. The irony of Cordelia and Wesley being the two people closest in the world to Angel did not escape Buffy. Wesley and Buffy had gotten off on the wrong foot from day one. He was too pompous and imperious, and she was too bitter that Giles had been fired and so easily replaced by a man so obviously inferior to him.

Cordelia had been too . . . Cordelia to allow anyone to get close to her. Her abrasive personality was only the tip of the iceberg, and had been easily overlooked when she and Xander had been dating. It had been Cordelia's shallowness, her inability to grasp the life and death situations they found themselves in daily that had been so hard to swallow.

Life in LA, life with Angel, had changed her. Besides, anyone who loved Angel as much as Cordelia did was perfectly all right in Buffy's book. Things between them weren't perfect yet -- Angel had shared the entire saga with Buffy one of the nights they'd lain in bed talking 'til sunrise -- but they were family, and no matter what issues lay between them, no matter how mad or hurt or disappointed or unfair they were . . . family didn't change. Family was forever.

Buffy's family and Angel's family had started to meld. Even the black sheep of their respective clans -- Spike and Faith -- had been able to find some level of comfort amongst their ranks. Old wounds had been healing, and the new gaping, bleeding afflictions had begun to clot and cauterize.

Of course, in their world, there was no rest for the weary, and the wicked had been laying low for two whole months. Clearly, they had been overdue for a catastrophe.

Suddenly, Buffy's good state of mind so far as getting Angel back was concerned vanished into thin air. Mind numbing worry replaced it. They had been SO CLOSE to having everything, to having as near perfect a life as they could get, under the circumstances, and it all just fell apart.

She would not survive another of Angel's deaths.

~

When the dust in the field has flown
And the youngest of hearts has grown
And you doubt you will ever be free
Don't bail on me

~

"Are you busy, Ms. Rosenberg?"

Willow looked up at Wesley from where she sat on the floor of his office, and flashed him a tiny smile. He'd called her 'Ms. Rosenberg' for days after she'd arrived. During a moment of intense stress and worry over Buffy, she'd snapped at him to 'just call me Willow, already, 'cause hello, not like we're living in the Victorian age here'. After the night she'd gotten too drunk to make it back to her room under her own speed, Wesley had taken to calling her Ms. Rosenberg, with affection.

"Just looking through every single book in Angel's collection to hopefully find an alternative to the gypsy curse. My eyes are starting to get sort of crossy, though, so I'm thinking it's time to take a break."

Sighing, Wesley took a seat beside her. "I've gone through all the volumes Buffy gave me from Angel's nightstand. I must admit, I'm beginning to become disheartened."

"Beginning to become disheartened," she playfully mocked. "You're more British than Giles."

"And you're a mean, callous little girl," he informed her with a gentle smile.

"Not so little," she declared huffily.

"No," he agreed, thinking of all the trials that she'd had to endure over her short life, especially since she'd met Buffy. "Not such a girl, either."

She looked at him strangely.

"I mean," he hastened to clarify, "you're clearly female, but not . . . not a little girl. A woman, all woman. That is to say, a mature, level headed, compassionate =person= I might be able to discuss a somewhat upsetting personal matter with."

Nodding wisely, Willow put aside the book she'd been looking at and scooted closer to Wesley on the floor.

"I'm all ears. Except not literally, of course, 'cause, y'know, in our world, that's the kinda thing you have to clarify."

He smiled tightly, then decided it was best to simply blurt these things out. "My girlfriend, Virginia, broke up with me. Several weeks ago, actually, shortly after my birthday. Angel had just come back to us, and I didn't feel it was fair to bring my own small burden into such a delicate situation as our reunification with one another."

Willow tried to think of something to say in response. Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was an incredulous "you had a girlfriend?!" and she didn't think that would help the situation.

"I'm sorry," she finally said lamely.

"Yes. Me too," Wesley added wryly.

"That was the dumbest thing I could've possibly said," Willow sighed.

"No, no, it's all right. I did spring it on you completely out of the blue."

"Had you been seeing her long?"

"Several weeks," he admitted. "It wasn't a deeply serious relationship, but . . . I think that I loved her a little."

"That's almost worse," Willow confided. "Loving them a little. 'Cause at least, when you loved 'em a lot, there's usually memories and good times and heartbreaking sadness to deal with when they're gone. When there's only a little bit of love . . . I think it's harder."

"How so?" he asked, genuinely wanting to hear what she had to say. Imagine, Wesley Wyndam Pryce, seeking guidance from a girl barely old enough to vote.

"Well . . ." Willow moved on the floor again until she was facing Wesley. "When Oz left me, it felt like someone had removed my heart with a plastic ice cream scoop. It hurt that much. And I knew exactly how I was supposed to feel, because Oz was everything to me, we were Willow and Oz, and how was I supposed to just be Willow again? It was . . . it was simple. It hurt more than I could stand most of the time, but I never once had to wonder what I was feeling, or why I was feeling it."

"We were never Virginia and Wesley," he said sadly.

"See?" she said, bouncing up and down a little on the floor as she warmed to her improvised hypothesis. "You never had the chance to figure out what you'd be missing, so you can't miss it. And you miss her, because you feel like you should, but you didn't know her well enough to really understand what it is you're missing, or even if you're missing anything at all. You might just be missing her because you think you're supposed to."

"Are you saying my emotional trauma is all in my head?" he asked, a bit miffed.

"No," Willow denied automatically. Then she paused. "Well, yes. That's sort of high-handedy and insensitive of me, isn't it?"

"A bit," Wesley agreed.

"How 'bout we forget everything I just said, go down to the kitchen and get big bowls of chocolate ice cream?"

Wesley grinned like a little boy. "Chocolate has been known to heal all that ails a broken heart."

"And just to make it interesting," she said, scooping up a few volumes of text as she stood, "we'll bring the thousand-year-old writings and try not to spill on them."

~

And the tide rushes by where we stand
And the earth underneath turns to sand
And we're waiting for someone to see
Honey, don't bail on me

~

"Do you think I'm being unfair to Angel?"

"Okay, SO not the guy to be asking."

Cordelia rolled her eyes and plopped down next to Xander on the sofa in the Hyperion's lobby. It was thankfully deserted, save the two of them, and she was relieved. There was nothing she'd rather do less than go over the past few months of hell in depth, but the Brains had assured her there was nothing she could do to help Angel right now, and the Host's words kept playing through her mind.

Had they -- had SHE -- been too hard on Angel? Or, if not too hard, at least . . . too rigid?

"I know you and Angel are never gonna be best pals," Cordelia began.

"Got that right," Xander muttered.

"But you were getting along," Cordelia insisted. "You guys were forging some kind of almost friendship. Nobody has ever hated Angel as much as you--"

"I think those Wolfram and Hart guys have me beat," Xander protested.

"So if =you= tell me I've been . . . you know . . . unnecessarily mean to him, I'll have to believe you."

"Cordy, don't beat yourself up," Xander soothed, patting her back. "You're unnecessarily mean to everybody."

"Xander, I'm serious," she snapped. "When somebody hurts me, I lash out. I close myself up, I lock them out and throw away the key."

"Remembering," Xander assured her.

"I can't do that with Angel," Cordelia said softly. "I mean, putting aside the skull crushing visions for the moment . . . he's my best friend. He's my FAMILY, Xander. He's the one person in this world I trusted with everything I had inside of me, and he just . . . threw me away. Like I was nothing. And you know how well I react to being treated like nothing."

"Correct me if I'm wrong -- and please, no hitting -- but wasn't Dead Boy going through some serious emotional issues?"

"Darla," Cordelia rolled her eyes. "We told him she was trying to drive him nuts. You know, once we realized he wasn't already nuts."

"Again, without hitting -- let me get this straight: Everyone -- Angel included -- thinks he's losing his marbles when Darla starts doing NC-17 rated appearances in his dream. Fast forward a few months of mental and emotional torture, and Angel finds out she's really alive, human, and therefore salvageable, to boot. He goes all out gangbusters -- in an admittedly single-minded and obsessive way -- to bring Darla back from the dark side, only to have all his efforts peak while he's forced to watch Drusilla vamp the freshly saved Darla. Am I missing anything?"

"No," Cordelia answered in a tiny voice. Then, she narrowed her eyes. "And how the hell did you know all that?"

"We were becoming almost friends," he muttered, staring down at the ground.

Cordelia's eyes widened. "=Angel= told you all that?"

"He needed to talk to someone," Xander said quietly. "Someone who wasn't Buffy, or otherwise directly involved. He didn't want to dredge up stuff for you; stuff that might hurt you all over again, or make you mad at him."

"Okay, now that's really sweet and noble and unselfish of him -- but it's =exactly= the kind of thinking that got us into this mess to begin with! I mean, yeah, Angel isn't one to over-share -- but he NEEDS to share, Xander. We love him. We want to feel close enough to him to MAKE him talk when he needs to." She sighed, and stood, needing movement to get a train on her thoughts.

"He sits in the dark, and he =broods= about his problems instead of letting us help him. He only spends time with us or talks when he feels one of US needs it. Friendship isn't just supposed to be giving, it's feeling comfortable enough to take once in awhile. Angel has never felt comfortable with us, with ANYONE besides Buffy, and even her he managed to shut out most of the time, unless SHE needed him to talk.

"And he has this WAY about him. There have been times I've tried to talk to him, and he has SCARED me with his reaction. It's like I asked him to go for a walk at high noon or something. It's not for me, either, so don't you dare even THINK that, Xander Harris. If he was happy and perfectly fine being all closed off, then I'd say more power to him. I wouldn't like it, and I'd probably bitch at him about it for the rest of my life, but it wouldn't . . . it wouldn't HURT like this.

"Wesley said that if Angel didn't start wanting things from life, that if he didn't start living in the world, he'd lose himself. He's got this constant fight inside him all the time, and I get that, and he thinks I don't, although he's getting better. But is he getting better because he had some kind of epiphany, or is he getting better because we laid down the law, and made him work for it?!"

Xander stayed silent for a moment, hoping her tirade was at an end. When she collapsed next to him on the couch again, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"So it was a trust thing," Xander said at last.

"Of course it was a trust thing!" Cordelia snapped. "How was I supposed to know he wouldn't do it again? I swore after you fell onto Willow's lips that I'd never care about anyone that much again. And now here I am, caring about Angel even more than I ever cared about you then!"

"Gee, feelin' the love," Xander muttered.

Cordelia winced, and covered Xander's hand with her own. "Xander . . . I didn't mean it like that. I'm . . . I'm better than I used to be. I understand more than I ever did, and yeah, I've still got some growing pains to go through, but . . . I actually like who I am now. And that's because of Angel. I trusted him more than anyone in my life, loved him more than anyone in my life, and he just . . . didn't care. And that hurts. More than anything else could. Not to mention the visions he stuck me with.

"So you tell me. How should I have reacted? What should I have done? Jumped like a puppy the moment he snapped out of it and remembered the people who loved him? Just forgive and forget without seeing any real, hard evidence that it wasn't going to happen all over again? Because really and truly, Xander, it would kill me a second time."

"I had no idea you felt this way about him," Xander admitted. "I mean, I knew you guys were close, but--"

"You just assumed I was too shallow to feel that much about anyone," Cordelia finished for him. She looked down at the ground. "Do you know why I stopped hammering him and let him be my best friend again?"

"I figured it was because he was trying so hard. You know, with the cooking and general care taking. He really seems to care, more than he used to. Or maybe he's just showing it better."

"He bought me clothes," Cordelia mumbled.

Xander blinked. "Come again?"

"A whole new wardrobe," she continued. "Beautiful, expensive clothes I hadn't been able to buy for myself in years. Pretty shallow, right? I say I've changed, but all it takes to buy my forgiveness is a few strips of designer fabric."

"I don't know. I guess that depends on whether it was really the clothes that did it."

Cordelia smiled, wide and grateful, then threw her arms around Xander's neck and hugged him tightly. Pulling away after a moment, she tucked her hair behind her ears and once again focused her gaze on the floor.

"He was warning me about something, trying to play protector again, after I told him we weren't friends anymore."

Xander made a hissing noise. "Harsh."

"I didn't mean it," Cordelia defended. "At least not much. I guess . . . part of me was sort of testing him. I wanted to see how much he'd take before all his good intentions flew out the window and he decided we were more trouble than we were worth. That I was more trouble than I was worth."

"You're deeply in need of psychological help," Xander informed her.

"I yelled at him for giving my clothes away. He used my old clothes that I'd left at the hotel as a way to get close to this woman who had a connection to Wolfram and Hart. I made it sound like him giving away my clothes was the most vile offense he'd made against me, and you know what he did, Xander? He =heard= me. He heard me, and he bought me clothes, and it's not the clothes that made me okay with him again -- fabulous though they may be -- it's what they represent."

"Him hearing you," Xander clarified.

"Listening to me," Cordelia agreed. "And doing something that was repellent to him -- shopping for women's clothing -- all because he didn't want me to be mad at him anymore."

"And did it work?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I guess."

"As long as you're firm."

"We were getting there," Cordelia snapped. "And then Buffy went all Basic Instinct with fangs and the reasons I was still miffed at Angel went right out the window. He needed me to be his family, and not be mad at him while he dealt, and that's fine. I'm okay with that. I'm okay with him needing weeks to focus on Buffy. I'm perfectly all right with him putting aside all the issues between us in favor of bringing Buffy back from the dark side, but now . . ."

"Now he's over on the dark side himself, and you're angry that you won't have a chance to resolve everything, in fact you've never even apologized to him once in this whole mess, and now you're afraid he'll be lost to you forever."

Cordelia stared at Xander for an entire minute.

"When the hell did you get insight?"

Xander grinned. "We're not sure. We think it might have happened over the summer."

Smiling slightly, Cordelia sat back against the couch and nudged Xander's calf with the tip of her shoe. "However it happened . . . thanks. I needed to vent."

"Anytime. And don't worry about not getting Angel back. The Buffster is kicking it into high gear, and I can guarantee when she's this determined, nothing keeps her from her objective. And right now, she's gunning to bring Angel home." A comfortable silence passed between them for a moment, before Xander patted the couch excitedly. "Say, onto brighter topics -- have you worked up the nerve to ask Gunn out again?"

"No," Cordelia groaned. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I am not shy. I am the opposite of shy. But when it comes to him, for some reason, I'm totally unable to charge right in and claim him as a Queen C territory."

"But you said the first date went great, and it was almost a week ago."

"I know," she moaned, pressing her face into the back of the couch. "It was wonderful. He was sweet, and he treated me like a princess even though he knows me well enough to know better."

"I don't know. I think you deserve to be treated like royalty. At least by the man lucky enough to be with you."

"Insight =and= charm. This summer was very good to you."

"I'll tell you my secrets, plus a bonus lesson on tact if you get up right now and ask Gunn out again for tomorrow night."

"Deal," Cordelia declared as she leapt up and raced out of the room.

Xander smiled and sat back against the couch. At least his friends could have a shot at a happy love life. He wasn't sure if, after Anya, he'd be able to love anyone like that again.

Ah, well, he thought sadly as he heard Willow make her requisite squeaking/moaning sound from the kitchen, at least there would always be chocolate.

With a tiny smile, Xander got up off the couch and headed toward his oldest friend. There was, after all, nothing chocolate couldn't make at least a little better.

~

In the morning you wait for the sun
And secretly hope it won't come
But time washes everyone clean
Buddy now, don't bail on me
Don't bail on me

~

"At last we meet, Mr. Bond."

Lindsey glanced up to find the other Slayer -- Faith, he remembered from the brief meeting they'd had while she slammed his colleague's forehead onto a table -- standing in the doorway next to a blond guy that kept rubbing the side of his head.

"Mr. Bond?" Lindsey asked, smiling slightly.

"Always wanted to say that," Faith explained. "And I figure me and Spike getting through all the little traps you lawyer boys laid out deserved a lifelong ambition to be realized."

"You got past the lobby," Lindsey stated dumbly, impressed.

"Got past your vampire detectors, too," Faith said proudly.

Glancing at the man who'd been quiet since their arrival, Lindsey said, "You're a vampire."

"Got it in one," Spike said with a smirk.

"Oughta tell the bosses their vampire hunters suck big time. They didn't lay a hand on Spikey here."

"Yeah, no thanks to you, ya whacked out lunatic," Spike muttered, gently probing the side of his head.

"Oh, get over it. Like you've never been thrown through a window before."

"You know, I don't think you appreciate me very much," Spike declared haughtily.

"You're right. I don't appreciate you. Feel free to storm off in a huff, cupcake." Faith turned her attention back to Lindsey. "You get to come with me." Her gaze roamed up and down his body, taking in the decidedly un-lawyer-like attire. "What, did Armani finally come out with a Redneck line?"

"Façades can be so suffocating," Lindsey confided.

"What the hell does that mean?" Faith asked, but before she could receive an answer, a siren -- different from the one that had been blaring since a vampire breached Wolfram and Hart's border -- began to sound.

"That's the hit squad," Lindsey explained. "After Angel's visit today to retrieve Drusilla, Wolfram and Hart updated its policy on vampire intrusion." His grin was a bit unstable. "Got an inner-office memo. Didn't really pay much attention to it, I was kinda busy copying files."

"What's the new policy?" Spike asked. For the most part, conversation between mortals bored the hell out of him -- except, of course, when said conversation involved threats to his personal well being.

"Kill on sight."

Faith let out a sound caught between a cackle and a chortle. "Sucks to be you," she informed Spike.

Spike began to sputter with righteous indignation he was sure he had a right to.

Lindsey's smile became a little wider, and a little more unstable. "Also, to terminate anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in the same vicinity of the vampire in question."

~

River is wide and oh so deep
And it winds and winds around
I dream we're happy in my sleep
Floating down and down and down

~

She could hear his bones calling out for her.

Her inner sense of self-preservation tried to keep her away. Buffy knew going after Angel now, when she had no backup, was a bad idea, capital B. Apparently, his body, like hers, didn't care that he was soulless. It recognized her, it recognized its mate, just as hers did his, and she didn't really have a choice in the matter.

They'd shared blood dozens of times now. Granted, most of the time had been while they were both soulless, but it didn't matter -- blood was blood, and they were bonded, whether Angel's evil demon wanted to admit it or not. Angel had always shared a bond with her -- before, however, it had been a bond between their souls. Her ability to sense his presence had never had anything to do with him being a vampire. She'd been able to sense him because he was Angel.

Sharing blood had merely amplified that old feeling by a billion. Her skin was itching and raw, pulled too tight over muscle and sinew. She'd stopped at Caritas to feed while she was wandering the city. The Host had been noticeably absent, and Buffy was glad for it. Given what Angel had told her about his big green friend, Buffy was willing to bet he would have been able to sense exactly what she had on her mind, and no doubt he would have talked her out of it.

I should be talking myself out of it, she thought sternly. Her last meeting with Angel hadn't gone all that well, and to assume it would be any different, just because he'd had some time to think things over, was ridiculous.

The demon was fully in control of his body. Even if he did feel exactly what Buffy was feeling, he would never admit to it. Angelus was smart and cunning, but he was also a few apples short of a fruit salad. The demon's hatred of her almost eclipsed the soul's love.

If that were all she knew about the man she loved, Buffy might have been able to ignore the needs of her blood and turn around. However, having been stripped of her humanity herself, Buffy knew a few things Angelus likely wasn't admitting. The demon -- the soulless, killing fiend -- loved her, too. It wasn't a healthy love, and it certainly didn't possess the blinding purity and adoration Angel held for her -- but it was still love.

Messy, ugly, uncompromising obsession that, because of Angel's normally ensouled state, had twisted itself into a parody of love. Soulless, Buffy had felt the same emotion for Angel. It hadn't made her angry to love him, though. Only his refusal to accept that they were meant to be together, his refusal to embrace his inner darkness, had angered her.

Shivering at the inner darkness Buffy was still terrified to admit she possessed, she turned a corner and froze. An abandoned warehouse sat not twenty feet from her, and she knew, just as she knew exactly what Angelus was feeling -- the anger and confusion and insanity and desire and helplessness -- that she had found him.

Buffy crept around the side of the building and scaled the wall with supernatural speed. The boards were loose on top of the roof, and she pried one up just enough to peer into the darkness. A few candles were lit around the center of the room, and Angel sat next to Drusilla on some kind of crate thing. He had his arm around her. Buffy felt her demon rise to the surface and she forced it down like Angel had taught her to. "It just takes time, love," he'd soothed her when she hadn't been able to immediately control the thing that lived inside her. "You'll get the hang of it. Remember, you didn't like fighting with a sword at first, either."

'I want him back,' she thought, holding in a sob. 'I don't want him like this, coddling the insane killer he made. I want my Angel.'

Whatever she was feeling, whatever bond they shared, she had to fight it until they figured out a way to restore his soul. She would use her perfect understanding of Angelus' state of mind, not to try to reason with him, which would prove futile, but to maneuver him for the time being, until she could get =her= Angel back.

Decision made, Buffy began to slowly creep away from the center of the roof . . .

. . . however, she misjudged how much weight she could apply to a particularly unstable board, and went crashing three stories down, only to land with an unnaturally loud 'thud' that, no doubt, would have left her with broken bones had she still been human. 'Yay for being dead,' she thought blearily as she forced her eyes open.

"Well, well, well," Angelus murmured, the side of his head pressed just so to the side of Drusilla's, "what have we here, precious?"

"A pretty little girl's come to play with us," Drusilla said happily.

"Oops," Buffy squeaked, a feeling of dread coiling inside the pit of her stomach, "clumsy me."

~

Tell ma I loved the man
Even though I turned and ran
Lovely and fine I could have been
Laying down in the palm of his hand

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Axis -- the sky is broken

~

see the storm is broken
in the middle of the night
nothing left here for me
it's washed away

~

"Buff, this is really sweet and all, but you didn't have to fall at my feet to get me to notice you. Gosh, though, I've always wanted a woman willing to bow for me."

"Lost my balance," Buffy said nervously as she quickly stood. She did not like the way Drusilla was looking at her.

"Not all you're going to lose," Angelus promised softly.

"Well. Fun as that sounds, I've gotta go. You know, people waiting for me at home, Giles worries, so I'll just clear out of--"

"You won't leave us so soon," Drusilla murmured, and Buffy jumped, because the psychotic vamp had moved behind her while Buffy had been focused on Angel. Damn it, he always did that to her. She needed strength and focus more than anything now, and he effortlessly stripped her of both.

"No, you won't leave us so soon at all," Angelus murmured, stepping closer to her. His eyes were not the warm, chocolate brown that normally gave her such joyous access to his soul. They were nearly black, and so cold she shivered, even before he brought the back of his hand up to caress her cheek.

Cold, soft marble. That was how she'd always thought of his skin. Like him, the description was a contradiction, but she'd long ago resigned herself to Angel forever remaining unique. He wasn't like anyone else, and every time fate threw them one of these little tests, he proved it.

Now, she too was a contradiction, cold and soft and scarred with the memories of a demon and the soul of a scared young girl: a Slayer. The demon was asserting itself now (or was that the Slayer?), crying out for the touch of its mate, and the woman's desires that lived and howled inside of her were in perfect agreement.

Was she lost? Was fighting him hopeless? He was hypnotizing her with the look in his eyes, his contradictions, his cold soft marble-ness. Would she have to fight forever? Would there never be a time when what she wanted wasn't in direct violation with what was right?

Buffy's entire being was focused on Angelus, for which she was grateful. Had she not been so centered on her mate, she would have sensed Drusilla raising a lead pipe behind her; would have been aware of the cool metal slicing through the air toward the back of her head, and she would have missed out on the first unconscious, thoughtless moments she'd had since the last time she'd lain, unaware, in Angel's arms.

~

the rain pushes
the buildings aside
the sky turns black
the sky

~

"Pick up the pace, Law Boy."

"Don't know why you brought him, Killer," Spike muttered.

"Stop calling me that," Faith hissed, spinning away from Lindsey to glare at Spike. "I am =not= a killer."

"Killer, Slayer, not much difference where I'm standing."

As they glared at each other, Faith wondered why she hadn't just bashed Lindsey and Spike's heads together and left them to be killed by the Wolfram and Hart security team.

"It's here," Lindsey said, tapping at a hidden panel on the side of the wall. His hands were covered with icky sewer slime, but he withdrew a large stack of documents from inside a small cubbyhole.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was why Born Again Boy made the cut.

Spike, on the other hand, she still wasn't sure about.

"We're riskin' our necks -- not to mention a few other pertinent parts -- for a stack of papers?" Spike asked incredulously.

"There's enough information in here to keep Wolfram and Hart from making a move on us, at least for a little while," Lindsey replied. "Not to mention . . . my research."

"Research," Faith repeated, stopping dead in her tracks. "What kinda research?"

Lindsey almost looked nervous. Anyone else would have, Faith was sure. But he was a cool one, and she nearly respected that about him.

"It might be a way to save Angel's soul."

Faith couldn't help it; she let out a disbelieving bark of laughter.

"You wanna save Angel's soul," she muttered. "That's rich. I bet you got a nice piece of land to sell me, too, right?. Overlooks a wicked cool swamp."

"I say you kill him, pet, then I can eat him, and then we can steal his little briefcase of intel, thus eliminating the need for his annoying arse."

"Intel," Faith snickered.

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm on the level," Lindsey said calmly. His gaze never left Faith's. "I'm tired. I'm tired of going home every night, only to scrub my skin so hard I bleed, and I still don't feel clean. I don't know how to change my life, but I sure as hell know I can't live with it another minute."

"I know the feeling," Faith whispered, more to herself than to the two men standing in the sewer with her.

Tuning whatever it was Spike was bitching about out, Faith looked straight into Lindsey's eyes. If there was one thing prison -- hell, her entire life -- had taught her, it was how to read people. She might not have been able to lie worth a damn, but Faith could spot a liar a mile away. The fact that Angel and Buffy had, at one time, been able to deceive her still ticked her off when she thought about it. It also gave her the resolve to never let another living soul make a fool out of her.

Her gut told her that Lindsey McDonald was telling the truth.

As she looked into his pained, soft blue eyes, as she began to compare them to the color of the ocean she'd seen in paintings, but never in real life, her gut started to tell her something else. Something she definitely didn't want to hear.

"Fuck me," Faith muttered.

"If you insist," Spike and Lindsey answered at the same time. They both looked irritated at being caught thinking the same thought. Faith couldn't be bothered to care.

"No, no, no," she chanted, "No way. Uh-uh. The PTB have FUCKED with my life enough, this is SO not gonna happen."

"Have you gone 'round the bleedin' bend?" Spike had that look on his face Angel sometimes got when he could smell trouble.

Faith swallowed deeply. "I'm fine."

Lindsey gave her a concerned look. "Are you--"

"I said," Faith enunciated clearly, trying -- and failing -- to break eye contact with Lindsey, "I'm fine. We've gotta get out of here."

"You're right," Lindsey agreed, taking the lead. Faith marched in step beside him, and Spike brought up the rear, glancing back and forth, trying to spot trouble. "The brains of your little operation are gonna be mighty interested in this, darlin'."

~

wash it far
push it out to sea
there's nothing left here
for me

~

As it turned out, Willow's 'I love chocolate' sounds weren't exclusive to her enjoyment of chocolate.

For the rest of his life, Xander would be haunted by the memory of pale skin. On the rare occasions he'd seen his best bud in a bikini, he'd made a subconscious mental note that Willow was somehow even paler than Angel and Spike put together. No doubt it came from spending too much time indoors. He remembered now, teasing her when they were children, calling her the whitest kid in the world.

That title now belonged to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. And Xander couldn't get the image of the two palest people on earth (Buffy and Angel notwithstanding, and Xander really wasn't sure which was the worst mental image at this point) naked from the waist up, writhing around in a melted puddle of chocolate ice cream on the kitchen table of the Hyperion Hotel.

"Oh dear." Wesley began donning his clothes with inhuman speed. Willow's hands were shaking so badly her blouse ended up being mis-buttoned.

Xander couldn't feel any of the blood rushing through his body.

Try though he might, Xander couldn't pretend that what he'd just witnessed hadn't happened. There was an even more awkward moment as Wesley realized his fly was halfway down. Willow's cheeks got redder than he'd ever seen them.

"I uh, I imagine you two need to talk, so I'll just--" Wesley's startled gaze flew to Willow's. "That is, unless you'd prefer that I--"

"No," Willow said quickly. "Go." Her eyes widened. "I mean, not 'go, get out, you bastard,' it's just that I need to handle this on my--"

"I understand, of course," Wesley assured her. "I'd just hate for you to think that I was leaving you in the--"

"Of course not," Willow soothed. "I'd never think that you'd just--"

"Never," Wesley declared solemnly.

"Yo, Nutty and Nuttier," Xander interrupted, "you stuttering your way to a point any time soon?"

"Quite," Wesley said. "Bye." Had he been a cartoon character, there would have been a cutout of his body left in the wall when he literally ran right through it. As it was, he simply used the revolving door.

"Xander," Willow began hesitantly.

He made a slashing motion with his arms. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. He paced the floor for a moment, then turned, and tried to speak again. The results were the same as before. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"It just happened," Willow said lamely. "Almost happened," she amended.

That did it. Xander exploded. "Will! I thought you were . . . you know . . . with the gay!"

"So did I!" Willow cried. "I mean, I =am= . . . or was . . . or . . . I don't know," she finished mournfully.

"I don't know what to say, Will," Xander said wearily. "I mean, this whole situation is beyond weird. Far be it for me to tell you how long you're supposed to mourn, but . . . I mean, it's only been a couple of months since Tara died." He didn't mention that Willow was standing in roughly the exact spot Buffy had drained Tara in. Even in his frenzied state, he didn't think either of them needed to contemplate that.

"You're right," Willow said quietly. "You don't get to tell me how to mourn. I loved her . . ." Her lower lip trembled, and she tried to regain control. "I loved her more than anything. And I miss her every day. You know how that feels."

"I do," Xander agreed. "And I also know that I'm nowhere near ready to start something with someone else. And I'm definitely not going to switch teams!"

"I'm not . . . okay, so maybe I am." Willow made a frustrated gesture with her arms. "I'm confused, Xander. I'm confused about everything. And Wes . . .well, he's nice. And he listens, and he likes me. And I really like him. And this whole thing just sort of . . . happened. I don't even know how, but it did, and . . . you really are taking this way too hard."

"What do you expect?! My best friend tells me she might be straight?! Of course I'm gonna feel like the world is spinning off its axis!"

They stared at each other for nearly a minute before the absurdity of it all fully weighed down on them. Xander lost it first, his lips curving up into a grin he would have given, had the senior class elected him 'Class Clown' instead of that prop-hack-wanna-be-funny Jack Mayhew. Willow began giggling quietly, and she clutched Xander's forearm for support.

"I know how hard it would be for you to accept that I might not be gay," Willow said gravely. "It would be a hard thing for any friend to deal with."

"I can still picture you with girls, right?" Xander said, mischief dancing behind his eyes.

"You're not allowed to picture me with girls now," Willow groused.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to picture you with girls, because I have to do something to get the image of you and," he adopted a stiff, mocking British tone, "his royal highness, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce out of my mind, dear girl."

Willow smacked his arm lightly. "Don't. He's not . . . he's not like that anymore."

"So both Angel and Cordy have told me," Xander agreed. "But I still need to get rid of the bad pictures."

"Come on," Willow decided, taking Xander's arm.

"Where are we going?"

"Entertainment room. Princess Bride. Stat."

~

i watch it lift up to the sky
i watch it crush me
and then i die

~

As Buffy opened her eyes, the first thought that ran through her mind was 'déjà vu.'

Directly in her line of sight was Drusilla, chained to the opposing wall of the warehouse. Buffy tried to move her arms, only to find herself equally confined. Half-heartedly looking around for Spike, Buffy was unsurprised to locate Angel, lounging on an old conveyer belt in the center of the room.

"Well, well, look who's finally rejoined the land of the not-knocked-unconscious," he drawled, springing to his feet.

"Why's Natasha here tied up?" Buffy asked, blinking her eyes in an attempt to become fully conscious again.

"Dru and I had a mild disagreement on how to handle you," Angel explained smoothly.

"I wanted to cut you open and play with your insides until you turned to dust," Drusilla murmured.

"Yes, and I thought keeping you alive would be ever so much more fun," Angel said, slanting what almost looked to Buffy like an uneasy glance at Dru.

"Never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad you got your way," Buffy said to Angel.

A predatory smile spread across his face. "You won't be," he promised her silkily.

"I won't let you have him again," Drusilla said suddenly.

"Chill, Elvira," Buffy suggested. "If you haven't noticed in your loon-bird state, I'm not exactly in the position to do any 'having'."

"You'll try to take him from me," Drusilla whimpered. "I'll use your little bones to sharpen my teeth."

"That's enough, Dru," Angel said sharply.

"Already playing favorites," Drusilla moaned pitifully. "You already love her best."

"I don't love either of you," Angel snapped.

"Liar," Buffy taunted quietly.

"You," he said pointing at Buffy, "shut up, before I let you," he jerked his head toward Drusilla, "have your way."

"Not gonna happen," Buffy declared firmly.

"Oh?" Angel stalked toward her until, had he possessed breath, it would have been fanning against her face. "And tell me, my love, why is that, exactly?"

"Because you couldn't live without me," she said boldly.

"Guess again, lover," he snarled.

"Stop touching her," Drusilla said shrilly. "I won't abide it, you touching something so filthy. First my Spike, now my Angel . . . she's stolen everything from me, everything."

"Oh, good God, shut up," Buffy snapped. Angling her foot just so, she kicked out and sent her one of the eighty dollar pumps Angel had bought to make her feel better flying across the room. The heel hit Drusilla in the head, effectively knocking her out.

"Nice shot," Angel said, genuinely impressed.

Then, he hit Buffy over the head.

"And yet," he murmured, "somehow a better shot."

~

speak to me baby
in the middle of the night
pull your mouth
close to mine

~

Another hour, another dusty tome.

With a weary sigh, Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, he rose from behind Wesley's desk and trudged to the bookcase that housed Angel's many assorted volumes. Picking one that he vaguely remembered possessing several different bits of vampire lore, he retook his seat and began the process anew.

If someone had told him two years ago that he would be exhausting himself to find a way to restore Angel's soul to him again, Giles would have pinned that person to a wall and asked what demon was impersonating a human being.

As things stood, Giles felt a responsibility, not only to his Slayer, but to Angel as well, to find the answers for them. He regretted not taking Buffy's pain more seriously all those years ago, when Angel originally lost his soul. He had, for all intents and purposes, told Buffy to 'suck it up', to 'ignore Angel until you can kill him' until his own pain eclipsed hers.

Jenny's death had completely robbed him of the air of detachment he had managed to retain until then. A Watcher watched; a Watcher advised; a Watcher did not, otherwise, become personally or emotionally involved in the life of his charge.

If his loyalty to Buffy were the only thing driving him, Giles would certainly be expending all his energy to find a cure for Angel. However, surprising as it was to him, Giles found himself genuinely wishing to help Angel for the vampire's sake alone.

Angel had, originally, been a source of consternation for Giles. He had not trusted this vampire that took far too personal an interest in his Slayer, and later, when he had trusted him, Angel had turned on them all. He had killed the woman Giles loved, and left her as a party favor in his bed. It had taken a long while before Giles had been comfortable enough around Angel to trust him again, as an ally, and even longer before he could once again consider the souled vampire a friend.

That day had arrived, though. It might have been when Angel came to Buffy's prom, because he knew what it meant to her, despite the state of their romantic relationship. It might have been when Angel came back to Sunnydale, knowing how unwelcome he would be, simply because Buffy needed him. He had hidden from her then, because he thought it would make her burden lighter somehow. Certainly, this healing had already been in motion when their entire rank had shown up on Angel's doorstep, tired, weary, and frightened, begging him to help them with Buffy.

Whenever it occurred, Giles was comfortable with Angel, comfortable with the fact that Buffy loved him madly, that he loved her in return. He could trust this man with his daughter's heart, and while Giles knew he would never be completely at peace with Angel, he no longer hated him, was willing to accept him in their lives, and that was better than he'd thought himself capable of. Angel was good for Buffy, Buffy was good for Angel, and hating a good man took energy best spent on other tasks.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of voices coming from the lobby.

"Would you please, for the love of all things unholy, shut your bleedin' trap?"

"Make me, Fang."

"Never bloody thought I'd be wishing Angelus were here."

"What good would Angel do you?"

"He'd snap your pretty neck before you had time to blink."

"Excuse me," Wesley's voice interrupted as Giles left the office, "but would you both please kindly shut the hell up and tell me what this bloodsucking lawyer is doing here?"

"Well, which is it?" Spike said snottily.

"Yeah," Faith added, "shut the hell up or tell you what the bloodsucking lawyer is doing here?"

"What's going on?" Giles inquired.

"The long lost Duke of Hazard here has a story to tell you," Spike said. "One he felt was too important to share with me and the bitch on the way."

"Yeah, he was so quiet, you'd think he was under arrest or something," Faith said. "And hey!" she added, almost offhand, as she smacked Spike upside the head.

"Would you quit doing that?" Spike snapped.

"What sort of story do you have to tell, Mr. McDonald?" Wesley asked coldly.

"A way for you to save Angel," Lindsey answered quietly.

"I assure you, if you're toying with us, we will be forced to take rather unpleasant action," Wesley warned.

"What's Born-Again-No-Wait-I-Am-Evil boy doing here?" Cordelia asked as she descended the stairs, Gunn, Xander, and Willow at her heels.

"Huh?" Willow whispered to Gunn.

"One of the evil dudes that tried to drive Angel off the deep end," Gunn answered.

"What way?" Giles asked. He knew the abbreviated version of what that law firm, Wolfram and Hart, had done to Angel over the past year. Frankly, he didn't care what they'd done. If the man before them had a cure, he would accept it gratefully.

"It's a spell. A Blessing. It's . . ." Lindsey sighed, looked around him ruefully. "It's what we did to Buffy."

Several pairs of eyes narrowed at him.

"Why are we supposed to believe you want to help Angel?" Cordelia asked.

"Because the only thing I've wanted in this world for the past two years, is to destroy him," Lindsey said quietly.

"Not exactly the survey's number one answer on the 'why should we believe you don't want to kill Angel' poll," Xander pointed out wryly.

"I don't want to be the man I have been for the past two years," Lindsey continued. "Hell, the past five years. I don't like him. And far as I can figure, the best way to go about changing that is to sacrifice the one goal I've held close all this time."

"I believe him," Willow said quietly.

"And didn't that Host guy send you to find the bloodsucker?" Xander added.

"What are you, nuts?" Faith snapped. "We're talking about some seriously invasive hocus pocus, and we're just supposed to =trust= him?!"

"We're trusting you," Willow pointed out.

"Not with Angel's life," Faith insisted.

"But we would," Wesley said quietly. That statement seemed to take all the wind out of Faith's sails.

"Not that this isn't a beautiful moment, but could we get bloody on with it?" Spike asked.

"A Blessing," Giles repeated, trying to get them back on track.

"A Chinese Blessing," Lindsey confirmed. "It's all here." He handed his stack of papers to Giles.

"Willow, Wesley, would you mind . . .?" Giles asked offhandedly.

"Not having sex?" Xander whispered near Willow's ear.

She flushed, and inconspicuously smacked him. Xander felt she was doing that too much lately.

The witch and the former Watcher sat down with Giles and began looking through the research Lindsey handed them, Willow paying special attention to the incantation.

"This looks like it will only work if the person being blessed is in the same place as the person doing the casting," Willow said at last.

"That's right," Lindsey confirmed.

"But when Buffy . . ."

"We were there," Lindsey said sheepishly. "Hiding in the shadows. That's what Wolfram and Hart does best."

All those familiar with the firm had to agree.

"This is incredibly punctilious," Giles noted, scanning Lindsey's research.

"I've always believed in leaving no stone unturned, sir," Lindsey replied.

Giles raised an eyebrow at the 'sir', but otherwise refrained from commenting.

Cordelia was not so reserved.

"So what, we're just supposed to believe you've decided to turn over a new leaf? Am I the only one having a been there, done that moment?"

Giles prevented Lindsey from answering Cordelia. "The Watcher's Council is mentioned in most of this text," he said, looking up at Lindsey.

Smiling, Lindsey looped his only remaining thumb in his belt. "Like I said. It's a helluva read."

Xander tapped Giles on the shoulder. "Should we wake the Buff for this?"

Giles frowned, then shook his head. "No, let her sleep. We can fill her in later. She certainly deserves to rest while she can."

~

i can see the wind coming down
like black night
so speak to me
like the winds outside
it's broken up, pushing us

~

"Rise and shine, lover."

The words sent a chill up and down Buffy's spine. It was beginning again. The torture, the mind games. A fan of irony, she reminded herself, and there was nothing more ironic than this, Buffy decided as she pulled at the restraints holding her arms captive above her head. They weren't chains; instead, he'd bound her with strips of black cloth. He was no doubt counting on her being too disoriented to fight him properly.

At least she was lying on a cot now. That had to be an improvement over being chained to a wall, staring at Drusilla.

"Okay, once was payback. Twice is just mean," she quipped as she opened her eyes.

He was leaning against the wall, regarding her through hooded lids, dressed all in black -- bottom half leather, top half silk. Her mouth watered a little and she tried to suppress any desire she felt. He was Angel, though, no matter the details, and her attempt proved futile.

"We're going to play a little game, love," he said lightly, moving toward her.

"Like Monopoly?" she asked hopefully.

As she expected, he ignored her quip. His hand wandered up to the top of the sheet that covered her body, and he pulled it away, baring her to his gaze. Admittedly, she should have realized it sooner, but once she was no longer covered, it occurred to Buffy that she was naked.

"I think I'd like to tarnish every happy memory you have of your boyfriend," he said at last, his palm tracing slow, gentle circles over her stomach.

Buffy was more than a little distressed to realize she'd remained unconscious while he removed the shirt she'd only worn that night because it smelled like him.

"Geez, what kind of a predator am I?" she muttered quietly.

"Honestly, I had the same thought," he admitted, his voice mocking. "I suppose you were only so wonderfully submissive because you thought your love was here with you. What can I say, Buff? That gets me." He beat his chest, once, over his heart. "Right here."

"My love =is= here with me," she said flatly.

That had perhaps not been the wisest thing to say. His arm shot up and his hand wrapped around her throat so tightly, she found herself gasping for air she didn't need. How ridiculous, she thought dazedly.

"You think that now, and really, Buff, it's kinda cute how you've learned NOTHING since the last time we danced. I'll show you, though.

"I'll show you all the things you've never been smart enough to fear."

~

hear the rain fall
see the wind come to my eyes
see the storm broken
now nothing
speak to me baby
in the middle of the night

~

So here it was. Her worst nightmare in blaring Technicolor and Dolby Digital Surround Sound, hovering over her, with the nerve to glare down at her with her lover's chocolate brown eyes.

This was a monster. Angel had this inside of him; everyone did. Vampires were the manifestation of humanity's darkest, most insidious natures. His intent was to pervert everything she and Angel had been to each other. He had chosen well, too. Of all the mind games he had played, of all the things he'd threatened to do, of all of the things he'd done, somehow he'd managed to avoid crossing this line.

At first, she had been sure it was because he found it distasteful. The demon had made his feelings about the night that she and Angel had made love together perfectly clear. Later, though, when her own insecurity had finally gotten out of the way, Buffy had begun to see it for what it was. Angelus didn't attempt to seduce her, as she knew he had done to his victim's in the past, because he didn't want to risk feeling anything more for her than he already did.

Death was what he'd been after. Satisfying, fulfilling death that came only after he'd destroyed her entire world from the inside out. Now, his goal was slightly different. Her death no longer figured into it. Only her surrender, and to accomplish that, he had to taint everything she had shared with his soul. The longer she remained close to him, the easier it became to understand everything he was thinking.

He wanted to leave a scar, one that would remain with her forever, so that whenever she thought of Angel, she would think of this moment, of this violation.

And that, she could not allow.

"I won't let you rape me," Buffy declared quietly.

He laughed harshly against the side of her face. "Ah, Buff, so stupidly brave. I really don't see how you're gonna stop me."

"I won't let you do this to us," she continued. "I won't let you do this to him. I won't let there be something this ugly between us after I get him back." Her gaze locked with his, Buffy drew her leg up to wrap around his hip, tugging his leather-clad body closer to hers.

A growl escaped his mouth. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I want you," she said clearly. "I want you to take me."

"Are you crazy?!" He tried to move away from her, but she'd brought her other leg around; both now held his hips in a vise like grip. "This is real nice," he hissed. "Cheating on your boyfriend."

"It's not cheating," she insisted. "You are him. You're a part of him. And when I get him back, he'll remember that he didn't have to force me tonight."

"You're loonier than Dru," he muttered.

"No. I just love you more than anything."

"Stop saying that!" he snapped, fisting a handful of her hair so tightly she cried out softly.

"What's the matter? Can't take the truth? We're mated, lover, bound by love and blood and souls. You've taken care of the 'souls' part, but you can still feel the rest, can't you?"

"I hate you." Buffy almost felt sorry for him. He hadn't said it with any confidence -- instead, it had sounded almost like a mantra; something he was desperately trying to make true.

"Thin line, my love," she whispered kindly. Her hands were bound, but she was able to gain some leverage. She raised her upper body and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. He seemed too stunned to move for a moment.

Then, snarling, he attacked her mouth, spreading violent, bruising kisses to her lips. His fangs nicked her, and he moaned as her blood hit his senses. Sucking her lower lip into his mouth, his tongue ran over the tiny wound, drawing on it hard enough to make her cry out again.

"I'm going to hurt you," he declared. "You're never getting your boy back, and I'm going to show you exactly how much I'm =not= him."

"You can't hurt me, Angel."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? Angelus is only the Latinate for Angel. If you're so sure you two are different people, what do you care what I call you?"

He growled again, and she felt him test the strength of her legs around his waist. They were engaged in a game of wills. Neither was willing to give an inch. Angel was playing for his identity, and Buffy was playing for him. Her hold on him held as firm as the black satin around her wrists.

She felt only slightly disadvantaged at being naked, while he at least had leather and silk for armor.

There was also the slight problem of her not entirely believing everything she was saying. A very large part of her was desperately afraid she wouldn't be able to make good on her promise. That part of her, the Slayer that somehow still breathed and fought against evil inside her skin, the girl who'd finally decided to kill him all those years ago, who'd fought him with an ancient blade . . . that girl hated him. She hated him every bit as much as his soul had hated the evil that controlled her after she was turned.

Yet, she was still powerless to resist him. How was it possible, she wondered for the thousandth time, to love someone so desperately, that =nothing= they did could ever be enough to make you stop? He had killed; killed friends, people she knew. He'd stalked her, tortured her, beat her, tried to kill her. Most of all, he'd left her. And through it all, no matter how much she tried, she couldn't make it stop. This well of love she had that insisted on bubbling up and over for him, no matter how angry, hurt, confused, or sad she was because of him.

Her love was a double-edged sword that had been lodged securely in her gut long before she ever ran him through. It was a constant ache, one she carried most of the time with joy, because it was such a small price to pay for knowing his love. It was the times they had been separated, the times she had been forbidden the ability to press her lips to his, to draw heat from his cold, dead body . . . that was when the ache had grown until it was an unending pain that spread through her body like a virus.

Now, that love was piercing her breast anew, showing her new depths of sorrow. There was nothing she wanted less than to let this demon touch her, save never being allowed to touch Angel again at all.

With that thought driving her, Buffy met him violent kiss for violent kiss, her face changing as she scented her blood against his fangs. Soon, their blood mixed against their torn lips, and she heard him snarl.

"You think you know everything about me," he growled, pushing away from her as far as he could.

"I do," Buffy said quietly. And she did. Just as she knew what he was about to do to her. She only hoped she would be able to retain her composure. It would be hard to convince him later, when she had =her= Angel back, that she was unharmed by the experience if he had memory of her screaming for him to stop.

Savagely, he raised his arm and backhanded her. Her lip split in new places, and she held back a cry. Her eyes shut tightly, because she thought she might be able to get through this, but not if she had to look at his face.

He knew this, of course, and his hand smoothed over her face, becoming gentle. His lips were on her eyelids, coaxing them gently open. Slowly, his mouth moved to her ear, his hands smoothing up and down her sides.

"If you try to pretend it isn't me, I'll kill you," he whispered.

Inner reserve of strength, inner reserve of strength. It became a silent mantra. This was something she had to do for him, for all the things Angel had always done for her. She needed something to cling to, something to give her the strength to see this game through to the end.

His fingers ran along her arms gently, then abruptly tightened, his nails digging into her skin, making her bleed again. She gritted her teeth to stop the cry this time ((inner reserve, inner reserve, think, think)) and she forced her eyes to remain open.

Then, like the epiphany he'd told her overcame him what seemed like so long ago, she had it. Like Giles taught her to, Buffy went inside herself until she reached her center. There, she imagined nothing but pure white light, and at the center of that light, she saw a small cottage in the woods. Inside that cottage was a fireplace, and she sat in front of the roaring fire, calm and complete, holding an antique lace rose.

The roses Angel brought her were the only reason she'd survived those first weeks, Buffy knew. They had reminded her of life, and of death, the natural cycle she was no longer a part of. Soft petals and sweet scent had given her the strength to stay amongst the living when all she'd wanted to do was greet the sunrise.

And, she was convinced, the memory of those roses would save her now.

"I could never pretend," she said out loud, meeting his gaze steadily.

His eyes narrowed, and he hit her again, the Claddagh ring he'd never removed slicing into her flesh. She wished, fleetingly, that she still had hers.

"I still don't think you quite get what's happening here, Buff," he spat.

"I get," she assured him. "I know."

"You know, your mouth just gets you into more trouble," he growled.

"Here's what I know, =baby=," she sneered. "I know that you set out to destroy me, and instead, I'm going to rock your world off its axis. I'm going to take you someplace you've never been without possession of a soul. And when I'm done, you're going to beg me to do it again." She smiled. "Don't you get it, Angel? You don't get to win. No matter what you do, only I get to win."

With a snarl more animal than any she'd heard from him yet, his mouth descended on her neck and he began feeding gluttonously from her jugular.

Buffy couldn't contain the moan that escaped her. The demon inside her was experiencing pure bliss. The bond she'd established with Angel was almost that of a Sire, given the lack of potential her actual Sire had shown. Buffy knew, for the first time, as Angel drew deeply from her, that her real intent upon seeking him out had been because she'd wanted him for her Sire.

It made sense. He was the strongest vampire she personally knew, and her soul had loved him deeply. The demon mimicked that emotion, wanted him to take her, to dominate her, to be dominated by her. The demon inside her wanted him to own her, to possess her completely, and Buffy realized that a part of her, a part of the purely human her, wanted the very same thing.

Except she needed it to be the purely human part of him taking possession. Otherwise, the whole thing meant nothing.

Ripping his mouth from her neck finally, he began to roam over her body. He bit at her flesh, her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. Harsh bites, more violent than the ones they'd exchanged the last time they'd gone at one another, sans souls. Then, the violence had been in the interest of their mutual pleasure. Now, he just wanted her anguish. He would have it. She couldn't keep it from him, no matter how hard she tried. But he would not break her. He wouldn't break =them=.

((antique lace roses and his voice in my ear reciting poetry from memory))

She was weakened by the blood loss, and so it was laughably easy for him to pry her legs from around his hips. He pulled the silk shirt he wore over his head, and bent to her chest. He nipped at her already abused nipples, slid them into his mouth, worried them against his fangs until they were raw and she couldn't hold the soft whimpers of pain back any longer.

((I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off))

Again, he moved down her body, his fangs leaving red tear-tracks over her stomach, along her hips, all the way to her thighs. He opened the vein on the inside of her thigh and took a moment to drain her just that little bit more. Soon, he apparently became hungry for more, because he abandoned her leg and moved his face between her thighs.

If everything else in this twisted scenario had failed to shame her, the fact that she was dripping wet for him would do all by its lonesome.

((I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.))

His mouth explored every inch of her wet, intimate flesh. Here, too, he made her bleed, but this time, he soothed the hurts with the cool perfection of his tongue. There was pleasure to be found here, along with the pain, perhaps because of the pain, and he wrenched another sound from her throat, a scream at last, though not the kind she knew he longed to hear.

He sat back from her and she watched as he stripped the leather pants from his body, leaving him as naked as she. He moved over her, and she hissed quietly at the searing pain the skin to skin contact caused her abused body. The gesture a mockery of the way she'd taunted him earlier, he pulled her legs around his hips and drove into her with a single, violent thrust.

((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))

He pounded into her so hard, she thought she would die from how much it hurt. Knowing how much more it would pain her, he had purposely made her come before this so that his invasion would cause her more humiliation. His grip on her hips was punishing, and she was sure, vamp healing abilities or not, she would be bruised for days to come.

What was worse than how much it hurt, worse than the sharp, stabbing pain tearing through her as he tried to split her in two . . . was the part of her that enjoyed it. While the woman in her was dying, the soul inside her screaming, the demon was in ecstasy. It pleaded with him for more pain, more anger, more of whatever he deigned to give.

Buffy couldn't decide which part of her she hated more at the moment.

((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))

Her body was weak, as was her spirit. He had taken from her, emotionally, physically, and she was close to passing out from the strain. As if he sensed this (and knowing him, he probably had), Angel tore open a vein on his wrist and pressed the bleeding appendage to her mouth. She could no more resist his offer than she could push him off her and leave this room.

She drank from him hungrily, and this sensation was clearly what he'd been waiting for. Somehow, he drilled her into the mattress harder than he had been before. Her legs were now hanging listlessly open, and only his brutal pounding kept them spread.

When he came, he roared in satisfaction, and he once again buried his fangs in her neck, tearing more the flesh he'd already ripped asunder earlier. As he calmed, she felt his nonexistent breath against her ear.

"Was that how you rocked my world off its axis?" he mocked. "'Cause if it is, gotta tell you, you really need some training, Buff."

((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))

Using the last of her will, Buffy met his gaze. Her body felt broken, filthy, and used. But she managed to smile at him. It was a sickly, bruised thing, but it was a smile, nonetheless.

"It was good for me," she croaked through her tired, abused lungs.

Not even his inhuman howl of rage kept her conscious a moment longer.

~

speak to me
hold your mouth to mine
'cause the sky is breaking
it's deeper than love
i know the way you feel
like the rains outside
speak to me

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Jaded -- on whom the pale moon gleams

~

"Unconditional" (without conditions", just as i am (without provisions), till death do us part (murder not acceptable), for better or for worse (and it always gets worse), now say you love me!! -- Katherine Wolf

~

"This is fascinating," Wesley said for the hundredth time in so many minutes.

"Mm," Giles agreed. "What part have you got?"

"The origin of the Soul Blessing," Wesley said excitedly. "It's extraordinary, a tribe of Chinese Magicians, peacemakers, attacked by vampires, losing most of their numbers to them, then rebuilding, vowing to find a way to wipe the demon pestilence off the earth for good."

"Yes, fascinating," Giles said, "and also old news. Come on, old man, keep up. The Blessing is secondary to the greatest piece of a puzzle we were never bloody told existed -- they =did= it."

"Did what?" Cordelia asked, trying to make sense of a book that was covered in mostly Chinese symbols. She thought that Angel probably could have read it, and that made her heart hurt so she decided to be bored, because bored didn't hurt.

"Hundreds of years ago, they Blessed 'the very old' vampires with their human souls," Giles said, awe evident in his voice. "They fought side by side with Slayers for nearly a century."

"How is it possible this was kept secret?" Wesley asked, still poring over the same text. The evidence was spread out over the surface of his office, yet his brain couldn't quite process the idea that somehow, somewhere, some time, this had all occurred. It wasn't prophecy, it wasn't hypothesis -- it was history.

History that the Watcher's Council had never bothered to teach their =Watchers=.

"That Council you guys mentioned didn't want it made known," Lindsey said from the corner. He'd been relatively quiet after handing over his research, and the occupants of the room had almost forgotten he was there.

"The Council of Watchers?" Willow asked. She didn't know why it surprised her, but somehow, it did.

"Think about it," Lindsey said quietly.

Giles, who did not need to think about it, who had spent the past few hours memorizing the text laid out before him, leaned back in his seat, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Control," he said at last. "Isn't that right, Mr. McDonald?"

"I don't understand," Willow said.

"I do," Wesley whispered, having made the same connection Giles had. "Slayers and Vampires, fighting side by side . . . understanding the pain each felt. How many?"

"More than a dozen," Lindsey said. "The last lived until her twenty-eighth birthday."

"Still missing big huge pieces of this puzzle," Cordelia said.

"They fell in love," Giles explained gently. "And because the Slayer was not alone, she held onto life longer."

"Killer of the Dead," Willow read aloud.

"What?" Giles asked.

"That book from the Watcher's Council was a lie," Willow said shakily. "When Angel was sick, and we found that book . . . it said that a crazed vampire attacked the Slayer while she was leaving her Watcher's home, that he drained her and killed her . . . he didn't. He didn't attack her. They were lovers, they'd run away together . . . it's not clear here why . . .but they'd been lovers for . . . years. Nearly a decade, if I'm reading this right, and . . . he was sick, he got sick, and she . . . she gave herself to him. Fed herself to him."

"Just like Buffy," Cordelia said aloud.

"Your Council saw that their little weapon was becoming a stronger weapon than they'd originally thought, and her loyalty no longer rested with them first," Lindsey said. "They'd formed an alliance with the Chinese Magicians, thinking they would gain aid for their Slayers, and instead they'd created what was, in their eyes, an abomination. Someone they considered to be the holiest of girls was consorting with the vilest of creatures, possessed of a human soul or not. At first, they thought it was an anomaly -- just one girl. Then two. Then three. Then all of them. These vampires were by their sides every night in battle, gave them a sense of peace they'd thought they would only know in death . . . if those Watchers thought anything else would happen, they were fools."

"Indeed," Giles agreed. "And it would appear things have not changed terribly much in five hundred years."

"The Watchers chased the Chinese Magicians out of England," Willow said as she scanned the text before her faster and faster. "Oh, God . . ."

"What?" Wesley asked, unconsciously moving closer to her on the couch, an instinctive need to offer comfort overcoming him.

"They exterminated them," Willow said, tears coming to her eyes. "There were dozens of souled vampires walking the earth, and the Watchers just killed them. It was a mandate from the head of the Council. No demon was worthy of the human soul God had seen fit to take away . . . they thought they were doing God's will," Willow whispered. "They wiped out an entire race, they committed =genocide= and they thought . . ."

"That's what they've always thought," Giles said quietly. "All of the human monsters, throughout history. God's will," he repeated, his voice almost calm, were it not for the underlying pain that lingered.

"Look here," Wesley said, pulling a file into his lap. "When the Chinese Magicians were run out of England, they went to Tibet. They studied the culture, worked to 'rebuild all that the English had destroyed.'" He glanced up at Lindsey. "This appears to be an exact translation."

"Those Magicians . . . they kept pretty extensive records," Lindsey answered. "Only one of 'em kept a diary. He sort of spoke for the whole wagon train."

"The Council kept a copy of the Blessing," Giles said, rereading to make sure he had seen it correctly. "It was ordered that no one was to know of its existence -- in fact, I doubt anyone below Blevins would know -- but they kept it. Locked away in the tightest of vaults, but . . ."

"They could have saved Angel," Cordelia said, standing, enraged. "Do you know how much guilt he carries around because of his stint as Angelus? Do you know how much that hurt . . ." She trailed off as she saw the pained look that crossed Giles' face. "Oh," she said quietly, "yeah, I guess you do."

Everyone in the room was thinking of all that pain that might have been spared, had only they known of the existence of this Blessing after the fateful night of Buffy's seventeenth birthday. All the lives that could have been saved, all the tragedy averted. Then, later, when Buffy had been turned, they could have perhaps cursed her, knowing they would not be sentencing her to exactly the same sort of existence they'd assumed at the time. Willow, in particular, had trouble not wondering if they might have been able to save Tara, had they possessed this knowledge.

It was an unproductive manner of thought, however, and they quickly refocused their efforts on the research material before them.

"As I suspected," Giles said a moment later. "Very few Watchers were ever allowed knowledge of the Blessing, and never those currently assigned to a Slayer."

"Why is that?" Lindsey asked. "I've been curious, ever since a friend of mine in the Council told me the Blessing existed. I can't figure out why they'd want to keep this from a Watcher just because they happened to have a Slayer."

"Because after barely a year with your charge, you become willing to do anything -- and I do mean =anything=, Mr. McDonald -- to keep her safe." Giles glanced down at his hands. "I would sell my own soul to keep Buffy alive. Blessing a vampire with his would be nothing in comparison, even if it were completely against the Council's orders."

"Then again, neither of us are exactly keeping to the Council's discretion, are we?" Wesley said, not without humor.

"Look at this," Willow said softly. "From the Diary of Tiu Ying -- 'The price that we pay for these noble warriors is too high. We have no way to ease the pain in their souls, and they are only brought back to their humanity in time for the English to slaughter them. We wish the chosen girls good fortune without the shadows to watch their backs. We pray for the world.'" She sniffed tears back. "They wouldn't fight back. Their souls wouldn't let them fight back while the Watchers murdered them."

"Hold the phone," Cordelia said, looking closer at the piece of paper in her hands. "That Slayer chick who let her honey feed on her a few centuries back? The Council poisoned him. This guy, Cornswad, wrote all about it. They wanted to test the Slayer's loyalty -- was it to her calling, or to her lust?" Cordelia wrinkled her nose in distaste. "They make it sound so tawdry. But, I mean, she must have loved him a lot, to go against instinct and let him drink from her, right?"

"Yeah," Willow said faintly. "A lot."

"My head hurts," Cordelia muttered, rubbing her forehead.

"You haven't slept since . . ." Wesley let his sentence trail off. Both he and Cordelia knew when she hadn't slept since -- the night Angel turned. "And you're still recuperating from your vision. Your vision two days ago," he intoned meaningfully. "You said they've been getting worse."

"Yeah," Cordelia whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

"You need to sleep, Cordelia," Giles instructed gently.

"I can't," Cordelia snapped.

"All right," Wesley soothed. "Then at least get out of here."

"Excellent idea," Giles agreed.

"Where am I supposed to go?" Cordelia cried.

"Gunn!" Wesley called loudly.

"No need to yell, English, I ain't deaf," Gunn said, walking through the door.

"Kindly take Cordelia out of this room," Wesley said with a smile.

Cordelia glared at him, but didn't protest when Gunn took her hand and led her from the room.

"So what you wanna do?" Gunn asked, slinging an arm over her shoulder.

Leaning against him gratefully, Cordelia sighed. "I think I'd really like to go see a movie. You know. Work on my craft." She said it with a self-mocking tone to her voice, and Gunn dropped a kiss over her temple.

"Whatcha wanna see?"

"What don't you wanna see?" she countered.

"I'll take you to anything but that piece a crap movie from that stupid video game," he replied.

"Which one?" she asked cheekily.

Gunn grinned. "If you gotta ask . . ."

~

"Plumber" -- StoryPeople

The plumber was digging around in the pipes and he saw something shine in the muck and it turned out to be the soul of the last tenant. He gave it to me and I said I wonder how we can return it and he shrugged and said he found stuff like that all the time. You'd be amazed what people lose, he said.

~

Buffy opened her eyes completely against her will.

Somehow, she knew it was important to keep herself unaware of what went on while she was conscious. It was better here, where she was twilight sleeping, smelling Angel, feeling his arms around her, knowing they were safe in their big bed.

A stronger part of her, the part of her that could survive anything, insisted she wake up, free herself.

((free myself . . . why would I want to free myself from Angel?))

And with that thought, her denial shattered, and her eyes opened sharply, stung with the salt of tears she couldn't afford the luxury of shedding.

She had woken several times already, and each time, he had been there, taunting, bruising, destroying. He had ripped into her flesh, her mind, and her heart with every weapon he had in his arsenal, and he had been relentless. Yet each time, she had refused to give him what he craved -- she was unable to hide her pain, but she never allowed him to view her destruction.

He had taken nearly everything from her, but it had not broken her. It only set her resolve to regain =her= Angel all the more. There would be scars inside of her for some time to come, and she prayed Angel would be able to see past his own guilt long enough to help her heal them.

He was the only one who could help her heal them . . .

Craning her neck, she saw that her tormenter ((lover)) slept deeply. Tired from his exertions, no doubt, she thought bitterly. She wanted to beat him to a second death, and at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to draw his dear face to hers and press an absolving kiss to his forehead.

In my next life, Buffy thought, I'm coming back as a chick who knows better than to love a guy with a literal demon inside his skin.

Feeling only moderately hypocritical for that thought, Buffy tested the give of her restraints. Angel had taken blood from her sporadically throughout the night, keeping her weakened, but he had also allowed her to drink from him to keep her conscious. She had no way of knowing how long he had let her rest this time, but she sensed it had been enough time for her to recharge more than she had previously.

Earlier, she would have been able to escape her bonds, had she not been so paralyzed with fear, so determined to spare Angel future pain. Also, she admitted regretfully, escape would have been easier had the demon inside of her not wanted so badly to stay exactly where it was.

Her motivations muddled, Buffy moved carefully, snapping the post her wrists were tied to as quietly as possible in the hopes of leaving Angel undisturbed. She had no wish to fight him, although, she grumbled silently, part of her definitely wanted to beat him to a pulp. Her wounded pride, her tattered dignity, her Slayer savvy, all wanted her to rip him from the embrace of sleep and hit him 'til he bled. Her foolish heart, however, her forgiving soul simply wished to creep from his bed without waking him, so that there might be one less confrontation between them stored forever in his perfect memory.

Those conflicting emotions foremost in her mind, Buffy slipped free of the bed, her hands still bound in front of her. She made it into the warehouse, glad to see that day had passed, and it was night once more. That certainly would have proved problematic, she thought. Escape from his bed, only to be denied escape from this room.

Drusilla was still chained to a pole. She was, however, seemingly recovered from Buffy's blow, only a faint red mark in the center of her forehead reminding Buffy of her deadly aim the night before. It also reminded her to grab her shoe, resting a few feet from the insane vampire.

"He fed me while you slept," Drusilla whispered, closer to her ear than Buffy'd thought the other vampire was.

"That's nice," Buffy muttered, hopping on one foot as she shoved her foot into the shoe.

"Your blood is powerful," Drusilla continued. "It flows through his veins like wine."

Buffy froze, disturbed by the mental picture Drusilla had just drawn for her. Angel fed from Buffy. Angel came to see Drusilla. Angel let Dru feed from him. Which meant . . .

"It covered me in sensation," Drusilla confided. "My nerves were jumping, bursting, singing."

"Glad you enjoyed," Buffy told her. "Don't get used to it."

"I shan't," Drusilla murmured mournfully. "He wants to hurt you almost as much as he wants to love you."

Closing her eyes tightly for a moment, Buffy tried to stop her idiot heart from leaping at Drusilla's words. What did Whacksilla know?

A lot. Always had. Just because the messenger was nuts, didn't mean the message was worthless.

"He doesn't love me," Buffy forced herself to say. How could what passed between them in the other room be a product of love? "He isn't capable of love," she said firmly.

Dru made a tsking sound. "My little lamb has changed her tune after a night in daddy's bed. He did hurt you, didn't he? Hurt you so much you've lost your bite."

"Shut up," Buffy growled. What she most definitely did =not= want was to be reminded of her pointless, naïve words the night before. Angel -- =Angelus= she forced her mind to correct -- did not, could not, would not love her, because he did not possess the soul that Angel loved her with so thoroughly. He'd taught her that much with fists and fangs and lust.

Besides, the beliefs she'd held since she regained her own soul were wrong, if Angel and Angelus were two separate beings, that meant that maybe she wasn't responsible for everything she'd done without a soul, after all . . .

"Are you going to be my new mummy now?" Drusilla asked dreamily.

Snapping, Buffy moved to stake the bitch once and for all, when her sensitive ears picked up on a sound. Rustling. Bare skin against silk. Angel ((Angelus, idiot, =Angelus=)) was awake.

Leaving Dru be, Buffy raced out the door, and into the night, aching and scared.

It was junior year all over again, he'd just broken everything inside of her, jaded her heart toward him, and still, all she wanted was Angel, to run to him, to hide inside his dark shelter and feel safe again. She would get him back. And he would make it better.

He had to.

~

I stand on the edge of destruction
emotionally ruined
By the warmth I most desire
I will not fall prey to love
of a human kind for love is weakness;
Love is the fall of every man -- Shai Hulud

~

Angelus woke with a growl, enraged to find his delectable captive no longer in his bed.

He had underestimated her, somehow forgotten how thoroughly she satiated him each and every time he took her delicious body, feasted on her ambrosial blood, and licked up her salty tears. He always slept like -- forgive the pun -- the dead afterward, and today had been no different.

He had sought to punish her -- for what, he still wasn't sure, but unlike when they'd mated before, this time, the soul he so despised in her was present, and the opportunity to hurt the girl who'd made him love her in the first place had been much too great a temptation to resist.

It sickened him that his perspective of her could be summed up so easily, and in such a cliché: he wanted her; he loved her; he hated himself for loving her, but clearly, that love wasn't going anywhere, and since he couldn't live without her, and sucking the world into hell hadn't gone over too well last time, he was left with only one other option.

Buffy's soul simply had to go.

Oh, but she had been irresistible as a soulless, murdering fiend. Her destructive streak nearly eclipsed his own, he remembered, and the idea of falling asleep with her in his arms each morning, only to rise in the night, hunt and feed and kill together . . . he'd never wanted anything more.

He still recalled his musings the last time he'd been uncaged. The idea that he might have found a mate whom he could not only love, but trust, without fearing her betrayal . . . yet another irresistible thing about this girl, this goddess of his.

Of course, she would not go willingly. Which was fine. Hurting her the past day, feeling her pain soak into his body through their skin on skin contact had been beyond words. Her soul had wept for him, because of him; though she tried valiantly to hide it from him, he had felt every silent sob, the echo of her anguish sounding inside his empty chest still.

The girl, the silly, noble, naïve girl that still lived inside her he wanted to kill, as much as he always had. That girl, the one who'd made him feel love, who'd stained his immoral purity with her light . . . that girl he wanted to drain and slash and devour until nothing remained of her but the phoenix that had risen from her ashes. His phoenix, his golden bird come to stand at his side for all eternity . . .

For as much as he wanted to hurt her, wanted to strip bare the Slayer, the child in her, he also wanted to love, worship, and fuck the demon, the woman, that he'd only been allowed the pleasure of knowing for a short day.

She was his equal in every way, and he would have her, or he would die trying.

They both would.

~

"Hard to Forget" -- StoryPeople
I was waiting for such a long time, she said. I thought you forgot. It's hard to forget I said, when there is such an empty space when you are gone.

~

((Him, but not him. Me, but not me. How did it work? How did it fit?))

She wasn't evil. Angel wasn't evil. And yet these things inside of them, that =were= them ((not them couldn't be them it can't be me it can't be him)), not only perpetuated evil, but reveled it. There was something inside of her -- a being? A voice? -- that demanded blood and violence and pain. It craved it, made her crave it, until she couldn't tell whether they were her emotions, or its emotions.

It was like she'd always imagined a parasite to be. But it was a parasite more insidious than any other. The demon took on the host's memories, its mannerisms, its loves, its hates, its dreams and its sorrows. Angel told her something a few weeks ((God, only a few weeks!)) ago that Darla had taunted him with shortly after he was turned.

She remembered easily the moment he had shared with her, his recollection of his first days out of his grave. They had lain naked in their big bed; she had been spread across the length of his body as he gently rubbed her back. They had been telling secrets, things that, before, they might have been ashamed to reveal to one another. She knew that was true in his case. If there was anything to be grateful for in her slide into darkness, it was that Angel felt more comfortable letting her into his own darkness.

And he had told her of Darla's words, moments after he'd murdered his mother, his sister, and his father; he'd said they were like bits of wisdom a mother might impart, in a twisted sort of way:

"Your victory over him took but moments. But his defeat of you will last lifetimes." He'd explained to her his past confusion, then Darla's killing blow: "Nor can he ever approve of you: in this world, or any other -- What we once were informs all that we have become. The same love will infect our hearts, even if they no longer beat. Simple death won't change that."

Love? he'd asked her, rubbing Buffy's back as he became lost in the memories. Is this the work of love?

"Then she smiled at me," he'd said, "and called me darling boy. Told me I was young, still. I didn't understand what she meant then."

Buffy had raised her head to meet his gaze. "And now?" she'd asked.

His eyes were far away from her, and he'd been so sad as she tried to spread comfort to him by caressing his chest with her palms.

"Now I do," was all he'd said, with all that ancient pain and wisdom he carried with him every day.

Now, as Buffy tried to find a balance within herself, a balance between everything Angel was to her, and what had happened between them not an hour ago, she thought that she knew, too. At least a little bit.

The evil she had done upon the world, upon her friends and family, had not been random. It had been calculated, imbued with the petty jealousies and resentments her human heart had felt, and the demon had fed on.

Did that make her a monster? A monster's host? It was all rattling around in her brain, louder and louder until she feared she'd go crazier than Dru from it.

And so, she decided to seek answers from somewhere Angel said he'd always trusted.

"I'd like to speak to the Host," Buffy said quietly, addressing the furry bartender behind the bar.

"Oh, gorgeous, you've got him," a large, green demon said over her shoulder. "And not a second too soon, I'd say."

"I need you to tell me . . . I don't know," she whimpered, horrified to realize tears were once again running down her cheeks.

"I know you don't," the Host soothed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She flinched away from the touch, and he let his arm drop back to his side, nonplussed. "You will someday, though. Not sure when, they're never real clear on the when."

"Do I need to sing?" she asked.

"No offense, sweets -- and believe me when I say I've been waiting a long time to get you up on stage -- but right now, I'm not the kind of help you need."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" Buffy cried.

"Drink," the Host instructed, handing her a glass of blood from the bar. "Sit. Try to enjoy the entertainment--" a big blue scaly demon was crooning an off-key rendition of 'Imagine' "--while I call someone to bring you home."

"Home," she mumbled, sitting down heavily at the bar. "I don't get to be home. Home is where I just left." She laughed unstably, and she wondered if she really was starting to lose it.

"Wish I could tell you otherwise," the Host said sincerely, "but you'll come to terms with it. And you won't be alone. But really, I've said too much already."

"What do you know?" she asked plaintively.

"Nothing that would help you right now," the Host replied gently. "Drink."

She did, more because she felt the inane desire to please the big green guy than out of any real hunger. Surprisingly, she drained the glass in seconds, and she felt a measure of sanity return.

"Help is on the way," he promised as he grabbed the phone from behind the bar and began dialing.

~

if two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it -- Ernest Hemingway

~

"Now =that= was a good movie," Cordelia gushed as she and Gunn left the theater, arm in arm.

"Julia Roberts is a looker," he conceded. "That's all I'm givin' you."

"You enjoyed it," Cordelia insisted. "You were laughing your ass off."

"I was just tryin' to make you happy," he claimed. "Did it work?"

Cordelia paused, ignored the crowd of people around them hurrying home after their movies, and let out a contended sigh.

"Yeah. I think it did. You know, as much as it can, what with Angel going over to the Dark Side big time, and us having no clue how to help him or Buffy."

"We got a clue," Gunn said. "We got the Blessing. Now we just need him, somehow contained, long enough for your witchy friend to work the mojo."

"Contained and Angelus just don't seem to go together," Cordelia sighed.

"Now you're depressed again," Gunn pointed out.

"I'm not," Cordelia said. "Not really. Not more than usual. I'm just so worried about him, Gunn. I don't know what I'd do without--"

He quieted her with a gentle kiss, one she responded to after the initial shock had passed. Her hands fluttered ineffectually against his chest, and he pulled her closer with one hand on her hip, the other gently anchored in her short hair. The kiss went on, but it retained its softness, a level of innocence Cordelia found herself longing for. It had been so long since she'd felt innocent . . .

They broke away slowly, regretfully, and Gunn smiled at her.

"Happy?"

"Yeah," she breathed.

He draped an arm around her shoulders, while she wrapped hers around his waist, and they walked together beneath the light of an almost full moon.

~

Whenever someone asks me to define love, I usually think for a minute, then I spin around and pin the guy's arm behind his back. NOW who's asking the questions? -- Jack Handey

~

"Ooo," Drusilla crooned as Angelus entered the room. He narrowed his eyes at her. She never crooned like that for no reason. Slowly, he made his way toward her, wary. Unless he was playing a game with her, Dru detested being tied up.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asked her sternly.

Drusilla grinned at him. "Oh, yes, my Angel. We mustn't do anything to hurt mummy."

Mummy, Angelus internally smirked. Yes, that certainly did bode well for the future.

"I've had a vision," she confided in a whisper when he moved close enough to undo her bonds.

"Tell me, Dru," he whispered eagerly, their faces pressed together, his hands mauling her hips. An entire night with Buffy, and he was still hungry for her, restless with her blood flowing through his veins like heroin, and he an addict, desperate for a fix.

"We must have her back here," Drusilla cautioned.

"We'll kidnap her," Angelus said easily, freeing his most favored childe.

"Will you tie us up together next time?" she asked hopefully.

"Anything my girls want," Angelus promised.

"There's a way," Drusilla teased, "a way to rid mummy of her soul."

"How?"

"Dark, dark, dark magic," Drusilla confided. "He has the books, too."

"Who has them?" Angelus asked. He'd never understood Darla's impatience with Dru's sight. However much she rambled on, there was always truth somewhere in the madness. Truth from madness, he thought, often proved more real than droll facts.

"Her other daddy," Dru said with a frown.

"Giles," Angelus guessed. "He would have found everything on soul restoration he could get his hands on. Makes sense."

"Are you pleased, daddy?" Dru asked, a little girl's affection in her eyes.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Angelus wrapped an arm around her waist and began walking toward the door. "With you? Always, precious," he assured her.

~

"Buffy, are you okay?" Willow asked as she took a seat beside her best friend.

Buffy turned red-rimmed eyes on her friend, and let out a sob. "No, Will. I've never been less okay in my life." With that, she collapsed into Willow's arms, and the redhead stroked her hair softly, at a loss.

The bar was beginning to empty. It was two hours before sunrise, and even the demons not harmed by the sun's rays preferred to stay out of direct light. Low profile had kept them alive and relatively undetected for centuries, and they aimed to keep it that way.

"Buffy?" Willow asked quietly. "What happened?"

Pulling away from her friend's embrace, Buffy's face closed up. "I don't want to talk about it."

"No offense," Willow said timidly, "but this definitely sounds like a =need= to talk protocol."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Ah, the redhead," the Host said charmingly as he took a seat on the other side of Buffy. "A little witch, aren't you?"

Willow bristled. "Not so little."

"Oh, you have no idea, Narida," he said cryptically.

Her eyes pulled together. "Who's Narida?"

The Host made a sound in the back of his throat. "Sorry. My bad. Wrong life. Willow, is it?"

"Yeah," Willow confirmed warily.

"You just keep getting stronger and stronger," the Host commented. "Like that muscle-y fella on TV, always goes around popping spinach like steroids."

"Popeye," Buffy said, fascinated by the jug of O-Pos the bartender was storing in the fridge until the bar opened again in a few hours.

"Still hungry, munchkin?" the Host asked.

"I'm hungry," Buffy confirmed. "Just not for that."

"Understood," the Host said easily.

"Not by me," Willow muttered.

"You should both get home now," the Host said. "There's a whole world of pain coming your way."

"Coming?" Buffy shrieked. "Don't you mean 'going' in the sense that the pain is about to leave?"

The Host patted the top of Buffy's head, the gesture almost paternal. "Be strong, kid. It'll all work out. Just remember that no matter what, you're doomed to walk through life with each other."

"Destined," Buffy corrected automatically.

"Doomed, destined, potato, pot-ah-to. Whatever whacks your ball outta the park. I bid you good night, my doves."

"Strange guy," Willow commented as the Host went into the back room.

"I feel like I'm dying, Will," Buffy whimpered. "How is it possible to be dying without him already? Or am I dying because of him? Just tell me, please."

Willow didn't answer. She just wrapped an arm around Buffy's shoulders, and led the vampire out to Angel's car, which Wesley had insisted she take.

"It'll be okay," were the only words of wisdom she could think to impart.

~

"There's a barrier. It shields them from us," Drusilla declared.

Angelus growled beside her. "Looks like sweet little Willow finally got off her ass and did that evil revocation spell."

"We are very evil," Drusilla said gravely.

"Come on," Angelus snarled, "I need to kill something."

"You're going the wrong way for that then, love," Drusilla said, her head tilted in the air as though she were listening to voices. Which, Angelus was sure, she was.

"What do you hear, Dru?" he asked, stalking toward her.

"Oh, so much pain," she murmured. "So much agony, so much more satisfying than a nameless, faceless kill."

She began to wander off, and with barely a moment's indecision, Angelus followed her.

Within a few minutes, he was very glad that he had.

~

"I had a really great time," Cordelia confessed quietly, pressed up against Gunn's chest as they walked.

"Me too, 'Delia," Gunn said.

Cordelia stiffened slightly in his loose embrace.

"What?" he asked quietly.

"Doyle . . . he called me that sometimes."

"Doyle. Irish dude. Worked for Angel . . ."

"Had a huge crush on me, died moments after he kissed me, left me these skull crushing visions," Cordelia agreed.

"If you want, I can not . . . you know."

She shook her head. "No, it's okay. It was just sudden. But sometimes sudden is good."

"And sometimes," a dark voice said from the shadows, "not."

Angelus strode into view, and Cordelia took an unconscious step backward.

"You got a lot a nerve comin' here," Gunn said bravely. "Lookin' to get your ass staked?"

Shaking his head, Angelus moved a little closer, smirking when they both backed up. "Actually, I was just out enjoying the night air. Lovely, isn't it?" He took an unneeded breath. "Nothing like pure, unfiltered Los Angeles smog."

"Glad you're enjoying the atmosphere," Cordelia snapped. "Why don't you let us take you back to the hotel and tie you down? You'd enjoy the ambiance there a lot more."

"Cordelia," Gunn cautioned.

"I was thinking," Angelus continued as though she'd never spoken, "that it really doesn't seem fair that poor little Buff is the only one killing off dead weight this time around."

"You're the only dead weight around here," Cordelia declared.

"Cute," Angelus complimented. "You've always been cute, though, haven't you, 'Delia?" he mocked, letting his voice lilt on her name. "I seem to recall a conversation we had once, too. I hate to be the one to break it to you, sweet cheeks, but I'm not gonna get more evil than this. You can feel free to 'stake me dead' any time you want."

Cordelia was horrified to realize she couldn't move a muscle. It was so much harder, confronted with Angel's face, and Angel's voice, and Angel's eyes than she'd thought it would be. Even before, when he'd turned for a night after that stupid actress drugged him . . . it hadn't seemed real. And then he woke up, and he was Angel again, and . . .

"No staking my daddy," a voice chastised from behind, and when Cordelia spun around to look, she found herself grabbed in a chokehold by Drusilla. "Naughty, naughty," she murmured. "We mustn't hurt daddy." She grinned salaciously. "Unless he wants us to."

While Gunn was distracted by Cordelia's captivity, Angelus moved with the grace and skill of a predator, grabbing the boy by the throat, tightening his hand until the tiny bursts of oxygen did little more for Gunn than keep him alive.

"Gunn!" Cordelia screamed, held firm by Drusilla's arms, which pinned Cordelia's hands to her sides.

"Cordelia, you have an enchanting scream," Angelus complimented, "have you considered horror movies? Of course, you're such a truly hideous actress that you'd have to settle for one of those B movies they show at that seedy theater on Wilshire, but still, acting's acting, isn't it?"

"Let him go," Cordelia whispered. She tried to make her voice be strong, but she was so very, very scared in a way she couldn't fully identify.

Angelus didn't seem to hear her. He cocked his head to the side, as though he were trying to remember something. Then, he began to speak, so softly, so powerfully, that Cordelia was captivated, despite herself.

"World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems."

"Pretty," Drusilla hummed appreciatively.

"I've always thought O'Shaughnessy was kinda wordy, myself," Angelus said flippantly. "A little trite, even." He sighed. "Ah well, it'll do in a pinch. I must apologize to you, though," he said to Gunn, who was unable to break his grip, "because I'm a little distracted by this idiot heart of mine that insists on dwelling upon sonnets about love which just wouldn't be appropriate, thus this is not my best work." Then, he snapped Gunn's neck like a piece of straw, and the young black man's lifeless body fell to the ground with a thud that would echo in Cordelia's dreams until the day she died.

The vampire hauled Gunn's corpse to his feet, jerked his neck back in the other direction, a sickening cracking sound filling the air, and sunk his fangs into the still vein over his jugular. Angelus drank deeply for a moment, then licked his lips and dragged Gunn's body to Drusilla, and offered her Gunn's wrist over Cordelia's shoulder.

Cordelia gagged, dry heaving as Drusilla fed in front of her. Tears ran down her cheeks, and the next thing she felt was Angelus' hands ((Angel's hands)) on her cheeks, making her look at him, making her recognize his face ((back to looking human again, ha! human this thing isn't human it isn't Angel it isn't it isn't it isn't)). His thumbs brushed at her tears, and he tilted her head up.

"I need you to give Buffy a message for me," he said calmly.

~

Buffy let out a sigh as she and Willow stepped foot back inside the hotel. Everyone was spread out in the lobby, and Buffy thought that she saw more paperwork than she'd done in four years of high school, and one and a half of college.

"Buffy," Giles said, rushing to her side. He placed an arm around her shoulders, and Buffy didn't flinch, for which she was glad. She let herself lean into him, inhale his scent ((daddy)) and be comforted by the fact that he was here, and that he managed to love her, still, in spite of it all.

"It's good to have you back safely," Wesley said from the couch.

"Yeah, too bad nobody knew you were gone," Faith called from the other side of the room. "Y'know, B, in a crisis situation, it's nice to let people know when you go out for a walk."

"Some of us were worried," Spike said quietly from the couch.

"Sorry," Buffy mumbled. "I didn't mean . . ." Oh, great, tears again. What a fun =new= experience, she thought sarcastically.

"Everybody lay off Buffy," Willow ordered. The little witch still didn't know what had happened to Buffy, but she knew it was bad.

"Yes, well, I do believe we have some good news for you," Giles said, leading her further into the lobby, helping her as she took each step.

"Whatcha got?" she asked, trying to school her features.

"A cure for Angel," Xander said, giving her his 'Xander' smile that had always managed to comfort her in the past. "Same medicine you got, young lady."

"All courtesy the long lost Duke of Hazard over here," Faith added, tilting her head in Lindsey's direction. The lawyer sat on the stairs, staring off into space.

"Stealing my quips now, pet," Spike mocked from the sofa.

"I came up with that," Faith sniped, "I said it on the way here, and you stole it."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Oh, good one. Tell me another, ya lunatic bitch."

"Guys," Buffy said, feeling a headache creep up on her, "could you please just . . ." She trailed off as the lobby doors banged open. A chill went up her spine, and she turned, trying to prepare for what she would see, no matter what it was.

Cordelia stood in the doorway, shaking, splattered with blood, tears coursing down her cheeks. Everyone was too stunned to move toward her. She took the steps at a shakier pace than Buffy had, making her way to the blonde Slayer slowly. Wesley finally snapped out of his paralysis, went to Cordelia's side and put an arm around her for support. She shook him off, continued her path to Buffy.

When she reached her side, she stretched out her arms and gripped Buffy's hard. Buffy barely felt it. Numbness was creeping into her bones, the same numbness she saw reflected in Cordelia's eyes.

"What happened?" Wesley whispered, some part of him already knowing. Gunn's conspicuous absence, Cordelia's appearance . . .

"He told me to give you a message," Cordelia said dully.

"What?" Buffy asked, seventeen again, shaken to the marrow after her boyfriend went evil because she'd forced him to make love to her.

"Soon," Cordelia said. Her grip on Buffy abruptly fell away, and Xander and Wesley flanked her, kept her standing while they sprinted her to the couch.

Buffy stood in shock for a moment, before a sob escaped her throat. Covering her mouth with her hands, she turned and fled up the stairs.

Giles and Willow exchanged glances, before Willow nodded and followed her friend.

~

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wondering by lone sea breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems. -- Arthur O'Shaughnessy

~

Bittersweet Legacy: Blessing -- Through the Valley

~

the pathway is broken
and the signs are unclear
and I don't know the reason
why you brought me here

~

Willow found Buffy in the bedroom the blonde shared with Angel, studiously avoiding looking at the big bed toward the far end of the suite.

"Buffy," Willow said quietly, "are you okay?"

Buffy laughed harshly, her gaze tracking the big bedroom she shared with Angel. "I am the exact opposite of okay, Will," she whispered.

"Yeah, and you were that way before Cordy came in," Willow said firmly. "What . . . tell me what happened."

And she did. Buffy collapsed onto the bed she and Angel shared, and after the first few whispered words, Willow fell down next to her, gripping Buffy's hand tightly for support (though whether she was lending or taking, she couldn't be sure).

Everything spilled out, from Buffy's melancholy-induced midnight stroll, to her sensing Angel's presence, to her literally falling down on top of Angelus and Dru. It got harder as she described Angelus tying her down, beating her, screwing her, but the worst of it came when she admitted to Willow her dirty little secret.

"I liked it," Buffy whispered. "God, he was practically raping me and I felt this visceral, animal rush. What kind of a monster am I, Will?"

Willow didn't bother to mention that he hadn't 'practically' raped Buffy, as far as she was concerned. At this point in time, she didn't think Buffy particularly wanted to face the fact that she =had= been raped by a demon who wore the face of the man she loved. Instead, Willow tried to focus on assuaging Buffy's fears.

"You've got new parts to you now," Willow said slowly. "You're not a monster, it's just that there's these new feelings you've got to figure into who you are now--"

"How can you say I'm not a monster?" Buffy whispered.

"Because I love you," Willow said. "I love you best, remember?"

Buffy sobbed once, loudly. "Still?" she asked, her meaning clear: even after I murdered the woman you loved?

Turning on the bed, Willow gently brushed the hair back from Buffy's face the way she'd watched her friend do for Dawn a thousand times.

"Always, Buffy," she said quietly, with two simple words granting the blonde at her side something she'd almost stopped hoping for -- forgiveness.

"I don't know how you can stand to be in the same room with me, let alone still be my best friend in the whole world," Buffy confessed.

"Love makes you do the wacky," Willow said. "All types of love. All types of wacky."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed hollowly. "Wacky."

"Buffy," Willow said hesitantly, "I know you want Angel back--"

"I need him back, Will," she interrupted. "Especially after . . . how can that be my last memory of him?"

"After you . . . after you woke up," Willow said diplomatically, "Angel . . . he said that he wished I hadn't cursed him before. He said he didn't want you to suffer like he had. That he wanted to spare you that. Buffy, are you sure you want him to remember . . ." Her head indicated Buffy's beaten form, "everything? Do you want him to have to live with that?"

"No, you're right," Buffy said slowly. "I don't want him to have to live with it. I'd do almost anything to spare him this pain."

Nodding slowly, Willow squeezed Buffy's hand. "So maybe we should start thinking of a way to stake him carefu--"

"But he's just going to have to deal," Buffy said crisply. "It's selfish. I know that. But I can't do this without him. He swore he would be with me forever, for always, and I believed him. I can't face eternity unless I know he's going to be there with me."

"But, Buffy--"

"Angel has more compassion than I do," she said softly. "He always has. He doubts himself so much, always felt so unworthy of me, when really, of the two of us, he's always been the bigger person." She shrugged helplessly. "There's no way I'm letting him go now. I can't."

Willow stared into Buffy's eyes for a moment, saw the resolve set there. Then, slowly, she began to nod again.

"I understand," Willow said quietly, thinking of her own inability to let Tara go. It hadn't been within her power to grant new life to her lover. But it was within Buffy's power.

And Willow was determined to make it happen for her.

~

but just because you love me
the way that you do
I'm gonna walk through the valley
if you want me to

~

"Can I help you?"

He definitely didn't like these two. The guy, big as hell, looked like he had splatters of blood on his shirt, and the girl was just wicked creepy. When she looked at you, it was like she didn't even see you there. Or she saw through you.

Her hand moved toward his shirt, and a blood red fingernail scratched lightly at his skin.

The boss was so not paying him enough for this shit.

"Brian," she said in a melodic voice, "we need something from you."

How did she . . . ? Oh, right. Nametag. Brian let out a sigh. Then, he looked down at his shirt. The boss didn't supply them with nametags.

"What?" he asked warily, creeped to the third power now. The guy was quiet -- a little too quiet, if you asked Brian -- and he was strolling through the super freaky occult section like he was browsing for tapes at Blockbuster.

"Something that will break their shield in half," she said.

"Whose shield?" Brian asked, getting lost in her eyes. Jesus, she was creepy. Although, if he looked at her in just the right light, she sort of reminded him of his girl.

"A little faster, if you would, Dru," the guy murmured as he flipped through that book on ancient death rituals that Brian had lost his lunch looking at the other day. The guy seemed amused.

"What sort of secrets do you have in here?" she asked as her fingernails began to circle around his scalp. "Ooo," she cried happily, scraping his forehead hard enough to draw blood. "There we are."

He was about to ask what the hell she was doing, and what the hell she was on, when all his outrage seemed to seep away. He couldn't remember why he'd been upset, and then Dori was standing in front of him.

"Baby," he whispered, "what's going on?"

"It's okay, Bri," she said in her low, husky voice. Dori played at the Troubadour with her band Saturday nights. Smoke, whiskey and singing had taken its toll on her vocal chords. "You need to tell me where it is."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, confused. Her hands were on his face, though, stroking him, and he didn't care about much of anything so long as she was touching him.

"Remember that book you brought home a few weeks ago?"

Dori liked to play around with witchcraft. She did stuff sometimes that freaked Brian out. He remembered a book he'd brought her . . .

"Binding," he said slowly.

A radiant smile lit her face. "Yes. Bri, where is it? Where's the book on binding spells?"

"In the Wicca section," he said. "There's nothing harmful in it."

Somewhere in his mind, he heard a man's voice chuckle "That's what you think," then, a second later, "got it," but he wasn't really sure, because Dori really did have such beautiful brown eyes.

"We're nearly finished," Dori said, only she wasn't Dori anymore, she was that weird chick that creeped him out.

"It's okay, Bri," the guy mocked, rolling his eyes as he came into view. "Such a sap." Then the girl's face changed, and she lunged for his neck. The guy followed her lead.

Brian stopped thinking.

~

'cause I'm not who I was
when I took my first step
and I'm clinging to the promise
you're not through with me yet

~

"Sun's comin' up," Spike said quietly.

Willow glanced up at him, a bead of sweat dripping from her brow.

"This Soul Blessing thing sure looked easier in the book," she muttered.

"Big bad magic usually does," Spike agreed. Willow was in her bedroom; had been for the entire night since the cheerleader came in and started sobbing her guts out. Buffy had told him -- none too nicely, he groused silently -- that Willow was trying to get the Blessing right. Spike didn't see why they were going through all this trouble for Angel, when it was easy as pie to shove a piece of wood through the bastard's heart.

He'd smelled him all over Buffy when she'd come in. It had angered him, filled him with almost as much jealousy as it had lust. After all, imagining the Slayer naked was half of all his fantasies. Naked in Angel's arms . . . well, okay, there were a few fantasies there, too. He hated the bastard, but he'd still been a Sire to him. Dru had been too weak, too crazy to act the part, and the role of disciplinarian, guiding force, had fallen to Angelus.

Sometimes, when Spike admitted it, he missed him. Not the lunatic that ran around trying to suck the world into hell he'd come up against the last time. No, Spike missed the demon who'd nearly strangled him to death (figuratively speaking, of course) a dozen times during the decade they'd spent together. He missed the almost-father-figure who'd let him stay in their psychotic little family because it pleased Dru, and gave him more time to devote to Darla.

Spike remembered, still, how damned happy he'd been sitting in that wheelchair the moment he'd realized that Angelus was back, and that soul-having poofter who'd been following Buffy around like a lost puppy was gone for good. It had felt like home, for the first time in over a century. Darla wasn't there, but he hadn't really missed her -- bitch had always gotten on his nerves, the way she'd monopolized Angelus' time, the way she'd so clearly scorned Spike and Dru.

That had all changed, of course, when Spike realized Angelus held more animosity for him than he ever had. That his time in confinement, forced down by a soul, had knocked him off his rocker. That without Darla in his bed to keep him satisfied, Dru made a suitable substitute.

That for whatever reason, Angelus no longer felt the need to invite Spike to join them. That Angelus had almost seemed to take more pleasure in rubbing in what he was doing to Spike than he had in actually fucking Dru.

It had hurt, but Spike had pushed it down. Then, the longer he watched Angelus grope Dru, the more often Dru chose to hunt with Angelus rather than stay behind with Spike, the easier it became to hate him. Hate was such a pure emotion, and much more stable than love. Love sent you off in a thousand different directions at once. Hate centered you, focused you, let you decide on a course of action and never waver.

The longer Spike spent here, around the big family Angel had built for himself, the longer he loved Buffy, and Willow ((bleedin' hell, what IS wrong with me?)) and genuinely liked the idiot Xander and respected 'ole Rupes . . . the harder it became to hold onto that hate.

And without clarity, it became easy to forget what he was.

"You should get some sleep," he said softly to Willow.

"I can't," she insisted. "Not until I figure this out."

"What good's it gonna do Buffy if you're too dead on your feet to curse Angel when the time comes?" he countered.

"Bless," she said.

He was confused. "What?"

She looked up at him. "Bless," she repeated. "I'm not cursing him. I'm blessing him."

Spike snorted. "Hate to break it to you, Pixie Girl, but there ain't a bloody lot of difference."

"Yes there is," she insisted.

"End result is still the same," Spike pointed out logically. "Angel's got his soul back and he can prance about in that tortured, broodin' way he's got."

"But he doesn't have to be afraid," Willow said. "Don't you get what a big part of him that fear is?"

Shrugging uncomfortably, Spike leaned back against the wall and lit up a cig. "Only difference I see is that he can shag the pants off the Slayer now," Spike said.

Willow leapt up, ripped the cig from his mouth, and ground it out roughly on the carpet. "That is =not= the only difference," she hissed. "He and I talked. More than you saw when we had that group meeting. He came to me after Tara died, he apologized, and we . . ." She sniffed. "Angel told me some things."

"Like what?" Spike asked, a little nervous around this physically angry Willow, and, truth be told, more than a little turned on. ((I'll be damned, she glows when she's pissed))

"That sometimes when he laughs, he catches himself and does a mental check to see if he was too happy," she said, tears filling her eyes. "That he didn't want it to be that way for Buffy."

((bloody hell, she looks ready to sob now.))

"Hey," he soothed, going against his own instincts as he placed a hand on her shoulder ((god, I'm touching her, I want so badly to touch her)), "but it isn't like that for Buffy, right? She's got this =Blessing=," he stressed the word, "and she never had to worry about that short-sided gypsy rot." She still didn't look cheered up. He playfully cuffed her on the shoulder. "And hey, Angel's used to being all guilty, right? And now he can shag Buffy." ((did I just bloody say that?))

It seemed to lift her spirits slightly, and that made him almost happy.

((I'm making my own skin crawl.))

"I'm not really making any progress right now," she conceded at last.

((success!))

"C'mon," he said, leading her to the bed. He pulled back the covers and helped her lie down. He even went so far as to tuck her in. She was so exhausted, she didn't even fight him.

((maybe it's not just exhaustion, maybe she doesn't mind me touching her . . .))

Hope was almost as unstable as love.

"I'll bring you some food in a few hours," Spike promised softly.

But Willow was already asleep.

After staring longingly at her tiny body curled up so temptingly in bed, Spike flipped out the light and left her to her rest.

~

so if all of these trials
bring me closer to you
then I will go through the fire
if you want me to

~

"Strange, huh, how we're all sleeping during the day now."

Cordelia looked up. "Go away, Xander."

"Sorry, no can do," Xander said sincerely, taking a seat on the bed beside Cordelia.

"I can't talk right now," she said stiffly. "I can't talk, I can't cry, I can't do anything but sit here and feel useless, just like I was when . . ." A sob caught in her throat. "God, maybe I can still cry."

Xander slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her to him. She pushed him away roughly and leapt to her feet, pacing the floor.

"I mean, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel? Do I have to blame Angel? Because I don't. I should, I know, that's what Angelus wanted, but I don't. I just want him back so he can hold me in that way he has and make me feel better." Tears were running down her cheeks again as she angrily paced. "He's the only one that makes me feel better after a vision. Even when later he annoys me like the rest of them do, right after, he just holds me. He holds me, and he strokes my forehead, and he makes it hurt less because he's there and when he went away I missed that so much and now I'm missing it again and he killed Gunn, he =killed= him right in front of me."

Standing, Xander approached her warily. She looked about a minute away from total meltdown, and her legs didn't seem to be supporting her so good. He tentatively put his arms around her, and sighed in relief when she collapsed against him.

((Queen C, emotionally available. Loved by an ex-vengeance demon, best friends with a witch and a Slayer, personally witnessed not one, not two, but three near-apocalypses. Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen it all.))

He held her and let her cry herself out once more. Then he led her back to the bed and sat with her again. He pushed the hair back from her face and thought about how much better he liked this Cordelia than the one he'd spent a year of his life kissing and fighting with. And he'd =loved= that Cordelia. He'd never really liked her, though. The feeling was mutual, he knew, and he thought that maybe she liked him a little bit now, too. It was something, at least.

"Will and Buff are gonna bring Angel back," Xander said quietly, hoping that would be a good thing to say.

"They have to," Cordelia whispered. "He has to . . . we need him."

Nodding, Xander motioned to the bed. "Like I said, we've been sleeping during the day, and as massively weird as that is, I'll give you another -- it's day right now."

Cordelia almost laughed. "That's amazing," she said sarcastically.

"You haven't slept in days," he reminded her. "None of us have, really."

"We had to keep . . ."

"I know," Xander soothed. "But we know how to now. We've just gotta get the right timing down. It's light out. There's nothing Angel--"

"Angelus," she corrected sharply.

Xander conceded her point with a nod. "There's nothing he can do until night. I say we recharge now so we're ready for him."

"Would you . . ." she looked down at the blanket shyly. "Stay?"

"I'm a comfortador," Xander said quietly, "'tis my stock and trade to stay with distressed ladies until they can face the world again."

"Stay, but shut up," she said with a smile as she lay back on the bed.

Returning her smile, Xander spooned up behind her, enfolding her in what he hoped was a comforting embrace. Then he ruined the effect by yawning loudly in her ear.

"I see right through you, Xander Harris," Cordelia said lightly. "You just want to lull me to sleep so you can cop a feel."

"Found me out," Xander sighed. "Hurry up and fall asleep before I pass out and miss my golden opportunity."

With a sigh, Cordelia closed her eyes and forced herself to try and sleep.

An hour later, both occupants of the room were snoring loudly.

~

it may not be the way I would have chosen
when you lead me through a world that's not my home
but you never said it would be easy
you only said I'd never go alone

~

"Hey," Faith said, flopping down noisily on the couch next to Wesley.

Giles sat in an armchair, still pouring over text. Lindsey was still sitting at the bottom of the staircase, contemplating all the mysteries of life, no doubt, as he stared at his prosthetic hand. Faith shook off the emotions coursing through her when she looked at him and focused on her former Watcher.

"Hello," Wesley said, clearly trying to concentrate on a piece of text.

Faith would have put a thousand bucks down on him not having read a word of it.

"You doin' okay?" she asked, trying to mimic some of the conversation starters Angel had used to pull her out of the shell of anger and pain she'd concocted around herself.

"Not particularly," Wesley answered in a clipped tone.

Nodding, Faith nervously worried her fingers together.

"Friend of mine got killed once," she said suddenly.

Wesley paused; turned to regard her carefully. Faith continued:

"She was my best friend, actually. We were like sisters. Which was good, considering our moms ended up passed out in the same spot on a regular basis, so we could book to whichever of our places was unoccupied." She shifted on the couch. "I didn't tell her, when I was Called. My Watcher said I couldn't tell anybody. But Lanie -- that was her name, Lanie -- she just wouldn't let it be, y'know? Knew there was something up with me. Dogged me every stinkin' day, wantin' to know what was up."

Her fingers were turning white, she was gripping them so hard, and she forced herself to place them on her knees.

"So one night she was following me, and I . . . I found a nest. I've never really been the cautious type, and I figure hey, I'm the shit, right? And if I'm not, another is Called, and there's that Summers chick still, anyway, so what the hell? I leapt 'fore I looked, and I was making progress, but Lanie . . . she never let me face anything alone in her life, and it wasn't any different that night.

"One of 'em had her in a second, and I screamed and I screamed and I felt whatever I still had inside of me that was still pure drip away with every drop of blood they spilled outta Lanie's gut. They uh . . . the vamps, they got in my face. Said I wasn't good enough to save her, that they were gonna kill me. Needless to say that didn't happen, but . . . it's still hard to believe that it wasn't my fault she died."

Faith awkwardly patted Wesley's shoulder.

"Not your fault either," she said quietly. "For not bein' there. You were doin' what you were supposed to, helpin' the best you knew how, and if you had been out there, Prom Queen would just be sobbing her guts out from losing both of you. It's better that you lived," Faith said intensely.

Wesley looked up at her with tears in his eyes. He took his glasses off, bowed his head, then looked at her again.

"It's better that you lived, as well," he told her quietly.

She was saved from formulating a response (which was for the best, because the only response she had was loud, bellowing sobs of release) by Spike's noisy entrance.

"Wanna move the fuck outta the way?" the vampire asked Lindsey as he stomped down the stairs.

"Not really," Lindsey answered calmly, still contemplating his hand.

Spike snorted. "Have I mentioned how glad I am you're here, law boy?"

Lindsey finally looked away from his hand, and up toward Spike. "And why is that?"

"'Cause everybody bloody hates you more than me," Spike answered cheerfully, shoving Lindsey aside with his foot. He winced, and his eye twitched at the pain the gesture caused, but decided it was worth it as he flopped down next to Faith.

Giles was still unobtrusively absorbed in his reading, but Spike had the notion that he heard every bleedin' word that went on around him, whether he let on or not. Spike liked that about him.

"Hey, Rupes," Spike said loudly. "Go get some sleep, mate, before you pass out and get the papers all wrinkly."

Giles shook his head. "I'm not tired, Spike, and do go and make a nuisance of yourself elsewhere."

Spike shrugged and shook his head. "Everybody else is sleepin'. Anyone with sense would be sleepin'."

"Then why are you awake, peroxide?" Faith asked, trying to ignore how his arm brushed against hers.

Smiling softly at her, Spike shook his head. "Ain't got no sense, love. Never have had." He focused on Giles again. "If you aren't gonna rest, put yourself to some good use, go check on Buffy." His face became grave. "I don't see as she's takin' all this too well."

Giles considered Spike for a moment, then tossed down his research and headed for the stairs. He also none-too-gently nudged Lindsey out of the way with his foot.

Spike grinned.

~

so when the whole world turns against me
and I'm all by myself
and I can't hear you answer
my cries for help

~

"May I come in?"

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" Buffy quipped, smiling a little.

Returning her pained smile, Giles walked into the bedroom she shared with Angel ((her heart tugged painfully)) and sat beside her on the bed.

"That seems to be the preferred position for comforting the basket-case Slayer-Vamp," Buffy confided.

"Yes, well, if something works," Giles said, then grew silent. "How are you, Buffy?" He grimaced. "I imagine that's a rather stupid question---"

"I hate not having him with me," Buffy said quietly. "I've always hated it, but it was bearable before. It's like ever since I was turned . . . it's like I'm not completely here without him."

Giles looked nervous. "Ah, yes, well . . . that might have more to do with your physiological situation than your emotional one."

Buffy furrowed her brows. "I don't think so. I've always been able to feel him, to sense when he was there. This isn't that different, it's just like . . . being able to really, =really= sense that he's =not= there. It's an acute lack of sense-age." She frowned. "It's unbearable."

"And not totally without reason," Giles said softly. "Buffy, you and Angel have shared blood. Several times now, yes?"

She winced, and tried not to think of the past day with Angel ((Angelus, why can't you remember, you moron, =Angelus=)).

"Yes," she said quietly.

"In vampires, that creates a bond, often as strong as the Sire/Childe connection," Giles explained gently. "Yours and Angel's case is even more potent than that. You love one another with your very human souls, and that combined with a blood bond . . . I shudder to think how one of you might fare without the other."

"Believe me when I say it's not of the good," Buffy said weakly.

Giles nodded, and fell silent for a moment. Then, he turned to her, a worried, concerned look in his eyes.

"You do know that Mr. Gunn's death was in no way your fault, don't you, Buffy?"

Buffy turned to him, feeling numb inside. "What I know is that none of this would have happened if I didn't want him as much as I do." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I've only made love to him twice ((that I can remember)) and both times people have died because of it. Should that be telling me something? Was I clearly too dense to get the message last time? Did fate really need to clonk Buffy over the head with the 'not allowed to do it with Angel' mallet so she'd snap out of this happily ever after fairy tale world she's living in?"

Considering her for a moment, Giles took his time before he spoke.

"I don't believe you're living in a fairy tale world at all," Giles said gently. "And so far as you and Angel go . . . Lord knows I've had my reservations. But you love him. That didn't change with time, or space, or all the self-imposed distance you put between you. And it is clear to everyone -- these past months in particular -- that he is desperately in love with you." He smiled. "In all honesty, Buffy, when I look at things objectively, it warms my heart to know that a man like Angel will be spending your life with you. It makes it easier to accept that I most likely won't be here for even half as long as you exist."

Buffy let out a sob. "Don't say that. You can't die, Giles, not ever," she said intensely.

A ghost smile crossed his face. "I'm sorry to say that I can, and that I will. Don't get me wrong. I don't intend on leaving you all for some time. I think that perhaps you still need a Watcher, a little bit, at least. But a day will come when I'm gone, and I just want you to know . . . I'm so proud, Buffy, of you, of the life you're striving to build, and of Angel, as well. It will all work out, you'll see."

Sniffing noisily, Buffy threw her arms around him and hugged him so hard they fell off the bed.

~

I'll remember the suffering
your love put you through
and I will go through the valley
if you want me to

~

"The sun is sinking in the sky," Drusilla sang happily.

"And an army is rising with the night," Angelus added, watching the future wake.

They'd spread Brian's precious Dori out next to him. It had been laughably easy to get her to let them in. Holding Brian's lifeless body, Angelus and Dru had been frantic, spinning a ridiculous story about finding Brian unconscious on the walk, and could they come in and help?

People had been everywhere in the house. Dori had a band, and musicians today traveled in packs. All in all, Angelus and Drusilla had managed to turn fifteen. Angelus hoped they would be enough to gain the upper hand in the battle that was to be fought.

Buffy would not go quietly or easily, that he knew. In truth, he'd be a little disappointed if she did. But she would come, and she would be his. Dru had taken a moment to browse in the shop and come upon a book on demons. A particular species, she'd told him, could be summoned from another realm and used to literally suck the soul from a person's body.

First, though, he planned to spend a little more one on one time with his girl just as she was.

"Is it a party, daddy?" Dru asked from the window, the harmful rays of the sun completely gone.

"Yes, precious," he confirmed, watching as their 'guests' woke, starving. They desperately needed their first kill, and this house was oh-so-conveniently located near the hotel.

"Will there be music?" she asked.

He ignored her. "You're all hungry," he said to the newly risen before him. "That's good. You're confused. That confusion will pass. Your first meals will be the finest you'll ever have, provided you follow my instructions explicitly."

The girl, Dori, stepped forward and smiled, the sight gruesome and fangy.

Angelus contained the urge to giggle.

~

the pathway is broken
and the signs are unclear
and I don't know the reason
why you brought me here

~

Lindsey was still sitting on the staircase when it happened.

Faith had been telling a fish story of a vampire that once got away from her. Spike found it more entertaining than he cared to examine.

Moments before the shit all hit the fan, Spike cocked his head to the side. He could have sworn he heard something . . .

((SPIKE!!))

Jumping from the couch, he'd literally hopped over Lindsey's head as he raced up the stairs. He'd reached Willow's room in a few heartbeats and thrown open the door without knocking.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sweating profusely, her eyes black with the effort she was making.

((Drusilla)) she whispered in his mind. ((Woke up. Working on the Blessing. Felt her trying to knock the barrier down. She's winning . . . need Buffy . . . move me downstairs.))

He knelt down and scooped her up in his arms, running with her to Buffy's door. She and Giles were bent over some text, and the panicked look on his face (not to mention Willow's panting form in his arms) cut off any smart remark the Slayer had been about to make.

"They're here," Spike said hoarsely, turning to carry Willow downstairs.

Her voice whispered in his mind the tasks he was to perform, and he set her up in the corner she instructed ((better energy here)), lit the candles she needed near her, even started burning the god-awful incense.

He spared a moment to ask her if she needed an orb or a shot glass or something, but she stopped the flow of panicked thoughts in his brain with her mind; soothed him, he realized much later.

((That's why it's harder. I have to hold his soul inside myself and send it to him. It's so hard . . .))

Unable to stop himself, Spike ran a hand down the side of her head. She was concentrating so hard, she didn't even feel it.

Cordelia and the whelp came hurrying down the stairs, obviously alerted to trouble by Buffy, and the cheerleader took over incense duty. Spike was grateful. Having Willow in his head was rattling him. In a good way. Which rattled him all the more.

"What the hell?" Faith asked, tense and ready as Buffy approached her.

"Angel's here," Buffy said softly.

((He's not alone))

"He's not alone," Spike said aloud.

((There's ten . . . maybe twenty with him.))

"He's got a small army," he added.

"Weapons," Buffy said crisply.

Wesley and Xander were already raiding Angel's arsenal.

No sooner had Buffy taken possession of one of Angel's broadswords, the doors burst open and a cadre of vampires strolled inside.

Buffy met Angel's gaze unflinchingly. "I won't let you hurt them," she said clearly, staring him down.

Angelus smirked. "Lover, I don't see how--"

"I won't let you hurt them," Buffy said loudly, "because when we get you back, you're already going to be seriously guilty."

Growling, Angelus vamped out. "Take them all," he bit out as he rushed for Buffy. He diverted his trajectory at the last minute, and dove for the weapons locker. He emerged with the broadsword that matched the one in Buffy's hand. "Remember this verse, lover?" he taunted.

"Oh yeah," Buffy said, beginning to circle him, vamping out herself. "Remember how it ends?"

And with that, there was only the sound of clanging metal between them.

Xander and Wesley weren't faring nearly as well.

The two men were trying to protect Cordelia, who was in turn protecting Willow and waving smelly herbs, but the minions seemed to sense that something important was brewing in the darkest corner. Xander and Wesley were being beaten away from the women, and more vampires were descending.

Spike and Faith were fighting with their backs against one another, trying to make their way to something wooden they could fashion into a stake.

"You'd think with all the antiques in this museum Angel would have a nice cherry wood desk or something," Faith complained.

"The mighty thing in the other room is oak," Spike said.

Faith calculated the distance. "You clear a way for me, keep 'em off my tail, I can make it."

"Consider your tail my top priority," Spike answered.

Faith set off at a run.

Lindsey still sat at the foot of the staircase.

"Gee, Buff, once again, it doesn't feel like your heart's in this," Angelus bemoaned as he and Buffy fought.

"Guess again," she snapped, delivering a roundhouse kick to his jaw.

In return, he backhanded her. Cut her cheek with his =Claddagh= again. Her pissed off meter soared another few notches. She lost all sense of finesse and flew at him with a flying tackle.

Angelus was so shocked at the move that they went tumbling to the ground.

Buffy landed on top of him, straddling his body as she rained blow after blow down on his face. Angelus felt her losing control, perhaps even losing sight of the fact that she wanted her boy back. He glanced around frantically until he caught sight of Giles, being severely beaten by Dori.

"Hey, Buff," he said lightly, "you ready to lose the last parent you've got?"

She paused, and turned toward Giles. With a final, bone-crunching punch to his jaw, she leapt up and went to rescue the old man. Angelus looked around. It was just Glenn Close guarding the little witch now. He rose.

Wesley and Xander had been fought back to the opposite end of the hotel. Three vampires had overrun them at once. One of them managed to get Xander in a chokehold, and the other two swarmed Wesley. Xander felt teeth pierce his throat, and closed his eyes, praying to God he wouldn't rise again. And, for a moment, he was comforted by the thought that he would hold Anya soon.

Then, suddenly, the pain was gone. He spun around to see Faith behind him.

"Don't say I never did nothin' for ya," she said lightly, tossing him one of the 'stakes' she'd made from the desk.

"Hey, blondie!" she yelled, getting Spike's attention. She tossed him another stake, and he quickly began putting it to good use.

Buffy was fighting three at once. It had always amazed her how hard it was to kill the very new, and the very old. The old ones had experience and finesse on their sides. The young, though, had the kind of strength and determination the old envied.

Angelus crept up on Cordelia before she had a chance to realize he was there. Willow was too deep in her trance to notice. Cordelia whipped a cross out of her pocket and pressed it against the side of Angelus' neck. He howled, but didn't release her. They were both propelled further across the room, further away from Willow.

Drusilla, hiding in the shadows, saw that the little witch was unguarded.

And she glided forward.

"You won't take him away again, my lamb," Drusilla crooned, coming nearer to Willow. "Baa, baa, black sheep, alone from the flock."

Buffy took a quick survey of the room, and her heart leapt up into her throat when she saw that Willow was about to be taken by Drusilla. She opened her mouth to scream, then closed it again as the last thing she expected to see happened.

Without hesitation, and before Dru got within five feet of Willow, Spike was there, arm outstretched, stake imbedded in Drusilla's chest. She turned to dust before she had a chance to see who it was, and Buffy was briefly glad for that. No one deserved to see someone they used to love kill them. Willow was still in her trance, and had missed the whole thing.

Angelus knocked the cross out of Cordelia's hand and gripped her by the throat. "Bad move, 'Delia," he chastised.

"Go to hell," she whispered.

"Brave little seer," he murmured, varying the pressure of his hold on her. "I never should have let you go after I snapped your boyfriend's neck. I should have turned you right then. I bet you'd be a gas in the sack."

"A gas?" she gasped. "What are you, from the 40s?"

"Sharp tongue," he tsked. "He tasted good, 'Delia," he confided in a whisper. "Slid down my throat so good, melted like butter."

She whimpered.

"You never got a chance to taste him, though, did you, 'Delia?" he continued. "You know, this seems to be quite a pattern with you. I know!" he said triumphantly. "The next time you meet a guy, I say you jump him, right then and there." He squinted. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot that there won't be a next time. My bad. See you when you wake, Princess." He brought her neck to his mouth, had just barely scraped the surface of her skin with his razor-sharp incisors when he stumbled.

His head bowed, and he moaned, his grip tightening for a moment as his entire body shook.

A sole remaining minion snuck up behind Faith, as her gaze never wavered from the scene before her. He was about to strike when he turned to dust. Faith whipped around to find Lindsey standing behind her, his prosthetic arm detached and held before him as a weapon.

Lindsey smirked. "End of the damn thing's made out of balsa wood. Don't that just beat all?"

Faith could think of nothing to say, so she turned her attention back to where everyone was looking.

Buffy was already next to Angel and Cordelia.

Willow collapsed, and Spike caught her before she hit the floor.

"Cordy," Angel whispered, releasing Cordelia. She fell, and he reached out to catch her so she wouldn't be hurt.

((hurt more you mean oh god what happened what have I done))

Wesley came forward and took Cordelia from Angel's arms, and the vampire turned, his gaze quickly scanning each face in the room, counting heads. One was missing. His gut tightened.

"Where's Gunn?" he whispered, his entire body shaking as his gaze darted around the room wildly. He didn't know if he was looking for escape, or someone who might be willing to kill him.

"Angel," Buffy said quietly, approaching him warily.

His startled gaze flew to her, and her eyes looked sadder than the last time he'd seen them, and dear god he didn't want to remember what he'd done to her this time.

He must have said some of that out loud, because Buffy slapped him, hard, across the face. He was so stunned he couldn't react, not even to bring a hand to his stinging cheek.

"You will remember," she said clearly. "You will remember and you will deal. I =need= you," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I can't do this alone. I need you to lean on. And I need you to lean on me. I understand, finally, exactly what you feel. Please, Angel, please don't leave me now, not out of guilt, not because--"

Angel stumbled forward and pulled her to him roughly, holding her close. She held him back, and they were crushing each other tight enough to break normal human bones as they sunk to their knees on the floor. Tears were flowing down his cheeks and he hadn't yet remembered why he was crying. He only knew what he felt, and he felt this was going to be worse than anything that had come before.

Buffy pulled away from him far enough to look him in the eye, and her face crumpled, the way he'd seen it do only once before, when she'd stared up at him and begged him not to kill himself just before it snowed.

"Stay with me?"

"Like it's even a question," he answered hoarsely, phantom memory of soft skin pressed to his as they slow danced until sunrise drifting through his mind, for the moment overpowering the powerful cascade of painful recollections.

He let the comfort of her lull him, however temporarily, as he pulled her closer, and wept.

~

but just because you love me
the way that you do
I'm gonna walk through the valley
if you want me to

~

END Bittersweet Legacy: Book II - Part 1