PART TWO

You're My Survival, You're My Living Proof
My love is alive and not dead
Tell me that we belong together
Dress it up with the trappings of love
I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips
Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above

“I'll Be” – Edwin McCain


I step into the Intelligence Agency for Wizards in the heart of London, glancing around as I am led up a short flight of stairs by the guard who met me at the entrance. It's decorated in plain white marble and chrome, the walls bare of any adornment, aside from a few portraits that actually seem to be… moving.

“Not very magic-y,” I murmur to him, and he cracks a slight smile.

“Usually the pictures moving is enough to get a Muggle like yourself excited,” he comments, and I grin.

“Ouch, burn. Is Muggle used in a detrimental way, or what?”

He slants me a surprised glance and shakes his head. “Not for you, Ms. Summers. After all, you are the Slayer. I'd imagine you've had contact with magic—the good and the bad kinds.”

“Well, yeah…” I shrug. “My best friend was--- *is* a Wicca. I even know what sage smells like. But I wouldn't say I'm a wizard or anything. Or is it witch? What's the PC term?”

“Are you nervous about meeting Chief Potter, Ms. Summers?” he asks, I suppose in reference to my rambling. “Because you needn't be.”

“Well, I wasn't,” I remark, “but now that you've given him that title before his name, I am.”

He laughs heartily, and opens another door, ushering me through it. We enter large room, which to my surprise, is cheerful and warm, with large chairs and couches, a long table in a rich wood and a crackling fire that draws me forward to feel it's heat.

“Really, he was quite good mates with your Watcher, Rupert Giles.” His eyes darken. “Nice man, Rupert was. I'm very sorry about that.”

“Why are you sorry?” I inquire. “He's alive. Still a nice man. No need for apologies. Anyway… what is this place?”

“Where you'll be meeting Chief Potter and Chief Granger,” he answers. “I'll leave you now. And Ms. Summers…” he pauses and I turn, glancing at him questioningly. “Good luck out there. With everything.”

“Thank you,” I respond. “I promise… I'm going to beat them for you. For everyone.”

He smiles once more. “I have no doubt that you will.”

The door shuts softly behind him, and I collapse on a chair by the flames, rubbing my temples to assuage their fierce ache. Last night, Angel and I stood on the widow's walk until dusk, simply holding each other in the snow, my fingers slowly fading into blue, his eyes shining brightly like twin stars. When we went to bed, he mentioned Spike and I tensed, rolling away from him. Guilt seeped into my belly and stayed there, rotting out my insides as he kissed my neck goodnight, curling his arm around me with his fingers resting on my heart.

I didn't sleep much. When I awoke, he was gone again, but there was a rose on my pillow. It wasn't perfect- the petals were slightly wilted, and the thorns scraped my fingers when I picked it up- but it smelled dewy fresh, and I think I wept when I pressed it to my nose. I can't remember.

Running my hands down the material of my black leather pants, I lean back and stare up at the picture over the fireplace. It's of a smiling man with a shock of red hair and laughing eyes. I grin at it involuntarily, and it grins back.

I don't think I'm going to get used to the moving portraits any time soon.

I look up, startled from my reverie as the door opens and two people- a man and a woman, step inside. They come across the room towards me immediately, smiling warmly.

“Welcome to the Agency, Ms. Summers,” the man says, “I'm Harry Potter.”

“Thanks, and call me Buffy,” I answer, shaking his hand. He's cute, I think absently. Dark, messy hair, green eyes, thin- but muscled. Definitely a hottie.

The woman beside him extends her hand as well, shaking it firmly. Her fingers feel like silk. “Hello, Buffy,” she greets me with a curving of her lips. “I'm Hermione Granger- and I'm so pleased to meet you. We've been hearing here about your return— and I just wanted to welcome you back.”

That's the first time anyone really has, I realize, and smile at her, a little taken aback at how beautiful she is- as I hadn't remembered that from the picture on Giles' mantel. She has a glow. I know I like her right away. She doesn't put up with any bullshit- I can just tell- and it's a quality I admire in anyone. “Thanks. Did you know Giles well too?”

They lead me over to the table, taking seats themselves.

“I did,” she replies, resting her chin on her hands. “What a wonderful man… I really can't wait until he's back in London- safe and sound.”

“I second that,” Harry chimes in. “We'd always call him in emergencies. The man was a walking encyclopedia.”

“You have no idea,” I respond dryly. “He lives for books.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Hermione laughs, and Harry smiles at her, squeezing her fingers briefly.

“I suppose you're of the book-wormish race of people, yourself,” I grin. “But you don't wear tweed, so you can't be as bad as Giles.”

“Sometimes she does wear tweed,” Harry's eyes glint with devilish amusement. “But that's private, I suppose.”

“Honestly!” she exclaims, and smacks him playfully. “Do you want to embarrass Buffy?”

“Not easily embarrassed,” I assure them, giggling. It's been a while since I had any fun like this. It reminds me of lazy days with the Scoobies, ordering pizza, researching, laughing, joking—my eyes burn for a moment with tears and I blink them back, managing another grin. “Continue on. Won't faze me.”

“Actually, Buffy… it is better that we get down to business. Bronwen told us of the plan you have to take on the demons, and I must say it's a brilliant one. However… it will need magic to succeed and I understand the Rebellion is made up strictly of Muggles?” Harry asks.

I nod. “Other than a few straight from the “Magic for Dummies” book of spells, no one knows anything big enough for this kind of battle. We're definitely going to need your help. Have you guys been involved in this before?”

“Not really,” Hermione informs me, and Harry absently (and probably unconsciously) tweaks the ends of her glossy brown hair. My heart twists as I watch that simple movement. They remind me of Angel and me… before I kissed Spike and let guilt be the third person in our relationship. Before I messed up--- stop it. Concentrate. “The Ministry of Magic prefers we stay out of Muggle Affairs. However Harry and I feel this is a special case.”

“And it does concern us in a small way,” he puts in. “A few wizards were killed in the attacks when the veils between the worlds broke apart. We have done nothing up until now, but it seems that it's our time to help.”

“It really is,” I agree. “You couldn't have picked a better time. Is there any simple spells you could teach me?”

Hermione glances at her husband, and it's as if they're carrying on a silent conversation with their eyes. “Yes,” she finally replies. “It's actually against the rules, but again, this is a special case—and you're saving the world.”

“It doesn't get any bigger than that,” Harry half-smiles, and leans back, stretching.

“Definitely not,” I contend. “Of course, I've done it about seventy trillion times already, but this is different, somehow. I guess it's because I used to have my friends with me.”

Their gazes are sympathetic. “I'm quite certain you will be able to save them,” Hermione assures me. “If you were able to defeat Glorificus then this should be a slice of cake for you.”

“How do you know about Glory?” I ask, surprised. “Bronwen told me that no one ever found out who broke the seal between the worlds. That it was kept strictly top secret within the Watcher's Council.”

She replies primly, “I read.”

Harry confirms this with a nod, “A lot.”

Laughing, I tap my fingers on the table, and nod up to the painting above the fireplace. “Who is that? He keeps grinning at me. Do the pictures have feelings?”

They both chuckle. “That's a portrait of Ron,” Hermione winks at me. “My first boyfriend, Harry's best friend— he lives in London, but he never comes to work--”

“Ever,” Harry finishes for her, and then shoots her a look. “And I thought we agreed we'd stop introducing him as your first boyfriend.”

“I don't remember that,” she teases him, her eyes wide and innocent.

“It gives the introduction flavour,” I join in. “Should stay.”

Harry sighs, as if he's put upon. “I expected that I'd be outvoted. After all, girls love to share all those tidbits.”

“It's the tidbits that make life interesting,” I grin naughtily. “Wouldn't you say so, Hermione?”

She nods, her eyes brimming with amusement. “I'd say so, Buffy,” she leans over and plants a quick kiss on her husband's forehead and then glances at her watch. “Damn… we have to go—we've got that meeting with Minerva, Harry.”

I stand, and shake hands with both of them again. “When would you like to come by and begin the lessons?” Harry asks me, as we walk out the door.

“Whenever's good for you,” I respond politely. “I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“No inconvenience at all,” Hermione brushes this aside with a sweep of her hand. “How about tomorrow? At about 11am?”

“Sounds perfect,” I answer and Harry nods.

“Great. We'll see you tomorrow then.”

“Oh, one more thing,” I stop them, my cheeks flaming already.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione looks curious at my blush.

“Well… something's humiliating,” I correct her. “The people… where I work… the Rebellion—they wanted to know---“ I cough, looking everywhere but their eyes. “Is the scar real?”

Harry chuckles and comes toward me. “You mean the one on my leg from when I fell during Quidditch? Maybe the odd looking one on my arm from where I knocked over a tumbler during Potions? Or perhaps… the one here?” He brushes aside the fringe of tousled hair on his forehead and reveals the lightening bolt shaped mark arcing over his left eye. “Take a good long look. I don't do this for everyone.”

“He does so,” Hermione laughs as she joins us and I blush even harder.

“I can't believe they made me ask you,” I apologise. “I don't know what the fuss is all about. It's just a scar. What you really did- defeating Voldemort- now that's an achievement that kicked ass.”

They both stare at me for a moment, not saying a word. Then Harry leans in close and whispers, “I think I might just be in love with you.”

“I think I might be too,” Hermione declares. “Someone who doesn't rhapsodize over the magic of the scar? It's a bloody miracle.”

“People ask me to see my stake a lot,” I put in. “I can see how it'd be annoying. But as for the love thing?” I say before I leave, “Sorry guys, but I don't go in for the threesome bit.”

“You're breaking our hearts, here!” Harry cries dramatically and Hermione loops her arm through his.

“We'll see you tomorrow then, Buffy?” she calls.

“Absolutely!” I wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here!” they call back, and I disappear through the double doors leading to the outside, already dreading the coming lesson, no matter how much I know I need it.

I suck at magic.

~~~

The smell down in the bowels of the Rebellion's building, is musty, dry- like the sand on an LA beach without the coconut scent of sunscreen. It also smells a little like blood, which worries and excites me all at the same time.

Ever since Angel bit me—I've never told anyone this- the smell of blood turns me on. I remember the thick slide of it down my neck, the sucking noises his mouth made as it closed over the twin holes, the sharp prick of his fangs into my butter-soft shoulder… and the smell. The coppery, shiny, redness of the smell. But it still makes me feel a little sick. I guess it's just ingrained in a Slayer.

Rounding a corner, I suddenly see Dawn, leaning against a wall, humming softly to herself, her eyes closed. I shy away, my eyes darting around the hall for Spike- but not seeing him.

“It's all right, sister dear,” she whispers, “he's not here.”

“How did you know I was worried?” I inquire, coming forward.

She shrugs, the boniness of her shoulders startling me. They look like tiny spears in the dim light, and appear just as thorny-sharp. Gingerly, I sit down next to her and she doesn't move away. Her long hair brushes my arm and I blink, angry at the salty tears that flood my vision at that simple movement. “You weren't really worried,” she murmurs. “Fear is what I smell. He scares you.”

“No, he doesn't,” I lie and she laughs.

“He scares me too. I feel strong today,” she suddenly pronounces, and then wilts. “As strong as I'll ever be.”

“Dawnie… why?” I ask helplessly.

“I had pneumonia,” she bites off bluntly. “At least… that's what Spike said. I don't—I don't remember much. There were stars. And cold air. So, so cold. Spike—his arm—and the blood—oh god, the blood- it was so beautiful. It looked waxy… a little like the candles Mom would get out at Christmas.”

“Do you remember Mom?” I ask, my throat aching with tears. The one person who loved Mommy as much as I did is now a monster. Who can I share the ever-present grief with?

“Soft curls,” she croons. “Screams. You told me and I screamed. Beat the floor with my tiny little fingers. I broke two. I remember… it was my pinky and my thumb- when I folded them together and hit the glass. All those shards… everywhere… nowhere. And Mommy… so grey. Did I touch her? I think I touched her. She was cold. Kind of hard. Her skin… was hard. I don't know—I don't know why she was lying there. Why wouldn't she get up? She made me cereal. But you took—the milk. Lost. So lost. Can't breathe. She's gone, isn't she? Why? Not real. All that fucking green energy. So much blood- none of it real. But Spike gave me… something. Something real. Blood. And sex. I like sex. Did… did you go away cause of me? Angelus said you didn't. I don't believe him. Is Mommy dead, Buffy?”

Tears stream down my face and I whisper, “Yes, Dawnie. But I'm still here.”

She shakes her head, and more of her hair drips over my arm, nestling in the crook of my elbow. “Don't believe you. You're not here. Not here… nowhere. Gone. Broken. That tower… it looked so high? And you jumped? Why did you jump? I remember…all that white sky… so pretty.”

“I had to jump,” I murmur, wiping my face with a trembling palm. “To save you. I couldn't let you die. But I guess you did anyway.”

“I'm dead?”

My heart breaks then, and I curl over my knees, the sound of my sobs echoing throughout the basement.

~~~~

I trip as I walk up the stairs to my room, every bone in my body aching from my talk with Dawn. Stumbling, I curse roundly and pick myself up, startled by the hand that steadies my arm suddenly. Glancing up, I smile wanly. “Hi Arion. We really have to stop meeting like this. On the stairs.”

He chuckles quietly, and runs a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry our conversation was interrupted the other day, Buffy. I still feel we have a lot to discuss. I must warn you though, there's not a lot I can tell you anymore. The Slayer's… animal side is not something she's really supposed to be told about. It's more of a discovery. An asset.”

“Is it really an asset?”

“In battle, it can be. Descending from the Morrigan is critical to the Slayer. She was the Goddess of war- the dark Goddess of War. To harness her strength- to shapeshift into the form she took during battle would give you tremendous strength, Buffy.”

“Could I shapeshift though?” I wonder.

He nods. “It would be complicated. And it would have to involve highly skilled wizards.”

I smile, thinking of Harry and Hermione. “Well, I know where I could find those. But… is the process, dangerous? That wouldn't stop me… I'd just like to know.”

He shakes his head. “I honestly don't know. I don't think so. Slayers in the past used to do it with relative ease. But then… they were connected with the essence of the Morrigan much more acutely than you are. I would advise you and Angel to research it extensively before trying it.”

“Ok, thanks for the advice,” I respond, and he yawns.

“I have to be getting to bed. It's quite late—and it's frightfully cold in this stairwell.”

I laugh softly. “We're getting the draft from the basement. Sleep tight.”

“Thank you.”

Ascending the rest of the stairs, I open the door to Angel and I's room and see him under the covers, shirtless and sketching. “Hey,” he smiles slightly, glancing up.

I pull of my clothes hastily and slip into the warm bed with him, the fire in the grate casting a glow around the room, making it seem like a different world than the snowy, dark one outside. He curls an around me and drops a smooth and drugging kiss on my lips.

“Hey to you too,” I grin, pressing my forehead to his, seeing his picture for the first time. It is me, asleep. My heart swells. Is that how I look to him? So happy, pretty, content and satiated with sex and sleep? I never thought I could be as beautiful as I am, in his eyes. Guilt clogs my veins as I whisper, “It's so… beautiful.”

He draws me into his arms, and we sink down into the blankets and goose-feather mattress. “Not as beautiful as the subject,” he counters, and lightly pecks my nose.

“That goes without saying,” I joke, and he half-smiles, as I rest my cheek against his un-beating heart and he strokes my back.

“Do you want children?” he whispers, and I jerk, surprised.

“What?”

“Do you want children?”

“Well… we can't have any so no point in dwelling, right?”

He edges back, so we can look into each other's eyes. “You never know what could happen, Buffy. How many do you want?”

I smile, enjoying the lapse into fantasy. “Three. Two girls and a boy. How many do you want?”

He arches a brow. “Seven.”

“Whaaaat?” I splutter.

“I'm Irish-Catholic,” he reminds me with a wink and I nod.

“That may be so. But it's my uterus muscles we're stretching here. Whaddya say we compromise on 4.5?”

He laughs. “Sounds about right to me. Do you want to move back to Sunnydale?”

I think for a moment, memories of the place where I spent my High School years flashing before my eyes. The place where *everything* happened. My life, my death. “We'd have to rebuild.”

“A challenge, but not impossible,” he answers softly. “But I didn't ask that. I asked if you wanted to.”

“I don't know,” I reply. “I really don't. There's so many ghosts there now. And if we can't save… everyone… it'll just be too painful.”

“I understand,” he says quietly. “I don't know if I could go back to LA.”

“Has there been anymore leads on Cordy?” I inquire gently, and he shakes his head.

“None since the day the demons took her. I know you had that dream… and I suppose it means she was alive somewhere. I just hope she still is.”

“I know she is. After all… she made some snotty comment about Willow. It sounds like she's still the same old Cordy.”

He sends me a funny look. “We remember her differently.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, raising my eyebrows incredulously. “Cordelia's always been a bitch. A likable bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.”

“She's my friend. My best friend.”

“What about me?” I ask, and instantly hate myself for doing so. It's such a humiliating thing, wanting assurance about my place in his life- when I know he'd die for me. When I know he loves me.

His eyes burn into mine. “You're my everything.”

“I'm sorry,” I sigh, and slide closer to him, burrowing my face against the smooth expanse of his chest. “I just… I get insecure, thinking of those years that you weren't with me. You must have… been attracted to other women. Even Cordy.”

He sighs too, and his hands caress my back tenderly. “Of course I was. I'm a man—sort of. I have feelings… and yes, I was attracted to other women. Even Cordelia… but… nothing ever came close. Nothing ever came even near close to what I feel for you. You know that. You must know that.”

“I do know it. And I guess I'm not one to talk. I slept with Parker, and Riley…” *and I kissed Spike* I add silently, feeling the familiar wave of sorrow crash over me at the memory. How could I have done that to Angel? To us? To our future--?

He winces against me. “No need to go into detail.”

“It doesn't matter what I did with them,” I whisper. “It's you I love.”

“It better be,” he smiles, and kisses my mouth slowly. “Listen… I need to ask you—about Dawn. I saw her today. You do realize she's getting weaker and weaker every day, Buffy?”

“Yes,” I respond wearily. “I do. She's definitely more Drusilla than Darla.”

“She's not going to… last much longer in the state she's in,” he says gently. “I'm sorry. I think it must have something to do with her status as the Key. It made her too weak to fully be changed.”

“I don't know what to do about her…” I murmur. “She's insane, crazy… all bad things. I thought I was doing a good thing in saving her. But now I wonder if I left her to something worse.”

“You did what you felt was right at the time, Buffy. You did what was in your heart—how can anyone truly fault you for that? Listen, maybe we should talk to Spike about her—“

Hearing that name spill from his lips in bed is too much and it makes me lean forward and kiss him. “Let's not talk anymore. Please.”

He frames my face with his hands. “What's the matter?”

I put my fingers to his lips, breathing as I wrap my arms around his neck, whispering, as I draw him down with me, “Shhhh… just kiss me.”

You could hurt me with your bare hands
You could hurt me using the sharp end of what you say
I am lost to you now
There's no amount of reason to save me
So break me, take me
Just let me, feel your arms again
Break me, take me
Just let me feel your love again

“Break Me” - Jewel


Sweat drips into my eyes from the fringe of hair hanging carelessly over my forehead as I circle Harry, watching him as he mutters under his breath, no doubt about to toss another spell my way. His brilliant green eyes glow in the firelight, as he throws another punch that I block easily. Whirling to the right, I kick out with my left, hitting his side with terrific force and interrupting the magic-y stuff.

He curses, “Bloody hell” between gritted teeth as he grabs my foot and uses it to propel me to the floor. Gasping, I spring back up on the balls of my feet and we jump back into a full-out fight once more, punching, jabbing, kicking and spinning, our bodies whips of strength as we move around the room.

He's good at this. Better than I would have thought. Apparently the Intelligence Agency also trains their agents at combat as well. It seems a little unfair, since he has magic on his side too. We've been at this since 11. It's now 4. I think I'm going to die. But I love it. The battle. The maneuvers. Even the tricks he's been teaching me. Every bit of it makes me feel more energized than I've been since I woke up in that gutter swirling with rain and soot.

“I could really hate you, you know,” I pant, as he deals me a sharp left hook across the jaw and I follow with a punch to his midsection.

“Why is that?” he asks, gasping for air as I throw him down on the ground, straddling his chest for a quick second before he grabs my thighs and tilts me over his head into a clean somersault.

“Well, you have the magic and the combat. Must be easy to defeat people. Unfairly, I might add,” I laugh, which quickly turns into a grunt as he flips me over onto my back, knocking the breath out of me for a moment.

He laughs too, and wipes the perspiration from his forehead, causing his already messy hair to stand up every which way. “Jealous?”

“Of the gifts? Nope,” I murmur, and jump back, avoiding his next move. “I'm really jealous of Hermione- she gets to sit down. You think we could take a break?”

He slings an arm around my shoulders, giving me a friendly pat on the back. “Are you clear on the basic spells then? Float, spin, freeze… all those?”

“Clear as mud,” I tease and he chuckles.

“'Mione can go over them with you again if you'd like. I have a meeting to get to.”

I collapse onto a chair, closing my eyes briefly and enjoying the rest. Every one of my muscles screams and forms one giant ache, but the workout was worth it. Through my eyelashes, I see Harry press Hermione against him, his lips touching hers in such a blatantly sexual kiss that I almost blush before I remember that I'm twenty-four and engaged. Curiously, I watch the tender way he holds her, her mouth brushing his forehead as he whispers in low tones in her ear.

Will Angel and I still have that in five, ten years? I think so. I hope so.

When I woke up this morning, it was to his kiss. He filled me in the early hours, his body against mine, our naked shoulders gleaming in the lamplight. I screamed- just once, when I came and felt the spill of him between my thighs, dripping onto the sheets. Cool ice against fire. It was too much and I sank my teeth into his shoulder, making him groan and press his face into the pillow beside us.

I left him still in bed- to meet Harry and Hermione- reading an old, tattered copy of Jane Eyre, only looking up once to drop a kiss on my bruised lips and to wish me good luck with the training. I felt the familiar thrust of cold guilt in my belly at his trusting eyes, but shrugged it away, trying to forget Spike and the kiss in the darkened kitchen. Thankfully, the livid scrapes across my breasts have healed somewhat- into tiny pink lines that I know will disappear within a day or two. When Angel asked me what they were I said that it happened during one of the fights with the vampires on the way to save him.

He felt so guilty that he crooned into my neck and held me… and I almost threw up, wanting to kill Spike and myself and even Angel… for not knowing, for not realizing. But he can't know. He can't ever know.

“You are off in a world of your own,” Hermione comments, and my head snaps up, glancing at her ruefully.

“Sorry, Herm. I don't know what my problem is.”

“It's all right,” she smiles gently. “I'd imagine you're thinking of your fiancé, Angel?”

“You know Angel?” I ask.

She nods. “My heart nearly jumped clear out of my chest when I met him. He's a handsome man. Don't tell Harry I said that… he's quite insecure.”

“Is he really?” I marvel. “You wouldn't think so. He's all… dishy and stuff.”

Hermione laughs. “You're picking up Brit-speak, Buffy.”

“Can't help it. It's like a disease,” I mutter, grinning at her. “But really, Harry's the last person I'd think would be insecure. Powerful magician, the boy who lived- and cute. What's to worry about?”

She sighs, lowering her chin onto her hands, her eyes far away. “I met Harry when he was eleven- and I remember him as if it's yesterday- that unkempt hair, the baggy clothes… and that lost look… he had that look that just made girls want to take care of him.”

“Oh I know that look,” I commiserate, sitting up, fascinated by this glimpse into their past.

“Then you know how hard it is to resist,” she smiles thoughtfully. “I had a crush on him from the first. I was protective of him, cared for him- the whole lot. But of course, I was just a girl to him. Just a friend. It was Ron who saw me first- and he was my first boyfriend. Ron's funny, and he's a sweetheart- I really did care for him. But it was Harry I always loved. He fell in love with me around our sixth year at Hogwarts… and Ron was… distraught. I don't think it really had anything to do with me. It was more losing to Harry- and he fell to the dark paths of life for a while.”

“How did you… save him?” I inquire, curious. “You must have because I see his picture there.”

She shakes her head. “It was hard. But we did. It was a long battle, for Harry, Ron and myself. I felt at fault, you see. Here was this person- who I knew cared for me, and who I cared for—but then there was this other person. Who I knew was the one I'd loved since the moment I met him… who I knew was right. It was hard.”

“It must have been,” I whisper.

Her mouth curves as she glances up at the portrait of Ron once more. “Ron got over it. I suppose Harry's still a little insecure- mostly because, he can never imagine that anyone truly loves him as he spent a great deal of his life without family or friends. Most people just want 'Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived', not the actual Harry.”

“But you love the actual Harry,” I say softly, and she lapses into a gentle smile that almost makes me weep with it's beauty.

“Yes, I do. Have since I was twelve years old. It's rather pathetic, really.”

I laugh, blinking back tears as I think of Angel and Spike and the mess I've made of my life since I came back from the grave. “I think it's nice. Plus, I saw the way he kissed you. If anyone kissed me that way I might be in love with them forever too.”

She flushes and brushes the heavy weight of dark, glossy hair off her shoulders. “He does kiss well, I must admit.”

“He's also devoted to you, funny, sweet and clearly good with his hands,” I point out calmly and she gapes at me, bursting out laughing.

“How did you know?”

I giggle naughtily, “Can always tell by the way they fight. If they're sloppy, no good. But smooth and controlled- like Harry? Very good.”

“That's quite a useful analogy, actually,” she nods, closing her eyes and smiling a little. “He is very smooth and controlled. Sometimes. But then… the other times…”

“Which, I think, can be even better,” I put in.

She nods again, “Oh, most definitely. It's when they let loose sometimes that it gets…”

“Like an out of body experience?” I finish, for her.

“Yes,” she sighs. “Damn… you made me miss him.”

I laugh, and sit back, my tight workout clothes drying in front of the fire, cloaking my body in warmth. I realize it's the first time I've really had a girl-to-girl silly chat since… I can't even remember when. Since before Angel left me and I shut everyone out? Since Oz left Willow and she turned into someone I couldn't recognize?

Oh, Willow…

We lapse into a comfortable silence for long moments, and I stare into the flames, wondering if this is what Sunnydale looked like as they burned it into a shell. If it melted like wax, shifted into black, fell like a deck of cards… without me there.

I wasn't there. And I'll never really know.

~~~

Walking through the corridors by our room, I trail my fingers along the sides of the walls, dust motes shimmering in the air, as they are disturbed from rest. It's dark in here, the only light coming from the lanterns strung in the corners, and I peek into our bedroom, seeing nothing but blackness. Where is he?

Descending the staircase leading to the basement, I open the door to the gym, hearing grunts and the sound of punches being thrown. Angel. Beating the hell out of a punching bag. Naked to the waist, his sweaty muscles rippling and gleaming in the half-light. I swallow, feeling the familiar burn in my belly as I walk forward, coming up behind him and murmuring teasingly, “What'd it do to you?”

He whirls around so quickly he almost hits me and I automatically tense.

“You don't want to be around me right now,” he growls, and his eyes are black as ink in their fury.

I recoil, blinking, and then reach out to touch his face. In a millisecond, he reacts and his hand slams down on my arm, flinging it back before it can reach his skin.

“Angel…?” I murmur, uncomprehending.

His mouth twists as he regards my confusion. “Why did you do it?”

I stare at him sickly, suddenly knowing, suddenly hit by the lightening of realization. “You know.”

“Spike took great delight in telling me today after you left. You kissed him. You almost let him fuck you….”

“I did not—“

With one hand, he tears open my shirt, and I stare, stunned as he runs a finger down the little scars on my breasts- from Spike's rings. “You didn't get these in a fight did you? You got these from him.”

“Yes,” I choke out, pushing his hands away, not bothering to fasten my shirt. “I did. I kissed him. But it didn't go any further. I knew it couldn't… because of you. Because I love you.”

He laughs, harshly, and then spins around, giving the bag one final punch, his muscles cording underneath his skin from his rage. “So you did actually remember that?”

Suddenly his attitude inflames me with anger. “You're one to talk, Angel… I know about you screwing Darla! So don't get sanctimonious with me, you bastard. You fucked her… don't even try and tell me you didn't.”

“I did have sex with Darla,” he shouts. “But we were broken up! You and I weren't even together.”

“Angel, you left me because you said you couldn't take me into the fucking light!” I cry, sweat beading on my forehead as I watch him circle me. “Looks like you didn't have any problem with your evil sire, did you?”

He grabs my arms, squeezing them as he shakes me, his fingers punishing. I whimper. “I was at my lowest point….”

“And you didn't even think to come to me?” I scream, our noses almost touching. “You didn't even think to pick up the phone and call the girl you supposedly loved? Did you ever love me, Angel? Or was I just a convenient sixteen year old- an easy lay?”

He slams me up against the wall, snarling into my face, “How can you even *think* that? I loved you. I loved you with everything I had in me… Darla was just there… she was there when I wanted to feel something--- anything, besides the goddamn fucking cold that invaded my life after I left you—“

“Spike was there too…” I pant. “Spike was there for Riley leaving, and my Mom dying, and Glory and Dawnie… I know you can't understand. I know you can't… but he was there. Through all of the things you left me too.”

“Are you saying you love him?” he whispers bleakly.

“No…no, I'm not,” I weep. “But… I wanted it. In the moment I wanted him.” Pushing him away, I hit him as hard as I can across the face. “Don't you *dare* pretend that what I did was a bigger betrayal. Because it wasn't. While I was in Sunnydale dying without you, you were in LA screwing poor little Darla who tried to kill *me* a fair number of times!”

“You were with Riley!” he shouts. “I thought I was nothing to you…I thought---“

“Riley was the one that was nothing to me, don't you get that? Don't you get that, Angel? It all came back to you! You left me to a fucking normal life in Sunnydale and everything went to Hell. Literally.” Stepping forward, I grab his arms and fling him against the wall. “Don't you wanna hit me? Don't you want to fight this out?”

“No…” he pants, getting up, “All I want is for you to know that I love you. Know that I was trying to do the right thing— but—if fighting's what you want—“

Whirling, he surprises me with a sharp kick to my side, but I immediately bounce back and follow with a right hook to his jaw. Punch. Jab. Kick. Sweat. Everything begins to melt as we move and I watch him move and it's like liquid charisma- and my belly turns to fire because I am so sorry for kissing Spike- so sorry, but I can't admit it—can't… and I want him and that makes me even guiltier, until he grabs me, and hauls me against him, his lips sealing over mine in a final blow.

Gasping, we slam each other up against the wall, his hands underneath my clothes, my fingers fumbling with the zipper of his pants, until finally… god, finally, I feel him surge inside me, his fullness stretching me to the breaking point. “Buffy, Buffy, Buffy…” he cries against my neck, his voice choked, our hips grinding together in an elemental mating that goes beyond anything we've ever done before. It's as if we're claiming each other once more.

“I belong to you… Angel… no one else…” I moan, my head aching as he pounds against me, my feet lifting off the floor with the force of his thrusts. I see stars, huge lemon-yellow stars, falling behind my eyelids and turning red as Angel sinks his fangs into the scar on my neck, and the world goes crazy.

“Ahhhhhhh…” I scream, the sound garbled as his mouth draws at the butter-soft blood, the liquid dripping down my neck, forming a straight, shiny line down my breastbone, over my heart. I feel my insides convulse as the cool fire of his seed drenches my inner thighs, and we collapse to the floor, weary and bruised.

Unconsciously, I reach up and stroke his back, feeling the rasp of his tongue against my neck as he cleans the small wound.

Will we ever be able to ignore each other's cries for help? Will there ever come a time when we don't comfort each other—even after such a horrible fight?

I close my eyes, and wish for nothingness.

~~~

The night air is cold on my skin up on the widow's walk, as I sit in a T-shirt and drawstring pants, uncaring of the fact that I'll most likely catch my death of cold up here. Who cares at this point, anyway? Maybe it would be better for everyone if I simply took that leap into the starry blackness and let it burn me to ash.

A cough behind me and the flick of a lighter makes me sigh.

“Why did you tell Angel?” I ask quietly.

“Did it break you up?”

“No.”

“Then mission not accomplished, huh?”

“You think you can just mess with my life this way, Spike?” I inquire, too tired to be truly angry with him.

He comes to stand beside me, and shrugs; drawing deeply on the cigarette- it's tip glowing brightly in the darkness. “Not trying to mess with your life, Summers. Just trying to be a part of it.”

After a silent moment, I breathe out and whisper, “I'm never going to love you that way, Spike.”

“I know,” he answers. “I always knew. It was you that didn't.”

I realize he's right, and as we sit there, I am lulled into sleep; ocean waves, visions of shipwrecks and sealing wax and someone never coming home haunting my dreams.

Wrong or right, be mine tonight
Harsh world be damned
We'll make a stand
Love can bind but
mine is blind
Other's stray but I won't… walk away

“I Won't Walk Away” - Jewel


My shadow follows me up the steep flight of steps and into the hallway leading to the meeting room. It flickers and melts in the watery light, and I glance up at the lanterns lighting my way, blinking from the mustiness in the air. Dust motes rise over the walls, and I think for a moment that I'd like to clean this place up- to see the rich paneling in all its splendour.

Every movement hurts and my bones crash together underneath their thin covering of skin. I have a feeling that another few days, and that will be all that's left of me. Bone.

Angel hasn't spoken to me in five days. Sometimes I think I'm going to scream. From everything. The unbearable heaviness between my thighs never goes away. My flesh itches for his touch. At night, I lie still in our bed, smelling him on the covers, and wish- *ache* for him to walk through the door and cover me, take me- break me. Kiss me and tell me he's never going to leave- that he loves me in spite of what I did with Spike. In spite of my betrayal. But he doesn't. He never comes, and I don't sleep.

Worse yet, the heating is broken – it won't turn off- and every single breath is stifling. Sweat gathers in the hollows of my body if I stay still long enough for it to settle, and it's making me crazy. I need action- a fight---- I need Angel to make love to me. I need him to take me away in his arms- create a new world- create a new *life* because this hell I've slipped into is becoming more and more nightmarish by the day.

As I walk, someone comes up behind me, and I can tell who it is just from the smell. Vampire. Annoying. Bleach. “Hi Spike.”

He coughs slightly, and brings the lighter up, to flick it at the end of the cigarette in his mouth. “Summers,” he acknowledges. “You headed for the meeting?”

“Yes,” I reply witheringly. “I called it.”

“Knew that,” he nods. “So what's the what today?”

“I have a plan,” I answer vaguely and then actually look at him. Clapping a hand to my mouth, I choke out something between a laugh and a gasp and ask, “What in the *hell* happened to you?”

“Angel,” he bites off, obviously not happy with my semi-amusement at the purplish bruises marring his milky skin. “Beat the shit out of me.”

“I can see that,” I murmur, and touch my lips guiltily.

Spike's eyes follow the movement, and then drift to my neck, noticing the small bandage adorning the wound his fangs gave me. “Looks like he left you a little gift, as well.”

“Everyone's giving gifts,” I mutter. “But no one appreciates them.”

“Isn't life supposed to be the gift?” he muses and I laugh shortly.

“Are you speaking in clichés down, Spike?”

He shakes his head. “Just trying to find some truth.” He pauses and then regards me. “Would you fucking relax, Slayer? You're making me tense just looking at you.”

“I'm not tense,” I lie, brushing the fringe of hair falling into my eyes. It burns down my back and I think of Angel's tongue. His tongue inside me, dragging down my breastbone, over the hollow of my lower back, filling my mouth… God. Stop it.

“Course you are,” he shrugs. “You're not getting laid. Who is?”

“I was,” I whisper without thinking and can't even find it in me to blush. “I was until I made a mistake.”

“I'm a bleedin' mistake now?” he chuckles, but the lines around his mouth are tense and I see the hurt. The anger. “Maybe I shouldn't have told the Great Pouf. Let you two burn out on your own. It was bound to happen. Too much baggage. Too many fucking issues between the two of you. Really, therapy is in order.”

“Shut up Spike,” I say tightly, stopping and turning to him. “Your little rants may be interesting in your head, but to me, they take up minutes of my life that I'll never get back. So please- shut. up.”

Raising an eyebrow, he leans elegantly against the wall and takes a final drag from his smoldering cigarette, flicking a little ash at me before he stamps it underneath his boot. “Far be it for me to tread upon the sacred bond,” he drawls sarcastically and I feel myself snap, hauling my arm back and hitting him full in the face. His head smashes back into the stone, and he doesn't even make a sound.

Just rises back and stares at me, blinking slightly as he lightly touches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

“I'm—“ I choke on the word 'sorry', swallowing and glancing at the floor. “Can you just *not* push me today? Things aren't… good.”

“Think they're good for me?” he asks quietly, and begins to walk again, his slow saunter becoming purposeful and sleek. Like a predator. “Watching you die without that fucking bastard? Watching the lil Bit die 'cause of me? Wanting you so badly… and coming *this* close to having you? Tasting you? Fuck, Slayer- you don't have the monopoly on sucky times.”

“Maybe I don't,” I concede. “But I have to save the world. What do you have to do? Besides look sexy and smoke—did I just say that?”

His head dips, and he sends a look my way, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You did, Summers. Guess I'll have to be content with that.”

“What?”

He laughs low. “That you think I'm sexy. I'll be sure to tell Angel that one.”

“Spike if you even *think*--“

“Calm the fuck down. I'm just kidding.”

“You had better be.”

“Don't you ever get tired of it?” he asks me suddenly, and I look at him warily, stretching my aching muscles.

“What?”

“The thing. With Angelus. All that--- stuff between the two of you. Don't you ever just wanna call it a day?”

“Yes,” I whisper, realizing it's true. “Yes, sometimes I do.”

“Well then why the fuck don't you?” he snaps, rubbing his eyes.

“Because…” I pause and shrug. “I love him. It sounds simple, but I love him *so* much.”

“You killed him,” he reminds me. “He left you. He drank you. It hasn't been roses, pet.”

“Does it have to be roses?” I inquire, unconsciously reaching up and stroking the white bandage over the scar thoughtfully. “It's in my gut. I feel it… him… everywhere. I love him. It may not be perfect- but… it's the only real thing I have.”

“But you don't have it, do ya Summers?” he comments dryly, and I feel myself die a little, inside. Every time I remember that we're not speaking. That he doesn't come to be at night. That maybe… the future I've imagined with us facing things together isn't going to happen. That lying there with his sweat-slick back beneath my hands, smelling the scent of my own blood hanging heavy in the air—was the last time I'd have with him. Maybe we aren't going to ride off into the sunset together.

No. I refuse to believe that.

but maybe you'll have to believe it, buffy

I don't want to know who owns that voice. I don't want to know if it's coming from me.

~~~

Spike lightly clasps my elbow to steady me as we walk into the meeting room, and my eyes immediately clash with dark brown. Furious dark brown. Angel. My mouth forms the name, but no sound comes out. He glances at Spike and I and then looks down, his face betraying nothing- his eyes saying it all.

(Bitch. You betrayed me. I hate you. I love you. I want to cry. I want to be inside you. I want to—break you like you break so many people—)

Bronwen nods to me, and I smile slightly, shakily, taking my place at the head of the table. Everyone quiets down, and I slide my hands nervously over my black leather jacket, straightening the edges- the lapel – a flash of memory catching me in it's web

--

(his name is Scott. Whirls around. I flinch. What will he do? His hand unfurls my collar- gentle.)

--

“Well… I called everyone here because I have a plan,” I begin, and there's a murmur of interest in the group, hope alighting in their eyes and I feel a familiar surge of relief at being able to bring that particular glint to their gazes. “I've been thinking, and planning for the last couple of weeks. With some help, I've realized that Slayers can shape shift- but it's a complicated spell. I asked Harry Potter and Hermione Granger to help me, and I've been discussing it with them for several days now. They believe they can do it easily, and so do I- after all, boy that lived and all that.”

Everyone smiles appreciatively. Harry is respected within the Rebellion, especially among the elder people. “Anyway, I'm figuring this is what's gonna have to happen. I'll shape shift into a raven/harpy like creature. I guess because Slayers, as they evolved, found it easier to be bigger when they skin walked and got the spells to give them bigger bodies as animals,” I pause, “where was I?”

“You're going to turn into a raven,” Bronwen prompts me, her eyes alight with fascination- and something akin to fear and admiration rolled into one.

“Right. After that, Angel and I will travel to the demon's compound by air. I'll have to hold onto him using my claws. Apparently I get even more super-natural strength from this spell… I hope it's true. After that, we'll land on the roof, find some way of getting into the building and plant the bomb. Harry and Hermione will charm the building to make sure they can't escape. It should blow up when Angel and I are safely back in the air, cruising at 5 000 feet.” I smile, and drop wearily into the chair behind me, pushing my hair back again. I'm going to have to cut it, it's getting too long. “While all this is happening, we'll have the troops on the ground, going around to all the camps, fighting the few demons left and freeing all the prisoners. If it all goes according to plan- we should be able to free everyone and come back here for a nice dinner the next day.”

For a moment no one speaks. And then Spike drawls, “Knew you'd come up with something completely insane, Summers.”

“If you knew what was good for you,” Angel growls, “you'd keep your mouth shut, Spike.”

I feel a rush of warmth- he's sticking up for me- but it's tempered with the knowledge that he just hates Spike. Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't he hate me, for that matter? As an insistent throb begins to spread like fire behind my temples, I hear Bronwen say firmly, “It's the only workable plan we've managed to come up with yet. I say we go for it.”

There's a chorus of “yes's” and I close my eyes, glad to have pleased almost everyone. “We'll have to get to work immediately however,” Bronwen then announces, and starts assigning people to different things.

My bones ache. Everything aches without him. I feel as if I'm simply negative space, ready to burn into endlessness if he doesn't fill me soon and make me into something *solid*.

“I'm going back to my room,” I whisper to no one in particular, and slip through the crowds of people all swarming around the room, discussing the plans and the various tasks they will be asked to perform.

The hallway is silent, and I walk hurriedly, wanting nothing more than sleep and maybe some tea. A hand on my shoulder is sudden, and un-wanted. Not even turning, I snarl, “No, Spike, you can't—“

“Buffy…”

Stopping, I spin around on suddenly weak knees and look at my lover warily. “Angel?”

He sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “That's… it's a good plan you came up with. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I answer thinly, and wonder if he can hear my insides screaming for him. If he can hear my heart beating fiercely in my throat. “Did you follow me to tell me that?”

“No,” he swallows, and his eyes lock with mine. Burning. “I followed you to tell you that I miss you.”

“Is that it?”

“No. I love you. I'm going crazy without you. I… I'm s—“

“Don't,” I murmur, pressing my fingers to his lips. “I'm the one who's sorry. Sorry for doing what I did with Spike. Sorry for making you doubt that I loved you. When in all my life…I… I belong to you, Angel.”

He draws in a startled, un-necessary breath and takes my hand, leading me back to our room. I know what he wants. I know what I want. How can I have gone five days without this? Talking will come later. Right now I need his skin. And I know he needs mine.

Closing the door behind us, he backs me up against it, his mouth on mine before I can even breathe, and I moan, arching up into him as his knee thrusts between my thighs and it's *oh god… please* so good, *oh please, please--- break me* and I need him so badly. His tongue drowns in my mouth and I fumble with the buckle of his belt, tearing it from his body in my frustration.

He laughs huskily at my impatience and his hands slide under my jacket, against my naked back. Panting, I palm the heaviness of him, it's cool fire burning my flesh as he buries his face in my neck, his fingers tugging at my pants, pulling them down my thighs, past my calves, to my feet.

Kicking them off, I wriggle out of my panties, and our eyes meet and he stares into mine as his hands lift me and slowly- so slowly that I want to scream- he slides up and into me, pressing me flush against the door. Gasping, I let out a strangled groan and grip his shoulders, his neck, his back, as he moves, his hips thrusting, his pelvis grinding against mine like poetry in motion.

“Angel…Angel…Angel…” his name tears from my throat in thin breaths and I feel the swirl of his tongue against my nipples- his tongue- god *please* it's what I want- and his fingers come up to touch my lips. Sucking his fingers desperately into my mouth, I taste him and myself and feel everything go white and gold as my climax rocks my flesh, his howl joining with mine as we find that heaven together.

Collapsing against each other, our trembling slowly eases, and he carries me over to the bed, drawing back the covers and drawing me between them, into his arms. I curve into him, as close as can be, and fall, gratefully, into the sleep that has eluded me in all these lonely nights.

~~~

The beach is still.

But I scream.

He pulls my limbs from my body, laughing as he does so, his eyes yellow as the sunrise and just as hot. Blood pours from my neck, from my mouth and it gurgles in my lungs. I look down, surprised at the knife sticking out of my belly- slicing my ribs as if I were Faith.

“Angel…” I sigh, reaching out a hand, not quite believing that he has done this to me.

His palm presses into mine, and he leans close. “Close your eyes, love.”

“Why?” I ask, frightened, feeling no pain besides a fire between my thighs.

(Break me…)

“So I can kill you.”

I scream.

I look down.

Feathers- black- pool around my body, stained a coppery red with blood.

~~~

Jerking awake, I stare blindly at the ceiling, trying to control my breathing as the icy sweat trickles with insidious fingers down my spine. Angel murmurs in sleep, his arms tightening around me as if he senses my pain and wants to comfort me.

I press a kiss to his forehead, snuggling back down under the covers, my dry eyes burning.

I won't tell him about these nightmares. I won't tell him anything.

I won't tell him that I'm afraid I'm seeing the future.

The bed dips as I slide from it, padding across the carpeted floor to the window seat, where I pull a blanket around my body and curl into the cushions. The room is silent besides the crackle and pop of the fire. Breathing out, I press my nose against the cool glass and watch the snow fall thickly outside. It's a cold, cold winter. And I think it's going to get even colder if we don't succeed in the battle.

I sigh and draw a tiny heart in the fog my breath made on the window, quickly smearing it into oblivion. I'm not the sixteen year old who scrawled our names together on notebooks and duo-tangs- secretly, but with great pleasure- because I *had* a *boyfriend* and didn't that just make life lovely? I remember that it didn't matter, really, what had happened in our past. I shushed Hell and swept away Faith and whispered that I'd always be his girl and hoped he'd never leave.

But now, the weight of *this*, this us- rests on my lungs and sometimes I fear it's going to crush my bones, make them crack and split my skin wide open like ripe fruit. But haven't I just reaped what I've sown? I wanted this , I wanted my everything, and my life to be with him, and sometimes I wonder if maybe I'm the one who's just not normal enough for it. Maybe dying fucked me up more than we thought possible. How else can I explain kissing Spike- letting his tongue creep into my mouth as if it belonged there?

How can I justify kissing Spike when I know that my heart has never left Angel?

Maybe that's what scares me.

That after all these years--- nothing has been able to make me stop loving him. Not Angelus. Not Hell. Not Faith. Not Riley. And not Spike.

And I haven't forgotten a single thing about him.

I can remember things of course. The smell of my Mother's shampoo. The songs Dawnie sang in the shower. The cruel slant to Faith's smile. Riley's cologne- like butter and rich wheat. The sting of my vomit behind my teeth when I orgasmed in Angel's arms as he sucked my blood to save his own life. My father's hand gripping mine as we swam in the ocean when I was a child. Willow's laugh- Xander's shoulders- Giles' eyes--- ohgodohgod

I breathe out, bending slightly as I feel the tears seep from my eyes and drip without fanfare down to my lips, salting the cracked redness of their chapped surface. Licking the sides of my mouth I remember when I was six- hearing my Mother talking to my Grandmother down in our kitchen late at night. My ear was hurting- I remember that- and rubbing it sleepily, I had slid downstairs on socked feet, eager to slip into my Mommy's arms and let her put that cold, watery thing in it to make it better.

They were talking, and it was in these hushed tones that stopped me in my tracks. They were talking about lots of things. My father. When my Mom said his name her voice sounded scratchy and it made me sad- even then. I just didn't understand. And my Grandmother- she talked about being in the concentration camps. Being little- I didn't know what that was. But her voice- and the things she said- they made me sick to my stomach---

smellofburningnakedbloodtrainpilesofshoesandgoldfillingsohjoycesohorrible

I think of her now.

And how she would have felt, being in this Hell the world has become. I guess I wonder if it's different—and I know it isn't. They hate us just as much and if they could, they'd wipe us from the earth. They'd form another Third Reich and put Angel on a meat hook for betraying his kin.

Bile rises in my throat and rushing to the door, I throw it open, running for the bathroom.

~~~

Collapsing next to the toilet bowl, I rest my cheek against the cool tiles and feel the thin trail of blood slide cleanly from the side of my mouth, pooling beside my head and turning the ends of my hair a dull crimson.

“Buffy?”

“What?” I whisper.

Spike kneels beside me, and reaches out hesitantly to touch my shoulder. “What're you doing?”

“Lying on the floor. Leave me alone.”

“Not likely,” he responds, hauling me by my arm, into a sitting position and drawing a cigarette from his pocket, that I quickly realize is pot. “Want some?”

Quickly I shake my head and he laughs huskily, lighting it with steady fingers and raising it to his parched lips. “So, you gonna tell me what's the what?”

“Nothing.”

“Happily ever after with Peaches not all it's cracked up to be?” he drawls.

Turning a withering stare his way, I snap, “How about we don't hear from you on Angel anymore?”

He shrugs. “Fine, Slayer. But don't say I didn't warn you about my bloody Grandsire. He can be such a fucking wanker---“ trailing off as I fix him with another glare, he offers the marijuana to me again and this time, I take it, inhaling the sweet smoke.

Leaning my head against the wall next to him, I relax slowly, whispering, “I don't see why the world has to be like this. Why couldn't I have come back and everything was normal?”

“Not the way life or death works, blondie,” he answers matter-of-factly. “You should know that by now.”

“Normal people get to stay dead,” I mutter. “They don't get brought back to save the world.”

“Well then aren't you just the luckiest girl in all the land,” he chuckles, and stretches slightly.

Ignoring the sinuous movements of his cat-like muscles, I take back the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling, the mellow high steeling over me with gentle force. “Why didn't they just use Faith?” I ask quietly. “She's a Slayer too.”

“Maybe they knew she wasn't the right one for the job,” he tells me seriously. “Not that I knew the chick, but she sounds like she's got one fucked up brain.”

“You're one to talk. And yeah- she was fucked up. But I guess… we all are. A little.”

“Just a little?” he scoffs. “The whole world is full of screw-ups, Slayer. Little and big. Look at you. You killed yourself for this rock. Now *that* is fucked up.”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand. You've probably never done anything even remotely un-selfish in your whole damn un-dead life, Spike,” I growl softly, not really angry. The smoke is winding it's way through my veins and I can feel the drug hanging over us, licking my eyelids and covering my skin as if it were a warm blanket.

“And I'm proud of it,” he slurs and I giggle, leaning full into him, my hair falling carelessly over his arm and trickling into the hollow of his belly. Curving an arm around me, he pulls me closer and I smell the leather, the dead, the sweet coolness of his flesh. He's from the grave and so am I, and everything is so complicated that I think he could make me forget—but I know that's *wrong* it's wrong. He's the wrong vampire. Wrong leather jacket. Wrong arm around me.

Sleepily, I hear him ask, “If it wasn't Angel—if he wasn't here…would it be me, Buffy?”

No. Evil.Sometimestheresgoodbutyou'reevil. Turnedmysister. WithoutAngelI'dbedead.

“I don't know,” I murmur, drugged up and woozy. “How can anyone know that?”

“There's probably an alternate dimension where you *want* to be in my arms,” Spike mutters.

“And there's probably one where I *don't* beat the shit out of you, Spike” Angel's voice snarls from the doorway. “Fortunately, we're in this one.”

Looking up, I stare into his eyes and stand, wobbling dangerously. “Angel—it's not –“

“What I think?” he says softly. “How very cliché of you, Buffy.”

“It's actually not,” Spike puts in. “If it was, she'd be naked already. Don't believe in wasting time.”

Angel growls, vamping out in his fury and takes a step towards him. “What have you been giving her?”

“What'd ya mean, Peaches?” Spike drawls lazily.

“Don't play with me, boy. WHAT have you been giving her?”

“Just a little grass, my boy. Nothing to get all bad-ass 'bout. Smoke?”

“Spike,” I warn him, seeing through the haze that Angel's about to explode. I really don't want him to be around when that happens. “Get gone, you idiot.”

“Right,” he laughs, and strolls past my lover with his usual throwaway casualness.

Angel and I stare at each other for a moment and then he sighs, and takes my hand. “Let's go.”

“What?” I had expected more of a fight than that.

“We can't talk here. Come back to the room.”

~~~

“I'm trying to understand.”

That's the first thing he says, and I swallow, shaking my head free of the buzz that sounds behind my temples and turning to see him pacing up and down. It's enough to make me dizzy and I sit down abruptly.

“I really am. But I don't understand, Buffy. I can't. Why do you go to him?”

“Angel, it's not like he's my drug dealer or something,” I smile and he slashes a hand through the air.

“This. Is. NOT. Fucking *Funny*, Buffy!” he cries, dropping to his knees in front of me, his hands on my thighs. “What is it about him that makes you run to him?”

“I didn't run to him,” I whisper, sobered by his stance. “He came in when I was in the bathroom. I was just thinking. I needed to be alone. He caught me at a weak moment.”

“It's more than that though. You care about him.”

“So what?” I inquire helplessly. “Are you so delusional to think that I never cared about anyone else in the two years after you left? I cared deeply about Riley, Angel. You're *not* the only guy I've ever cared about. And I know I'm not the only girl for you.”

He stares mutely into my eyes, as if he's shell-shocked.

“What are you saying?” he finally chokes out.

“I'm saying that I didn't forget you. I never stopped loving you. But you… you drown me. I hated you for a long time. You haunted me. You left and had a great life and I died… and some things are hard to forgive. We're together now and I'm happy about that. But I was *dead* for so long. I cared about Riley. I slept with Parker. I had little crushes. People came and went in my life- including my Mother and Dawnie and it was *years* since you and I. Can't you see that I've changed?”

“Of course I see that,” he whispers, obviously shaken. “So have I.”

“I know. And don't tell me that you didn't care about anyone else. That you didn't *almost* fall in love with someone else in Los Angeles. Because I'd know you were lying.”

“I wouldn't let myself—“ he breaks off and looks surprised as I nod.

“Neither would I. It was as if, if I did- I'd be betraying you. And we weren't even together. I didn't let myself love Riley. Or even Spike.”

Closing his eyes, he rests his head against my knees and I cradle it with my hands, stroking his cheek. “I came close. With one person.”

I don't even have to say it, but I do. My throat tightens with bitter pain and the echo of jealousy. “Cordelia.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still…?”

“No,” he answers firmly, and I let the breath out that I didn't even realize I was holding in. “We… were best friends. She was all I had for a long time. She could be a bitch. She could be horribly selfish. She wasn't… a hero. Or even really a the greatest friend at times. But she was brave- and she was funny. Her sense of humour got us through. I admit- sometimes I'd mistake the closeness we had for something more. Sometimes I wanted it to be something more.”

“And was it?”

He seems to consider for a moment. “I loved her as a friend. But I could never bring myself to love her as a woman. I still… I still carried you and it hurt to even think of letting someone take your place. I didn't *want* someone to take your place, if I'm being honest. You were the only one in all my life who had *always* stood by me. Always loved me, no matter what…”

“And I always will,” I murmur through salty tears, brushing a kiss against his forehead.

He looks up, and pulls me down from the chair to gather me in his arms. Resting my face against his un-beating heart, I look down. “But I'm not that girl anymore.”

“Which girl, love?”

“The one who believed in things. Too much has happened. I say 'always', but I don't know if I can even understand that anymore.”

His arms tighten around me. “I promise, you will, again.”

Trembling and sighing drowsily, I drift into the realm between sleep and wake and barely feel it as he carries me to bed and slides in next to me. It isn't even hours before we have to go to Harry and Hermione's to practice the spell.

I fear it.

I fear becoming a true hunter in animal form.

As I slide into an uneasy sleep, I think I hear Angel weeping, but hope it's just a dream.

~~~

Lying on the floor beside a roaring fire, I center myself, blocking out the murmurs that hiss and bubble over my head and which I know are coming from Harry and Hermione. They wear black robes and carry huge musty tomes. They look faintly frightening and I close my eyes, concentrating on the magic-k flowing through my veins. Power courses over my body, sizzling against my flesh and sparking up into my brain.

It hurts, but I can take the pain.

A roar knells in my ears- the darkest bell that ever tolled. Their voices are getting louder, until they are almost screams and their wands flash fire as the energy crackles overhead like red lightening.

“We invoke thee!” Harry shouts, sweat beading his face.

And then I feel it. Everything lengthens, strengthens. Hair becomes feathers, flesh turns black as pitch, nails twist into talons. Screaming, screaming, I twist as the change overcomes me and blood splatters across my chest as I rake myself with my own claws.

Just as quickly as it started, it ends. Gasping, I fall to the floor and open my eyes gingerly. They all gaze at me with rapt horror and wonder. I'm something ressembling a harpy crossed with a raven. I can see myself in their eyes. That's when I realize I still have my own face. It has taken everything but that small bit of humanity.

The taste of copper fills my mouth. Clotted sunlight and rotting meat hang heavily against my teeth. I can smell Angel. The vampire- an animal just like myself. Bobbing my head lightly, I climb onto talons and fold my huge wings against my back. Strange how normal this seems. But I'm glad for it. I don't want to feel alien in this new form.

“Can she speak?”

That's Angel voice.

“I can,” I respond and they all recoil slightly.

“Well… good,” Hermione croaks and Harry folds an arm around her back, pulling her close.

“You're never doing that, ok?” he intones briefly and she nods.

“No worries, honey.”

“What should I do?” I ask and they stare at me again, as if hearing a voice from the creature I've become is too much.

“Ah…” Harry pauses. “See if you can fly.”

Unfolding my wings, I stretch them out and flap them just a little. The air flows underneath me and I realize I am off the floor, soaring over their heads. Thank God this room is large. Coming to a stop behind them, I shake a little and gaze down at the feathers adorning my once sweet flesh. What have I done?

“It's good. She can do it. Change her back.”

Three clipped sentences, and I realize how much pain this is causing Angel.

And I realize how much frightened I am of what is to come.

~~~

I see Dawn briefly, as I am walking up the stairs after a long day at the Institute for Magic. Spike holds her in his arms as they sit against the wall. Her hair shines in the lantern light, and it looks alive. Slowly, she cuddles against him, and listlessly listens as he reads her a story. Catching bits of it, I realize it's “Camelot” and smile, remembering how I told him our Mother read it to us as children.

Tears burn in my eyes as I think about joining them but realize that I wouldn't be welcome. I might remember times as kids and the smell of leaves in her hair, but to Dawn, I am not her sister. I am just a person who left her to the cold and I can't blame her for that.

I've done a lot of reckless things in my life. I've made a lot of sacrifices. But killing myself for Dawn is probably the one I feel the guiltiest about. Because it gave me the most peace. And it gave my little sister nothing but the cold.

Shivering, I step into our room and see Angel has already turned down the bed and is removing his shirt. It's about ten o'clock, but time really has lost a lot of meaning for me since I came back. Except for the lack of it. And how when someone is gone, it's all you really have left.

“Hey,” he greets me quietly, and leaves the button on his pants open. I stare at the hair disappearing underneath the fabric and feel the familiar burn in my belly.

“Hi.”

“Are you ok?”

“Right as rain,” I whisper. I remember when I said that. Sometimes I think I remember everything and all the little words are becoming paper cuts that will slice me open and lay me bare. “Whatever that means, right?”

A tiny wash of pain enters his eyes and he nods. “No one knows what that means.”

“I certainly never have,” I joke lightly, without any humour. “Are they bringing any water up for a bath?”

“You want one?” he asks.

“Obviously,” I grin, and he smiles back, ever so slightly.

“I'll see about it, then, if you'd like.”

“And I really want something to eat too.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I can hear the rumbles in your stomach.”

Blushing, I drop my gaze from his. “Stupid stomach. Doesn't know when to be quiet.”

“I like it. Reminds me that you're… alive,” he whispers.

“Doesn't your stomach rumble when it wants blood?” I ask only half-seriously and he shakes his head.

“My teeth ache. So does my throat.”

“That sounds horrible.” I feel the most terrible sense of doom and want to shake it off desperately. “Why don't you get our food and Plasma and I'll get the bath, ok?”

He smiles briefly and touches his finger to my lips, murmuring, “Ok.”

~~~

Later we lie curled up on the bed. His mouth is stained with a slight red, and mine is tastes vaguely of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, of the way too creamy- ice cream and the bar of chocolate he found. My belly makes tiny noises of contentment as he rubs it and I turn to kiss him, smelling burnt oranges and shining pennies.

Peeling my T-shirt and sleep shorts from my body, he tastes my secret pink and as I feel his tongue inside me, I arch up underneath him and scream. When he comes inside me, the coolness of it flooding my womb, I curve him against me and soothe the shudders that rock his body in the wake of his orgasm.

Christmas Day is in a week--

(Close your eyes)

- and I'm afraid.

And that worries me more than anything else. I'm never afraid.

How could I have known, that you'd ever say goodbye?
And now, I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives, are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain…
But I'd have had to miss the dance

“The Dance” – Garth Brooks


Kensington High Street is a burnt out shell, blurry and non-descript in the falling snow. Laden down with bags of stolen weapons, I make my way through the crowds of vampires and demons, my mouth swollen and red with the lipstick I smeared on before I left Harry and Hermione's. Every muscle in my body aches with the remembered pain of morphing into a childe of the Morrigan.

I smile wryly as I think for the thousandth time that it's Christmas Eve, and tomorrow is the battle and there is.no.way.out. Everywhere I look I see death and endings, and it's just a Merry fucking Christmas all around.

No. Stop it.

I have to stay positive. That's what Bronwen and Arion told me yesterday in a meeting with Angel, me, Darla and Spike. We put the final touches on the battle plan and I made a crack about it being our last night on Earth, and Arion's hand met my shoulder as he said softly, “Please… be positive.” I shot him a glance and wondered if he knew what it was like to dream every night. Dreams full of bloody swords and your lover's whispers--- Close your eyes, love, my life. So I can kill you. So I can put an end to you.

((Like you put an end to me))

I didn't know how to tell Arion that my energy is focused elsewhere. Little Dawnie, who hates me and who gets weaker and weaker by the day. Yesterday I crept downstairs, anxious to check up on her and found her curled in Spike's arms, shivering and cursing quietly as he fed her blood and the redness slicked her lips till they looked shiny and new. Isn't that ironic? She's older, far older than me, and she'll never be new again. Her skin has the scent of rot and decay… of green energy and suicide. Maybe I never should have taken that leap for her, but at the time, it seemed *right* and nothing has seemed so *right* in a long time. Not since I was sixteen, in fact, but that's not a road I want to travel down.

And I worry. About Angel. Every moment a little ache in my chest reminds me of him, and I catch a glimpse of him behind my eyelids. His image, so dear to my heart- my reason for even getting through the day. My reason for doing what I do, even now. Even after all of it.

((It's all about him, isn't it? When it comes down to it, it's always about him))

I remember those harsh words, and how I stared into Xander's normal brown eyes ((not the colour of the night)) and lied.

((That's not true))

But he knew the truth. I think they all did.

And then time passed, and it wasn't about him anymore. It really wasn't. That's not even a lie. He left, and I mourned in that long and sweaty summer afterwards. I took long walks to the mansion, I drank sometimes- long sips of vodka late at night—I patrolled and killed his brothers and sisters, and I sometimes missed him so much I thought I would scream—

But I did move on.

I think I did.

Nothing was ever the same again, though, and everyone knew it, which made it harder. I had Parker and Riley and I *made* something of my life, but I suppose I always knew it wasn't enough. However, it has been years since it was about him.

It has been *years* since an “always”, it has been *years* since the burn of his kiss and the salt of his tears, and I think I'm not sure what to do with this feeling. This *love*. I've had it before, but somehow, it seemed more… simple then. We would lean over my windowsill and kiss in the shadows, and I would giggle against his mouth, happy that I had a boyfriend, happy that he liked to touch my skin, *happy* that we could have it all. Can we now? If we get back to Sunnydale and paint cupboards, and live on the closed Hellmouth and visit my Mom's grave every week—can it be enough?

Or will the void that he carved inside of me with his absence open up again? What if it grows and grows, eating my cells like a malignant cancer and what if it just isn't enough—and I want to die again? What will be my excuse when there is nothing left to die for? When the world doesn't need saving and there is nothing noble to be done? Would I put a shotgun to my head and spray the wall behind me with pulpy red…? God, I don't know. I don't know.

Please God. Please, sweet, sweet God.

Prayer is the last refuge of the damned. I never used to pray.

As I trudge up to the hotel, I ignore the tears stinging the back of my throat and open the doors, wondering if it's just too fucking late for Angel and I.

Wondering if maybe I'm already damned and God is no longer listening.

~~~

The bathtub in our room is filled to the brim with steaming hot water when I enter the room. Smiling gratefully at someone's thoughtfulness, I drop the bags of weapons, strip off my sodden clothes and step into the water, groaning in relief as it massages my cold, aching muscles.

“That's a good sound,” Angel says from the doorway and my lips curve in the simplest expression of love there is.

“This is good water. Thank you.”

He nods. “You're welcome. I saw you coming and knew you'd be soaked through. Did you get what we needed?”

“Mmm hmmm,” I murmur. “Stakes, swords, and a few crossbows. We're good. Isn't Spike getting more today as well?”

“Yeah,” he says curtly, and sits down beside the tub, tipping the bottle of rose scented shampoo in his palm and pouring some onto my head. Sighing, I lay back and submit to his ministrations, the feeling of his long fingers massaging my scalp lulling and soothing in their familiarity. “I talked to him this morning and he promised he'd be on it later.”

“So you two are on speaking terms now?” I ask absently, and he shrugs.

“As much as we can be.”

“Mmmm…well, you and Xander were worse. At least we won't have to deal with that for a while.”

He smiles gently. “You're so certain we're going to get them all back?”

“We have to,” I state. “It's not a question.”

He doesn't respond for a moment, picking up a pitcher and filling it with the hot water. “Close your eyes,” he whispers and I wince, doing as he asks and feeling the cascade of liquid washing away the shampoo from my hair.

Standing and wiping his hands on a nearby towel, he begins to clean up, and I watch his graceful movements with hooded eyes, feeling pampered and taken care of. “Are you sure you can't have kids, Angel?” I inquire suddenly and he stiffens only slightly at the question.

“Why do you ask?”

“Not sure. Just thinking how pretty our children would be, I guess.”

He grins, but I can tell it's an effort. “They would be. Blonde hair, dark eyes.”

“In between tallness,” I put in.

“Extreme capacity for brooding or playfulness.”

“Spectacular ability to kick ass.”

He smiles. “A doer and a thinker.”

“The best of both worlds,” I say softly, and he glances at me from over his shoulder.

“We'd probably screw him up.”

“Or her,” I remind him. “I want a little girl to spoil. I want…”

“What we can't have,” he says so quietly I can barely hear him.

“There's things we can though,” I stand up, and step from the tub, walking over to him and pressing my dripping wet body to his back. I wrap my arms around his waist and press a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Like I said---before, I kill my goldfish. Children might be too much.”

“Don't sell yourself short,” he murmurs, and turns, gathering me into his arms and pressing a drugging kiss to my lips. I gasp a little as we separate and his forehead touches mine. “I have something for you. It is Christmas, after all.”

“And what a lovely Christmas it is,” I comment wryly, slipping on his robe and sitting by the roaring fire, as he roots around in the cupboard by our bed, which is filled with millions of little odds and ends.

Finally he brings out a box that sparks something in my memory and he glances at me tenderly. “I wasn't sure when the best time would be to give this to you. It never seemed like we had a moment's peace in the beginning- when you first came back. And then, I thought—it would be a good Christmas present. A little taste of home.”

I stare for a moment, and then fully take in the box, tears springing to my eyes as I realize what it is. “It's my… it's my box. My memory box.” Embarrassed, I blush. “It's so corny—I didn't know anyone even knew I kept one.”

“I didn't,” he chuckles. “Until I… after everything happened, I came back to Sunnydale, just before I escaped to London, and I went—I went back to your house. It was leveled, as I'm sure you know, and I was walking through the wreckage, looking for any little piece of you—when I found this. And I kept it.”

He hands it to me and I touch the cool steel, remembering when Mom bought me this miniature safe, and said with a smile, “Keep all your important things in here. You never know when something might happen…”

I feel tears seeping down my cheeks as I remember and fiddle with the combination lock, the numbers to open it dancing behind my lids as I glance up into Angel's eyes. He looks worried. “Is this ok? Did you want to see this—“ I cut him off with a kiss, my palm cupping his cheek.

“Thank you.”

My fingers spin the dial of the lock slowly, carefully, until it snaps open with a slight creak. The lid is blackened in places, and as I open it, I try and remember what I put in it-- if it's anything potentially mortifying, and I open my mouth to warn Angel--

Xander's eyes.

Silently, I pick up the picture of Willow, Xander, Giles and I and touch our images with trembling fingers. I had Mom take it Graduation Night. We all look tired, my lip is split, and Willow has a red gash on her chin—but we look young. And yes, happy. We had our futures ahead of us—they may have been short, but they're there, shining in our eyes and I look down at the picture, stricken with this flash from the all too distant yesterday.

Angel doesn't say anything. I think he knows I have to face this alone. Shaking, I leaf through a few more items. A swatch of material from my prom dress, a copy of The Shining(Riley's favourite book), pictures of Mom and Dawnie and I, a locket my father gave to me when I was a child, a withered rose Riley left on my pillow one morning before he left to go to class…

Finally I reach the bottom. There I find one of my mother's T-shirts (it had her scent and I couldn't bare to wash it), my graduation certificate (still stained with blood), a lock of Faith's hair carefully tied with ribbon (she must still have mine… wherever she is), and lastly, the few bits and pieces I had left from Angel and I. The book of poems with the inscription that was a promise he couldn't keep, one of his silver rings that he left at my house one night after patrol, the cross necklace he gave me on the night we met, a faded love letter he wrote to me, and a copy of his number and address in Los Angeles.

That's when I look up, and sobbing quietly at the rush of memories, whisper, “Angel…”

He takes me in his arms, on his lap, and I bury my face in his shoulder, murmuring, “Thank you. I don't know why I'm crying…”

His lips brush my forehead. “Shhh…”

For long moments, we sit still, and then slowly, our mouths touch, and he lays me down by the fire, it's flames heating my skin as his fingers learn my body for the thousandth time, and I arc from the floor like a bow held taut. With aching gentleness, his lips slide over my nipple and he moves within me, coming in a cool flood that burns my insides and makes me whimper.

Afterward, we hold each other for a long time, until he says softly, “I wish I could give you children.”

I bite my lip, swallowing as I stare dreamily up at the ceiling, the blood rushing to my brain. “All I need is you.”

~~~

It's dark in the hotel, and I suspect everyone is asleep. I know Angel is- where I left him covered in blankets by the fire—but I have some people I need to say goodbye to before tomorrow. Stepping into the bowels of the building, I creep into the basement and turn the corner that leads to their room. Soft music plays from a beat up record player in the corner, and I see Dawn, sleeping in a corner on a chair, her hair spread around her form like a dark cape.

“Hey,” Spike says, not looking up, his eyes intent on the book in front of him.

I nod. “Hi.”

“Something wrong?”

“Not really,” I answer, trailing my fingers along the wall where his shirts are hung on small hooks, the silk and cotton thin underneath my fingertips. “Just wanted to go over some last minute plans.”

He snaps his book shut. “No, you didn't, Summers. You wanted to say goodbye.”

I glance at him, unperturbed. “Maybe I do. Is that ok?”

“No, it's not bloody well, *ok*,” he snaps. “You're not gonna die tomorrow, blondie. Not again.”

“What if you die?”

“What do you care?” he shoots back and I close my eyes briefly.

“You know I do,” I whisper and take a step towards him hesitantly, “I care about you, Spike.”

His arms tremble as he wraps them around me and I sink into his embrace, my cheek against his, the cool frost of his fingers whispering over my back. He smells of leather and of death, and I touch his neck, bringing his mouth to mine. Quickly, I kiss him and taste copper and my past--- he might not be the vampire I love—but he is someone that knows me, knows my fears and darkness—and I can't hate him. As much as I try.

Stepping away, I look straight into his eyes and plead, “Bring me back my friends. I know how you feel about them, but please-“

He nods. “I'll do my best, Slayer. I can't promise anything, though.”

“I know,” I nod in acknowledgement of that basic truth. “And bring yourself back too. Don't ask me why I care.”

“I don't have to,” he smirks and I cast a withering glare in his direction as I tiptoe over to where Dawn sleeps, running my hand down the length of her hair as I bend to kiss her cheek. She doesn't taste the same as four years ago, but there's no less love on my side now.

“Goodbye, Dawnie,” I utter under my breath and her eyelashes flutter, but she doesn't awaken.

“I'll see you when it's over Spike,” I call as I leave the room, anxious to be out of sight before the tears curse down my face. I hear his quiet, “When it's over, Summers,” and make for the stairs, ignoring the burn in the region of my heart.

~~~

The next morning dawns grey with clouds, and I untangle myself from Angel's arms, dressing quickly in leather pants and a tight black sweater, leaving my hair loose, as it makes the transformation hurt less. Angel doesn't say anything as he pulls on pants and a thick sweater, simply takes my hand afterward, walking downstairs with me, his face a study in blankness.

Everywhere is organized chaos, and I spot Bronwen talking to Arion as they watch Spike and a group of fighters load weapons into a truck, the sweat on their faces standing out in sharp relief. Harry and Hermione wait at the top of the stairs for us. They hand the bomb to Angel and look faintly frightened-- even a little sick. I don't blame them.

As we walk up the flights of stairs to the widow's walk, I wonder if I'm ready for this- if Angel and I are ready to do this- if we've thought it through well enough, long enough, hard enough. Oh God.

Sweet, sweet God. Please, don't let me down now.

Wind swirls against us and the air is bitingly cold. I shiver, and look up at Angel. “So this is it,” I mutter bitterly. “Another goodbye.”

“It's not a goodbye,” he replies firmly. “I've never said goodbye to you, love. And I never will.”

Lifting my face for his kiss, I taste regret and sorrow and such a blurring, burning love that my eyes tear up suddenly. Pressing my cheek against his, I smile. “I've always wanted to fly.”

“Here's your chance,” he whispers, and smiles back, just slightly.

My heart cracks as I remember the dreams and somehow know everything is going to *end*… “Just so you know… I love you.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and brushes my mouth with his. “Just so *you* know, I love you too.”

Rubbing my nose against his, I lock our hands together. “Just hold on tight, ok?”

“I will.”

Breaking away for a moment, I hug Hermione tightly and say quietly in her ear, “If anything happens to me—will you make sure he's all right?”

I hear her swallow. “Of course, Buffy.” She doesn't tell me not to talk that way, or to think positive, and I love her for that.

I hug Harry quickly, and he stares at me seriously through his glasses. “Be careful, Buffy, ok?”

“Always am,” I toss back with a grin and then lie down on the snow covered widow's walk, my hair spread around me as if I was lying in a ring of golden flame. “Let's go.”

My eyes lock with Angel's as the spell begins, and I feel the familiar lengthening of my muscles, my hair morphing into feathers, the heat and power of the magick hissing and bubbling through my veins like an ancient force. The Morrigan's scream inside of me builds and builds as *I* scream, and twist from a girl into an animal.

Bobbling lightly on my clawed feet, I arc into the air and my sharp eyes scan the grounds, noticing everything is going to plan. Being inside the skin of a raven/harpy, is strange, but almost like coming home. Coming home to an alien land I can't even begin to fathom. Turning my large body down, I sweep with my wings and murmur low, because I know it freaks them out when *my* voice comes from *this* body, “Grab on, Angel.”

He does, without hesitation, and because of the strength cursing through my blood, it's as if I'm carrying an extra feather, not a fully-grown vampire. The flight to the demon compound takes about an hour, and my wings never grow tired. We pass trees and mountain ranges, green fields filled with fire-ravaged villages… and camps. We pass two of them, and when I see the grey buildings, I long to shout for Willow and Xander and Giles- ask if they're all right, if they need me—if they're tired and lonely and want to die on this cold, cold Christmas Day.

I only look down at Angel a few times to make sure he's still there, and I notice he's very studiously trying to ignore what's holding him. I don't blame him. I don't know if I'd be too keen on *him* turning into a bird.

As we near the compound, I do a quick check on the grounds, and notice that they appear to be empty. But we can't be too careful. I tuck one wing around Angel and land by flapping the other. My all too human mouth curves into a small smile-- *always* protecting him. No matter what the cost.

We land on the roof, the previously planned spot, and look for the place to plant the bomb. Angel hisses, “Wait here” and runs down the side of the roof, disappearing behind a door that is marked “service elevator”. Shifting from claw to claw, I wish for my own body fiercely, yearning to tear at the feathers that look as if they were grown on the surface of the sun.

Minutes pass, and I lift off gently, doing another scan of the compound, but see no sign of life. Should be glad the party's inside, I guess. God. Angel has to hurry up. We only have 15 minutes before Harry and Hermione remote-detonate the bomb. If he's not back, we're going to be toast. Literally. Oh, yuck. I put a halt to my growing hysteria, simply praying, praying, praying… knowing that it *is* the last refuge of the damned, and that maybe I am going to have to leave it up the higher power after all.

Finally a door slams open and my lover appears, sweating and pale with exertion. Looking up, he begins, “Ok, it's—“

Stopping short, he goes such a sickly shade of white that I stare at him in alarm. “What is it, Angel?”

Nodding to something behind me, he starts to speak, but appears to be at a loss for words. I shake my head warily and spin around, bile rising in my throat as I see who stands behind us.

Drusilla. The Master.

And… Darla.

“You didn't really think we were going to let you get away with this, did you?” Darla coos, her body sleek in a red dress, making her look as if she's dripping with blood. Which I wish she was, right about now. Longing to scratch her eyes out, I cock my head.

“I thought you had a soul.”

“Oh, I do, honey,” she laughs. “But not everyone who has a soul could give a shit about human life, you know. And really, did you think I was going to pass up an opportunity to rule in the Master's court once he came back after Glorificus split the worlds? Don't be naïve.”

I shiver as Angel speaks, his voice cold. “I thought you had finally… I thought you were on the road to redemption, Darla. That you wanted something more than the Order. Something more meaningful.”

“There is *nothing* more meaningful than the Order, boy,” the Master snarls. “And you would do well to remember that. You were my brightest pupil, Angelus. And you give that up—to serve *them*? To serve *her*? Our greatest enemy?”

“Not to worry,” Drusilla puts in, her sing-song voice grating on my nerves as usual. “Daddy will come back to us. Won't you?”

“*Angel* is not going anywhere with you,” I growl.

“Of course he is,” The Master snaps. “Once we turn him back to who he was once- he'll rule at Darla's side. They *are* my favourites, you know.”

“How sweet,” I return. “But do you actually think I'm going to let you *near* my fiancé?”

Darla's eyes go black as night as she takes in the words. “What are you going to do, sweetie? Claw us to death?”

“Maybe,” I parry. I can smell Angel's fear. ((Protect him. No matter what the cost))

Suddenly taking flight, I loop around them and come down hard and fast, slashing the master with one of my claws and feeling the blood and rotting flesh peel away. His face a mangled mess, he howls, and I use that opportunity to go for Darla, as I notice Angel is already charging Drusilla.

Bearing down on the blonde vampire, I don't notice the arrow until it's too late. It makes a funny pinging sound as it leaves her bow, and whispers through the air to slam straight into my defenseless body. My mouth opens as I fall, but there's no sound, and I feel the spell time out, my human form coming back into being as I hit the cement of the ceiling with such a jarring force that I hear every bone in my body break.

Angel kneels beside me, and I see him through a film of agony, his sobs like hammers against my brain. “Angel…” I gasp out… “Oh GodGodGodGod…”

“No…” he cries hoarsely, his voice breaking. “Hang on, just pleasepleasepleaseplease hang on, Buffy… …”

“Angel…” I stare up at him and murmur, “please. You have to kill me.”

“What?” he rears back and his eyes go wild with fear.

“I can't—can't take this anymore. I can't… it's too much pain. Please. God, please. I love you—love—love you so… please do this. Pleasepleaseplease, Angel…”

“Close your eyes,” I hear him whisper huskily ((I pretend it's just a dream)) and as my lids blanket down, his lips touch mine and I taste tears and burning leaves- and I *see*, I see Dawnie and Mom and I running outside during the Autumn when I was a child, and the tip of the sword slides into my heart and Angel says, “Love” and then I can't see anything except everylasting night.

With a kiss, I feel myself die.

I heard a rumour, I don't know if it's true
That you'd meet me
Where the flame turns blue

- David Gray


I fall through endless white and blue.

There is no gravity and I'm weightless, the air swirling by me as light as cotton candy in the summertime. No electricity burns my skin and takes my sanity. There is only memories. Little ends I never tied up. Dawnie. Mommy. WillowXanderGilesAnyaTaraDaddyRileyFaithSpike. Angel. And Angel. Oh, Angel. I imagine his eyes are staring into mine as he whispers—((closeyoureyesnononoIloveyou)). The ring on my finger that will never be. The “always” I wasn't sure I wanted. Dreams. Rebuilding Sunnydale and painting cupboards and having children that look like us gurgle and say first words and seeing Willow's red hair and smelling Giles' musty jackets and having Angel again…

I'm falling- falling and I wanted *this*… I wanted to escape the hellish world… didn't I? Didn't I want to escape the void? Didn't I want to leave everything behind? I'm dying and I thought I wanted this… to go into the next world and *be* *nothing* once more.

Angel.

Dawnie.

Willow…Xander…Giles.

Oh, Angel.

NO!

God… no please. I'm falling, but it's no longer peaceful. Struggling, cursing, screaming, I move my arms and legs in a desperate dance of death… hoping, what? That someone will hear me and know that I don't want to die? That I don't want to flirt with the edge? That I'm ready to be part of the world once more?

God, please.

Don't let me be damned.

“Someone help me!” I shriek, pounding at the air with my palms, as I twist and contort in this nowhere sky. I can't see anything but peaceful, shimmering waves of vanilla pale, and blues that range from the darkness of the sea to the bright, clear at the core of a flame. I don't want this. Four years ago I was happy to land in the arms of Mother and be cleansed of the yolk of earth. They unwrapped me and fed me to the nothingness and although I can't remember, I think I was in Heaven. I think I had attained that peace.

But I woke up in that swollen gutter to a world I didn't know, and I *made* something, didn't I? I *made* something more, and I won't let them fuck me over again… not when I have what I've always wanted.

Angel.

“Angel!” I shout, the sound of his name tearing at my throat as I scratch at my own flesh and realize that it's just too.damned.late. Tears sting my cheeks and I wonder, as my eyes close for the last time, if I'll remember Heaven this time. If my Mother will be waiting for me, with soft linens and a wind-chime smile.

If Angel will be there, ready to hold me through eternity.

~~~

I awaken to cool marble against my cheek. Abruptly, I sit up and touch my face, glancing at the walls of the room I find myself in, wondering if I'm at the Gates of Heaven. Or Hell. Everything is white, white, white. So bright it hurts my eyes. With whisper quiet movements, I get to my feet and ignore my shaking knees as I stare down the corridor, which leads off the room… into what?

((Into my Mother's arms?))

I bite my lip and wonder if I'm just stupid enough to believe that. I decide I am, and begin to walk, until a voice behind me stops me dead in my tracks.

“So you're choosing death, B? I never would've thought, in a million years, that you'd give up the happy ever after, for this.”

Spinning slowly, I feel the bubble of hysterical laughter burning my throat as I regard her for a moment. “I didn't know there was a choice, Faith.”

Her hand moves in a gesture of dismissal. “There's always the choice, B. You know that. You chose to let Angel go. You chose to stick that knife in my gut. All choices you, yourself made. Or have you forgotten?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, the ashes of guilt and sorrow and regret coating my tongue and isn't it fitting that she should meet me here? Right before I take that plunge into death? She's probably got a knife to speed up the process.

She shrugs carelessly, with that throwaway elegance I will never have. “Does it matter? I'm dead. They needed someone to talk to you. So here I am, with bells on.”

“Yeah it matters, Faith. The next time we saw each other, I assumed you'd decide to kill me.”

“Prison teaches you things.”

“Like what? 101 ways to kill Buffy without getting caught?”

Her red lips curl in a smile. “I missed you, B.”

“The feeling isn't mutual,” I shoot back, glancing behind me that the glowing hall, it's edges like diamonds in the light. “Why did they need you to talk to me? I'm dead. Isn't that about the it?”

“You're not all dead yet,” she replies silkily. “Just need someone to push you over the edge of the cliff. Or you need to step back. Get with the living again, and not with the dead.”

“What in the fuck does that mean?” I snap and she laughs.

“It means, princess, that you've only been half-alive for years. The Powers, or so they tell me, brought you back so you'd realize that.”

“Yeah, I know lots of things have happened to me,” I growl softly. “That's obvious. Angel left and I shut down, ok? Xander's already given me the 411 on *that* subject, but—“

“Not since Angel left, B,” she whispers suddenly. “You know that wasn't what sent you into not caring mode.”

A chill crawls down my spine, and I tremble, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh you don't? Think back. Think about the mansion. About the blood on his fingers as he gripped the sword and the way his mouth opened when you—“

“Shut up,” I snarl, grabbing her arms and pushing her against the wall as hard as I can. Her head cracks against the marble and she laughs- god, she laughs and I step back in fear, shaking my head.

“No. I got over that. I did.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“I did!” I scream, and close my eyes to her leering gaze. “I DID, do you hear me you psychotic bitch? I did!”

Suddenly I feel her hands grasping at mine and she tugs so hard that I think I can hear my fingers breaking. It's nothing that hasn't already been broken in the fall and I look at her, terrified. “Listen to me, Buffy,” she says softly. “You never got over it. You never got over waking up that morning and seeing your boyfriend's true face for the first time. You had to kill him, B. You had to stick that sword into his gut and wave goodbye. I'm telling you that you went to Hell with him. You both went to Hell, but the difference between you is, he came back. He came back, B. You didn't.”

“I got over it,” I repeat, my throat dry and parched with dust and the thick scent of Faith and betrayal. “He died, but it was ok. Because he came back. He came back.”

“He came back, but it wasn't the same,” she says and touches my cheek. “Nothing was ever the same. And it killed both of you, so he left… to make things better. But they didn't get better, did they Buffy? And now… here you are, again. On the edge of death. You have to make a choice.”

“What kind of choice?” I whisper and she shrugs.

“To live or die. That's always the choice.”

“How can I go back?”

She looks at me. “How can you leave?”

“I did before,” I intone without inflection and she giggles, without humour.

“What did you have to go back to then? Your dead mother?” she pauses. “I have dreams about her sometimes, you know. What else is there? Your sweet little sis? She's not even real, B. Angel was playing hero in LA, and your friends, while giving a shit about you, obviously had no fucking clue what was going on in your life. You had it rough.”

“But I shouldn't have given up,” I shake my head. “No matter what. I tell everyone else to fight, but then I just escape the moment I see a chance.”

Faith laughs and leans against the wall, regarding me. “You said it, I didn't.”

“I just…” breathing out, I attempt to sort the thoughts rushing through my brain. “I just miss everyone, you know? I have dreams about my Mom too. Sometimes I even think I see her. But it's not real. Nothing is. My sister is made of energy. Willow and Xander don't even see me anymore. Not really. Riley left and so did Angel and I keep thinking that there must be something wrong with me… something that attracts doomed relationships? I mean, Faith, I tried to kill you to save my boyfriend.”

“I tried to kill him,” she reminds me and I scowl.

“Right, forgot that for a millisecond.”

“Do you want to live, B?” she asks me point-blank and I blink, the long, white hallway shimmering before my eyes.

“Yes.”

“Then that's your answer,” she responds quietly, and I feel her breath, hot and sticky on my face.

“Are you really dead?” I inquire, not knowing why I'm saddened by the thought, after everything. All the guts and tears and nights of dancing. After she kissed Angelus and screwed Riley and made me feel like I was someone and then no one.

Her lips brush mine, as light as a moth's wing and she grins. “You'll never know, will ya, B? Keep looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Cause someday I might be there.”

“Liar,” I shoot back, and press my lips to her forehead, my hands in the wealth of dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “What happens now?”

“We send you back,” she answers. “And I go join the other dead people.”

“In Hell?” I can't resist asking.

“There is no Hell,” she pushes the fringe of hair out of my eyes and smiles slow. “There's only light. Go have a happy life, B. I'll be waiting to kick your ass on the other side.”

“Goodbye Faith,” I murmur and our fingers brush as she leaves, walking down the corridor that I'm too afraid to venture down. Or is it really fear? Maybe its just knowledge. Knowledge that that's not the right road for me as of yet.

Waiting for a moment, I glance around and then call, “So is something supposed to happen here? Or should I just start chanting, 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home?”

“That would be a start, Buffy.”

Tears immediately come to my eyes as I turn and stare. “Mommy…” I choke out and wonder why, in this moment that should be the simplest in my life, I can't even move.

I have stared at her grave for hours, and I threw up after I found her body and I have never forgotten her smile for even a moment and here she is, the woman who gave birth to me, and I don't know what to say. This is the person who kissed me goodnight for nineteen years and yet in death, she has become a stranger, a picture- a face to be mourned, but not really comprehended. I wonder, if we truly embraced the loss of a human being, of a *life* - would we still be able to exist?

She looks at me with soft eyes and careful hands and opens her arms. “Come here,” she beckons gently and I take hesitant steps in her direction, finally rushing into her embrace and smelling cornflakes and milk and blood. She smells of the vomit that came rushing out of my mouth when I found her, lying glassy-eyed on the couch, the vomit that was my morning in reverse, the day my life turned upside down.

Her smile is sweet though, and I can't fault her for having the scent of the dead, as I suspect it was me who gave it to her in the first place. She is a Summers woman, and don't we all end up mourning the loss of ourselves at one point or another? “I miss you,” I whisper into her neck and she pats my back.

“I know, honey. I'm sorry I had to leave. But it's… peaceful here. I know you're safe, and I know you're looking after Dawn.”

I shake my head in wonderment. “Dawn's a vampire, Mom.”

She laughs quietly. “I know. Bloodlust seems to run in our family. First you and Angel, and now her and the nice one who likes marshmallows.”

“Spike,” I remind her and she nods.

“That's right. Buffy… I know what's happening. And I also know that everything will be all right. Even if you die… it's all right. Because death is simply a ring of endless light, with no pain or sadness, or even fear.”

“Are you speaking in poetry now, Mom?” I ask, touching her hair. She's here. Mommy. My mother. “You're doing some serious rhyming.”

She laughs again, and presses her cheek to mine. “Life is the true gift, Buffy. But love survives even after there is no life left. Remember that, and remember me. But don't choke yourself with memories, my sweet daughter. I love you and I will always love you. I'm ok up here.”

“Are you sure? Last time I thought you were ok, I came home and you weren't breathing,” I reprimand her. “You were finally happy and then you died.”

She looks at me, and for a moment I believe she is seeing the past that I cannot fathom, the past that I cannot understand. “I was happy the moment I died. I was thinking of flowers and of your smile. That's all I needed, Buffy. I taught you all that I knew and now, I think it's time for you to go.”

I cling to her, whimpering, “I don't want to leave you.”

“But you've made the choice,” she tells me tenderly. “You've made the choice to live, Buffy. And I'm not alive anymore. I can't come back to you this time.”

“What if I've changed my mind?” I ask her stubbornly. “What if I want to stay here with you? It's really pretty here. Nice décor. I don't want to leave. I've missed so much time with you, Mom. I want it all back.”

“You can't have it back,” she reminds me firmly. “But there are things you can have. Now give Angel a kiss for me, and don't name your first child Joyce. Its too cruel.”

I laugh through my tears and hug her tightly. “Should I tell anyone about this?”

“Of course not. They'll think you're crazy.” A sheen of moisture enters her eyes then and she presses her lips to my cheek, touching the length of my hair gently. “Tell Dawnie I love her though. And look after her, Buffy. Love her as much as I love you.”

“I already do,” I whisper and hug her one final time. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I get back… I mean, how long have I been here? It seemed longer, for me, the last time I was dead. It seemed longer than four years, I mean.”

She nods. “I don't understand dimensions any better than you do. But in this particular one, time moves much more slowly than it does on earth. In the few hours you've been here, two months has passed on earth.”

I breathe in and smile tremulously at her. “Are you sure you're ok with me marrying Angel?”

She grins. “If he makes you happy, I'm ok with it. Bye, honey.”

“I love you Mom.”

And then the seas open up around me once more, except this time I don't fall, I fly- I fly into endless night, and as my eyes close, I hope that this wind takes me home.

There are places, I remember,
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better, and some have gone
And some remain
All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one, compares with you

“In My Life” – The Beatles


I don't wake up in a gutter.

But I do wake up in Sunnydale.

There's a park with a Merry Go Round that we went to for one of Dawn's birthdays when we first moved to Sunnydale. She didn't have any friends and so it was just Mom and Dawnie and I, going round and round for an hour. That night she threw up – cotton candy and coke- it was pretty gross- and then since she felt better, we had cake and a few presents and tried to ignore the empty seat. Where my Dad should have been.

That's where I wake up – in that park. Little tufts of grass tickle my nose as I place my palms on the ground and lever myself up to glance at the burnt out Merry Go Round, the horses scorched black yet strangely peaceful in the early evening.

Standing, I begin to walk and inhale the air. So different than when I was last here ((finding out the world had gone away as I took a long, long nap)), and so fragrant with the scent of apples and cinnamon, of burning embers on a grate, and of rebirth. No longer do I smell guts and blood and soot. I can only hope these things have been banished from Sunnydale forever.

I remember what my Mother told me. It's been two months since I left- since I died. And now I'm home. I've lived in different places, but Sunnydale has been the only one to bear that name. I know it's just a place. And when Angel left I used to think of moving to LA and being that girl that follows the man she loves—calling that “place” home, once more. But I couldn't. Maybe Slayers belong on the Hellmouth. Isn't it our birthplace too, after all?

As I begin to walk, I glance around and notice that while most buildings are still blurry, still broken down and bleeding, some are being re-built, the wood gleaming in the moonlight, fresh and new.

Finally I see it. Revello Drive. Tears prick my eyes and I wonder what I will find. Along the way, I see tents set up, and even some makeshift shacks that I can only guess are serving as temporary houses until Sunnydale is *Sunnydale* again. Picking up the pace, I start to run, until I reach the block of land where my house used to rest. A few tents are pitched carelessly in the dirt, and I can hear faint snatches of breath as I creep between them- but there's no sign of my friends- no *smell* of Angel, or Willow, or—

And that's when I see him.

Spike. Leaning with indolent grace against one of those shacks, smoking quietly and staring up into the sky.

“Those'll kill you, you know,” I murmur, and he jerks, his head snapping around in my direction.

“Well you can just sod off cause I—“ he pauses and squints, and that's when I notice the patch over one eye. “Summers?”

“It's me,” I say, stepping closer and kneeling down. “When did you become Mr. Rochester, Spike?”

He shakes his head as if he can't believe what he's seeing. “Buffy?”

“I said it's me,” I remind him, and reach out to brush my fingers along the raised scar near his eyebrow. “Looks like it was a rough fight.”

“The roughest yet, I'd say, blondie,” he tilts his head to one side. “What brings you back this time? You weren't done torturing us with your deaths? Should I expect another one in a few minutes to really twist the knife?” He stares at me for a moment. “And who're you calling Mr. Rochester? I'll have you know this patch makes me look dashing.”

“Oh I agree,” I smile slightly. “It's the sexiest thing since sliced bread. Just don't show anyone the gaping hole underneath it that's lacking an eye. Cause that's not so sexy.”

Spike sits up straighter and shoots me a withering glance. “Very funny, blondie. How did you get back?”

“I was offered a choice. Dead or… not dead. And I chose.”

“Huh. Wish I'd been offered one.”

“You probably were when Dru showed you her neck, Spike,” I say wryly. “And you thought, to drink or not to drink?”

Suddenly he grabs my arms and hauls me into his embrace. Shocked for a moment, I don't move, and then feeling his hands in my hair, I gently lock my hands around his neck, and lean back a little, murmuring teasingly, “We shouldn't be doing this. I'm an engaged woman, you know.”

Pressing a kiss to my forehead, he cleaves our palms together. Cool against hot. “About that…”

“What?” I ask, the world stopping. Just a little.

“Well, blondie, the battle—it was huge and Angel—“

A roaring starts in my ears at the husky tone of his voice, “Are you saying he's dead? Spike? Just tell me.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm saying.”

For one horrifying moment I think I'm going to throw up, and then he winks. The bastard *winks* at me. “Just kidding, Summers. You think I'd tell you that insensitively? The bloody wanker's over at the mansion right now, drowning his sorrows. Just like every fucking night.”

“This time, I'm going to stake you,” I murmur, too relieved at the knowledge of Angel's wellbeing to be truly angry, although I think some rage might come later. “I really am. But first… how's Dawn? Tell me the truth.”

“She's… she's ok, pet. Willow's a regular little Wicca goddess as you know, and she gave her the soul that we all know and despise.”

I had suspected that would happen should Will survive ((and she did. Thank god. Thankgodthankgodthankgod)) and so all I ask is, “Are you two still together?”

“Yeah, I think we'll always be, you know. I have a weakness for Summers women.” His grin is more of a leer and I shudder in mock distaste, wriggling out of his arms. His fingers grasp my hand. “Slayer?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I might love you for a long time. That ok?”

I think for a moment, my eyes softening. “Yes. But don't tell Angel. And don't cheat on Dawnie, or I really will stake you.” I roll my eyes to the sky. “You know… I never would have thought the day would come when I'd virtually welcome you to the family.”

He stands as well and shoves his hands in leather pockets. “Isn't it frightening, though?” he agrees, and walks with me to the edge of the grass.

“You've definitely come a long way, Spike,” I admit. “Not that I forgive you for any of the horrible and disgusting things you've done. But I guess helping me save the world... twice...did redeem you a bit.”

He laughs harshly and catches me around the waist. “I missed you, Summers. The winter's really long without you around.”

Touching his cheek, I whisper, “Don't ever get caught in the sunlight, Spike. Cause I'd miss you too.”

~~~

The mansion looks large, and unbearably cold against the stark night sky. I used to come and look at it for long hours after he spun off to LA and left me to that hot and muggy Sunnydale summer. Sometimes I'd lie in the sticky grass and stare at the stars, imagining his face in every single one. What is that sonnet?

And when he shall die
Take him, and cut him out in little stars
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun

I don't like school. I don't really like Shakespeare, even though Willow's always telling me he's a genius. But I know that quote off my heart. I'd whisper it to myself, pretending he *was* dead, that he hadn't voluntarily left me. It was sick, but it made me feel better.

As I step down the stairs, I automatically check my hair and straighten my shirt and make sure my mascara is-- oh god, what the hell am I doing? He's probably not going to care about my lipstick when he sees me. I don't think he noticed it much when I was alive, either. I'm nervous. I don't want to be. Just like when I saw my Mother, this should be the simplest moment of my life. Coming back to my lover.

It smells like burning leaves and oranges in here, and I walk from room to room, until I finally reach the bedroom, where I know he'll be. The place where we'd lie after patrol, our bodies tangled together under a threadbare blanket, as we shut out the world and kissed and teased each other and my hair was messy--- and we were caught in the flush of love. Sometimes I mourn for those days, but I wouldn't want them back. We had such a tenuous hold on each other back then. Now, I think, it's stronger—the bond can't be so easily broken.

The linens on the bed are snowy white, and I find him immediately. He sits on the floor, beside a roaring fire, his back up against the wall as he bows his head over a book. He's beautiful and my stomach twists.

“What is it, Dawn?” he asks, without glancing up. “If you and Spike have had a fight, you can sleep in the living room. You know that, sweet—“

“Spike and I are always fighting,” I interrupt him. “But I really don't want to sleep in the living room.”

He goes so still for a moment, it's as if he's become one with the mansion. Stone. And then his head comes up. So slowly that I know he thinks he's dreaming it all up, that the voice he heard wasn't mine- it was just his own wishful thinking. When our eyes lock, I smile tenderly at him. “It's me. Hi.”

Maybe not the most eloquent of greetings.

He blinks, and gets to his feet, stumbling a little as if he's drunk. But I can't see any tequila, and I think it might just be shock. “Buffy?” he whispers, so quietly that my heart cracks.

“It's really me,” I assure him, taking a step closer and placing my palms on his face, receiving a shock when his cheeks are warm under my palms. “Angel? Are you sick?”

“Vampires don't get sick,” he laughs brokenly, and presses kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my hair, until he gathers me in his arms and ravishes my mouth with his in a long, drugging kiss that leaves me gasping. “Sick with grief, maybe, but not sick. You… you just can't stay dead, can you?”

I giggle, exhilarated at being close to him once more. “It's part of my charm.”

“What brought you back, Buffy?”

“The Powers, I guess,” I shrug. “They have me a choice. And I chose the not dead anymore one obviously.”

“Thank you, God,” he whispers softly, his lips on mine again. “Thank you so much.”

“Angel…” I murmur, curving my arms tighter around him. “Give me the cliff notes version of what happened after I… left?”

His hands caress my face so reverently my breath catches and he says, “The abridged version? The Master was so blinded by you ripping out his face that he fell off the edge of the roof onto a convenient wooden fence post. He won't be bothering us again. I had already staked Drusilla when Darla… when she shot the arrow at you. After… after everything, I realized that I only had a few minutes until it was going to blow… so I picked you up, took Darla, and high-tailed it out of there—“

“Wait a minute—you took Darla?” I growl with mock anger, knowing he must have a good reason, and he shushes me with a finger to my lips, which I bite down upon teasingly.

“Had to. I knew there was no time to beat her in a fight- she might escape- so I waited for everyone to pick us up and then handed her over to the Rebellion's Police.” He smiles crookedly. “They made sure that she's never coming back.”

“So the place blew up?”

“Yeah, it did,” he punctuates the words with kisses, drawing me over to the bed. “Taking a good portion of the demon population with it. Spike and the rest of the teams were successful in taking down the camps, and so, we came back to Sunnydale… and started to re-build.”

“Am I… buried somewhere?” I ask him and he shakes his head.

“Your body disappeared enroute to London. I thought maybe that was what happened when Slayers… anyway, I suppose it was the Powers' work.”

“I guess so,” I reply, running my hands through his hair. “Aren't you going to kiss me?”

We don't say anything more for a long time.

~~~

2 Years Later

“How can you *not* be nervous, Buffy?” Willow asks me curiously, her hands fixing my hair. “It's your wedding day! I'd be a wreck.”

“Maybe I'm spazzing out inside instead,” I shoot back, grinning at her and tapping my head. “You don't know what's going on in here.”

“I guess not,” she amends. “But you're not, are you?”

“She's just content, Will,” Dawn says dreamily from where she sits beside Oz, who strangely, wanted to join in on the pre-wedding make-up and hair session with the women. “Maybe someday I'll do this with Spike.”

“Yes, if it doesn't burn him to go into a church,” Anya pipes up practically, as she paints her nails a shocking shade of pink that I *didn't* suggest. “It's good that Angel's human now, Buffy. No chance of the crosses doing anything icky to his skin. It would smell for days.”

“That's true, Anya,” Willow says, rolling her eyes at me. I just smile.

It has been *years* since I felt this happy, and this sad too. Maybe if everyone I knew and loved could be here, it would be a perfect day, but as it is—it's bittersweet. Dawnie's right- I am content. I have my Angel, who's just crazy enough to marry me. Giles will walk me down the aisle, and Xander will probably perform his duties as a the ringbearer with a grudging smile. I expect nothing more and nothing less from him.

Willow will be my maid of honor, and Anya, Dawn and Cordelia ((where did she run off to?)) my bridesmaids.

But still… there are empty seats, and places that just can't be filled. Tara died in the camps four years ago, and while I know Willow is moving on ((she and Oz have been spending a lot of time together lately)) she still mourns her fiercely. My Mother, of course, is not here to kiss me and weep over her little girl's marriage—but I *know* she's watching me somehow. She told me she would, after all. Angel's best man will be Gunn, ((They have never found Wesley's body—and I still sometimes catch Angel looking at his picture. They told us he died with Fred—I'd never heard of her—protecting her till the very last)) which I'm happy about, as I love the cocky bastard—even if he will be a bad influence on our children with all of his swearing.

Standing, I stare into the mirror at the woman reflected back at me. The bride to be in a long, white dress with a billowing skirt and a sweetheart neckline. “What do you think guys?”

“Simple. Nice.” Oz announces. “Thumbs up from me.”

“Great… but girls?” I plead, and they smile.

“It's beautiful, of course,” Cordelia replies from the doorway. “I chose it, didn't I?”

“I don't think you chose it, Cordy,” I snap back lightly. “There may have been some *helping*…”

“Whatever. The point is, you look hot. Angel, as much as it disgusts me, will be panting after you. No worries,” she finishes airily, putting the final touches on her make-up. “Speaking of the groom, he's looking a little worried. Maybe he thinks you're going to stand him up at the altar.”

“Yeah, cause that's something I would do,” I mutter under my breath, as Willow fixes my veil and Dawn lets Oz braid her hair. They've developed a strange but oddly sweet friendship ever since he came back. He looks out for her—which is more than I can say for Spike ((much as I love him)), and I worry less when she's with him. Maybe it's their shared bond – souled vampire/werewolf…

“You look nice,” Anya interrupts my thoughts. “Although I saw a prettier dress in a magazine today—“

“Enough, Anya,” Willow warns her, pecking me on the cheek and then smudging my eyeliner a bit for the desired smoky effect. “There we go. Angel's going to die.”

“Let's hope not,” I joke nervously, finally finding the butterflies in my stomach as we exit the small room above the church and walk down the steps, the girls holding the ends of my dress so they won't get soiled.

Giles waits for us at the bottom of the stairs, handsome and comfortable looking in a dark grey suit. He smiles gently at me, offering his arm. “Are you all right, Buffy?”

“It's my wedding day, Giles,” I shoot him a withering glance. “I think I'm going to throw up.”

Used to my ways by now, he nods. “By all means. Just don't do it on Angel. Might make it hard to strike a romantic note, you know.”

I laugh softly, placing my hand in his as the last bridesmaid walks down the aisle. “You ready?” I ask him, and he lightly brushes my forehead with his lips.

“I'm honoured,” he answers and I blush slightly.

“There's no one else I'd rather…” I trail off, and he nods, knowing what I mean. “Well, let's go get me married,” I whisper, my belly turning over. “Angel hasn't bolted has he?”

Giles smiles gently in my direction, as we come to the first pew, and the wedding march begins- slow and lilting and Irish ((I requested it—for Angel)). “No. In fact, I think he's been waiting for this day as long as you have.”

The moment I see him there, waiting for me, the nervousness fades, and I walk bravely towards my future.

~~~

We have the after-party in the newly built Hotel just outside of town. It smells of fresh paint and roses, and we all drink champagne long into the night.

Later on, it's just Angel and I, slow dancing in the hush of the ballroom, to a scratchy version of the Beatles' “In My Life.”

His hands hold me close as we spin around the floor, our bodies never leaving each other, his lips pressing sweet kisses on my hair and lips. As I tuck my head under his neck, I realize that it ended long ago, with a dance, and now—it begins again with one also. His fingers clasp mine against his heart and I feel it beating steadily against my palm—the most welcome and most beautiful thing in the world.

This isn't Camelot. I know that. It isn't perfect—or even an illusion of perfection. Mommy isn't hear to read me stories every night, and Dawn still drinks blood and so many people that we love are dead and buried beneath the same earth that birthed them. But it is *real* and it is mine, and it is love.

It's living.

It's a gift, and I won't ever forget that. Not again.

The End.

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