Disclaimer: Nope, Angel's not mine (and you have no idea how sorry I am to say that <g>). He and the rest of the gang belong to Joss, who delights in torturing them.
Spoilers: Up through "Reunion"
Rating PG13 I guess
Author's Note: Severe ANGST WARNING! Blame this on my best friend, who delights in torturing her characters even more than Joss does his (I know, hard to believe, but true). I simply mentioned a theory about Angel regaining his humanity and she turned it into a Greek tragedy. Therefore, since it was her idea (even if I am the one doing the writing), she's going to take the rap with me <g> In terms of credit, I'd like to thank my beta-reader, Caroline, for both her help and her patience with me.

Part 1

He would always remember the screaming.

To the human ear it was imperceptible. The walls were wooden, but they were thick, the door was made of heavy steel, and the roar of the fire covered even the screech of approaching sirens. To hear anything, let alone process the sound and realize its source was more than any mortal could accomplish.

But he could still hear the screaming.

He tried to reach them, tried to drag his broken body close enough to open the door, but it was no use. Force of will was no match for the injuries his enemies had inflicted upon him, and every moment the fire was creeping closer to him. And yet he could not abandon them. Inch by excruciating inch he slid closer to the door, until he felt hands on his body, drawing him up and away from the heat and the flames.

But they couldn't take away from the screaming. That he would never escape.

*****

"No, I won't have anything to do with this. Absolutely not."

Wesley tried to control the tremble in his voice, brought on by exhaustion and anger. The wall he was leaning against was a poor substitute for his bed, but he knew there would be no true rest for any of them for some time to come. They were alive; that was the best that could be said, and now Cordelia wanted to ruin even that small victory.

Cordelia put a hand to her lips, waiting until she was assured of his silence before she opened the bedroom door and peered in. A single lamp shone dimly from the nightstand, casting just enough light for her to observe the room's occupant.

Angel lay unmoving on the bed, the numerous bandages standing out in stark relief against the red of his burned flesh. His face was the color of paper, but his dark, haunted eyes were finally closed, his brow smooth and momentarily untroubled. Cordelia listened intently for any sounds of distress, but after hours of restless drugged slumber, he was silent at last.

Satisfied all was quiet, if not well, she closed the door softly behind her and motioned Wesley towards the stairs. As they descended to the lobby, she repeated her plea.

"Wesley, please, please, please; you have to help me. And we have to help Angel."

Cordelia was clinging to his arm in a way that would have delighted Wesley just a few short years ago. Now, after all they had been through together, his initial anger was tempered by a deep pity instead. They were both in pain tonight, and reacting to it as their own natures dictated. He was trying to keep a stiff upper lip and muddle on through, while Cordelia was prepared to storm the gates of Heaven itself to make the world over to suit her.

Wesley patted her hand gently before he detached it from his arm. "I'm sorry, my dear. I know this is hard to bear, but we have no choice. Eventually he will recover, at least in body. All we can do right now,
though, is wait."

Cordelia spun away from him in disgust. "In body he'll recover, that's right; but what about his soul? After all he's done, you just know those horrible old PTBs aren't going to shansu him any time soon, if ever. He'll being doing time in the vamp penalty box for eons." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, for once regretting the loss of her former, more expressive, length. "It's not fair."

"I agree; it's not fair. But it's not for us to decide who may be redeemed and when. Angel knew what he was risking and he made his choice." He looked pointedly at the leather-bound book in her hand. She had clung to it for hours. "You read his journals; you know he wanted to do things his way."

"Yeah, to protect us," she replied bitterly. "I wish I had never found those stupid journals at all. Or if I had to, why couldn't it have been in time to stop him?" She threw the journal against the wall in frustration. "We should have seen what he was doing, but no. We were too busy feeling all human and
superior. So he let Darla and Dru bite in bulk; it was just a bunch of lawyers. He was probably doing humanity a favor."

"It wasn't just what he did to the people at Wolfram and Hart," he reminded her as he went to retrieve the book. "He deliberately let the demon within him have a freer reign so that he might trap his enemies, but the reasons do not change the outcome. People died because he stayed his hand. Do you truly feel he had the right to decide whose life was worth more?"

"As one of the ones who came out still breathing, maybe I'm a little partial." She glared at him, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. "All I know is he was doing it for us, and now he's lost his last chance to have the life he wanted. And big reminder, Wes; he's going to be looking down that road not taken for centuries after you and I are plant food."

"And you think it would be better to kill him?"

"You weren't listening to me. Jeeze, pay attention for once." She began pacing, trying to map out strategy. "We have to stake him; I admit that's the downside. But we have the scroll of Abracadabra and if even that creepy Lindsey can do the spell, we should be golden. We're the good guys." Her pause was an invitation for enthusiastic assent.

"It's Aberjian, and you are talking about using it to invoke ancient, potentially evil powers. We have no way of knowing what price may be asked."

"Oh please, stop being so Stephen King," Cordelia scoffed. She should have known better than to expect anything but doom and dire from Wesley. "I admit, the lawyers who tried this all became B-neg Slurpees, but that doesn't mean it had anything to do with the ceremony. Other than they raised a really nasty demon who came back to bite them on the...throat. I mean we'd be raising Angel, our friend, Angel. Where's the King Tut's tomb in that?"

"But what about Darla? Becoming human was her death warrant."

"Newsflash: that's what the word 'mortal' means. You want to live forever, you have to find a way to work the 'im' part in, like becoming a vamp." Cordelia shrugged impatiently. "Besides, Darla got sick because she was already dying when she, umm, died. But Angel was at the top of his game when he went." She paused for a moment. "Okay, so he was a lecherous alcoholic bum, but he was in great shape physically."

Wesley could feel his resolve weakening by the word, but he fought against it. It sounded too good to be true; there must be a catch. To give Angel back the humanity he craved, in repayment for that which he sacrificed in their names; it was more than Wesley thought he would ever be able to do for the man who had become his best friend. But if his brief tenure on the hellmouth had taught him anything, it was that if something seemed too good to be true...it usually killed you in your sleep.

"Do you really think we can do this?" he finally asked, hope triumphing over native caution.

Cordelia smiled in relief; she knew she could win him over. She draped her arm lightly around Wesley's shoulders as she led him toward Angel's library. "We have the scroll, we can find the sacrificial vamps, and you know as well as I do that Angel has chains by the yard around here to restrain them. All we need to find is a big box. Honestly, I don't know why we didn't think of this months ago."

*****

A box they could find, but the courage necessary to fill it was harder to summon.

"You want me to do it? Why me?" Gunn tried to control the crack in his voice, but shock was fast outweighing male ego. The plan seemed crazy enough when he thought he would just be a spectator, but he had no idea how he was supposed to react when he was cast as the Grim Reaper.

"You're strong," Cordelia pointed out quickly. "Angel's injured, but he's still a lot stronger than I am. And you just know Wesley's aim would be bad just when we need it to be good, so he'd end up poking a bunch more holes in Angel before he hit the bulls-eye and we don't want..."

"Angel to suffer," Wesley finished for her. "I could do it, at least in theory. I have staked vampires before, you know. But to stake Angel? Not even Angelus, but Angel...I can't bring myself to do it. Even knowing it is a necessary step on the path to a greater good, I still don't think I could strike the fatal blow."

"You're the only one." Cordelia stared beseechingly at him. "I know you and Angel are friends, but he's our family. And in my book you don't drive a stake through a family member's heart unless they're trying to rip your throat out at the time."

"Even then...it's a judgment call," Wesley admitted.

"And what, you figure since I staked Alanna I can do Angel as well? I guess a guy who could dust his little sister can do just about anyone, right?"

Cordelia heard the bitterness in his voice and instantly regretted her less than tactful plea. She wanted to heal Angel, but wounding Gunn was not part of the plan. "That's not it; really it's not. It's just that you're less involved than we are this time, but you're enough involved to want to help." She leaned over to peer into his eyes. "You do want to help, don't you?"

Gunn thought very carefully about his reply. Angel had been good to him; offering assistance without being asked, yet never intruding on his personal life; never taking for granted the help he asked in return. But Gunn could never forget that Angel was a vampire. Every time he almost did, Angel found his own little way to remind him. Things like blood-drenched fangs and empty yellow eyes stuck in a guy's memory for a long time, no matter how friendly the owner was.

Still, when all the cards were counted, Gunn ranked Angel among the good guys. With a soul-deep sigh, he joined the stake-happy fan club.

"When do we do it?"

Cordelia beamed at him. "How soon can you round up five vamps in less than ten pieces?"

Part 2

"I must be counting wrong; it doesn't make sense he should only have two sets of handcuffs."

"His and hers?" Cordelia suggested.

Wesley shot her a disgusted look as he resumed his inventory. "Manacles, brass knuckles, manacles, thumbscrews, mana...no, wait, those aren't...well, they're not what I thought they were." Wesley slammed the lid of Angel's wooden chest closed, almost catching Cordelia's curious nose in it.

She grinned at the blush on his face, but decided not to inquire too deeply into its source. She had a feeling it would be easier to face Angel when all this was over if she didn't know too much about his private life.

"So, we have two sets of cuffs for the five vamps Gunn and the Lost Boys are out rounding up. Not a good ratio," she mused. "Well, there must be an all-night bondage shop somewhere in the neighborhood. This is West Hollywood."

"We don't have to get everything tonight, Cordelia. There will be time after...well, Darla's ashes rested for years before they were regenerated."

"No, we're going to do this all tonight, or we're not doing any of it," she said firmly. "I'm not going to have him lying around like a pile of dirt on the comforter while we go shopping. I mean this place is drafty. One good gust of wind and we might lose one of Buffy's very favorite parts of Angel, and I am so not going to be the one to tell her it's gone because someone was too lazy to buy handcuffs at one a.m." She rested her hands on her hips as she glared at the hapless Wesley.

"I really don't think..."

"Say, I've got it," Cordelia interrupted him. "We need a Dustbuster, a clean one of course. That way we won't lose any of him. Do you think we can leave him in it when we put him in the box, or would that hurt him when he pops back up to full size?"

"Cordelia..."

"And hey, I've got another great idea," she continued, apparently oblivious to his repeated attempts at speech. "When this is all done, we can write a book about it, you know, a fantasy one because no one who doesn't do the demon tango at least twice a week would ever believe this was real."

"But..."

"We can call it 'Angel's Ashes,' to cash in on the almost-name recognition." She smiled triumphantly. "And when they make it a movie, I can play myself. It will be perfect. Of course I don't know if Angel will still be young enough to play himself at that point, since he's going to start aging any minute now. And even if he could play himself, he's going to need a stunt double. Actually, do you think one will be enough? In human terms, he's kind of high maintenance."

"I think you're being rather flip about this whole situation," Wesley said severely, when Cordelia at last bowed to nature and took a breath. "This is not a joke."

She stared at him, unable to believe his utter lack of understanding. "Do you see me laughing?" Cordelia demanded. "This is called the power of positive thinking, pal. Pardon me for trying to find the upside to killing my boss, who also happens to be one of the few real friends I have." She stuck out her tongue at him, daring him to criticize her further.

Wesley watched her silently for a moment, seeing the frightened woman beneath the childish gesture. He carefully placed the handcuffs on top of the trunk and reached out to take her hand.

"You don't think this will work, do you?" he asked softly.

Her glare nearly singed his eyebrows as she snatched her hand from his grasp. "It will work," she spat. "It has to." She closed her eyes for an instant; when she opened them tears had dimmed their fiery glow. "Wesley, if we kill him and then we can't...I couldn't stand it if we hurt him for nothing."

Wesley sighed heavily as he ran his fingers over the handcuffs. "And yet, how much worse can we hurt him than fate already has?"

*****

Angel drifted just below the edge of consciousness, on the farthest reaches of the pain. The screams were still echoing in the corner of his mind, but they were muted by the drugs, blending in with the thousand others he carried with him as a legacy of the demon within. The resultant discord was a familiar companion.

He had survived; somehow he had survived and his enemies did not. It was not the outcome he was expecting, or really even wanted, but here it was in all its tattered glory. Life was for the living, and for the undead unlucky enough to survive their own stupidity.

No, not stupidity. He mentally shook his head, since he could not summon the strength to do it for real. He saved them, and though he would carry the guilt of his actions for the rest of his days, he could not regret it for himself. The people he cherished would live long lives now that Darla and Dru were dead; better lives, now that they were removed from his own. Hadn't she thrived once he set her free?

Thinking of Buffy guided him down a once-familiar path, too long denied him. Darla had poisoned his dreams of his beloved for so many months, but she was gone now and Buffy lived. She was waiting for him on the hill beyond the mansion, and she was holding out her hand. He hurried to join her, not wanting to waste a single minute more. For this brief moment in time, he could linger with the keeper of his heart in the land of lost hopes. It was little enough to ask.

"Angel."

He heard the voice coming at him from a great distance, too great to interest him. She was here, with him; he had no need of anyone or anything else.

"Angel man, I'm really sorry.

The voice pulled at him, drawing him away from his beloved. He fought to stay by her side, but more voices joined the first, all tugging at him. She had first claim on his heart and his soul, yet they had their pieces as well, and now they asserted their rights.

"We're doing this for you, Angel. Please believe it."

The voice was different this time, a cultured accent smoothing over the harsh struggle against unmanly tears. He wanted to open his eyes to see who it was...but the sunlight was gleaming on her golden hair and he was awash in the splendor of it. He couldn't tear his gaze away.

"It will be okay, I promise. We're going to fix everything. Trust us, Angel. I know it looks bad but..." The female voice gave way to a sob. "Wesley, please tell me we're right."

"Just do it. For God's sake, Gunn, just do it!"

Buffy smiled at him, so sweetly it broke his heart. He reached out to her, pushing past all the voices as he tried to catch her hand, her arm. She was slipping away again, turning away from him because of what he had done. Even in this land of make-believe, she knew him for the demon he was and she was compelled to forsake him because of it.

"We'll see you on the far side, man."

He wanted to call out to her, but he couldn't yell over the wind. It chased through his veins as his blood had once done, and spilled out over the hilltop in great waves as the body that imprisoned his soul gave way at last.

Her name roared through his brain in that last instant, carried to the outside world in a sudden whisper of wind.

"Buffy."

Part 3

"Angel!"

Buffy sat bolt upright in her bed, smashing the lamp on her nightstand with her flailing arms as she reached out for him. He was there, somewhere, just beyond her reach; she could feel him. She looked wildly around the unlit room, trying to see a darker shape of dark hidden in the corners, but there was nothing.

"Buffy!" Joyce hurried into the room, flicking on the wall switch as she entered. "Honey, are you okay? I heard you cry out." She sat down on the bed beside her daughter and gently stroked her arm. "What's wrong?"

Buffy forced herself to breathe calmly; she would not upset her mother, so recently and miraculously returned to her.

"I'm fine, Mom. Just a bad dream, nothing new and unusual in the world of slayage." She patted her mother's hand as it rested on her arm. "Go back to bed." She looked up at Dawn, leaning in the doorway and stifling a yawn. "You too; back to bed."

"Honey, was it about Riley? I know you're taking this break-up hard, so if you need to talk, remember that I'm here. Don't keep things bottled up so they attack you when you're sleeping." She cupped Buffy's cheek in her hand, gazing deeply into her daughter's sad eyes.

Dawn rolled her eyes at her mother's familiar state of denial; the name Buffy called out had clearly not been Riley's. Still, she could see Buffy wasn't about to force Joyce to confront anything at this point in time.

Buffy closed her eyes for just an instant, reminding herself of how very much her mother had liked Riley. It was only natural she should miss him, and even more natural for her to assume Buffy did too.

The fact that Buffy had shed her first and last tears over Riley Finn on the day he left apparently had no bearing on this assumption.

Resolutely keeping her mother's natural biases in mind, Buffy spoke slowly and patiently, as though to a small child. "Mom, it was just a bad dream. And I'm okay about Riley too, honest, but if I need to talk I promise you'll be the first one I whine to. Now just go back to bed. You still need your rest."

Joyce smiled in relief, and just a trace of chagrin. "Say, who's the mom here anyway?"

"You, and you're the best in the business." Buffy climbed out of her bed and gently guided her mother over to the door. "Which is why I need you to take care of yourself." With a final nudge, Joyce was out the door and on her way back to her own room.

Dawn, however, was not so easily dismissed.

"I heard what you yelled, Buffy," she said as she followed her older sister into the room. "Or actually who you were yelling to. Was it an old dream or one of the prophecy kind where something new and evil is going to get him?"

"Nothing is going to get him," Buffy said firmly, slowly sliding beneath her covers. "He's fine, I'm sure of it. It's just..." she looked fretfully around the lighted room, "I could swear he was just here with me, but he couldn't have been. Unless..."

"Unless something is wrong and he's dreaming with you again," Dawn finished for her. "Why don't you call him and make sure? I mean, if he's fine you can just tell him you're being a bitchy ex and checking up on him at three in the morning."

Buffy smiled wryly. There were time Dawn drove her crazy, but sometimes she was unbelievably grateful for the twist of fate that gave her a younger sister just when she so desperately needed family around her.

"Even if I thought he was home, which he's probably not," she glanced sharply at Dawn, "because he's working..."

"Oh right; vampire. Not exactly the 9 to 5 type," Dawn admitted ruefully.

"I...I don't know his number," Buffy finished shyly. "Wesley told Giles they moved, and it's not like he's ever been listed in the phonebook. How would I reach him?"

"Umm, office phone?" Dawn suggested. "He must be listed in the yellow pages. And there's always Cordelia, and Wesley too. They have phones, and even if you don't know their numbers, they must be listed in the phone book. Call Directory Assistance."

"When did you get to be the brainiac?" Buffy asked grudgingly as she reached for her phone.

"While you were pummeling bad guys." Dawn flung herself on the foot of the bed, in defiance of the pointed glances Buffy was directing at the door.

Buffy sighed; some battles were best not fought, or at least not at 3 a.m. She focused her energies on coming up with a valid excuse for disturbing her old friends' sleep as she dialed the numbers given to her by the phone company.

"Machine," she said a few minutes later. She slammed the phone down in disgust. "I got machines for Cordy, Wes, even Angel's office, wherever that is now. What could they be doing at this hour of the night?"

Dawn briefly considered offering Buffy's own explanation, but one look at her sister's set face warned her of the folly of such a course. Instead, she slid up the side of the bed until she sat beside Buffy.

"Call Giles; you know he must have the address. Then borrow Mom's car and drive to LA." She wrapped her arm around her sister's slim shoulders. "You're only going to annoy the rest of us until you know he's okay, so you might as well get it over with and put us all out of our misery. It's not like he's going to call you and say 'hey, forget the dream; I'm not dead." She smiled teasingly. "Cause, he really is, remember?"

Buffy swatted at her half-heartedly before giving her a hug. "You're only semi-helping at this point, kid," she murmured into Dawn's long hair.

"I'm only semi-grown-up," Dawn reminded her as she got off her sister's bed. "Like a fine wine, I will get better with age."

"And what do you know about fine wines?"

"Only what you've told me, Miss Underage Drinker." Dawn skipped out of the room, calling over her shoulder as she left. "Call Giles. Then we can all get some sleep."

Buffy sighed, her fingers already moving swiftly across the keypad.

*****

"What's happening? I mean, what isn't happening?" Cordelia frantically tugged at Wesley's sleeve. "This isn't brain surgery; it's a stupid magic trick. Find a big box, insert one powdered vampire, wrap it all up with five more vamps, read the big bad voodoo riff and presto change-o! Pop-n-Fresh Angel. Why is this not happening?"

According to all that Angel had told them, and all that Wesley had read in the last 12 hours, Angel should have been laying on the marble floor at their feet. Instead, there were five angry vampires chained in a circle around a big box, exactly the same as there had been a half-hour ago.

"I don't...I don't know," Wesley stammered. "It should have worked by now." He looked down at the scroll in his hands. "Perhaps I mispronounced something."

"Well say it right this time!" Cordelia stomped her foot and pointed to the scroll. "Again, Copperfield; from the top."

"Maybe we should just..."

Cordelia glared at Gunn, effectively silencing him with her barely restrained rage. "Maybe you should just be quiet and let Wesley concentrate. We don't have long before dawn and then these vamps really will be dust in the wind. Who builds a mausoleum with windows, for God's sake?"

"Cordelia, please."

"I'm sorry, Wesley. I'll be quiet now. Please try again." She was instantly contrite, reduced by circumstance to a frightened child alternately lashing out and clinging to those closest to her.

Wesley reread the incantation, with Cordelia and Gunn chanting the refrain, but it was still no use. No matter how many times they repeated it, no matter how many variations of position or of intonation, there was no magical burst of energy, no otherworldly intervention, no Angel.

"I don't understand," Cordelia said tearfully. "We did it all just like he said they did. We didn't have the monks, but I think Gunn and I did okay with the chanting."

"It wasn't you," Wesley said softly. "Perhaps it just...wasn't meant to be."

"No, that's not right. What kind of power would let Darla come back and not Angel?"

Wesley held her as she cried, but he had no answer for her.

*****

Buffy slowly entered the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel, her dread growing with each succeeding step. There was a pall in the air, a quiet deeper than the mere absence of sound. It was the loss of hope, the death of dreams, and it echoed through the empty spaces in her heart in devastating silence.

At first she didn't notice the little crowd huddled on the stairs; she was searching for Angel with all of her senses. A voice calling out her name pulled her back from the world inside her head and suddenly she realized a tearful Cordelia was embracing her.

"Oh God, you knew, you knew," Cordelia repeated over and over as she clung to Buffy.

Buffy endured the embrace, focusing her energies on not giving in to the panic she could feel clawing at the back of her mind. She saw Wesley and Cordelia, and a strange young black man, but she didn't see Angel anywhere. More importantly, she didn't feel him anywhere. Not in the room, or the building, or even in that little corner of her soul where a sense of his essence always remained.

It was as though he didn't exist.

Buffy gasped and pushed Cordelia away. The Slayer staggered back a few steps and tried to calm her racing heart.

"Where is he?" She glanced wildly from one face to the next, seeing only grief and pity. "Where is he?" she repeated. "I need to see him. I need...I need to know that he's all right."

Cordelia sobbed and turned to bury her face in Wesley's shoulder. He patted her on the back soothingly as he spoke over her head to Buffy.

"Buffy please sit down. We have something we need to tell you. Something we need to explain."

"Explain standing up."

Wesley recognized the implacable tone in her voice. There was only one person who had ever been able to break through it to turn the slayer from an unwise course. And if he were here, there would have been no need for the tone.

He cleared his throat, trying to swallow the tears he could feel threatening him yet again. "It's a long story, I'm afraid. We need to go back several months if you are to understand the events leading up to the..."

"Start with where Angel is and work backwards for the filler." She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, as though it would somehow guard the heart she could already feel shattering.

Cordelia pulled away from Wesley, and shared a glance with the two men. By unspoken vote, it was Gunn who answered.

"He's dead. I'm real sorry...we did everything we could, but...Angel's dead."

She had known it from the moment she woke up, she had felt him ripped away from her soul and known it was forever, and yet she couldn't help the words that tumbled from her mouth.

"You're lying."

They didn't answer. They watched her and they waited, but they wouldn't take it back. She had to make them admit they were lying.

"He's not dead. He can't die. He's immortal. And anyway, he's already dead and that hasn't slowed him down. He's not dead, he's not." She stumbled backwards and tripped over her feet, landing ungracefully on the floor, and still the words came.

"He's not, I don't believe you. I don't even know you. Who are you? Do you actually think Angel would die and leave me alone? Do you actually think he would do that?"

Wesley hurried to her, squatting on the floor next to her and cradling her in his arms, as he knew Angel would have wanted.

"Buffy, my dear child, I know this has been a terrible shock. Please let us help you."

She was on her feet in an instant, hurtling Wesley away from her with unintentional force. She glared at them, at all these so-called friends of Angel's who had failed to protect him.

"Help? You think you can help me? You were supposed to be helping him. If he's really dead, I can't say much for your resumes." She needed to be alone; she had to get away from all these strangers so she could try to find some small remnant of Angel's soul within her to cling to. She spun on her heel, intent on leaving this monument to death and sorrow as soon as possible.

"Buffy, we did try to help him," Cordelia called plaintively. "It should have worked...but something went wrong." She hung her head. "It's all my fault."

Buffy turned around slowly, Cordelia's words slamming one by one into her frozen brain. When she could force her trembling lips to open, her question was dragged from a corner of her mind already overburdened with horrors she could never share or release.

"What did you do?"

Part 4

"What did you do?" Buffy repeated slowly and carefully. "What is your fault?"

She stood perfectly, rigidly still. Her muscles screamed in protest as a wash of red covered her eyes. Cordelia took Angel away, Cordelia hurt Angel, and for that every molecule of her being, both Slayer and woman, fought for revenge. It took all her will to hold herself in check, but she stood fast. She needed information, not blood, and the stakes were too high to risk losing one for the sake of the other.

Cordelia stared fixedly at the floor, unable to meet the Slayer's eyes. "Wesley didn't want to at first, but I talked him into it. It should have worked, we had it all planned out and it should have...but there was no poof, just powder. It should have worked," she insisted, raising her eyes at last.

"Cordelia, you have just five seconds to tell me what you did." There was no 'or else' threat following her order; none was needed. One look in her cold hazel eyes was promise enough of the pain to follow disobedience.

"We staked him," Wesley said bravely as he got to his feet. He walked over to Cordelia and rested a hand on her shoulder, trying to lend her some of his own faltering strength. "We believed we could make him human again, but only if he was reduced to..."

"Ashes," Gunn finished. He shook his head, pitying the small, still woman in front of him. "We've seen it work. Well, not seen it work but we've seen that is has worked. That Darla chick was 400 hundred years worth of dead and they brought her back. We figured if the bad guys caught some slack, why not Angel?"

"Darla? Darla's dead. What does this have to do with…I don't care." Buffy shook her head, trying to put things in order. She wouldn't let herself be sidetracked by sub-plots and secondary characters. All that mattered was the hero of the tale, somehow inexplicably lost. "Just tell me what you did so I can fix it."

Suddenly she was quite sure she could fix it. She had to fix it, because not fixing meant Angel would never come back to her; never hold her or talk to her or smile that slow sweet smile at her or...she could fix this.

"Don't you understand? We tried to fix things and that's what went wrong." Cordelia drew a deep breath and tried to find a small space of calm within her. Buffy was obviously in denial, more so than usual, and Angel would want them to take care of her first. Tears and self-recrimination could be indulged in later, when the only one to hear was a lonely ghost.

"Tell me."

The command in the Slayer's voice could not be denied.

"Buffy, I'm afraid this does call for some backstory," Wesley apologized. He waved to a sofa. "Please sit down. Humor us."

And so she humored them, fighting every Slayer-born instinct within her that howled for action. She sat through a long and frustrating tale of Angel's struggles with a law firm specializing in demons, his struggles with human and vampire Darla and his cessation of struggles with the demon inside of him. She pushed aside the knowledge of where this tale ended and tried to cocoon herself in the endless minutiae of demons and dream walking.

"He lost it just about when the ex did," Gunn said grimly. "Fired all of us and took after them on his own. Just him and the demon he time shares with."

"He was trying to protect us," Cordelia protested. "We thought he was giving in, or giving up, but he really just wanted us out of the way. But he did some...some really bad things to catch the Double Fang Twins." She looked beseechingly at Buffy. "I know he was sorry for what he did. I'm sure when he was alone it was Brood Boy to the max, but he never let anyone else see it. He couldn't."

"The game would have been up." Wesley glanced up at the staircase landing, somehow expecting Angel to come down the steps any moment. "I can't say I agree with his methods, but he was doing what he thought was...the most right out of some very wrong possibilities."

"Why didn't he just pick up the damn phone and call me?" Buffy stood up and began to rapidly pace the length of the lobby, trying to outrun the truth on a worn stretch of Oriental carpeting. "Did he think I wouldn't be interested in Darla coming back? It's not like she wasn't trying to kill me the last time she died, which, by the way, is apparently no longer technically the last time she died."

"He didn't want them to come after you," Cordelia explained, the beginning of anger showing in her voice. "He thought if he stayed away they would think he didn't care and then you wouldn't be worth killing. And it wasn't just Dumb and Dumber he was afraid of either; those lawyers could have sent some pretty nasty nasties after you if they knew what you meant to him."

"He was also concerned that you were experiencing some difficulties of your own," Wesley added hesitantly. "He wouldn't specify; I'm not sure he even knew the details, but he could...feel that something was wrong. He didn't want to worry you."

Buffy stopped pacing and closed her eyes, covering them with one hand. "My mom was really sick. Cancer. She almost...she could have died. But she's okay now." Her hand fell from her face as she smiled crookedly at Wesley. "I wanted to call him at least a thousand times; I knew he'd come and...even if he couldn't make it all better at least he'd make it bearable. But I couldn't call." She sighed deeply. "I knew something was wrong with him too, and I didn't want to worry him. I didn't feel like I had the right to worry him."

The irony was excruciating. He had felt her pain, even as she had felt his, and yet neither one of them wanted to "bother" the other. Angel always used to be her first and only true shelter from the troubles of the world, and she had been his. How had they drifted so far apart that a simple phone call was an unbearable imposition?

"What did he do?" she asked softly, not really sure she wanted the answer. "You killed him for it; what could he have done that was so terrible if the demon wasn't in control?"

"It wasn't what he did exactly; it was what he gave up by doing what he did that made us do what we did," Cordelia answered. She glanced at Wesley and then at Gunn, but neither man seemed inclined to finish the story for her. With a sigh, she continued.

"He was supposed to become human if he did enough good, to kind of make up for the badness of the demon, if you know what I mean. But then he did...some stuff without the demon and we just knew that was it; he blew his chance at mortality. So we tried to give it to him."

"But what..."

"He didn't kill anyone, at least not on purpose, if that's what you're asking." Gunn was as surprised by the anger in his voice as Wesley and Cordelia obviously were. He took a deep breath and tried to regain his distance. "He let people die, or maybe he just let them be in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn't get there himself at the right time; I don't know. But people died because he didn't save them, and I don't think the big guys were prepared to overlook it this time."

"He was trying to draw Dru and Darla out," Cordelia elaborated. "Once the lawyers died, he realized they were going for quantity, not quality. So he set up, well, I guess you could call them all-you-can-eat people buffets, figuring he could rescue the entrees before it was too late. But even Dru and Darla weren't crazy enough to fall for that, so he upped the ante." Cordelia stopped, unwilling to commit herself further.

Buffy waited impatiently for the other shoe, but Cordelia wasn't in a dropping mood. Finally the Slayer looked to her former Watcher for an explanation.

"Angel had a friend, you see," Wesley began awkwardly. "Her name is, was, Kate."

Part 5

Kate.

Her name fell like a stone into still waters, spreading ripples of guilt as it flowed through the lobby.

Gunn lurched to his feet and crossed to the other side of the room, developing an intense interest in a carving on the wall. Cordelia busied herself arranging and rearranging the two magazines on the end table facing away from Buffy. Only Wesley stood his ground.

"She was a policewoman, a detective actually. Perhaps you remember her from your, umm, visit last spring?" When his delicately phrased question elicited no answer other than a nod, he continued. "She and Angel were friends, or at least allies, until she discovered he was a vampire. That somewhat altered her opinion of him."

"She freaked," Cordelia said flatly. She abandoned her futile attempts to straighten up and threw herself in the chair next to Buffy. "First she just made snippy little comments and arrested him a lot. But when some vamps killed her father, she decided to hold Angel personally responsible for every demon in town. And that's a whole lot of demons."

Wesley sat down next to Buffy on the sofa. "She only began to relent when she realized Darla and Drusilla were the greater danger. And that, I'm afraid, was her undoing."

Again the guilty silence.

"What did he do?" Buffy asked again, her tone indicating this would be the last time she would repeat herself.

"He used her," Gunn said at last. He made no move to leave his post by the wall, but he made the concession of facing Buffy as he made his accusation. "I don't know how, or even if, he talked her into it, but he made it look like they had a thing, so the psycho chicks would go after her."

"Instead of us," Cordelia added indignantly. "Instead of Buffy. He talked to Kate about it, I'm sure he did, and he meant to get there in time to rescue her."

"But he didn't," Wesley finished heavily. "He used Kate as bait, and when he showed up for battle, they had already left and Kate was dead. He saw…he saw that they had tried to turn her, but apparently her fear of becoming a vampire was greater than her fear of death."

"Well duh," Cordelia sniffed. "Hello, the woman was a homicide cop whose father was killed by vampires. What do you think she would hate more?"

"How did you find out all of this?" Buffy asked slowly. This had to be wrong; this could not be her Angel they were talking about. He would never have risked someone else's life. Only his own seemed to have no value to him.

"He had a journal. Bunches of them." Cordelia waved to Gunn, who produced a box from behind the counter. After he placed the box on the end of the sofa, Cordelia dove in with both hands, pulling out a multitude of leather-bound books and piling them on the cushions. "We haven't read much, honest, but finding these was what told us what he'd been up to. Sneakily speaking."

"They seem to be addressed to you Buffy," Wesley said gently. "We didn't want to pry, but he'd been behaving so oddly and when Kate died he just seemed to...fold up on himself. When he went looking for Darla, after the funeral, we came here to look for clues. We found these."

Buffy stretched out a trembling hand to retrieve a journal from Cordelia's grasp. She pulled it to her chest, clutching it as though it was a loved one…or all that was left of one.

"Some of the answers you seek are undoubtedly within those pages, but I'm afraid not all." Wesley's smile was gentle as he remembered his friend. "Angel seldom offered excuses or explanations for what he did, especially if he felt there was blame to be assigned. He simply accepted what he felt was his due...and then a few helpings more."

"Kate wasn't the first one he let die, and she wasn't the last," Gunn said harshly. The anger he had been feeling for weeks was beginning to boil over, brought to a head by the sight of Buffy tenderly embracing the last words of a dead man. A man who died because he wouldn't accept help freely offered, and valued friendship so much that he spurned the relationship to protect the giver.

Buffy waited stoically for the next blow.

"Yesterday he went after them full bore," Wesley said, shooting a warning glance at Gunn. Wounding Buffy would not serve to punish Angel, not anymore. "He traced them to an abandoned apartment building and he went to confront them one last time. We had only just learned the truth behind his actions and we went after him…but it was too late."

"When we got there the building was on fire, courtesy of Angel." Cordelia pulled her long legs up on the sofa and wrapped her arms around them. Her chin dropped onto her knees as she stared off into space. "We managed to get past the firefighters by sneaking in through a basement window. We found Angel laying on the stairs, almost...well, if he were anyone else I'd say almost dead."

"He wasn't making much sense, kept talking about screams and blood and all. We thought he meant the Sin Sisters." Gunn's anger faded into shame. He knew deep in his heart that Angel had been doing his best in an untenable situation, and he had paid a terrible price for his miscalculation.

Yet even at his worst moment, Angel had still been thinking of others, and Gunn suddenly realized he should try to follow his friend's example. As hard as it was for him to relive the past few weeks, he could see how much harder it must be for Buffy to hear of it all once the decisions were made and outcomes determined.

"There were people in the basement; that was what he meant. He didn't know about it when he set the fire, and he was trying to get to them when we found him. But we couldn't hear them and he wasn't making any sense." Cordelia looked imploringly at Wesley. "I didn't hear anything but the fire; did you?"

"The fire, the sirens, ourselves calling out to Angel, that was all I could hear," Wesley confessed. "But his hearing was so much more acute. It wasn't until we heard the reports on the radio several hours later that we knew bodies had been found in the debris."

"The newspapers this morning mentioned chains and stuff too," Gunn added. "I'm guessing the ladies took a liking to the vamp version of TV dinners - nothing fancy, but ready and waiting to be eaten."

"We don't know whether Darla and Dru told him they were there, or he just heard them as he was trying to get out of the building." Cordelia grimaced. "Probably Door Number 2, unless they were sure he wouldn't get to the basement in time. He was pretty bad off."

"He was hurt?" Buffy asked in a small voice. Why his injuries mattered when the worst had already come to pass, she could not say. She only knew that she needed details about him as she needed air.

Cordelia nodded solemnly, in perfect sync with Wesley and Gunn.

"Burns," she answered softly. "Probably holy water, because they didn't start to heal right away like the fire ones. And bones going all the wrong way. Blood everywhere, and more holes than a body is supposed to have room for."

"He would have healed eventually...at least physically. But he was…haunted…by what he had done." Wesley shook his head at the memory of Angel's wild eyes staring at him from the depths of his pillow, the broken confession tumbling from heat-scarred lips. "As gravely injured as he was, we finally had to sedate him to keep him from leaving. He felt...unworthy of our assistance."

"That's when we realized we had to make him human ourselves, because the Powers never would. We knew it wasn't going to make the guilt go away, but…we couldn't leave him like that for eternity." Cordelia wiped her eyes, without fanfare, but also without shame.

"Trouble is, we screwed up," Gunn said huskily. "We read that scroll backwards, forwards, facing east, and with Wesley here almost standing on his head, but we couldn't make it work for us." He raised his hands, turning them over as he shrugged his shoulders.

"So Angel killed Darla and Dru, and then you killed him?" A few brief words, paring the story that ended her world down to its essential components.

Three heads nodded simultaneously.

"We don't know how he got both of them, but that was about the only thing he was making sense on. He said they were gone, for good and amen to it, or some shit, uh, something like that." Gunn rubbed his head, trying to remember the exact words. "Or maybe it was 'for all time and amen.' I remember the amen part, because I was kind of surprised a vampire could say something like that."

"He was a most unusual vampire, and man," Wesley eulogized softly.

Buffy could feel the scream rising in the back of her throat. Story hour was over, the ending to the tale laid out in nice neat prose she was meant to acknowledge and accept. No more Angel; time to move on to Book 2 of her life.

"This is not over. I won't accept it. There has to be something more we can do; someone we can appeal to." Buffy glanced desperately from one grim face to the next. "Think, damn you! You created this mess, now you're going to help me fix it."

"Now wait just one minute, Buffy." Cordelia sprang to her feet, all sympathy for Buffy washed away in a tidal wave of outrage. "You're the one he was really jonesing to protect. It was always you, and you never realized how much it cost him."

"Now you're lecturing me on relationships?" Buffy advanced on Cordelia, grateful for a reason to abandon hopeless reality for pointless violence. "You don't know anything about Angel and I. I never asked him to protect me; I just wanted him with me."

"Does any of this really matter?" Wesley implored. "We've all lost him; let's not waste time assigning blame."

"Time. Time!" Cordelia snapped her fingers and truly smiled for the first time in days. "Wesley, you're a genius. All we need to do is take back time. We won't even need the full 24 to get Angel back to pre-powdered form."

*****

"Twenty-four what, Cordelia? You're not making sense." Wesley rubbed his forehead, trying to follow her train of thought before it completely de-railed.

"Hours, dummy," she snapped at him. "Each day comes with twenty-four of those little babies, and that's more than enough to get Angel back. And as long as one of us remembers, we'll get it right with the do-over. Whatever right is." She sprang to her feet, ready for action.

"So what, we just turn back the clocks or something?" Gunn asked skeptically. "Maybe do a little more chanting while we're at it, cause you know I just can't get enough of that chanting."

"Stop it! I can't do this; I can't handle you fighting like everything is normal when Angel..." Buffy's voice was choked with tears. For one brief instant, Cordelia offered a way out of the nightmare...until Wesley and Gunn showed her plan for what it really was.

Desperation's last stand.

Cordelia immediately dropped on the sofa next to Buffy and put her arms around her old nemesis. "Buffy I'm not kidding, and I'm not crazy. We can't do it ourselves, but I know someone who can." Suddenly a thought struck her and she glanced doubtfully up at Wesley. "Or they could if they were still
alive themselves...but I'm sure the PTBs must have hired replacements by now."

Wesley's eyebrows shot up his forehead as the light dawned. "Are you talking about the Oracles? Angel's Oracles? They really have, that is to say had, the power to turn back time?"

"They did it before," Cordelia answered quickly. A little too quickly, she suddenly realized, remembering Buffy sitting next to her. Inwardly she squirmed, waiting for the inevitable hard questions to follow.

"When before?" Gunn asked. "Or does time turning back mean it's actually a when not before?"

"What does it matter if they're dead?" Buffy sounded almost dead herself; the news of Angel's death was finally creeping through her defenses, battering her weary soul unmercifully. He was gone, forever this time. No second chances, no more 'maybe someday'; he was beyond her reach now, and always would be.

"They must have someone else working the spot now," Cordelia answered gratefully. Of all those present, she feared Buffy's questions the most, for the Slayer had the most to gain and lose by the answers. Apparently she was to be spared, at least for now, the giving of those answers.

"Cordelia may be right, much as it pains me to say so." Wesley began to pace, trying to work out a new strategy with the tools at hand. "The Oracles served a purpose, as a conduit to the Powers. Surely the Powers would wish to preserve such a intermediary position, to limit their contact with the mortal world.

"All I caught was 'Cordelia may be right,' and that's scary enough. Do we really want to be looking these people up?" Gunn sounded doubtful, but he was already reaching for his favorite axe, earlier abandoned behind the counter.

"You really think this is a chance?" Buffy didn't know what she hoped for in an answer; she wasn't sure she could handle losing Angel one more time.

"I don't know if it is a real chance," Wesley admitted, "but it is perhaps our only chance."

"Then we do it. Now."

Even if they had wanted to, none would have dared disobey her now.

Part 6

Buffy couldn't stop shivering as she descended the steps into the basement of the old post office behind Wesley. It wasn't the cool temperature, or the dampness; she'd experienced much worse than this. There was a chill deep within her now, a razor-sharp sliver of ice piercing her soul where once a man had dwelt. He had been her light, her warmth, her true home, and without him all was howling winds and chaos.

She would never be warm again.

"I think maybe just Buffy and I should go in," Cordelia said as she laid the brass bowl on a pedestal in preparation for the summoning spell. "I don't know how many this portal will seat, and I really don't want to get stuck in another dimension without a ride home."

"Agreed," Wesley said, "but I think leaving Gunn to man the exit, as it were, should be sufficient. I think my place is with you two." He saw Cordelia was about to protest, and raised his hand to silence her. "You don't know what you will be facing, and I have more experience dealing with…well, if the being who is now the conduit to the Powers is anything like the Oracles, he or she will appreciate my classically educated mind rather more than your somewhat modern way of thinking."

Cordelia grimaced as she looked at Buffy. "That's his long-winded way of saying he's going to pout if we leave him behind."

"Whatever. Can we just get on with this?" Buffy rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to warm the flesh in lieu of the soul she could not reach.

"Uh yeah, getting on with this, that's what we're doing." Cordelia gestured nervously to Gunn, indicating he should begin the ritual. She took her place at Buffy's side and clasped the Slayer's cold hand, as Wesley did the same on Buffy's other side. Together they faced the eastern wall, waiting for a portal to emerge from the marble

Gunn scowled as he began to pour the crystals into the bowl. "Always Gunn on vocals. Do you people have some sort of hang up about doing your own damn chanting?" Without giving them a chance to reply, he began reading the words Wesley had carefully inscribed for him on a sheet of looseleaf paper.

A moment later there was a sudden whoosh, and Gunn was alone.

*****

They stumbled separately through the portal; their handholding rendered impossible by the need to block tender eyes from the bright white glow.

"Had a feeling you'd end up here today, Princess."

Cordelia dropped her arm from over her eyes and stared. It wasn't possible, not in a million years.

"Doyle?" she breathed.

"In the...well, not exactly flesh, but something close enough," the Irishman answered cheerfully. "Surprised to see me, are you? Or is it just surprised to see me here? Never thought I'd make the grade, eh?" He grinned amiably; he'd never thought he'd make it either.

"No, well yes, but...it's just...okay, when I pictured you...there were never harps involved but I didn't...this is just so not you," Cordelia stammered. She looked to Buffy and Wesley for agreement, but quickly realized they would be of no help in this argument.

"Kinda funny when you think about it." Doyle hitched his thumbs in his belt loops and leaned back as he glanced around the marbled chamber. "Imagine putting a Belfast boy under an American post office to help preserve peace and balance in the universe. Good to know someone up there has a sense of humor."

"So does this mean you're not really..." She hesitated, unwilling to use the word 'dead' to describe so vibrant a personality.

He shook his head. "Sorry, darlin;' as a doornail. In here I'm a fair approximation of the man I once was. Take me out of this dimension and I'd cast about as much shadow as your buddy Dennis."

"But to see you like this…it's like you're still one of us."

"All I'm seeing is time ticking away," Buffy said flatly. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rested her hands on her hips, assuming a bravado she could not hope to feel. "I'm sorry to interrupt the reunion, but I understand you're the man with his finger on the stopwatch."

Doyle's smile faded abruptly. "I'm sorry for your loss, Buffy. I know we didn't have time to get to know each other in life, but I feel like I know you through Angel. And if you're even half the girl he said you were, you two must have made an amazing team." He paused. "Once upon a time."

"Time, yes, time," Cordelia broke in impatiently. "We need it, Doyle. We've done something really stupid," she glanced at her companions, "well, I made us do something really stupid and we need to not do it. I don't even need 24 hours to fix this one; twelve would work perfectly well."

Wesley looked at his watch before adding his voice to her plea. "Though if you want to give us the full 24 that would be even more helpful. It would be cutting it close, but I think we might just be able to rescue those people from the cellar. Surely that would be incentive enough to accede to our request."

Cordelia nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, this wouldn't just be for Angel, though that is why we came. We could help those poor people out of a burning building. Wouldn't the Powers like that? I mean that is what we're supposed to be doing; helping people, rescuing them."

Buffy had been watching Doyle's face as Cordelia and Wesley nervously put forth their petition. The Irishman didn't look hopeful, or happy, or even politely encouraging.

All she saw was an aching sympathy.

"Why don't you just ask for a week while you're at it?" she said harshly. "You'll get just as far. Can't you see he's not going to help us?"

"Buffy, this is Doyle." Cordelia placed one hand on Buffy's shoulder and the other on Doyle's. "He's our friend. He's Angel's friend. He'll help Angel; of course he will."

"I can't."

Cordelia's hand abruptly fell from his shoulder when she heard his quiet words.

"What do you mean you can't? You know it can be done; you're the one who told me about it the last time. Is it just you? I mean, haven't they given you the power yet, because if they haven't just point us to the right portal and we'll be on our way. You know, I'd...I'd like to come back later and chat and all; I really would. But we're kind of in a time crunch here. You understand." Cordelia started backing up towards the solid wall behind her, waiting for a portal to appear to whisk her to the correct bureau or court of appeals.

"I can't do it because it can't be done," Doyle explained gently. "What's done can't be undone."

"Yes it can," Cordelia snapped. "If the Oracles did it for you-know-who you-know-when and you-know-why, then you know it can."

He smiled sadly at her. "Can't argue with that sentence, even assuming I could puzzle my way through it. Truth is, there's nothing I'd like better than to give Angel another shot, but the Powers want this at an end. He's done what he was needed to do; the rest can be done by others."

"Hey, when you died he went to bat for you. Are you trying to get back at him because he couldn't swing it?" She paused for a moment. "My God, I'm reduced to sports metaphors. Do you see the damage you're doing?" Cordelia tossed her chin and pointedly avoided looking at her late friend. "I thought you were better than this, Doyle."

"You can't shame me into it, darlin'. I don't have a choice any more than the Oracles did when I died." He took a step towards Cordelia, wincing when she took a reflexive step backwards. "You can't bend and fold time to suit your pleasures."

"So that's it? Angel sacrifices himself in the name of his friends, and his reward is...nothingness? Oblivion?" Wesley took a step forward. "Good God, man; have you no sense of honor?"

"Honor is a grand idea, but it doesn't pay the rent or kill the demons." Doyle shrugged helplessly. "The Powers were willing to grant Angel another chance at life if he did well in the fight against the darkness. Instead he used the darkness as a weapon against itself, and he fell on the sword."

"So Darla was a test, and he failed." Buffy shook her head, smiling bitterly. "Gotta love these all-powerful beings who have nothing better to do with their eternities than put trip wires in front of the finish line."

"But he can still do good," Cordelia wailed. "All we need is the time to get him back on his feet...to get back his feet and the rest of him too. We'll make sure he doesn't screw up the next test. We'll use flash cards and demon Cliff Notes and whatever else it takes, won't we?" She looked beseechingly from Buffy to Wesley.

"He belongs here with us. There are still battles to be fought and I need...we need him to fight them." Buffy clenched her fists, fighting to control the traitorous tears that prickled behind her eyes. Tears were a victory the Powers did not deserve.

"You're still here; you can fight for him."

"And that's their final decision? He makes one mistake and he's out of the game? Sorry Angel; no redemption, no humanity, just pick up your toys and go to hell." Buffy's voice faded for a moment, dying in the attempt to flow past her closed throat. "If you ever gave a damn about him, you'd help us.
You know what good he can do; how good he is. He doesn't deserve this." She gasped, shocked by the effort it took to keep breathing, but she refused to drop her blazing eyes from Doyle's face.

"Destiny isn't deserved, Buffy. It just is."

"Where is he? I have to know where..."

She reached out to him, not sure if she was going to plead for mercy or wring his neck once he was within her grasp. The decision was made for her when a bright light flashed in her eyes and she felt herself falling backwards onto the cool marble floor outside the portal.

Part 7

Buffy walked silently through the doors of the old hotel, following the others by instinct rather than will. Her body was numb, but less so than her mind and heart. She could hear quiet voices, street sounds, even the reluctant hum of the furnace jolted into awareness by a sudden drop in the temperature, but none of it could touch her. Nothing could crawl into the hole where her soul was hiding and force her to come out again. Not ever again.

"So, I'm guessing things didn't go too well at the Emerald City."

That voice; she knew that voice. She whirled around to confirm her suspicions, stumbling down the last step as she backed away from an old reminder of past sins and sorrows.

"I should have known you'd turn up." The bitterness in her voice was corrosive enough to strip the flesh from his bones. "When Angel was doing okay, you could have cared less. But show you a way to make life hell for both of us and you're on the first bus into town."

"Hey kid, I had nothing to do with this one." He held up his hands in surrender, tracing a cautious half-circle around her as he entered the lobby.

"Buffy, who is this person?" Wesley took a step forward and stood by Buffy's side, ready to offer protection or support, whichever became necessary.

"His name is Whistler," she spat out. "He's part-demon and part-ghoul. As soon as Angel gets into trouble, up he pops to make it worse. Sorry you missed the fun this time; he went ahead and died without you."

Something inside her froze when she said that word. Dead. The nightmare was real, and she'd just admitted it. Whistler made her admit it. She glared at him with renewed fury.

"I know; that's why I came." Whistler dropped one hand to his side, while the other reached up to pull the hat from his head. "I'm sorry kid, honest I am. I never saw this one coming."

Buffy wrenched herself away from his painfully sympathetic glance. "Sure you didn't, just like you never saw what I would have to do to him that night with Acathla. No wonder you told me to stake him first and ask questions later; it would have saved so much trouble." Her restless feet carried her around the perimeter of the lobby, as though there was an escape route somewhere along its border to take her away from the pain.

"I was trying to save you both some hell, if you'll pardon the expression. Turns out I was wrong; there was still stuff he needed to do."

"And now it's done. Or so say the all-knowing Powers That Be." She stopped her restive pacing. "Powers That Be what; did anyone ever ask? Be Cruel? Be Vicious? Be Unforgiving and Judgmental? I really wonder what it says on their drivers' licenses for last name." Her fury exhausted, she buried her face in her hands.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. He was a nice kid, when he wasn't being a pain in the ass. He had, you know, potential."

Whistler took a few steps closer, raising Buffy's defensive shields. She lifted her head and stared at him, sending an icy chill down his back. He stopped in his tracks, unwilling to get too close to the primal rage he could see lurking in those hazel depths.

"Now that potential is yours, Slayer. You're the one who has to fight for him, and there seems to be some doubt whether you're up to it anymore."

"He died hours ago," she ground out through a throat clogged with tears. "Hours ago, and you show up here to tell me to buck up and forget about it because there are still bad guys to beat on?"

Whistler's voice was unexpectedly gentle as he answered her. "You won't forget, kid, any more than he will. But the game's not over yet, and he's expecting you to finish it for him."

In a flash she was on him, clutching at his lapels with a strength easily surpassing the combined efforts of Gunn and Wesley to detach her.

"Where is he? You know; tell me."

The demon shook his head, clearly confused. "He's dead; you know that one."

"His soul; what did you do...where did he...where?" The last word was broken in two by an escaping sob. Buffy shoved Whistler away from her and turned away to shield her grief.

"Dear Lord," Wesley breathed, "it never even occurred to me..."

Comprehension swept through Whistler's eyes. "He's okay, kid. Not great, because he's not real good at doing great…but he's not there. They didn't send him back, and they won't. I promise."

Still she would not face him. "You're sure?"

She felt a tentative hand come to rest on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze meant to offer comfort and succor. "He has to answer for what he's done, not settle the demon's debts. He wasn't exactly perfect, you know, so there's some amending to be done in his own right...but it's not enough to earn him a seat by the fire.

"Then why couldn't we make him human?" Cordelia cried out in frustration. "So Darla got to be one as a test; not fair but okay. But why not Angel?"

*****

All eyes in the room fixed on Whistler, waiting for a revelation. Waiting for the words that would magically heal the open wounds, restore order to the universe. He reached deep into his ancient soul for answers that ones so young could understand.

"You're thinking of that scroll all wrong, guys," he said at last. "You all saw it as some sort of reward for good behavior. He did too." Whistler turned to Wesley, attempting an ingratiating smile. "I'm sure you translated your little heart out, and with your glasses and that accent...well of course they're going to think it's the gospel according to Obi Wan Kenobi or something. But you got it wrong pal. It was supposed to be a gift, when and if the time was right."

"What, pray tell, is the difference?" Wesley was not placated by Whistler's awkward efforts to soothe his ego, but curiosity outweighed pride. Almost.

"You, all of you, thought he was here doing time on The Rock for all the bad stuff his demon did. Angel was always supposed to be vamp, guys, and he was always supposed to get his soul back; how else do you think he was supposed to fight Acathla?" Whistler raised an eyebrow at Buffy. "Well, until he and Little Miss Cheerleader here rewrote future history."

"Don't..." Buffy began.

"All I'm saying," Whistler hastily continued, "is that he wasn't supposed to be paying off the demon's markers, and the Powers weren't going to give him a heartbeat as a receipt. Anything he has to answer for with them is because of what he did with a human soul."

"Then why are they punishing him now? He was trying to do more than most humans would ever dare."

Wesley could not disguise the disillusionment in his voice. Though he would rather die than admit it, he still believed in the old legends that rewarded the valiant and brought low the unworthy. He became a Watcher to aid in that quest, and working with Angel had only cemented his commitment. Now the Powers seemed hell bent on making a mockery of his cause.

"They're not punishing him," the demon answered desperately. "You gotta remember he actually died two hundred and fifty years ago. His body just didn't get the message because the demon was picking up the mail. To make him human again, that was a very big concession on the part of the Powers, and it wasn't one they were going to make for any old Joe Do-Gooder. In time, he would have made the grade." He winced; knowing the next part of the message would not be well received. "You didn't let him have that time."

"So it is my fault," Cordelia said slowly, turning away from her friends. "I thought I was helping him…I was so sure they would never make him human and we couldn't leave him alone with all that guilt for eternity." She shook her head, trying to dislodge the tears from her face as she forced herself to face Buffy. "All he ever wanted was to be human...so he could be with you. After all he suffered because of that damn demon, after a hundred years of brooding and angsting, all the centuries being tortured in hell, the most he asked for was a chance to grow old and wrinkly and die...with you. I didn't think it was that much to ask for."

"What he's got now, that's the best any soul has a right to expect."

"He's not just any soul," Wesley answered softly.

Whistler smiled slightly as he slapped Wesley on the back. He respected a man who stood by his friends. "I can tell that when I hear you all speaking up for him. Not many souls get so many people willing to go to the mat for them."

"But it won't help." Buffy's voice came from a great distance, lost and solitary as it struggled to reach beyond the surrounding world to realms unseen by all but the human heart.

"It will, in its own way. The key is to keep fighting the good fight, like he was still there with you. Eventually he'll find his way home anyway, but he can do it a whole lot faster if you do your part. All of you, like the story says."

"Home?" Buffy remembered the word, but it had been so long since she felt she had one. Not since Angel left.

"Story?" Cordelia added skeptically.

"You know, it's been kind of an office joke since you guys hooked up," Whistler confided with a smile. "Not you and Angel," he hastened to add, "I mean the friends of Dorothy here."

"I ain't no friend of Dorothy," Gunn growled.

"Friend of...whatever do you mean?" Wesley quickly asked Whistler. A second later he transferred his puzzled gaze to Gunn. "Both of you," he clarified.

Gunn glowered silently, refusing to dignify the question with a response.

Whistler made no attempt to hide his smirk. "Look around you, fella. Behold the Cowardly Lion,' he pointed to Wesley, "the Tin Man," he gestured to Gunn, "and last but not least, the Scarecrow."

Cordelia looked ready to bite off the finger Whistler was pointing at her. "Just who are you calling Scarecrow, Mr. I-Escaped-From-The-'Guys and Dolls'-Road-Company?"

"Does the world think you have a brain, sweetheart, or do you come as a big surprise in a long-legged package?" Before Cordelia could answer, he moved on to the next argument. "And Quiver King here," he pointed to Wesley, "is it me or does everyone just about keel over when he stands his ground and fights back? Don't even get me started on Big Tough Gang Guy here, with his crib full of little birds to feed. You're like the characters turned inside out. You know what you are inside, but you can't see it in each other, and no one else sees it in you either. Except Angel, he saw the right stuff in all of you. He just couldn't see it in himself."

"And just as Angel's efforts to help the unfortunates of the world helped the rest of us to find our purpose, we can now be of help to him by coming to the aid of others." Wesley smiled, feeling a small measure of peace steal over him. "I think he would enjoy the symmetry."

"Got it in one," Whistler crowed. "Well, more like thirty-two, but for you it was pretty good English."

"So if we're all the..." Cordelia glanced warily at Gunn, "umm, companions of Dorothy, and I'm guessing you're turning Angel into Dorothy, which believe me you would not have gotten away with if he was here to defend himself..."

"Is there a point, or maybe just an end, to this?" Whistler pleaded.

"Who," Cordelia continued stridently, "is Buffy? Toto?"

The sweetness of Whistler's smile was dazzling. "She's Kansas, at least for Angel. Home sweet home."

"Then let him come home," Buffy begged softly. One last plea, though by now she knew it was useless. One last sacrifice of pride, in the name of hopeless dreams.

"Someday kid," he promised, backing up slowly towards the doors. "Not today, but someday."

Part 8

"Wesley, I'm worried about Buffy."

Wesley glanced down at Cordelia as she rested her head on his shoulder. They had been sitting side by side on the stairs for hours, waiting for the Slayer to come down from Angel's room. Though he knew it would take time for his former charge to say goodbye to her lost love, Wesley was beginning to wonder if they were ever going to be able to cease their vigil.

"She's been up there a very long time," he agreed. "I can't imagine she's trying to read all those journals in one night. Do you think we should check on her?" He started to stand up, but Cordelia pulled him back down beside her.

"I don't mean just now I'm worried. Well, I am," she corrected herself, "but not just for now. Normal people would be crying, like we all have."

"I haven't been..."

"There was something in my...""This is not to say I expect Buffy to behave normally," Cordelia continued, firmly ignoring the chorus of masculine protests. "She never has; she never will. But she's been so quiet; hardly any of the kick-ass Buffy spark at all since she got here. And she only insulted me once, which is way not like her. She should be pounding down the post office walls to get to the portal, or on the phone with Willow ordering orbs and magic potions. She hasn't even asked us to try the resurrection spell again so she can see what we did wrong."

"We know that it's hopeless," Wesley pointed out in a sweetly reasonable tone guaranteed, if not designed, to set Cordelia's teeth on edge. "What would be the point?"

"The point is it would be Buffy!" Cordelia pounded the step with her fist. "She's not Susie Sensible, you know. She...reacts to things first, and then she gets philosophical later, after she's killed something. This grown-up 'life sucks and then you die' approach is just not normal. I'm afraid she's going to blow."

"But wouldn't that make her feel better?" Gunn asked from the step below. "You just said the girl needs to kill something to put the planets back in alignment."

"I'm not worried about her going ballistic on the demons of the world," Cordelia explained impatiently. She glanced up the stairs, but Buffy was nowhere in sight. Regardless, she lowered her voice. "I'm worried she'll turn it on herself. She's lost Angel once too often, I think, and I'm not sure she's got the stuff to pick up and move on this time." She paused. "If she ever really did before."

"We each grieve in our own way, Cordelia, but you must remember that first and foremost, Buffy is a slayer. She is well aware that she cannot afford to lose control of her emotions, even healthy ones. The consequences could be devastating." Wesley closed his eyes and shuddered as he remembered another slayer in his charge; one slightly less emotionally guarded, and more inclined to act upon her emotions than Buffy.

"So you're saying she isn't even allowed to cry? That's harsh, man."

"She can cry, Gunn; I saw her do it. Once." Cordelia paused for a moment, marshaling her facts. "And of course when Angel was doing his whole bad boy Angelus thing she was always coming in to school with red puffy eyes, so I know she's capable of it. But she'd literally almost rather die than have anyone see her do it." She smiled wistfully. "Anyone but Angel, that is."

"And if he ain't here to hold the hanky? What exactly are we talking about on the dire scale?"

"Surely you don't think she would try anything to harm herself?" This time Wesley pulled free of Cordelia's restraining grasp and got to his feet. "If you seriously believe this, I must call Giles right away. Obviously we can't bother her mother with this, given her recent state of health, but he may be able to get through to Buffy where we cannot."

Cordelia shook her head, gesturing for Wesley to sit down. "Call Giles before she goes home if you want, but I don't think it will do much good. If she's really determined...well, you and I both know there was only one person who could ever make her see reason where she didn't want to see it, and he's not here anymore." She sighed heavily. "That's why I'm so worried."

"So this girl, I'm thinking you and she used to be tight, at least tight enough to fight like sisters. You think she's on the ledge, and you don't think we should call her friends to put out the rubber mats? Glad we're not that close." Gunn slapped his hand repeatedly on the step, nervously tapping out a melody only he could hear.

"I didn't say we shouldn't call." Cordelia took a swipe at Gunn's head, only half-heartedly hoping to connect. "I just don't think it will do any good. The only one who could ever out-stubborn Buffy was Angel. If he told her to get on with her life, she'd at least pretend to do it."

"He may very well have written words to that effect in his journals. We only read a small portion of them, and nothing of an intimate nature."

"Speak for yourself." Gunn nodded at Cordelia, who tossed her chin and studiously avoided Wesley's eyes.

"I read what I needed to, so I could figure out what that sneaky vampire was pulling over on us all."

Her air of righteous indignation was somewhat spoiled by the reminiscent smile that flitted across her face. Some day she wanted the right man to be writing very similar words to her...minus, of course, all words about sacrifice in the name of duty. And blood, definitely no talk of blood. And written on much more expensive paper, as befitted a wealthy industrialist who spent his spare time producing motion pictures.

Wesley glanced up the stairs again, still anxiously waiting for the Slayer to appear. "You don't think there's anything in the journals likely to make things worse, do you? She's somewhat on the ragged edge, as you say. I don't know if she could handle anything too shocking."

Memories suddenly assailed Cordelia; memories both her own and those given to her by another.

"Oh wow, we could be in big trouble," she breathed. As her partners looked at her, she shrank back against the stairs. "I don't know if there's anything in there about...well, something Angel did without telling Buffy. But if there is...it's going to bring up more 'what ifs' than I think she could deal with right now."

"What..." Wesley began, only to be cut off both figuratively and literally by Cordelia's hand waving dangerously close to his throat.

"What doesn't matter," she said firmly. "If he told her, then I'll tell you, but if he didn't want her to know...the trouble is, he may have forgotten to take out the pages. I mean he seemed pretty sure he was going to die, but I don't think he went back over the old stuff to make it ready for publication. He could have missed something."

"So we just wait to see if she comes screaming down the stairs, and then you'll know if you can tell us?" It sounded rather impractical to Gunn.

"No, we need a better plan than wait and see." She snapped her fingers. "A séance, that's what we'll do. We'll call Angel back, and he can explain stuff to her better and make sure she doesn't do anything stupid and..."

"No." Wesley's tone left no room for discussion. "Not this time, Cordelia. No grand plans to save the day and make everyone all better. Angel is at rest now, after a very long journey. I won't let you disturb him, even for Buffy. We will take care of her now, as he would have wished. Let him be."

"But how can he rest in peace if she's in pieces?"

Cordelia and Wesley shared a surprised glance, but neither had an easy answer to Gunn's question.

Part 9

Buffy wandered aimlessly around Angel's room, picking up objects he had touched and then carefully replacing them when she couldn't find the sensation she was looking for. She couldn't put it into words, but she craved something that still felt like him, something that had the imprint of his soul, so that she could feel his presence once more.

Once more. How many times had she breathed those words, knowing they were a lie? She didn't want "once mores" with Angel; she wanted always. Forever, that was the point, wasn't it? And now the point was swept away in a series of random disasters destined to define "forever" as the time she spent without him.

It was easy to blame Darla, human Darla, reluctant owner of a twisted but still human soul Darla, for the events that conspired to rob Angel of his future. For two and a half centuries she had maintained a stranglehold on Angel's soul, and her actions had cost him life not once but twice.

But blaming Darla was not enough; it was too easy. She wanted to blame Cordelia, or Wesley, or Gunn, for trying such an incredibly brave and stupid act. She wanted to blame Angel for taking so much on himself and not trusting her with the truth until it was too late. She wanted to blame Doyle for not fixing their mistakes, and Whistler for precipitating the whole tragedy by introducing Angel to her life.

She wanted to blame herself for not holding on tight enough, for not believing hard enough in their future, for letting anyone tell her that her destiny and his were not as one.

And yet when all blame was properly apportioned...Angel was still dead.

The journals called to her from the bed, but she resisted the urge to re-submerge herself. Reading his thoughts, hearing his voice as he read them to her, was a cruel reminder that on a certain page, on a certain day, the thoughts ceased. She tried to tell herself that guilt and pain also ceased at that point in time, but she could not feel that truth within her heart.

He must be so lost and lonely now, she thought, facing the ghosts of his past without the companions of his present. All who knew him before knew a reckless young man, or a vicious killer. They didn't know the devastating sweetness of the man he had become, the unwavering loyalty he gave his friends, the absolute devotion he gifted to Buffy as her one true lover.

They couldn't see the fear of rejection lurking behind his sad dark eyes, or the shy attempts at humor in his half-quirked lips.

Cordelia said he'd been happy in LA, at least before Darla came. He reached out to people, and was learning not to pull away when they reached back. He was making friends, and finally beginning to see at least a fraction of his worth in the grand scheme of things. Cordelia told her this to give her a measure of peace, and in a way it did, but it also made her angry. All the things she'd hoped to give him, he was finding on his own.

Until a random series of disasters cut short all learning, condemning him to solitude once more.

With a low moan, she crawled onto the bed, clutching at armfuls of the journals. They ended too soon, but they were the closest she would ever come to touching his soul just once more.

*****

He'd been watching her for hours. She was here, in his world, and he couldn't get over the sight of it. She had never been here before, and when he bought the hotel he'd had no true expectation she ever would. Yet somehow she belonged. It was old and she was young; it was defiantly avant-garde and she was desperately seeking the status quo, yet they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Much as she and he did, Angel realized. Few people on earth were as apparently different as he and Buffy. But from the beginning they had seen beneath the shells to each other's true self and recognized a missing piece. They became one, against all odds and advice. And even when he had given up and walked away, believing their love to be her destruction, he could not break the bond that held their souls together. Even death was inadequate to the challenge; he knew that now.

She was crying now, clawing at his heart with the great slow crystals of water that swept down her cheeks and onto his pillow. She lay curled up on his bed like a child, his journals piled around her, surrounding her like a fortress. One by one she picked them up, read a few pages and moved on to the next one. He didn't know if she was reading the same pages over and over, or just taking random peeks at his life without her. As though he'd ever had a real life without her. It had always been about her, since the
first moment he saw her.

One entry must have touched her more than others; she pressed the leather-bound book to her lips, blurring the words with her tears. Why did he write those damn things? Stupid Angel, always thinking he could fix things that he simply never should have broken. What good did it do, what purpose was served to unburden his heart to her and then not be there when she was forced to accept the "gift?"

"Buffy, please don't cry," Angel whispered, watching his beloved weep over useless words written in shameful self-indulgence. "I'm okay, but only if you are. That's the only way to help me now."

She didn't hear him; he knew that she couldn't. He wasn't even a shadow on the wall or a shimmer in the air. He was nothingness now, as he had always felt without her. No touch, no sound could reach her, unless he willed it so, and as much as he wanted to do just that, it wasn't fair. He knew he needed to let go; she must be free to lead her own life, hopefully a long and happy one, before they could be together again. But how was he supposed to walk away from her like this, knowing how long the separation would be, and how much she must endure alone until they could be together again?

"I thought we could do this. We've done it before."

Against his will, his mind flashed back to all the times he'd walked away, or let her leave. It had torn his heart out every time, but he'd done it and believed it right. What was so different now?

"And when you think about it, what's 50 or 60 years apart when it took me almost two-hundred-and fifty to find you in the first place?"

Twenty-six wasted years of life, one hundred and forty-odd years of chaos and destruction, and nearly one hundred years of bitter regret. They had literally flown by, in comparison to the next 50 or 60 he would be counting by hour, by minute, until he would see her again.

"But now it's time and I can't go."

Doyle had told him he wouldn't have much time; he wasn't even supposed to be here. She needed reality now, a future, not ghosts and promises of eternal rewards. She was alive, and he was even less so than he'd been the night they met. If he couldn't give her the kind of life she deserved then, how could he hope to serve her happiness now?

And yet he could not tear himself away.

Angel watched over Buffy as she read, and as she cried, and, eventually, as she drifted off to a troubled sleep. Deaf to his pain and lost in her own, she shifted restlessly on his bed as memories assailed her. So many memories, and yet never enough; they had a right to more.

"I tried to tell the Powers that I could help you. I wouldn't get in the way; you wouldn't even see me." Just like old times, he'd thought to himself when he proposed the scheme. "They didn't buy it. Neither did I, actually. I'm not too good at staying away from you."

Even now he could feel the pull of her presence. He had no real form or substance, just shifting patterns of emotional energy. His arms could never truly embrace her again, his lips would trace kisses more illusion than impression, but he could feel her strength and her beauty and her pain drawing him towards her as though nothing between them had ever changed.

Maybe nothing had. She was, as always, just beyond his reach.

"I can't stay here; I know that." He paused, trying to force himself to accept the inevitable. "And I can't help. You'll have to help yourself."

Buffy tossed her head and twisted her small form on the comforter, trying to escape the demons that pursued her even in her sleep. Angel; where was Angel to come to her aid? Why wasn't he by her side, as he'd once promised to always be?

"But it never gets any easier to let you go."

Angel sighed; his emotions so strongly charged that his phantom breath stirred the curtains over the window. He was alone with the woman he loved, quite literally, beyond life. It was a moment meant for starlight and roses and sweetly sobbing violins. In his dreams, he would sweep her up in his arms, holding her tightly against the heart that beat only for her favor. In his dreams, no power on earth would tear her from those arms, that heart, again.

In reality, he could only stand in silent witness to her dreams.

How many times had he done just the same thing back in her house on Revello Drive? How many nights did he spend watching shadows chase across her face, reveling in every smile, worrying over every wrinkling of her smooth brow? He had learned every nuance of expression, delighting in the revelation of each here-to-fore unseen emotion, because it gave him a new window into her soul.

And now, for the first time, he was afraid to look into that soul. He couldn't bear to see the scars he had inflicted, the freshly opened wounds his death had wrought. He loved her and she him, and that was supposed to offer some shelter from the darkness. Instead it had brought them closer to the abyss than anyone should dare to go.

She made a small sound, somewhere between a moan and a cry. He immediately moved closer, crouching next to the bed, just an arm's length away from her. He could see the tearstains plainly now, each one striking him low in his belly. His fault; all his fault. Guided by instinct, he quickly reached out to caress her tousled golden hair...and saw his hand disappear against her tanned skin.

Abruptly he pulled his hand back. Doyle warned him about this; it was part of the reason he was supposed to be staying away from Buffy. The urge to assume a more solid form was natural, and so very strong, but it was selfish and in the end it could hurt her more than help. He had already done her so much damage.

No. Doyle was wrong. He only wanted to comfort her and in her current unconscious state he would seem, at best, a dream. She would never know he was truly with her. It was safe; it must be.

Angel focused all his concentration on his hand, watching as it slowly assumed a wavering solidity, sufficient for his purpose if not completely satisfying. Once again he reached out and ran his hand lightly down her upturned cheek.

"I love you, Buffy," he whispered, "and one day we will be together. It's going to take a little time, so you'll have to be patient for me, sweetheart." A slight smile graced his lips. "Just try, okay? Someday, love, it will happen, and then no one will ever keep us apart again. Not even me."

He meant to vanish immediately; he truly did. But her face was still so troubled, and it had been so long since he had been this close to her. He just wanted to ease her pain, and thereby ease his own. He concentrated on his head this time, and when he felt air brushing his cheek he knew he had at least partially succeeded. Leaning over Buffy again, he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

An instant later he felt her lips moving against his own as her eyelashes fluttered open.

"Angel?" she murmured sleepily. "Is it really you?"

Part 10

Angel froze as Buffy reached out to him, her hand curling up around his neck.

He wasn't supposed to be here, and she certainly wasn't supposed to know he was here. To wake and find him hovering over her in all his ectoplasmic splendor would do her untold damage. Inwardly he cursed himself. As usual, his best efforts to help the love of his life would only end up wounding her further.

Her hand began to slide down his back as her eyes opened further. She was still half-asleep, rather more than half actually, but in a moment her fingers would leave his temporarily corporeal neck and discover nothingness. It was a sensation sure to awaken the soundest sleeper.

He slipped out from under her arm, shifting the focus of his concentration to his hand once again. As she uttered a quiet cry of distress at his abandonment, he laid a cool finger to her lips.

"Sh sh, sweetheart. Go back to sleep," he whispered. Quickly Angel brushed his hand over her forehead and down the bridge of her nose. As expected, her eyelids instinctively closed in self-preservation, and willpower ceded the struggle to gravity.

"Stay with me," she mumbled, reaching up to clasp his hand and pull it to her cheek.

Angel closed his eyes, trying to remember the feel of her skin, the warmth and the scent of it. Perhaps in heaven one might touch and smell and taste again, but in this twilight corner of the world, it was more memory than actual sensation.

Even that was enough to tear at his heart.

"Sleep," he repeated softly, in command and prayer. "Sweet dreams."

"You," she promised with a drowsy smile. She sighed deeply as memories of happier days, and dreams of those destined never to be, claimed her. A few moments later, her deep breathing told Angel she was safely ignorant of his presence.

Angel vanished, and all was silence once again.

*****

Buffy awoke slowly. She was exhausted, much more so than she could ever remember being, and she didn't know why. She'd been having a nightmare earlier, nothing new there. Angel dead, forever lost…it was a familiar theme. But when she woke up, finding him safe and sound by her side, she realized it must have been just a bad dream. All was peaceful after that, and yet she was still so very tired.

Her eyelids flickered, stubbornly fighting the voice inside of her that commanded consciousness. In those fleeting moments when the outside world telegraphed images to her brain, she realized she was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. She blinked more vigorously now and forced her eyes to stay open longer.

Still unfamiliar, but she was getting the feeling she should recognize it. It was a very bad feeling.

She cautiously turned her head, examining more of the room. It was a bedroom, she realized, which made sense since she was lying on a bed. Dark colors. Heavy curtains blocking the windows...

It hit her in a wave, striking low and sweeping her away in the undertow. This was Angel's room, and she was here because he was not. Would never be again.

She sat up quickly, pulling her knees up to her chest as a shield. One arm wrapped securely around her legs to hold the armor in place while her other hand curled into a fist. A low moan was beginning in the back of her throat, threatening to claw its way to open air as a scream. She fought it back savagely, thrusting the fist in her mouth to smother it unborn.

Not now, and not here. She would not give in.

Surrounded by his journals, and the scent from the sheets and the blanket, left in darkened solitude by well-meaning friends, she desired nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and wait until it was time for her to join him again. A noise from downstairs reminded her of why she could not.

Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn were down in the lobby, waiting for her. They were not the "faceless masses" Angel spoke of in his journals; they were his friends, people he treasured. People he gave up his life to protect.

Now they were her responsibility.

She knew they only wanted to help. They were waiting for the tears and the endless reminiscences and the multitude of regrets; they even expected these from her. They were waiting to comfort her and suffer with her and heal with her.

But she was the Slayer. Comfort was not in her forecast, suffering was what she was supposed to protect others from, and her own healing was irrelevant in the grand scheme of the universe.

And in the end, whatever they expected of her, deep down they depended upon her to be strong. The world, unmindful of her loss, depended on that as well. She would be strong because there was no other choice. Sacrifice for the greater good was part of the Slayer Tour package, and she was signed up
for the full ride.

Slowly she crawled off the bed, abandoning the stolen moments of solitude. She had people who loved her and needed her. She had people who didn't even know her, but needed her anyway. She had a sacred duty to perform, day in and day out. She had a purpose in life and the ability to carry it out.

And if she lacked an active interest in the outcome of her actions or her life, it need not slow her progress. Caring was a luxury reserved for those left with something yet to lose. Duty was an equal opportunity employer.

Part 11

"Okay, I'm going up there." Cordelia slammed her coffee cup down on the end table, sloshing coffee on the glass top. She felt the cool liquid splash against her hand as it went over the side, but it barely registered in her overwrought nervous system.

"Yes, perhaps now would be a good time..." Wesley's voice trailed off as he looked up the stairs. The Slayer, and he could think of her in no other terms at the moment, was descending.

She moved steadily and without hurry, gracefully trailing her hand along the banister. Her eyes were swollen and red, but calm within, and somehow remote. She did not smile, but she was not visibly upset either. She was cool and collected…but frighteningly disconnected from the others surrounding her.

She was a small blonde statue, made flesh but not blood.

"Buffy? Are you...how are you?" Cordelia hurried over to take Buffy by the arm and guide her to a chair. "You still look kind of...tired. I think you need to sit down for a few minutes. Then we can talk, when you're rested."

The Slayer submitted docilely to the mothering, but her polite behavior unnerved Cordelia more than it soothed her. Nothing good ever came from a quiet Buffy. Cordelia sat down on the sofa and drew a deep breath, calling on all of her acting skills to project perky and uplifting vibes.

"Okay, you sit right down and Wesley is going to get you a nice cup of tea. Won't that be nice? A little caffeine, a lot of sugar and the whole world is a brighter place, right Wesley?" She looked sharply at Buffy's former Watcher, hoping for assistance, but he was too busy staring at Buffy

"Wesley," she prodded him. "Tea. Now. Here."

"Tea, yes, that would be just the thing. I'll just go, umm, make some, shall I?" Wesley cravenly fled from the room, curiously disturbed by Buffy's unnatural stillness.

"So, you were certainly upstairs for a long time. Did you get any sleep at all? Because you don't seem to have your usual case of pillow-head going, so either you were too tired to move or you actually remembered to bring a comb with you." She glanced back at the hallway that led to the kitchen, hoping
Wesley would miraculously appear to help her out. Miracles being in short supply that day she was forced to carry on alone. "Umm, did you do any exploring while you were up there? It's a really big hotel. Never five-star or anything good like that, but it used to have its own demon, so I guess you would have felt right at home. Not that you need demons to feel at home or anything but..."

Buffy was oblivious to Cordelia's nervous chatter. Her attention was focused on the lobby; carefully noting details she had missed in her earlier passes through the room. The walls were chill stone, intricately carved to draw one's attention, yet ultimately unyielding. As for the decorating scheme, the only terms she could think of to describe it was "old," but it seemed to flow together naturally. The spaciousness was typically Angel, providing ample room for retreat to a man who never walked away from a necessary fight or responsibility.

If he had been here beside her, she would have found it beautiful, but now...it was cold and barren and hollow, lacking the man who gave it purpose and a second chance.

It was her home.

"Buffy, do you want us to...Buffy. Earth to Buffy." Cordelia's voice was a little sharper than she'd intended, but she was getting seriously unsettled sitting next to a person who wasn't even in her own body

Buffy blinked and turned her head slowly to meet Cordelia's eyes.

"What?"

Cordelia waited for more, for some scathing Buffy-like comment, for a sharp look or tone, but there was only a blank wall.

"Do you want us to call someone? Maybe Giles, or Willow?" Cordelia spoke very slowly, torn between her urge to blurt out the question before she lost Buffy's attention again, and the certainty that the Slayer would only understand the simplest phrases and concepts at this point in time. "They could come get you."

"Why?"

This one was a stumper for Cordelia. She glanced helplessly from Gunn, who was perched on the checkout desk, to Wesley, just returning with a pot of tea and several cups.

"Sorry that took so long, but here we are. Tea all nice and fresh from the microwave. Not quite the same as in a kettle on the burner, but in the interests of speed...what's wrong?" Wesley stopped halfway through the lobby and his nervous chatter, warned by Cordelia's face that something was again
awry.

"Umm, I was just asking Buffy about someone coming to get her and..."

"And I said why."

Wesley gulped. She was honestly, if only mildly, curious.

"Okay, well we're getting complete sentences now. Shall we try for multiple syllables?" Cordelia attempted a bright smile. "What do you mean why? You have to go home, Buffy. I mean, you don't have to leave right now; it's a hotel. We have room. But sooner or later..."

"Why would you want to hang with us anyway? We're not your family." Gunn jumped off the counter and sauntered over to the sofa, resting his elbows on the back as he leaned over it beside Cordelia.

"Yeah, I kind of thought that maybe you'd rather have your mom and Giles and Willow around to talk to and…you know." Cordelia gestured wildly in frustration, as though trying to physically pull the right argument from the air. "Even that useless Xander Harris might seem kind of homey right now."

"This was Angel's home."

Cordelia sighed heavily. "Got my wish, didn't I? Angel is definitely a two-syllable word. But we're still having trouble grasping the basics. You already have a home."

"You are," Wesley said firmly, "welcome, of course, to stay with us as long as you wish." He waved his hand to display the lobby. "Cordelia is quite correct; there is more than enough room for a guest. But none of actually live here. We could stay with you if you'd like...but I really think you need your family around you now."

"Besides, I think Rebou...ow, umm, ouch." Cordelia held up her thumb, feigning surprise. "My thumb, it hurts. Hangnail. What I wouldn't give for a decent manicure." Her deep sigh was only partially for effect. She was immensely relieved at her own quick thinking; clever lie concocted, severe disaster averted. "Anyway, what I was trying to say when the pain distracted me was that you have a boyfriend. Riley, right? Isn't it going to be the teensiest bit hard to explain hanging out in your ex's home, especially now that the ex is ex to the nth?"

"He left."

"And again with the 'See Spot Run' talk." Cordelia threw up her hands and sank back against the sofa cushions.

Buffy smiled faintly; as much as she had changed, Cordy was still Cordy at heart. "He left on a mission with his old Army group…but he's not coming back. We broke up."

"I'm sorry, Buffy." Wesley finally set the teapot down and began to pour her a cup. "You've been through more loss than anyone should have to endure, especially at so young an age."

"It's okay, Wes. Everyone at home seemed to think it was part of this great tragic pattern in my life but…" she focused inward, trying to recall the exact curve of Riley's jaw, the precise shade of blue in his eyes. It was no use; those details had so quickly receded into the mist that she was unsure they were ever fixed points in her memory. "His leaving really doesn't seem that important right now," she finished quietly.

"No, I should think not."

"So he's not an issue anymore, but there's still your mom. You said she was sick," Cordelia prodded.

Sick, yes, her mother had been sick. For months the thought Joyce dying had kept Buffy in a state of perpetual fear. But after reading some of Angel's journal entries, ones she was sure he never intended her to see, she was wondering if she ever even knew the mother she was so afraid of losing.

"Mom is fine now," she answered firmly, her lips tightening to hold in all the other adjectives she wished to use to describe her mother. "She can take care of herself and Dawn."

Dawn. She had to protect Dawn too.

"Or Dawn can come here," she quickly added. "You said you have room, and she doesn't take up much. No more than your average 14-year-old pack rat." She tried to force her cold lips into a smile, not realizing how much the effort behind it showed.

"Who's Dawn?" Cordelia and Gunn asked simultaneously.

"You don't know?"

Buffy was stunned, and strangely hurt, that the monks who did such a thorough job of insinuating Dawn into her life had left the LA portion out of the loop. Who were they to determine who mattered enough to deceive?

"Umm, no, drawing a blank." Cordelia shrugged. "And yes there is room, but once again I point out that you have a family and a home and classes and…oh, what the hell." She threw up her hands. "I'm trying to do what Angel would have done, minus the ass-kicking back to Sunnydale part because he was a little better at that than I am. But hey, if you want to stay, the more the moroser."

"Then it's settled."

"Nothing is settled," Wesley protested. "It isn't that we don't want you, but I feel the need to ask why. What earthly, or even unearthly purpose will it serve for you to turn the hotel into your refuge? He isn't here, Buffy. It's just a building; four walls and a mortgage surrounding piles of empty rooms."

"I'm needed here. The hellmouth is closed, Dawn would probably be safer here, and any demons who cross the town line can be fought off by Team Slayer." She looked from one face to another, recalling Angel's descriptions of their courage, their unwavering solidarity, their dedication to 'the good fight.' "But I've been reading Angel's journals. I know what you've been up against here. He's not...he's not here to fight with you, and that means it's my responsibility. I think this is where I'm supposed to be fighting now."

"No, you want to hang around here and be the 'widow of the owner,' that's all." Gunn stood up straight and came around to the front of the sofa to face Buffy. "He wouldn't want you to stay. That alone should send you packing, if you actually loved him as much as these two have been trying to tell me."

"And thank you Dr. Freud," Cordelia snapped. "Gee, did you remember to turn on the gas oven for her too?"

"She's hiding," Gunn protested. "Just one push away from sailing down the River Denial."

He leaned over, so that he was almost nose to nose with the Slayer. Cordelia reflexively reached out to save him from himself, but an instant later she changed her mind and let her hand drop to her side. Let him learn the hard way.

Gunn looked Buffy straight in the eye. The blankness he encountered there was frightening, but he held fast to goal. He owed Angel at least that much.

"I have been where you are," he said slowly. "Maybe not the exact same place, but in a real close part of town. You're looking to stay here so you can pretend that any second he's going to come walking through that door and say it's all big mistake. If you go home, you're admitting this part is over, for him and for you." He drew a deep breath, remembering the first few days after Alanna's death. "But he isn't coming back," he continued steadily. "It doesn't matter how long you play make-believe; all that's left of Angel could fit inside your compact, and that's never going to change."

Her hands clenched reflexively into fists, but only for an instant. A strange sense of detachment swept over her. No words, no actions could take more from her than she had already lost. All she had left was her duty, to Angel and so by extension to the three people in this room. She would not hurt them, or allow others to do it for her.

Slowly, silently Buffy rose from her seat, forcing Gunn to make way.

"I will go, and do, what I choose to do. I will decide what is right for me, and I will decide where I am needed most." Steadily she drove him back, step by step regaining both her ground and her footing. " And I will probably save your ass more time than you really deserve, but that's what I do, so count yourself lucky."

After all, she reflected bitterly, wasn't that why the Powers didn't save him? He was no longer needed because she was here to carry on for him.

"Hey, we don't need you to rescue us, girl. Angel bailed on us weeks ago and we've been doing just fine." Gunn stopped his retreat, crossing his arms as he waited for her next move.

"Buffy, I'm afraid there is one other factor you must consider. When I was in the kitchen, I called Giles." Wesley looked apologetic as he stepped between she and Gunn. Gunn backed up a few paces, never realizing the imminent danger from which he was being rescued.

Her voice cracked like a whip. "You had no right."

"I was concerned about you, and I thought he would best be able to help you now," he explained, bravely standing his ground. "As it turned out, I didn't even get a chance to tell him. He kept nattering on about some creature you've been fighting, I believe he said her name was Glory."

"What did she do? Is everyone okay?" The ice was gone, replaced by stark fear.

"Everyone is fine, and apparently Giles has good news, of a sort. He's discovered what she is, and thinks they have a way to defeat her. He wants you back in Sunnydale immediately."

Cordelia frowned and took a few steps forward to take Buffy's arm. "Buffy, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going back into the fight so soon. You need a little down time." She looked quickly to Wesley. "You did say this Glory chick hadn't actually done anything, right?"

"Correct."

"Then this is more of a preventive measure, like flossing."

"She has to be stopped," Buffy said dully. "She's killed a lot of people, and she wants to kill..." she closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her sister as she had seen her last night. God, could it really have been only last night? "She wants to kill a whole lot more," she continued evasively. "I have to go."

Duty first and duty always, owed to both Dawn and the hellmouth. Even with Angel, she was not allowed to be a woman first and a slayer second. Now that he was gone, she need not even try.

"Can I drive you back, Buffy?" Wesley asked gently. "Or perhaps Cordelia and I could go with you, and Gunn could follow in An..." he paused to clear his throat, "in the convertible."

"Yeah, we can tell Giles and everyone what happened so you don't have to do it," Cordelia chimed in.

"Hey, I love road trips. And the Batmobile is a fine machine." Gunn smiled, hoping to make up for his earlier harsh words.

Buffy glanced from one kind face to another. They were trying so hard to make this bearable for her, pushing aside their own grief to assuage hers. She hated to ask one last favor, but she knew she must.

"It's okay; I can drive myself. I really need some time alone, before I have to face everyone. But before I go...I'm taking the journals with me, but I also want to take...where is he? His...ashes."

She couldn't believe she said it. His ashes. All that was left of the strong arms that used to hold her so tightly, the hands that smoothed her hair so gently, the hollow of his shoulder created to fit her cheek. All that was left of the power and grace that defined his every action was...ashes.

Wesley silently crossed over to the checkout desk and reached down behind it, retrieving a small carved wooden box. Carrying it carefully in both hands, he brought it to Buffy.

She stretched out her hands to receive it, and almost broke when its slight weight pressed against her palms. So small a box to contain all that was Angel.

"I'll bring the books out to your car," Gunn promised, moving swiftly to the stairs.

"Buffy, about those journals..." Cordelia grimaced, trying to think of way to ask the question without tipping her hand. "Was there anything really...surprising in them? I mean, you know how Angel felt about you and all, so that stuff couldn't have been much of a shocker, but was there anything...else, that you really didn't see coming? That you didn't remember going?"

Buffy looked at Cordelia silently for a moment. No one was supposed to know; it was a secret shared between dead men. And yet somehow, it was now a secret shared by the women who loved them.

"There were a lot of things I wasn't expecting," Buffy answered slowly. "But I think I know what one you're talking about."

Cordelia winced. She wasn't sure if it was a bad thing or a good thing that Buffy knew the truth. The only thing she did know for certain was that she was left in charge of damage control. "Is it anything you want to talk about? I know most of the details, or at least the details Angel was willing to share with Doyle. I'm willing to listen if you need to, you know, vent."

A noise from the stairs made Buffy glance upwards. Somehow she expected it to be Angel, hurrying down to meet her, but it was only Gunn. From the looks on Cordelia's face, as well as Wesley's, she was not the only one tricked into a false hope.

It wasn't him. It would never be him. Any words still unspoken between them would have to remain unspoken.

"There's only one person I need to talk to about what I read, and that's not going to happen," Buffy answered, in what she hoped was a steady voice.

"This is all my fault," Cordelia burst out, flinging her arms around Buffy. "I never should have suggested we use that damn scroll. We know Angel and spells don't mix."

"You wanted to help him, all of you," Buffy said softly, patting Cordelia on the back before gently pushing her away. "He was in pain and you hurt for him. If you made any mistakes, it was because you loved him." She wanted to look away, but forced herself to stare straight into Cordelia's eyes. "Believe me, I did worse to him for the same reason."

It didn't matter now that what Cordelia had done was stupid and reckless; she had acted out of love and concern, and a strange faith in the fairness of the universe. If she had asked Buffy first, the Slayer would have been set straight on that last score, but now it was too late. The damage was done, and they would all have to live with it.

And so she would tell herself every night, as she stuffed a pillow in her mouth to keep the screams from being born in her sleep.

*****

It was a long quiet drive back to Sunnydale. Buffy couldn't remember the details of last night's journey; fear had chased her every mile and its shadow looming over her was all that she could see.

Tonight, as she drove through the early winter twilight, she saw everything with painful clarity. Every signpost she passed, every streetlamp or guardrail was one more reminder that she faced this journey alone.

It had been over a year since she and Angel were together, and yet she had never put aside the habit of capsulizing her day for him. The hours apart were harder on him than on her, since his were spent in enforced solitude. During their time together, she had learned to mentally catalogue all the silly details that he so missed being a part of.

Things like the deliberately confusing signposts and the misplaced streetlamps and the guardrails that jumped out at you from the side of the road and scraped your mother's car. All were details he would have treasured, even as he was trying not to laugh for the sake of her pride.

Suddenly she realized she was in front of the Magick Shop. Her friends were inside, ready and waiting to share their news, and hers. She knew they would be sympathetic, no matter how she said it, but she was so afraid it would all be directed at her. Would any of them see the true tragedy here, not hers but his? Would any of them sense the scope of future lost and potential wasted, or would they just see "poor Buffy;" queen of the unlucky at love?

She needed their friendship and their loyalty, but not their pity.

She didn't have to tell them anything yet, she decided abruptly. They didn't want to see Broken Buffy, the girl who lost her lover to the whims of Fate more often than most people brushed their teeth. They needed the Slayer, and the Slayer was just about all she had left to give.

That was it, then. Time to do or die.

Or if she was lucky, maybe both.

Part 12

The Scoobies were gathered around the table when she walked into the Magic Box, as Buffy had known they would be. Willow was bent low over a book, showing something to Tara, while Xander was trying to impress Anya with his skill at tossing doughnut holes into his mouth. Giles paced rapidly from the table to the counter and back, trying to outrun Anya's lecture on the proper pricing of sale items, yet never quite making good on his escape.

For them it was just another quiet evening spent with friends, trying to avert the apocalypse of the week.

Buffy paused in the doorway, door still held open by her hand. She was fighting a wild urge to run, to head straight home and pull Angel's leather jacket from its hiding place in the back of her closet and bury herself in its scent. It not only reminded her of him, but of times that seemed so much simpler than now. Times when they at least had each other, even if the world was falling apart or blowing up at their feet.

"Buffy, you're back."

Too late to run now. She was always too late.

"Yeah, I'm back Giles." She smiled faintly at him, touched by the genuine pleasure in his voice.

"Wesley must have given you the message right away...and you must have broken several speed limits to get here." Giles' eyes narrowed as he approached her. "Did everything go all right in LA?" He tactfully refrained from asking her about Angel specifically; he wasn't sure how much the others knew.

Buffy caught her breath; she wasn't ready for this. To lie would take more energy than she could muster, and the truth was out of the question until Glory had been dispatched.

"I can't talk about LA right now, Giles," she said carefully. "When this is all done, I promise I'll tell you." She looked over at the table, seeing her friends' faces cloud with concern at her tone. "I'll tell all of you. But not yet."

"Buffy, are you okay?" Willow half-rose from her chair, until Buffy motioned for her to stay where she was.

"Buffy, if you need to talk…Glory has done nothing to place anyone in immediate danger. She can wait." Giles took a few steps closer to Buffy and reached out to touch her shoulder. She neatly sidestepped his gesture and moved to the center of the room, leaving a seriously apprehensive Watcher in her wake.

"She's waited too long already," Buffy insisted. "I want this done. Now." The only empty seat she spied was next to Willow, but Buffy had to force herself to take it. Her best friend's concern was almost palpable; it radiated from her in waves that pummeled at Buffy. The Slayer's skin crawled with the effort to sit calmly amongst her friends, the sole bearer of knowledge that would forever taint her world, and by extension theirs.

"Very well," Giles sighed. "But I do expect a better answer when Glory is defeated."

"And just how do we do that?" Buffy turned her head to Willow, carefully composing her features to limit the number of warning flares she set off.

"First we need to explain what Glory is, Buffy." Giles began to pace again, falling into standard lecture mode. "I finally received a call back from the Watcher's Council early this morning. Very early, I'm afraid. They take outrageous advantage of the time difference." He grimaced at the thought of his long lost night's sleep. "I would have told you about it when you called…but you were somewhat in a hurry."

"And still am," she said impatiently. "What's the word?"

"The word was 'no' at first, I'm afraid," he answered apologetically. After the past five years, he had become accustomed to interruptions. "They were trying to lay down conditions; they even wanted to subject you to some silly tests to make sure you were 'worthy' of the knowledge. I did as you asked, however, and reminded them that if they tied their Warrior's hands in the fight against evil, they were going to have to fight evil themselves." Giles chuckled, remembering the variety of outraged sputters that ensued in the wake of his 'suggestion'. "After a bit of hemming and hawing, not to mention out-and-out threatening, they 'ponied up,' as the saying goes."

"Let the saying go wherever it wants, just tell me what kind of demon she is."

"In point of fact, she's not precisely a demon," he said reluctantly.

Off came the glasses and the cleaning ritual commenced. In Buffy's book, that was never a good sign. She sat up a little straighter and carefully removed the edge from her tone.

"What is she, precisely?"

"She's, well, she's a god."

"Dess, goddess. The Council had it wrong." Tara chimed in helpfully. She shrank back in her seat when she suddenly found herself the focus of the room's attention, particularly that of an affronted former employee of the firm in question.

"I beg your pardon?"

That the 'firm' in question had fired him mattered little when the censure came from an outsider. Centuries of tradition and decades of service to the cause lent the simple phrase more than enough frost to send Tara frantically scrambling for an olive branch.

"I don't mean they were wrong exactly," she said nervously, "well, except that they were in the, you know, strict sense of the word. The word 'god,' that is. I mean, if we're going to assign gender labels to a being who probably doesn't actually have sexual organs, shouldn't we be...umm...be staring at someone else for a change so I can find a rock to crawl under?"

"Giles is just upset you pointed it out first, Tara. You know he likes to hold it over us that his English is better than ours because it's actually English English." Anya had not forgotten Giles' escape from her sales lecture, and she wasn't about to let him off easy for it.

"Yes, well, in any event, she is apparently a deity, not a demon." Giles gave in with a sigh and slipped his glasses on again. "Of the Norse variety, if that makes any difference."

"Which, according to Anya, it doesn't." Willow pushed the book in front of her over to Buffy, pointing to an illustration on the open page. "See, lightning bolts and balls of fire are pretty much standard issue, no matter what language the people are praying to you in."

"And those prayers are apparently the key, again, if Anya is to be believed." Giles glanced pointedly at Xander until the younger man relinquished the chair next to Anya. The Watcher sat down with a scarcely disguised sigh of relief; it had been a long night.

"Hey, what do you mean by that?" Anya snapped, glaring at her boss. "I happen to be very truthful. Usually you people are telling me I'm too truthful."

"I believe the word we use is 'tactless'," Willow said softly.

Giles hastened to pour oil on the waters he himself had troubled. "No one is questioning your veracity, Anya, merely...exhibiting pleased surprise at the range of your knowledge."

Xander rested his hands on Anya's shoulders and gave them a slight squeeze.

"That's my girl. Tell me she wasn't paying attention to someone other than herself for at least a few of those eleven centuries."

"Can we get back to the point, please? How do I kill a god?" Buffy glanced at Tara, seeing the word forming on the witch's lips. "Dess," she finished firmly.

Tara smiled in quiet satisfaction.

"It all comes down to belief." Willow was also grateful to abandon the pointless argument. "Anya pointed out that gods, and goddesses..."

"With all due respect to Tara's undeniably valid grammatical correction, as well as our current politically correct culture, may we please just refer to them as gods, in the interests of brevity?"

Xander looked at Giles in amazement. "And that sentence would be a good example?"

"Gods," Willow said with biting emphasis, "are created by man, not the other way around."

Xander speedily backed away from the table, retreating to the counter as he waved his finger at his best friend. "Okay, I know we live in sunny Southern California and all, but I am so not standing next to you when and if we ever get another thunderstorm."

"Oh there are forces of good and evil in the universe," Anya quickly added, "but humans are the ones who personified them and endowed them with separate characteristics and powers. In a very real sense, humans gave each god the strength that he possesses by believing that he possesses it."

Xander's shaking finger transferred its wrath to Anya. "You too, missy. From here on out you carry your own umbrella."

"So Glory exists because people believe she exists," Buffy mused slowly. "But then why does she need...this key she seems to need? And how does knowing all this help us?"

This was good, she thought; she was focusing. She was getting the job done. Take that, PTB's.

"We think she needs the key because it's pure energy," Tara said eagerly. "Once upon a time the gods," she threw a sidelong glance at Giles, "could depend on belief to generate all the power that they needed. But as other religions developed and people abandoned their old gods for new ones, or for none at all, the gods themselves began to die. But with the key, Glory wouldn't be dependent on followers, or sacrifices, for her energy."

"And as for how it helps us, well, Tara likes to call it the 'Tinkerbell Syndrome'." Willow beamed proudly at her lover.

"Which, by the way, I totally objected to," Xander said quickly. "Everyone knows Tink was a fairy, not a god, or even a goddess." He seems to shrink down inside of himself when he felt the heat of all their eyes turn upon him. "Of course the fact that she's not real has a little something to do with it too," he finished weakly.

"Glory is real enough, that's for sure." Buffy rubbed her forehead, trying to force some blood into her overtired brain. "So am I supposed to tie her believers' hands together so they can't clap as I kill her?"

"No, that's what Willow and I will be doing. You just have to keep her busy." Tara smiled shyly, grateful to be an integral part of a Scooby plan at last.

"Keep her busy? Oh, that should be fun. And how exactly are you and Willow going to be doing the bondage?" She heard a movement from the counter and raised her hand. "Not one word, Xander."

Willow smirked at the shamefaced Xander. "Anya knew of a spell for disenchanting people from false gods and prophets. I guess they used to use it in the winter instead of the old burning heretics at the stake solution. You know, to save on firewood."

The witch's smile faltered when she realized Buffy was not responding in kind. Taking a deep breath, Willow got back to the business at hand. "We've done some checking, and it should work just as well on demons."

"It will, trust me. It's amazing what information you can pick up at a medieval party when you're allergic to mead. It's the honey, you see. Even as a demon it gave me hives." Anya's smile turned to a pout when she realized no one was interested in her unusual infirmity, not even Xander. As usual, her attempts to bond with the humans, this time through the sharing of weaknesses, had fallen short of the mark.

"But does Glory count as a false god? She does have real powers; I've seen them. I mean, what is a false god? Did they skip registration or something?"

It was amazing the effort it now took to come up with a flip comment that once would have rolled off her tongue.

"Buffy, please." Giles shook his head at her. "You're obviously quite tired, but you must focus. This is important."

She could feel the anger flare up inside of her, and then just as swiftly die out. She'd accomplished her goal, hadn't she? No one saw beneath the shell, and that was the way it would stay until, and unless, she was ready.

"Buffy, just trust us. This will work." Willow patted Buffy's hand, mistakenly believing it was reassurance about Glory that Buffy needed. "You fight Glory, Tara and I will make with the mojo to weaken her and the guys will fight off any of Glory's followers that try to stop us. It can't miss."

Buffy could think of a thousand ways it could miss, starting with Glory killing her before the spell was halfway out of her friend's mouth. But there didn't seem to be many options anymore, and she needed to eliminate Glory. Once the god...dess was dispatched, Dawn would be safe and Buffy would have nothing more to chain her to Sunnydale, or anywhere else in the world.

Assuming Glory didn't solve her problems for her with one ball of fire from her well-manicured hands.

"When?" Buffy sighed, hoping it would be soon.

"We were thinking tomorrow, but perhaps you should get some more rest beforehand. As I said, there is no hurry now." Giles reached across the table to clasp Buffy's hand. This time, she did not pull away.

"No, Giles. If you're ready, then I'm ready. I want this over with as soon as humanly, or inhumanly possible."

"Life to lead, huh Buff?"

Xander's genial smile was met with a pale reflection of the same.

"Something like that, Xand."

Go to Part 13